Falcon in the Glass (15 page)

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The tavern was dark and warm, filled with the smells of sweat and wet wool and cooking meats. Renzo joined the
padrone
, Sergio, Ettore, and the third master, Luca, at a table near the fire. The
padrone
ordered a flagon of wine, a dish of stuffed capons, and a platter of steaming beef. Luca told Renzo that he had worked for a short time with Papà ten years or so ago. “He was a wizard with the glass,” he said. The others nodded, all save Sergio, who sat sulking. And then they were congratulating Renzo on his apprenticeship, and commenting on the glass falcon — although carefully, not dropping any useful information for prying ears to hear. “I'll wager your father had many secrets,” Luca said.

The
padrone
raised his glass. “To the first of many!”

Ettore and Luca raised their glasses as well. “To the apprentice!” Ettore said.

Belatedly Sergio lifted his glass and cocked an ironic eye at Renzo. “To secrets!”

Renzo gulped his wine, uneasy. The children. He mustn't forget to warn Letta about Sergio.

And yet the platters of food kept coming; the wine flowed. Soon Renzo felt as stuffed as one of the capons he had consumed. There was no more talk of secrets; he ate and drank in a pleasant haze. The twin warmths of wine and fire seeped into his sore muscles, easing the pain. Twice he stashed bits of meat in a napkin on his lap to take home to Mama and Pia. But the long-legged, mangy dogs that roamed the tavern quickly nosed out the treats and gobbled them up.

And all the while the glassblowers spoke with him as one of themselves: joking and swearing, boasting and complaining. Spoke with him as a man. Renzo drank deeply, swimming in the glow of their companionship. He contemplated his future, which stretched out bright before him.

But a small peck, peck, peck of worry niggled at the back of his mind. Something he should remember; something he ought to do . . .

“Renzo, hold out your cup!” The
padrone
motioned to a serving maid to pour him more. Renzo drank.

In a while Sergio rose from the table and made the rounds, laughing with young men at other tables, teasing the serving maids. And soon Ettore rose as well. Renzo made to do the
same — but when he did, he discovered that the room was spinning. The rich food, which had felt so good going down, now churned in his belly — hot and bubbly and sour. He lurched into the table, making the drinking cups teeter. Luca took his arm to help him balance. “Shall I fetch a boy to help you home?”

Only women, invalids, and children would need such help. A man could walk home by himself. Renzo shook his head, thanked Luca, and staggered out the door.

Again something pricked at his mind, something troublesome. But the difficulty of setting one foot squarely before the other on the narrow path beside the canal pushed every other worry aside. What an irony it would be, Renzo thought, if the future legendary glassmaker were to fall into the dark water and drown on the very day when his career had begun!

B
y the time Sergio reached the island of Venice, the bitter-cold wind had sliced through the layers of linen and wool in which he'd wrapped himself. He had no sensation whatsoever in his ears and nose; likewise, his toes had gone numb.

And yet the chill did not penetrate to his heart. The rage still smoldered there.

Renzo!

Sergio nosed his little boat into the mouth of the dark canal. At once the wind died down. The water grew smooth, almost glassy. He unbent his shoulders and stood up straight, glad to find respite from the squalls and lurching waves of the open lagoon.

For the thousandth time he wondered where Renzo had picked up that little trick, the trick with the falcon. From his father, as he had claimed?

Doubtful.

For that morning Sergio had seen the very bird. Or a real one exactly like it, a little kestrel. He had caught sight of
the children who had tamed it — or enchanted it. Slipping through the glassworks. Disappearing down the alley behind the storeroom, with four or five birds flying behind.

He had come to watch Renzo, to see if he was likely to pass the test — and had found more than he could have hoped for.

Now Sergio nudged his boat into a canal to his right, paddled a little way, then turned left into another. He knew his way through the labyrinth; he had come here many times. Though glassworkers were not supposed to leave Murano, he and his friends often visited the city of Venice after dark.

For pleasure.

Not like tonight.

Tonight was for revenge.

Ripples splashed against the stone walls. High above, candlelight glimmered from a row of tall Moorish windows, lending the black water an iridescent sheen, like the feathers of a raven.

Yes, those children must have had something to do with Renzo's glass falcon. Though, whether they were truly witches — as rumor had it — Sergio did not know. He had watched Renzo carefully and seen nothing of conjury about the crafting of the falcon. It was a trick, that was all — a series of fairly easy steps done quickly and put together in an unlikely way. But it came out so birdlike, so like that kestrel. The children must have helped, someway.

As Sergio neared the Grand Canal, the houses flowed close to either side, looming larger, more ornate, more
perforated with light. Sergio rowed through their rippling reflections, stewing.

He had told his father about Renzo and the children. He had shown him the feather as proof, but his father hadn't cared. He had humiliated Sergio before the others; he had advanced Renzo despite his ignorance of the craft; he had taken Renzo under his wing as if
he
were his son.

If his father didn't object to Renzo's associating with witches . . . Well, others would.

Sergio tied up his boat and carefully stepped up onto the dock. Ragged clouds blew across the full moon. The bell of the campanile tolled the hour past midnight, a great, deep, booming
bong
.

Sergio rolled his aching shoulders, then set off down a narrow street.

How many times, he wondered, had he been forced to lift his cup?

To the apprentice!

To the first of many!

Pah!

Sergio turned a corner, nearing his destination:

Bocca di Leone — the Lion's Mouth.

Because surely the doge would like to know what Renzo was up to. Surely he would like to know where the bird children might be found.

And dropping a note into the slot in the Lion's Mouth was like whispering into the doge's ear.

There it was now, a light stone plaque on a dark stone
wall. He could see the carved face of a man, the furry eyebrows, the ears like those of a lion. He could see the dark slot that formed an open mouth.

Many Lion's Mouths decorated the walls of Venice, but this was the one for denunciations of heretics and witches.

Sergio pulled the note from his doublet. He hesitated. What they would do to Renzo and those children . . .

Shut your stupid yawp
!

Sour bile rose into his throat. Sergio slipped the note between the lion's jaws, and with a hushed
swish
of parchment on stone, it was done.

H
e had thought that Mama would be asleep. It was well past midnight now; surely she wouldn't wait up this long. But a rustling of cloth caught his ear as he shut the door. He turned and saw her in the light of the glowing embers. Sitting on a bench, perfectly still, her mending in her lap. Looking up at him expectantly.

“It's done,” he told her. “I passed.”

She made a little sound then, something between a gasp and a sob. She dropped to her knees, her mending falling to the floor, and clasped her hands in silent prayer.

He waited awkwardly, feeling that he should go and pray beside her but not knowing if he could accomplish the feat of kneeling without stumbling or tipping over.

Mama rose, walked to him. She set her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks. Then she held him at arm's length, seeming to search for something in his eyes. “I'm proud of you, Son,” she said at last. “And your father would be too.”

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It was Taddeo who reminded Renzo what he'd forgotten. He was shuffling out the glassworks door just as Renzo came in to work the next morning. At the sight of him Renzo halted in his tracks.

Letta.

Taddeo scowled at Renzo, leaning in as he passed, to whisper: “We were all waiting for the news. And you never came, then, did you?”

But it was worse than that. Renzo was supposed to warn her. “Listen, Taddeo. They can't — ”

But Ettore called to Renzo and motioned for him to come inside.

He searched for Sergio and the
padrone
and found them together by the furnace. In their faces he saw nothing that seemed amiss. It was true that the
padrone
hadn't seemed to care about the feather when Sergio had shown it to him. So maybe there was no need to worry.

And yet . . . Sergio knew about the children. Or at least he suspected.

Dangerous.

Well. Renzo would warn them tonight.

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And so it began, his new life in the glassworks. That day Renzo slipped easily into his role with Ettore, eager to learn the skills he'd missed. Ettore worked steadily and hard. He was quick and exacting, and expected Renzo to keep up. Renzo pushed through fatigue and headache, willing his mind to stay alert. He cocooned himself in glasswork and
allowed nothing else to penetrate. When at last they broke for the midday meal, Ettore nodded and said, “Well done.”

Renzo's entire body ached; his arms shook; his head throbbed. And yet he felt happier than he had in a long time.

This was what he was meant to do. This was what he'd been made for.

Again he did not go home for the midday meal but worked with the
padrone
, who could soon make the falcon as well as Renzo, and more consistently. But there was something of clockwork about the
padrone
's methods:
Now let it cool to the count of ten. Now blow three quick huffs into the pipe. Now place the
borsella
at precisely this angle.

And each bird looked exactly like the last.

Renzo recalled how with Letta the bird had seemed a little like magic, and it had changed and grown more
itself
each time.

Ah, well. To be profitable, the
padrone
said, the birds had to be made quickly, with no wasted effort.

That evening Renzo celebrated with Mama and Pia. Mama had roasted an entire rabbit, and Pia had made a little brown cake studded with nuts and dried fruit.

It should have been one of the happiest, proudest days of his life. And yet, he thought later, lying awake on his bed that night, why was he so unsettled? Was it the hint the
padrone
had dropped that perhaps Renzo could show him more of Papà's secrets? Was it Sergio's hostile glances? Was it knowing that he hadn't truly earned his apprenticeship by mastering the list of skills?

Was it Letta?

But he'd had no time to warn her. The celebration at the tavern had gone on far into the night. With all the wine that had been thrust upon him, he'd just barely managed to stagger home. And then he'd had to tell Mama, and . . .

A picture blinked into his mind, of the children all waiting for him, waiting to find out if he'd passed the test. Of Letta, with that look she'd had when he'd given her the mantle, when the color had risen in her face.

Renzo groaned, turned over onto his side. She had come to rely on him. And who else was there to help her?

So he would go there tonight, in the small hours. He would warn them.

But what would they do then? Where could they go to get warm? Where could they hide?

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