Tallow (11 page)

Pillar and Quinn didn't understand who it was they'd raised. And, thank the gods, Tallow didn't understand either. For if he knew, Katina had no doubt the pressure would cripple him. She lifted her hand and held it in front of her. Good. The telltale trembles hadn't started yet. Her life-force was still intact. Yes, she'd bought some time – something they all needed. Katina pushed her thoughts aside as Pillar began to talk to her in earnest.

WHILE PILLAR AND KATINA DISCUSSED
the finer points of candlemaking, Tallow watched the crackling flames. With only half an ear on their conversation, she tried to think about what had just happened. She was being given permission to openly manipulate people. Wasn't that what got the Estrattore into trouble in the first place – the very thing that signed their death sentence?

But Katina had talked about turning hate into love, anger into calm, evil into good. That couldn't be wrong, could it? No matter what the Church said or the old Doge and Patriarch did all those hundreds of years ago. Not if you made people happy. And it did mean that Tallow could keep practising and perfecting the craft she'd grown to love.

Watching Pillar, Katina and Quinn join each other in a toast, she pushed aside her reservations. Why, even Quinn had stopped her moaning; a crooked smile had replaced the usual smirk.

Maybe, thought Tallow, this
was
what she'd been born to do – combine her abilities with her candlemaking skills and change people's minds about the Estrattore. For now she had the chance to become what she'd always wanted to be. The best the sestiere – and even Serenissima – had ever seen.

She would be the candlemaker's apprentice.

THE MOMENT I BEGAN DELIBERATELY
distilling into the candles, everything changed. I remember it as though it were yesterday.

While Quinn remained upstairs, Pillar, Katina and I went to the workshop. Making sure all the doors were locked and the shutters closed, we lit some rush lights. Katina told me to pretend for the moment that she wasn't there; she wanted to observe me. That was difficult. Her presence was unsettling, but I donned my apron and stoked the fire beneath the cauldron, as I always did.

Pillar began to melt more tallow, stirring it gently and holding the sieve to scoop out any of the more obvious impurities before the proper straining. With the fire blazing, I went to the other side of the workshop and began attaching plaited wicks to one of the broaches. When the tallow was ready, I carried the broach over and, standing on a small stool next to the vat, dipped the wicks repeatedly. After a few generous coats were applied, I suspended the broach over one of the troughs in the middle of the room to drain away the excess fat. While the first broach dried, I prepared another, and so on until we had more than sixty candles hanging from five broaches. By the time I'd finished, the first dozen wicks were ready to be dipped again. As I returned the first broach to the cauldron, Katina stopped me.

'How many times do the wicks get dipped?'

'Numerous times. Depends on how thick we want the candle or taper. Why?'

'What do you feel when you touch the wax, Tallow? No, don't tell me yet. I'm thinking that if the candles get dipped repeatedly, then you'd be better to distil in the early stages, now, before the candle reaches its final shape. That way, if there's untouched tallow to cover what's been adjusted, it will decrease the candle's overall potency. I think it may be a way of controlling the depth of the distillation. Do you know what I mean?'

'Yes, I think I do.' I was excited. This made a strange kind of sense to me. Then a thought crossed my mind. 'But what about as the candle burns? Whatever I've placed within it will be released and it will be strong.'

Katina shook her head and gently touched the broach I was holding. 'I'm not convinced of that. Let's call this one an experiment.' She looked to Pillar for permission. He nodded. 'Do what I have taught you to do. Really feel the essence of what you are handling. Extract the goodness from it and, when you're ready, separate it. Suppress anything negative, control what remains, enhance it, and then put it back in.'

'Are you sure?'

Katina laughed. 'No, but until we try, none of us will know.'

I didn't argue. Instead, I filled a metal jug with the melted tallow and brought it over to where the first broach was suspended.

'I'm not going to dip this time,' I explained to Pillar and Katina. 'I think I'll pour. I think I'll be able to control what I'm doing better.'

Pillar grunted in approval. Basic tapers could be made by either dipping or pouring tallow onto the wicks. Dipping was quicker, but, until I was better trained in the art of an Estrattore, I wanted to control what I was doing. Through the jug's handle, I could feel the hot liquid tallow. Opening my mind to it, I could sense the agony of the animals, the sheep and cattle that had been slaughtered for food, clothing and this fat so that one day candles might light human homes. I threw myself into their torment, collected it, tasted it and almost gagged.

The sickly-sweet tang of copper filled my mouth, but I concentrated even harder. These candles would not reflect the animals' pain. I pushed those feelings aside and then plunged deeper, further into the tallow, searching for something positive to latch on to. Images flooded my mind. I saw fields of rich green grass, oats and water aplenty. Sunshine and rain and the soft nuzzling of calves and lambs. I witnessed them gambolling about hillsides and nestled together in a dark barn once night fell. Contentment and pleasure washed over me.

'That's it, Tallow,' whispered Katina. Her long fingers rested gently on my shoulder. 'What else do you see, do you feel? Capture its very essence as I have taught you and let it flow.'

I concentrated harder, narrowing my vision, forcing myself to extract the most potent of positive emotions from the experience. The grazing animals fed, birds swooped and sang, and butterflies flittered between flowers. It was missing only one thing ...

All at once, a shaggy, chocolate-coloured dog, curled up beneath the long grass under a tree, raised his head and allowed his tongue to loll out. I smiled and extended my will, capturing the moment. 'Happiness,' I answered. 'And safety. I feel safe.'

Before I could become lost in this pastoral pleasure, Katina spoke in a husky voice. 'Tallow, release what you sense now.'

I gathered all that I felt and saw and, with a slight push of my will, allowed the emotions to pour into the tallow. As if they were another additive, I mentally measured the amounts and fed them in equal portions, balancing the outcome against the flow. Finally, I tipped the jug and watched as the tallow coiled over the thickened wicks. The liquid warmth glowed, each layer richer than the last, ripened with life's simple pleasures.

Finished, I put the jug down and watched as the excess fat pooled in the trough. Instead of its usual grey, the tallow was a soft creamy colour. I inhaled. The foul smell of the fat had been replaced by the fresh scent of dew-spangled grass. I sighed and smiled at Katina and Pillar.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their eyes were glassy and their cheeks flushed. They stared at the broach.

It was Katina who composed herself first. 'Whoever lights these candles and breathes their scent will experience the delights of a world and time too quickly snatched away.' She tentatively placed a finger in the cooling fat, staring at the small cream dot that stuck to the end of her finger. 'A time before knowledge.'

Pillar looked from me to the candles and back again, his eyes wide with respect and fear. 'I envy them already.'

AFTER THAT, I NOT ONLY
made candles and tapers, but I was allowed to create rush lights, and, for the first time for sale in the shop, the thick moulded pillar candles from which Pillar earned his nickname. In the meantime, I continued to extract the essence of the tallow and its history and, if necessary, change it. Gradually, the first vat was replaced by another and then another as Pillar and I made candle after candle.

It didn't take long for word to get out that Pillar was selling pale creamy candles with the most marvellous scents for the same price as tallow candles. Locals came in droves. Their surprise when they found out these waxy candles with their high sheen and pleasant odours were actually made from tallow was most amusing. Some refused to believe it, but they didn't quibble too hard in case Quinn charged them extra. Over the next few days, customers returned for more and brought friends with them. For the first time in my memory, the shop was crowded.

Even the chandlers who had provided the tallow and their competitors came to set eyes on what they'd heard but could not believe. Candles made from tallow always smelt terrible, and generally looked grey and distasteful; but not Pillar's candles. It didn't take long for the other candlemakers to become first curious and later jealous of Pillar's success. Spies were hired to discover our trade secrets. But we always knew who they were – even if I hadn't been able to tell immediately. They weren't very discreet and Katina had a knack for fossicking out nosy people.

Coins were exchanged, shelves emptied and I was kept very busy. Everyone who burnt our candles complimented us on the smell and how, for the duration of the burn, a general ambience of contentment would descend on even the most fraught of houses and businesses. One customer said that he felt as though the sun had chosen to rise and set in his house; another said that she was reminded of her childhood in the mountains, which always made her feel at peace with herself and the world.

Whereas bee and bayberry waxes had once been a luxury, I was now using them with regularity, relishing the sweet scents, their perfection. I continued to extract and distil, ridding the wax of any negativity and infusing it with a magnified version of its own wholesomeness. Often, especially when working with beeswax, I didn't need to discard or even magnify anything. Bees lived uncomplicated and fruitful lives; likewise, bayberries grew on bushes, secluded and long-living. The essence of these waxes was inevitably one of harmony and peace. It was a pleasure to extract this and hide it deep within my candles.

And that was the way I spent my days. Working with the materials I so loved and learning to become an Estrattore. Katina was an odd teacher. She didn't so much show me what to do as make suggestions and allow me to find my own way. I soon overcame my concern that I might fail her and began asking my own questions. Sometimes she couldn't answer, but she assured me that she would find the solution.

Over the weeks, Katina's promise to Quinn finally came true. In less than a month, our paltry sales had more than doubled. With the onset of winter, and shorter days, we had back-orders waiting for me to fill. I loved making the candles and the love that I poured into my craft also went into the candles. The customers felt it; we all did.

Only once or twice did I accidentally take a negative emotion and place it in the candles. Usually after Quinn had drunk too much and made dark threats. But it didn't happen very often.

Gradually, Pillar and Quinn's fears that I would be discovered lessened and with my spectacles firmly clamped to my face, I was allowed to venture further into the quartiere than I'd ever been before. I was able to explore my island, meet the people that lived beyond my calle and even be greeted by those that recognised the boy in the large hat with the golden glasses. 'That's Pillar's apprentice,' I would hear them say as I passed. 'That's the boy who helps Pillar make those wonderful candles.' I would hide my smile and return their greeting.

I was so caught up in the joy of my new life that I missed what was happening right under my nose.

AS AUTUMN SEGUED INTO WINTER,
and the nights grew longer and the days bitter and short, business boomed. What had once been for Quinn a lonely vigil in an over-stocked shop frequented more through charity for Pillar than need was now a fraught, customer-filled day.

The woman who had once complained of being isolated from her quartiere was now permanently occupied, even popular. Quinn's head burst with the stories she was told; her tongue twisted with gossip, and she derived a peculiar pleasure from deceiving her customers. Each time her fingers clenched their lire and she passed them their newly purchased candles, her secret knowledge of their unwitting blasphemy gave her a dark thrill.

'Have you listened to a word I've said?'

A strident voice penetrated Quinn's thoughts. Halfway through wrapping a set of moulded candles for a customer, she looked around. Francesca Zonelli, the fruiterer's wife whose milk had once soured and who had a reputation as a notorious busybody, leant over the counter and pushed aside the woman Quinn was serving.

Quinn smiled at the customer apologetically and handed over her candles. 'Thank you, Signora. Please come again,' she called chirpily as she placed the shiny silver coin in her special tin and slid it back beneath the counter. She looked at Francesca and sighed. 'Shouldn't you be in your own shop instead of disturbing my customers?'

Francesca frowned. 'No, Giuseppe is there. Anyhow, I'm not disturbing the customers. I
am a
customer.' A few of the remaining patrons cast bemused looks over their shoulders and shook their heads; they were used to Francesca's ways. So was Quinn. She looked at her friend.

'You were right,' she admitted. 'I wasn't listening. What were you saying?'

Francesca beamed. 'I was saying that all she does is pine for him day in and day out!'

'Who?' asked Quinn.

'My daughter, Lucia,' said Francesca, affronted Quinn had to be told again. 'I can't get her to eat and she cries herself to sleep every night.' She suppressed a sob. 'See what it's doing to me? I cry at the smallest thing. Her pain is so great. I can't stand to see my daughter like this. So, I say to myself, what can you do, Francesca? You tell me, Quinnatta. What can I do?' As she spoke, Francesca began combing the shelves, taking candles and placing them on the counter.

Quinn began sorting them, stifling a yawn. She was exhausted and Francesca was making her feel worse. As she listened to her neighbour moan about her daughter, her hand brushed against her tin of money under the counter. It didn't move. There was a time when the merest touch would have sent the old container flying. Now it was as so laden with coppers and lire, it needed two hands to lift it. Quinn smiled. That Bond Rider had been right. Teaching Tallow how to control her special gifts and utilise them while making the candles had worked wonders. 'Praise be to God,' said Quinn under her breath. And no-one had a clue what was going on. She chuckled wickedly. What did she really care? So long as they kept filling her little tin, she was happy.

Francesca was indignant. 'I don't think my daughter's broken heart is anything to laugh about. You of all people should appreciate that!'

Quinn scowled at that barb and tried to pay attention. While she enjoyed a good gossip at the best of times, the stories about Francesca's daughter were tediously predictable. 'I wasn't laughing at what you said, Francesca. My mind was temporarily on other matters.' She weighed and wrapped Francesca's candles and tallied the amount on her abacus. It wasn't till she'd calculated the total that she noticed the expression on Francesca's face. The woman looked quite stricken. Quinn relented. 'Perhaps she should speak to this boy, let him know her feelings?' she suggested.

'That's what I tell her,' said Francesca, slapping the counter, eager to engage. 'But will she listen to me? No. She flutters her eyelashes and smiles. But he doesn't see. It's not love that makes men blind. It's stupidity! He doesn't have a clue!'

Quinn started. Francesca was echoing her thoughts.

Francesca threw her hands up into the air. 'Anyhow, I couldn't just let her fade away to nothing, could I? So,' she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'I took matter into my own hands. What do you think I did?'

Knowing it was expected of her, Quinn responded. 'I don't know, Francesca. What did you do?'

By now a couple of other women in the shop had paused to listen.

'I invited him around for supper. That's what I did!'

'You did?' asked Helena Sarapotini, the fishmonger's wife, heaving her basket on to the counter. Quinn noticed with pleasure that it was full of rush lights and tapers.

'I did,' said Francesca slapping the counter again.

Quinn slid the abacus in front of Francesca, hoping the woman would take the hint. 'That will be one lire and four coppers, thank you.'

Francesca reached into her basket for her purse. 'He comes the day after tomorrow. So, I think to myself, I must put on a feast – a show to make my beautiful daughter look even better. I tell her, she must also put on a good show – between us, we'll show him what he needs, what he wants.'

'That's the way to do it.' Helena nodded sagely. 'Sometimes men need that – to be shown. And I'm not just talking about what they put in their stomach.'

They all laughed.

'They don't always know what they need,' agreed Rosa Barcola, joining them. 'My husband, he knows nothing, except what I tell him. Bruno, we need a maid; Bruno, we need a cat; Bruno, we need a baby. He just says
yes, Rosa.
Afterwards, he wonders what the cat and child are doing there. Men!' Rosa rolled her eyes.

'Exactly,' said Francesca. 'So, in order to set the most perfect table, I need not one, but two of your candles. You tell your son I want two beautiful bayberry candles. Green for good luck.'

'Green for envy!' said Helena.

'Green for the poor boy who doesn't know what's coming,' quipped Rosa. The women cackled hysterically.

'Bayberry!' exclaimed Quinn, her eyes widening as she mentally calculated the cost. But Francesca could afford it. Her husband was the only fruitier in the quartiere.

Francesca's stories suddenly became more interesting.

Behind the workshop door, her ear pressed firmly against the wood, Tallow listened intently. She was taking a small break while Pillar and Katina picked up some more tallow from the Chandlers Quartiere.

When Francesca first started talking, Tallow had almost turned away. But, as she described her daughter's anguish, Tallow's heart swelled. She felt sorry for the poor girl who languished night after night, all because of a boy who didn't know she existed. She could hear the boredom in Quinn's responses and it was all she could do not to dash out and console Francesca. Then she heard Francesca place the order for the candles. After that, the conversation changed focus. Tallow sighed.
Candles don't make themselves,
she thought, looking wryly at the waiting broaches and the bubbling pot of tallow. Returning to the cauldron, she stirred slowly, preoccupied with what she'd heard.

It wasn't fair to have such feelings and not have them returned. She tried to picture Francesca's daughter ... what was her name? That's right, Lucia. She was a pretty blonde, with grey-green eyes and a thin mouth. She seemed nice enough. What was wrong with this boy that he didn't notice her? Perhaps the women were right and he just needed a little encouragement to open his eyes to what he was missing.

Well, Lucia deserved happiness – everyone did. Looking thoughtfully at the block of bayberry wax atop one of the vats, an idea began to form in Tallow's mind. One she couldn't discard.

She knew she wasn't supposed to distil without Katina's permission or knowledge, but this was different. Anyhow, it wasn't such a big deal. All she was going to do was alter the distillation slightly from what she had been doing. No-one need ever know. It wasn't as if she was doing anything bad. As Katina had reassured Quinn, there was nothing unnatural about doing something you were born to do.

When Katina and Pillar came home later that day, Tallow didn't say anything, but that afternoon, as she made the special bayberry candles, she distilled something a little extra into the early layers: something she'd stored from when she held that piece of wood from the gondola, something to which only a besotted girl and indifferent boy would respond.

LYING IN BED THAT NIGHT,
Tallow felt gratified by what she'd done. Not only was she bringing a general air of happiness to the community with her candles, but she was doing something specific to help her neighbours as well. She tried to imagine the look on Lucia's face when this boy admitted he loved her. She tried to picture what Francesca would say ... maybe she would buy more bayberry candles. That would make Quinn even happier than she had been tonight at dinner.

Feeling content with herself, Tallow eschewed her usual midnight stroll on the rooftop and fell into a deep sleep.

Hovering near the workshop the next day, she tipped her hat to Francesca when she came to pick up the candles.

Spying her by the door, Francesca gave her a big smile. 'Ah, you're, Tallow, aren't you?' she said holding the lovely green candles aloft. 'These look beautiful.' She ran them under her nose. 'Smell wonderful too. They're for a special occasion. Should work a treat. You must thank your master for me. He's very clever, that one. A late bloomer. But he's more than making up for it.'

'Grazie mille, Signora Zonelli,' said Tallow, swallowing the laugh that gurgled in her throat. 'I will tell him.' She quickly bowed her head and shuffled back into the workshop. She felt reckless, but also liberated in a way she had not known before.

'What's up with you?' Katina was watching Tallow curiously. Tallow spun around. 'Something's on your mind. Want to share?'

Tallow coloured immediately. 'No. I mean, there's nothing on my mind.'

'Is that right?' said Katina. 'Well, I hate to tell you this, Tallow, but if there's one thing you're not, it's a blank slate. I can tell you're up to something. If you don't want to tell me, that's entirely up to you. Now, come on, shut the door and get back to work. Young men don't exchange pleasantries with older women – not unless it's Carnivale or they're up to something. There are still plenty of orders for you to fill and techniques for you to refine.' She waited for the door to be closed. 'You're not a Master Estrattore yet, you know,' she added.

Without another word, Tallow joined Katina, aware the Bond Rider was studying her closely. To dispel suspicion, she worked extra hard, spending the next four hours learning to rid both wax and tallow of any negativity until it came as easily as breathing.

At the end of the day, Katina wiped her hands on an old rag and, smiling, draped an arm across Tallow's shoulders. 'That was good work,' she said. Tallow noticed Katina's arm was heavy along the back of her neck and she could feel her shaking. For the first time in days, Tallow took a proper look at her mentor. Katina was pale and drawn. There were dark shadows under her eyes.

'Are you all right?' asked Tallow.

'Hmm? What? Oh yes, me. I'm fine.' Katina gave a forced laugh and, pulling her arm back from Tallow, sat on one of the barrels. 'Just tired, that's all. Nothing a good night's sleep won't mend.' She sighed and rubbed her eyes. 'Tomorrow I'll teach you how to draw on the negativity you extracted and distil that too.'

'So soon? I thought you said we didn't want me refining negative emotions yet. I thought you said you weren't entirely comfortable –'

'Who's the instructor here, Tallow?' snapped Katina. 'You or me?'

'You, of course. I –'

'Well,' said Katina, lowering her voice as she looked over her shoulder to see where Pillar was. 'While balance is important, it's also time to teach you that there's more to being an Estrattore than sweetness and light.' Before Tallow could pose the questions that brimmed within her, Katina shook her head and placed her finger against her lips.

'How about you go upstairs and see how Quinn's going with supper,' said Pillar. He had approached so quietly that Tallow hadn't heard him. But Katina had. She shot Tallow a warning glance.

'Yes. All right. Sure,' said Tallow, untying her apron. What did Katina mean? She cast another worried glance in Katina's direction. The Bond Rider looked awful. How had Tallow not noticed before? Surely this couldn't have just happened. Why, Katina could barely even lift her head.

Noticing her concern, Pillar escorted Tallow to the door. 'Get cleaned up. We'll be with you shortly.'

'But Katina –'

'She'll be fine. She's just run down. You're not the only one working hard, you know.' Pillar winked.

Pillar never winked.

Uneasy now, Tallow crossed the floor of the shop, turning just as she reached the stairs. Pillar hadn't shut the door properly and it had swung open slightly. Through the gap she saw Pillar stand in front of Katina. He looked at her for a moment before taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipping her face towards his. Tallow couldn't hear what he said, only the tender tone with which he spoke. He was very worried and, it seemed, not without some justification. Her heart contracted.