The line in the glass

An original fiction passage set in the nineteenth century.

For thirty winters, Mr Avery had lit the oil lamps in his stationery shop at precisely five o’clock. He trimmed each wick, polished each glass chimney and carried the lamps to their places without once consulting the young assistants who came and went. Clara, who had been employed for only a month, watched him set the largest lamp upon the counter.

“There is a dark line under the glass,” she said.

Mr Avery glanced at the lamp. “A little oil left from filling it. Nothing more.” He wiped the brass foot with his handkerchief and returned to tying a parcel. The flame remained calm and upright, which appeared to settle the matter for him.

Yet the sharp smell of oil grew stronger. Clara saw a bright drop travel down the stem and rest upon the polished wood. She moved a bundle of newspapers farther along the counter. Mr Avery frowned at the untidy space she had made.

“These lamps have stood here since before you were born,” he said. “I know their habits.”

As the shop clock struck the hour, the drop became a narrow stream. Oil crept across the counter until only the width of a hand separated it from the newspapers. Then came a small sound from the reservoir: not the familiar tick of cooling metal, but the dry click of glass giving way.

Mr Avery stopped with the string pulled tight between his fingers. Clara pointed to a crack, fine as a strand of hair, shining in the lamplight. His expression changed. He lowered the wick until the flame disappeared, cleared the counter and placed the lamp in a shallow iron tray. His movements were quick and exact.

Later, he held the empty reservoir up to the window. The crack was almost invisible. “I was listening for an old warning,” he said, “when I should have been looking at new evidence.” The next evening, Clara stood beside him while he inspected every lamp before lighting it.