Free The Glassblower by Petra Durst-Benning

laid it on just a little thinner, it looked as though a shadow were falling on the blossom. Perhaps she could try making them a little bit longer—just a tiny bit of course. Yes, didn’t the flowers look more elegant that way? She recalled the wild lilies that blossomed up at the edge of the forest in late summer. Their petals turned outward just a touch, as though they were inviting the passing bees to stop and sip. Marie traced that same shape with her brush as she painted the next flower.
    “Well then?” A booming voice called out behind her, and something soft and warm pressed up against her back. Wilhelm Heimer was standing so close behind her that his belly was touching her. She was so taken aback that the brush twitched in her hand, smearing the petal that she had just been painting. She quickly covered it with her hand to hide the mistake.
    Heimer beamed down at Eva without even glancing at Marie’s work. “Has my favorite daughter-in-law been showing our new girl what painting’s all about?”
    Was Heimer talking just to her, or to both of them? Marie nodded, just in case.
    “Favorite daughter-in-law!” Eva laughed. “You’ve only got one, so why even call me that?” She turned around coquettishly. “Did you hear that, Sebastian? It seems your father is still pleased with your choice of bride. What do you say?”
    Sebastian grunted something, though Marie couldn’t quite hear what.
    Wilhelm shook his head. “You young lads are very sparing with your words! When I think of the sweet nothings I used to whisper into your mother’s ear, God rest her soul!”
    “And how do you know that Sebastian doesn’t do that?” Thomas Heimer asked over his shoulder. “At night, when you’re asleep? They make enough noise in their roo m . . . ”
    The others laughed, and Eva gave her father-in-law a playful nudge. “See what you’ve started?” she said, feigning anger. Her eyes gleamed with amusement.
    Marie held her paintbrush poised like a stylus over a slate. She didn’t know what to make of such talk. She felt queasy just listening to it. Surely nobody expected her to say anything? She decided the best thing would be to just carry on with her work, but she hesitated when she realized that there were only three painted vases on Eva’s side of the bench and seven on hers. Without even trying, she was working much faster than Eva.
    Before she knew it, Heimer had picked up one of her vases and turned it round and round, frowning thoughtfully.
    “I . . . I painted the flowers so that the petals are a little longer,” she said timidly.
    Eva leaned over and picked up another vase. The smile was gone from her face now. “That’s not how I showed you to do it.” There was an edge to her voice, with no trace of the girlish charm from earlier.
    Heimer put the vase back down in front of Marie.
    “I can show her agai n . . . ” Eva began, visibly put out, but Heimer raised a hand to silence her. He smiled. “That’s all right, little Evie! Every painter has her own style, and the customers know that too.” Heimer turned to leave and clapped a hand on each woman’s shoulder. “As long as you don’t start painting ladybugs instead of the flowers they ordered, I don’t mind a little artistic freedom from either of you.”
    Marie exhaled, relieved. She had been holding her breath without knowing it. Artistic freedo m . . . There was a humming in her ears. Eva was right: Wilhelm Heimer was an angel really, if a rather big-bellied one. Glad not to have been given a dressing-down on her first day, she picked up the next vase and began to paint.
    Eva followed suit, but not without first shooting Marie a look that was much less friendly than before.

10
    By the time the three sisters got home that evening, it was almost dark outside. Ruth felt faint at the thought of having to lay a fire at this hour. “There’s still a bit of bread. And the meat loaf that one of the neighbors brough t . . . I don’t