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Authors: Susan Fletcher

Falcon in the Glass (8 page)

BOOK: Falcon in the Glass
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“No.”

“They must.”

“We never cage our birds. Not ever.”

“Well, then you'll have to clean up after them — every single feather and dropping.”

She nodded.

“Promise,” he insisted.

“I promise,” she said. “For true.”

But Renzo had a dark foreboding that he'd started down a path he'd soon regret.

◆      ◆      ◆

For a while they honored his wishes. Sometime after midnight Letta would watch for Taddeo to leave. Then she opened the unlatched shutters and helped the children crawl in through the window to the storeroom. She settled them in and then went to work with Renzo. Every morning, before she left, she and a few of the older ones cleaned up droppings and feathers.

Still, it distracted him — frightened him — knowing they were there. Knowing he could be interrupted at any moment. Imagining what would happen if someone came into the glassworks and found the children.

Sometimes, just when he was on the verge of attaching a stem to a base, or perfecting the lip of an urn, a small voice would call out, “Letta?”

She would say, “Wait!” and help Renzo finish what he was doing. But the rhythm had been broken; he could never quite get it back. Even after Letta returned from whatever crisis had required her attention — a bloody nose, a full bladder, another coughing spell — he seethed inwardly at the interruption. She always explained to him what had happened, but he didn't want to know their troubles, nor even their names. Didn't want to be
responsible
.

But the work went on, faring better than Renzo had dared hope. Letta seemed to have a natural grasp of what the glass wanted. Or perhaps it was that she could read Renzo in the eerie way that she and her kestrel seemed to read each other.

He quashed his curiosity. He didn't want to know.

In any case, over several days they went from molded bowls with ribs to fluted drinking cups to long-stemmed goblets. Moving in and out of the wall of pulsating heat, the bright orange glow of molten glass before them, the roar of the furnace in their ears. Learning the wordless dance of master and apprentice — shuffle and pivot and dip. Soon Letta knew exactly where to place the tools so that his hands
could easily find them. She knew to bear the cooling glass to the furnace to make it pliable again whenever he took a drink of water. She knew when to breathe into the blowpipe while, with the
borsella
, he coaxed the glass into a pleasing shape.

But early one morning a week after the children had first appeared, Renzo heard a different sound from the storeroom. Another cough — but hollow and deep and long. A frightening cough. Letta, holding the
pontello
while he worked the lip of a bowl, looked away from the glass and turned her head, listening.

It came again, the cough. Again. And again — this time longer, so long that Renzo looked up too and waited for it to end, the glass cooling on the end of the
pontello
.

“Letta?” A girl, maybe nine years old, poked her head through the storeroom doorway.

Letta handed Renzo the
pontello
. He cracked the cooled glass into the bucket, lit a torch and, for the first time since the children had come, followed her to the storeroom.

It was the boy Renzo had seen in the marsh. Letta squatted beside him as he lay cradled in the lap of another girl who looked exactly like the one who had summoned them. Sandy-haired, snub-nosed. Twins, no doubt. The girl with the marsh boy looked frightened. Behind her the heap of huddled children shivered. A cold draft leaked in through the shutters; clouds of frozen breath rose up and vanished among them. The marsh boy coughed again, one long, racking spasm after another. Renzo held his breath,
waiting for the cough to end. His eyes were drawn, absurdly, to the sick boy's feet. One was swaddled in rags but the other was bare — a tiny, dirty foot — its toes curled up as if to shrink itself smaller still, as if it wanted to disappear.

Without a word Letta scooped up the marsh boy in her arms, pushed past Renzo, and carried the boy to the warm space near the furnace. The wading bird fluttered after.

Renzo followed. “What are you doing?”

Letta ignored him. She turned round to the others, who stood watching, crowded in the doorway. “Come here,” she said.

One of them, the girl who'd been caring for the marsh boy, stepped out of the storeroom. Two or three others crowded behind.

“No,” Renzo said. “Tell them to stay.”

“Come here,” Letta said to them. “It's warm.”

Slowly they tiptoed out of the storeroom. They stood in an unkempt huddle at the edge of the glassworks floor. Birds perched on their shoulders, their wrists, on the tops of their heads: a crow, a finch, a sparrow, a magpie, a hawk.

Wild birds.

Wild children.

“No,” Renzo said. “You promised! Make them go back.”

Letta didn't deign to respond but motioned impatiently to the others. “Come!” she said.

Renzo wanted to shake her. How dare she defy him! If it weren't for him, they'd all be out in the cold.

The marsh boy coughed again — heart-stoppingly long.
And now the others were coming, a tattered, grimy, shivering procession of them, padding silently across the floor.

There was the girl who had held the marsh boy, with her twin sister close behind. Then came a dark-haired boy, maybe seven years old, holding the hand of a boy who looked about four. A light-haired girl, maybe two or three years old, tripped along behind them. Catching sight of Renzo, she fastened herself to the leg of the boy who came last — maybe a year or so older than the twins? — and rode on one of his feet.

They all eyed Renzo warily as they passed, then gathered around Letta and the marsh boy. There, blinking at the furnace as at the blazing summer sun, their expressions were nearly identical. Of incredulity. Of bliss.

“D'you want to toss us out, then?” Letta asked. “You're bigger than any of us. You could try.”

Renzo imagined himself picking up one ragged urchin after another, dragging them across the wide floor of the glassworks, thrusting them into the frigid storeroom and shutting the door behind them.

The marsh boy coughed, hollow and long.

Renzo sighed.

A fragment of Sunday's mass echoed in his ears:
Suffer the little children.
All at once he felt ashamed that he had denied them this wasted pocket of warmth. Warmth that meant so much to them, yet cost the
padrone
nothing.

But still . . .

“I can't have birds flying all over the glassworks, knocking
things over, strewing feathers and droppings. If you refuse to cage them, at least tie them down. With jesses or something. Like falconers do.”

“No need for jesses. The birds'll stay put.”

“Stay put where?”

“On their shoulders.”

“You're saying these children have trained wild birds to sit still on their shoulders for hours at a time?”

She shrugged. “Not
trained
, exactly, but . . .”

He didn't want to know. Events were moving, taking on a life of their own, despite his best efforts to control them.

And so it was especially unfortunate that in the small hours of the following morning, a little after Taddeo had left for home, the glassworks door opened and he came shuffling back inside. He retrieved his forgotten scarf from the hook near the door and was turning to go, when his glance swept across the wide floor near the furnace. He pulled up short, eyes wide.

If the situation had not been so dire, Renzo might have laughed. Taddeo scuffed a little way toward the children. The birds surged all at once toward the rafters in a burst of fluttering wings. Feathers rocked down from above. Taddeo turned to Renzo as if he could not believe what he was seeing and wanted to confirm that it was not a mirage. He twisted back toward the birds, then the children, who sat silent, staring. Taddeo blinked, astonishment spreading across his face.

“Renzo,” he said. “What is
this
?”

12.
Nonno

N
o one moved. The fire roared and popped. Then Taddeo sucked in a deep breath and screwed his face into the expression Renzo knew so well: deeply aggrieved, working up to a dire complaint.

Renzo knew he ought to say something, cut him off now, come up with a credible lie. He cast about for the right words, but they escaped him. He could only stand there, waiting, sick with dread.

“Nonno! ”

Renzo twisted round to see who had spoken. It was the light-haired girl who had clamped onto the boy's leg. She jumped to her feet and began to lurch through the welter of children. When she reached Taddeo, she threw her arms about one of his legs and stuck there like a burr.

Taddeo swallowed his complaint; his mouth hung slack. He blinked down at her, bewildered.

Letta flicked a glance at Renzo, then stood, held out a hand. “Grandfather, come sit here by the fire.” She whispered something to the tallest boy, who hastened to Taddeo,
pried the little girl off his leg, tucked her under an arm, and led Taddeo to the
padrone
's bench.

“Sit, Grandfather,” Letta implored. “Rest.”

Abruptly Taddeo sat.

Grandfather? Renzo was confused. Was he the little one's
nonno
? But how was that possible?

The light-haired girl held out her arms to Taddeo. The boy set her down on Taddeo's skinny legs. The girl leaned into Taddeo, nestled against him. She thrust her thumb into her mouth and began to suck. Taddeo's arm, seemingly of its own accord, gently curved itself about her, supporting her.

Letta motioned for the other children to come, murmuring to them as they passed. Slowly they gathered about Taddeo. She motioned for them to sit at his feet. Taddeo gazed in wonderment.

Renzo caught Letta's eye. “Do you know him?” he whispered.

She shook her head, biting her upper lip. “The little one
thinks
she does. As for the others . . . He's very like someone they once knew. Someone who died in . . . Well, where we were before. And,” she added, “they do as I say!”

When Taddeo recovered from his surprise, he would begin to ask questions. For which Renzo still had no acceptable answers. If Taddeo told the
padrone
 . . .

The marsh boy coughed again, not so frighteningly as before. Letta watched him a moment, then turned to Taddeo. “Is there aught we can do for you, Grandfather? Fetch you a cup of water? Rub your feet?”

Taddeo's eyebrows shot up in astonishment. But he quickly recovered himself; his face crumpled into its habitual cast of grievance and pain. “My shoulders,” he whined. “My old shoulders, they pain me.” He looked down at the children, to gauge the impact of his words.

The twin girls came around behind him and began to rub his shoulders. Taddeo closed his eyes and leaned into their hands, moaning. But one eye opened and slewed toward Renzo, as if to make sure he saw. As if to reproach Renzo that
he
had never treated Taddeo with the kindness and deference he so richly deserved.

Renzo let out a deep breath, releasing the fear that had seized him.

For now it seemed that Taddeo would not tell.

But it was only a matter of time.

◆      ◆      ◆

“Gabriella?”

Renzo heard his mother's name as he stepped out of the church and into the cold winter sun. Pia slipped over the threshold to join him; he took her hand and peered back inside, whence had come the voice. The darkness was a balm to his eyes, which had been blinded by the dazzle of sunlight flashing off stone and water. Beside him Mama stopped and turned back too. Renzo breathed in the lingering scents of incense and candle wax, waiting for the man who had said Mama's name.

“Gabriella, it
is
you.” A man approached them through the sea of departing worshippers. His face — long and thin and homely — was unfamiliar to Renzo.

The man fell in beside Mama, on the side opposite from Renzo and Pia. He was tall — the top of Mama's head reached only to his chin — and walked with a slight stoop, as if he preferred not to tower above others. He shuffled beside her down the steps, leaning into her, speaking so softly that Renzo could not make out his words among the voices of the other churchgoers. Mama smiled, replied. The man was touching Mama's elbow, Renzo saw. A light touch, well within the bounds of courtesy, but there was something about it that Renzo didn't like. As if, were Mama to stumble, it was this man instead of Renzo who should rightfully check her fall. And the way he called her Gabriella, instead of Signora Doro. . . . It was disrespectful. He had no right.

“Lorenzo,” Mama said, when they reached the path, “do you remember Signore Averlino?”

Renzo shook his head.

The man's face creased into a smile. “It's good to see you again, Lorenzo.” A sweet smell clung to him — a pleasant smell, and familiar, but Renzo couldn't quite place it. He did not return the smile.

“You met long ago,” Mama said, “when you were Pia's age, I think. Marcello — Signore Averlino's parents were friends of my parents in Venice, when we were children.”

“Why is he
here
?” Renzo said. The question sounded ruder than he had intended, but Signore Averlino didn't seem to notice.

“For my niece's wedding,” he said. “She's to live on Murano; I may come here more often now.”

“And here is my daughter, Pia,” Mama said.

“Pia.” Signore Averlino said, bowing to her. “So pleased to meet you.”

Pia curtsied gravely.

“Signore Averlino is
padrone
of a carpentry shop in Venice,” Mama said.

So that was the smell. Sawdust.

“Carpentry must seem dull work to you, Renzo,” Signore Averlino said. “Compared with the splendid art of glass.”

BOOK: Falcon in the Glass
7.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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