The Secret of the Glass (25 page)

“They were my mother’s first,” Teodoro smiled with pride. “She gave them to me.”

“She will be quite pleased with the gift, signore,” Ernesto said, rolling up his drawings.

“Indeed, she will.” Alfredo agreed. “I see now why you insisted we come to this particular glassworks.”

Teodoro’s gaze jumped from his friend to Sophia. He narrowed his eyes at Alfredo with a thin-lipped warning.

“I will make certain it is the best La Spada has ever created,” Sophia said, ignoring Ernesto’s pointed stare.

“
Grazie,
Sophia. It will be my mother’s favorite gift this year, I’m confident.” Teodoro’s cheeks appled as his mouth spread wide.

“It is the thought as much as the gift itself.” Sophia looked up into his fathomless eyes.

They stayed adrift within their intimate regard until Sophia remembered the men beside them, shifting her focus to include Alfredo.

“Let me escort you out, shall I?”

“That would be delightful, my dear.” Alfredo stepped in front of Teo, offering his arm to Sophia with a grin full of amusement.

Teodoro followed behind as Sophia led them up the short flight of stairs and out into the sunlit courtyard.

“I will tell my father of your visit and your purchase,” Sophia said as she made her curtsy and the men, their bows. “He will be so pleased.”

“As am I,” Teodoro said. Daring to behave more like his dashing companion, he took her hand, brushing his lips across the smooth, tender surface. “Thank you again.”

“
Prego
, Teodoro,” Sophia whispered.

“It was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, signorina,” Alfredo said as the two men made their way from the courtyard.

“And yours,” Sophia replied with a wave.

The bang of the house door echoed through the
terrazzo
. Sophia spun about, shoulders dropping in annoyance as she spied Oriana rushing from the house, down the steps, and in her direction.

“Sophia, Sophia,” Oriana called, the syllables drubbing time with the click of her hard heels upon the stones.

Sophia tried to hurry, to enter the
fabbrica
before her sister reached her, but she was not spry enough.

“Sophia!”

The call became a high, shrill shriek and she had no choice but to stop.

Her sister ran a few steps past her, staring after the handsome men as they took their last steps out of the garden and left the grounds.

“Who were those gentlemen?”

“No one, customers.”

“Customers?” Oriana stabbed her with a narrowed, cynical stare. “But you seemed to know them.”

Sophia shrugged with equivocation. “No one you would know.”

“How do
you
know them?”

“I may have…I met one of them, the other night at the palace.”

Oriana’s fists clutched by her side, she stomped a foot down hard on the courtyard’s cobblestones.

“I knew it!” she screamed, a child’s tantrum at the denial of a toy. “Mamma!”

Sophia watched her sister run off and back into the house with a twinge of sympathy for her mother who had hours of her sister’s whining awaiting her. With a baffled shake of her head, she reentered the
fabbrica
, as astounded by the visit as her sister.

Eighteen

“W
ho…who are you?”

“I’m your wife, Zeno. I am Viviana, remember?”

Sophia stood in the dimly lit hallway, listening to the conversation in the room beyond, her chest tightening until she felt unable to capture any air at all. Never had her father not recognized his own wife, never had he sounded so frightened and peculiar.

“Viviana,
sì,”
Zeno mumbled but there was no discernment in his voice, only more uncertainty.

Sophia heard her mother murmur, soothing and comforting, until her father quieted.

“Go back to sleep,
caro.
The sun is not yet up, why should you be?”

The day had not yet started but already the affliction had. This would be one of Zeno’s bad days. Sophia vacillated, leaning her head back against the hard paneled wall of the hallway, wondering if she should continue with her plans. There would be no worry that Viviana would leave him today, on that score she was sure. But what if they needed her? What if this was her father’s last day? The fear gripped her middle like a ravenous, chomping animal and sent sour gorge up into her mouth. She would never forgive herself for not being here.

The large bed in the other room creaked; her mother released a low moan. Sophia leaned ever so slightly toward the doorway, allowing one eye to peer into the dusky room. Her mother lay in bed bedside her father once more, their hands entwined in the small space between them, their features unaccountably serene in the gray, diffused light. From along the narrow corridor, she heard a soft purring and almost smiled—one of her sisters snored like a satiated cat. She left the threshold of her parent’s chamber, tiptoing passed the other bedrooms, peeping into the peaceful, murky stillness of each room, and saw her sisters and grandmother blanketed in the vulnerability of sleep.

Sophia gathered her courage about her like a cloak, and left the house.

Low tide. A time when Venice, unlike other seaside locales, smelled freshest as the ebbing waters rid the city of its waste, washing it clean with one of its twice-daily ablutions.

Sophia held her head high against the scathing gawk of the gondolier as he helped her onboard. She took a great risk riding alone in a hired gondola, one she would only hazard in these early morning hours when most of the night-loving people of Venice were still asleep, many having just found their beds. Only courtesans rode in gondolas alone and to do so could brand her as one. She had worn her most concealing veil, her plain, nondescript, beige day gown, and there were few other people about in the predawn hours of a Tuesday. She found a modicum of safety in the anonymity.

In the somnolent, almost secretive surroundings, when so few gondolas floated upon its surface, the Canalazzo was like a mirror, still and peaceful, a mosaic of the beauty rising above it, the bright colored stone
palazzi
under the washed blue sky of dawn. The quiet was surreal; any small sound, the lapping of the water against the moss-covered canal walls, the footsteps of a solitary stroller off in the distance, took on far greater proportion than it deserved.

Sophia dipped her hand into the water, just the tapered tips of her fingers, creating ripples in the water that disturbed the still, flat reflection. She counted the ripples as she counted her burdens. She despised herself for her ungrateful thoughts, for thinking of her family in such a way, but at times the contrary spirits in her life fought for control, too often of late. How much snow, she wondered, can the branch hold before it collapses? How long could she hold back the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to escape from her clenching jaw and constricted throat.

“Here,
per favore
, over here,” Sophia pointed, instructing her tight-faced, disapproving driver to pull over to the landing stage at San Toma, a few doors down from the Ca’ da Fuligna. “We will wait here.”

She handed him a few small silver
soldi
to assure his acquiescence, though it came with a sullen suspicious attitude.

From this vantage point, Sophia had a clear view of the doors to Pasquale’s home, but they remained far enough up the bend that she couldn’t readily be seen by anyone exiting from them onto the canal. She sat on the first bench with her back to the
palazzo
, facing her gondolier. She had only to glance over her shoulder for a clear view of the house. She prayed da Fuligna was not an early riser; it would be far easier to remain covert if she could conceal herself among the crowds that would soon gather on the Grand Canal.

With unwavering destiny, the brackish green water of the canal rose upon the dark stone of its wall, the ebb and flow of the tide giving a framework to the passing of days; the blood of the vibrant city, pumping through its veins and arteries. A straggle of people milled around in the square, parishioners headed for sunrise mass, but few noticed her as they made for the pointed gothic door of the faded rust stone building. Moisture gathered on her upper lip and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. The sun had snuck up over the horizon, though still invisible behind the tall
palazzi
that stood one beside the other, but already the moist heat it wrought clenched the city in its oppressive grip. She smelled the grit of dirt and stone as they warmed. A small inclination of her head, another covert glance at the home of her nemesis.

There he was, emerging from the portal held open by a bowing servant. Da Fuligna gave a curt bob of his balding pate, and stepped down into the royal blue and gold gondola held ready for him outside his door. His form appeared fuzzy as she stared at him from beneath her woven lace veil, but it was most assuredly him. Pasquale inclined his head upriver, and the gondolier immediately put his back to his work, turning the boat skillfully and heading north up the canal.

Sophia spun back to face her own gondolier, eyes bulging with sudden panic. Pasquale headed this way; he would pass right by her. She held her breath, listening, ignoring the penetrating, disapproving glare beaming down upon her from the driver standing above.

The steady rhythm of the oar dipping into the water drew closer and closer. It sounded just behind them now, just off to her right. She bent over as if picking something off the wooden bottom of the boat. The low rolling wake of the da Fuligna gondola reached her own, and Sophia struggled to keep her seat upon the undulating bench. Her beige-clothed derrière bobbed up and down, propelled by the motion, but her face remained hidden. She glanced up through the tops of her eyes. The bright blue boat had pulled away.

“Back that way, if you please.” She instructed her contrary oarsman. “But slowly.”

The dark-haired man pursed his lean lips, forming a thin line of censure across his ruddy face, but followed her directions.

Sophia switched to the rear bench, keeping low behind her driver and the curling upward tilt of the gondola’s prow. If she felt the tiniest scruple, she denounced it with inattention, focused only on her prey. From this vantage point, she could follow the progress of Pasquale’s vessel unnoticed by both passenger and driver, their focus firm on the watery way before them. Their rippling wake sent the never-ending row of tethered gondolas along the canal-side bobbing gently, a domino-like line of dancers taking their bows. Within minutes, the leading boat turned inward, right, toward one of the many landing stages near the Rialto Bridge.

“Signore,” Sophia hissed at her driver, pointing a finger at the first dock down the canal from the one the da Fuligna gondola approached. “There.”

As her own boat kissed the shoreline, Sophia watched Pasquale step onto land and head toward the Larga Marzini. Her stomach clenched. There were still so few people out and about—if she was forced to follow him on foot now, he was certain to see her should he cast a casual glance over his shoulder.

From a short distance behind her, from along the Riva del Ferro, affable, feminine laughter rang out. Sophia spun round. The rotund woman and her equally stout companion strode passed the dock. Their unveiled heads, simple but finely crafted dresses, and large empty baskets signified their status as servants to one of the wealthy families that lived along the Canalazzo—married, middle-aged, and matronly—on their way to market early to purchase the freshest wares the merchants had to offer. Sophia raised her eyes heavenward; the women’s ampleness was a gift, a sign from God.

Sophia sprang to her feet, upsetting the gondola, tossing a few more coins to her irate driver and took off right behind them, skipping into the shade of their substantial silhouettes, sending up a silent cheer as her guides turned onto the same lane Pasquale had taken. It was the first pathway in the string of narrow
calli
that formed the Mercerie, leading through the
erberia
, and on to San Marco’s piazza, the city’s government buildings, and more merchant stalls. With luck, Pasquale would reach his destination before these women stopped to shop.

Sophia continued in their wake. By positioning herself with precision, she gained a clear view of da Fuligna between their amply padded shoulders. If she stayed low and small, she could hide behind their bulk. She felt a pebble in her flat, slipper-like cloth shoe, felt its bite with each step, but she had no time to stop and dislodge it.

The women’s voices carried back on the wind though she paid no mind to their words. She had enough to worry about without trying to catch their spirited conversation. Her breath came short and heavy, her gaze darting about, checking on da Fuligna as he strode down the quayside, checking for anyone who might recognize her. Mercifully, she passed through the meager crowd unnoticed, invisible in the stillness of the morning. She was the tail end of the bountiful force the corpulent women created, a paltry afterthought of humanity. They swerved to the right to ogle some wares, and so did Sophia. They returned to the middle of the walkway, and she followed. Da Fuligna never once looked back, took no notice of her, but the same could not be said of the ladies before her.

Without stopping, the older of the two women turned to study Sophia over her ample shoulder. Had she seen Sophia mimic their every step or had she just felt her presence behind them like an unrelenting specter? The woman’s brows bunched into plump folds of skin.

Sophia smiled, eyes wide and innocent, a benign and blank expression on her face.

“Buongiorno
,” she called with a child’s lack of guile.

The woman said nothing, turned back to her companion with the same confounded expression upon her face, and kept walking.

Sophia almost giggled, stifling her amusement with an inhibiting hand against her full, wide mouth. Perhaps she could become one of Venice’s many spies. She was clearly adept at this covert conduct, and the
Serenissima
retained sleuths of all shapes, sizes and sexes; they were famous, or rather, infamous for it.