The Secret of the Glass (44 page)

Her words hung in the air like a foul stench, the women’s faces scrunched up as if in revulsion, and the powerful silence stretched out as if to infinity.

“What are you talking about, Sophia?” Viviana recoiled with confusion.

“At most you will need one other gown than the one you have on, and a single nightgown. We will purchase more clothing when we arrive at our destination. You too, Rozalia, and things for Santino.” Sophia continued her instructions as if Viviana had not said a word. “Mamma, I need you to gather as much money as there may be here in the house, every
soldo
and
ducat
you can find.”

“You’re speaking nonsense, Sophia, stop it,” Oriana snapped at her with angry impatience.

“Explain yourself, Sophia.” Viviana tugged on her daughter’s arm, using the leverage to pull herself up, and stood indignant beside her. The other women followed, Lia helping Marcella.

“We are leaving, Mamma, now,” Sophia said.

The room erupted; they talked and yelled all at once. Oriana’s anger collided with Lia’s confusion, Viviana’s outrage with Rozalia’s uncertainty. The voices built and fell upon the other in a cacophony of chaos.

“We have no time for this,” Sophia shouted above the din, “we must leave, immediately.”

The voices rose again in perturbed protest, all thoughts of respectful quiet floating away on the retreating waves of sound.

Viviana stepped closer, taking Sophia’s upper arms in her hands.

“I think I know, Sophia, of course I understand if you want to leave, and not marry Signore da Fuligna,” Viviana reasoned, soothing her as if Sophia were a distraught young child needing to be placated. “But we can take our time. We can see your father properly buried and then go. We will find our way somewhere.”

Sophia shook her head, staring at her mother, beseeching her.

“They will never let us leave.”

“Who, the da Fulignas?” Viviana’s brows knit, the trough of wrinkle deepening with her daughter’s mystifying behavior. “You have not married him yet. They have no power over us.”

“You think you know everything, Sophia. You don’t,” Oriana snipped, crossing her arms angrily upon her full bosom, thrusting her chin out toward Sophia as she berated her.

The pounding of her sister’s heart trilled along the graceful curve of her throat.

Lia began to wail, her sobs high pitched and childlike, her delicate features mutated by her anguish. Rozalia embraced the young girl by the shoulders, soothing and comforting; mother and sister berated Sophia with more questions. From above, footsteps sounded, rushing toward the stairs and down. Santino barged into the room, his puzzled entreaties joining the clamor.

“Please, you must listen to me,” Sophia begged Viviana, she begged them all, but her pleadings were drowned out by the raucous din. “Please, listen.”

“SOPHIA!”

Nonna’s forceful yell slammed them into silence.

“Tell her, Sophia, you must tell her, tell them all,” Marcella’s demanding whisper was no less compelling than her shout.

Viviana’s exigent gaze jumped from mother-in-law to daughter. “Tell us what?”

In her grandmother’s face, Sophia saw the truth behind the insistence, and she gathered herself and her courage.

“I know the secret, Mamma.”

Viviana’s anger dissipated, replaced by dawning understanding and denial.

“I know the secret of the glass.”

Amidst the stunned gasps, Viviana took a step forward, drew her hand back, and slapped Sophia across the cheek.

Sophia’s head snapped around on her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut against the stinging tears of pain, raising her own hand to cup her face. Never, in all her childhood naughtiness, had her mother raised a hand to her.

“You stupid girl. You have forfeited all our lives.” Viviana’s words slashed the air, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Your father knew of this, didn’t he? He must have. He indulged it, you, as he always did. How could—”

“Tell her the rest, Sophi,” Marcella’s warbled interjection interrupted her daughter-in-law’s rant.

Sophia’s head tipped to the side as she scrutinized her grandmother from beneath a furrowed brow.

“Tell them of your betrothed’s intentions.”

Sophia’s jaw dropped; how shrewd her nonna was. She would never underestimate the power of her grandmother’s intuition ever again.

“What? What of da Fuligna?” Viviana beseeched them.

Sophia explained. “He plans to send you…send you all, to a convent.”

“No!” Oriana yelled at the condemnation. Her worst fear would become her reality; the prison walls of a cloister were all her future held.

Viviana’s quivering hand rose to her slack-jawed mouth. She crumbled in contrition, throwing her arms around her eldest daughter.

“I am sorry,
mia cara
, so sorry. Do you forgive me?”

Sophia leaned into her mother’s embrace.

“As you forgive me.”

Viviana squeezed her tighter, ensuring Sophia of her absolution with the strength of her arms.

“You have found us a way out?” Marcella asked in the potent quiet.

Sophia backed out of Viviana’s hold, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, nodding.

“I have, Nonna, with the help of a…friend. But we must leave, now, before day’s light can reveal us.”

Viviana and Marcella left without another word, Santino and Rozalia close on their heels, their footsteps and preparations thumping and bumping through every room in the house. Sophia started from the room, but came up short, torn back by the grasping hand of Oriana.

“What…what will happen to us?”

Sophia’s heart tore at the fear so stark upon her sister’s features, this young woman who moved so forthrightly through her days, so intent and sure of herself. She wrapped one arm around Oriana’s shoulders, the other around Lia.

“There is a life waiting for us, wherever we make it. We will have each other, air to breathe, love to share. We need nothing more.”

In her words and her arms, the sisters found the encouragement and strength they needed. Together the three left the room to prepare for what lay ahead.

The bulging bags stood waiting by the back door; in a silent charge the family had gathered those things they held most dear: a remembrance box, a favorite pair of gloves, a dried flower; and those dear in value: their jewelry, a little silver, a few small paintings. Santino and Rozalia stood guard over them while upstairs the family said their final goodbyes.

They trickled down, one after the other, an ill-conceived, poorly attended funeral procession. Their grief was a heavy weight curling their shoulders, Lia’s weeping the dirge upon which the moment played out.

“It is wrong to leave him here, alone like this,” she cried, standing at the bottom of the stairs and gazing up to the floor where her father rested above.

Sophia took her by the shoulders and spun her away, toward the rear door.

“His essence is with God, Lia, you must believe; it is all around us,” Sophia soothed. “What remains will be found soon enough. Ernesto and the men will take perfect care of him, as they would their own loved ones. You know ’tis true.”

Lia wiped at her face with a damp linen and nodded. Zeno had always been loved and respected by the glassworkers of La Spada and those of all the
fabbricas
on Murano; they would see him safely on to his next life.

Viviana stood in the middle of the dining room. With a caressing gaze she glanced about the room, at the much-used table where the family had spent so many of their hours in the pleasure of good food and the pleasure of each other’s company, at the brightly painted ceramic bowls on the polished wood sideboard where she had served so many dishes.

Oriana stepped beside her mother. “They are only things, Mamma.”

Viviana nodded, eyes glistening with moisture. “
Sì,
but they are
our
things.”

“We will get new things, together, where no one can pull us apart,” Oriana said. “Let us away.”

Bags in hand, Sophia at the lead, she opened the door to the courtyard.

“Wait, Sophia, wait.” Marcella dropped her parcel with a clatter and skipped away, her short fleeting footsteps clicking through the hushed house.

“Nonna, come, we have no more time,” Sophia hissed after her, searching the empty
terrazzo
for any signs of life, any prying eyes.

Marcella rushed back into the room as fast as she’d left it, shoving a small object into Sophia’s hand. In the dim light, Sophia couldn’t see it, but she knew it, as distinctly as she knew her own face. The cool, smooth surface as much a part of her as her own blood.

“It was the first piece of glass ever made by a Fiolario,” her grandmother said as if she spoke the words of a prayer. “You must keep it with you, always. Perhaps someday, you will make the glass again. The world is ever-changing; it is the one thing that stays the same.”

Sophia mulled the small piece over in her hand, tracing the teardrop shape forged over three hundred years ago with loving fingers. She slipped it into the pocket of her gown and hefted her bag into a tighter grip, turning her face to the night and the stars lighting their path.

“Come,
mia famiglia
.”

Thirty-seven

T
he quiet was uncanny as they made their way through the courtyard in the darkness before the dawn. At the edge of the garden alleyway, Sophia spun back to those behind her, their faces blurry in the murky moonlight. Fog was borne into the atmosphere as the cool ocean air blanketed the warm earth of the land. The thickening sea mist cocooned them away from the rest of the world as it clung needily to the torch lights.

Her home stood deserted, the windows as empty as the rooms within. The small trickle of gray smoke rose up out of the chimneys of the factory, iridescent against the black night sky. The smell of the burning alder wood invaded her nostrils. Here was everything she loved. She had hoped never to leave it and the foolish desire had brought them all to this moment.

The image of her father’s lifeless body coalesced in her mind as if she looked into the unlit room where he lay. Sophia exorcised the image away; she wouldn’t remember him like that. Instead she saw him laughing, his light eyes twinkling with mirth as they so often did, his hands working the glass as he so loved to do. For him, she would see them safe.

“You must stay close behind me. Our way is not far but we cannot risk becoming separated.”

Her family and friends murmured their comprehension and Sophia turned out onto the
calle
.

The heavy metallic clanging sang out behind her and she pivoted around impatiently on the ball of one foot, certain the sound had come from her nonna and the favorite pans Marcella had insisted on bringing.

“Please, we must be as quiet as we can,” she hissed.

“It was not us, Sophia,” Viviana insisted, the muted fabric of her mourning gown sending her features into a pale relief. “It came from the front of the house.”

Confusion reigned; the group froze in place, holding their breath.

The sound came again, and yet again, a measured, rhythmic cadence marked with metal upon metal.

“The
sceriffi,
” Lia screeched.

Oriana used her free hand to cover her cowering sister’s mouth, shushing her.

“But how?” Viviana asked.

“The physician,” Santino said with a harsh whisper.

Of course. Sophia raised her eyes heavenward. Signore Fucini would have to report the death; it was his duty. Yet she never imagined he would be so efficient. Nor would she have expected the police to arrive so soon to secure the glassworks.

Sophia snatched her grandmother’s bag from her hand.

“Run!”

Santino grabbed Viviana’s bag; Oriana took Lia’s. As speedy as their muffled steps could carry them, they ran through the caliginous, narrow passageways twisting through Murano. Their veils flung back off their faces, bobbing upon their heads like flapping lids. Marcella’s short legs, revealed to the knees as she gathered her skirts in both hands, scissored to keep up. One after the other, the quaint and cozy homes stood like sleeping sentinels, their windows black, marking each fleeing step they took.

Time and again Sophia craned her neck to look over her shoulder. Like harbingers of dread, her family followed her, their faces ghostly white, their mouths gaping black circles, their eyes bulging with fear and urgency. Santino brought up the rear, struggling with two large satchels and a corpulent belly formed from years of good living with this family that had become like his own.

Sophia heard the heavy breath of her mother and Nonna, worry for their welfare etching another gully through her mind. But they could not dither, could not dally. For all she knew the ruthless
sceriffi
were but a few bends behind them.

The fetid odor of the canal at high tide grew stronger and she knew they were close, drawing closer with each rapid step. She glimpsed the
fondamenta
through the narrow opening ahead, a glimmer of relief mingled with the anxiety clutching at her abdomen. Reality’s truthfulness reared its ugly head. They were doing this, leaving their home, all the people and the places they loved, the only home Sophia had ever known.

Damiana’s face rose up in her mind and she knew the same disconsolation Damiana would feel when she found Sophia gone. To move forward, one must, at times, leave so much behind. In the masculine carved features of a corner shrine sculpture, Sophia saw Teodoro’s face, knowing she would, as she had promised, see it every day for the rest of her life.

She turned right at the water’s edge, leading them south, ever closer to the southern tip of the islets. No gondolas bounced upon the water, no gondolier’s song filled the air. All was stillness.

The hooded man stepped out of the shadows, his mass looming out of the blackness like a beast birthed from the earth itself. Sophia passed him in a rush, his presence registering on her brain long before she could force her body to a stop.