Falcon in the Glass (29 page)

The assassin nodded.

“And Mama and Pia?”

“Safe. Because as far as anybody knew, you wouldn't have absconded with secret knowledge. You'd be dead.”

“But I don't want to . . .”
Leave Murano
, he'd been about to say. Though, a moment ago he'd been ready to leap off the boat to join Letta.

“Did any of the guards see you?” the assassin asked. “After you took off the mask?”

“One of them did.”

“They know now that the bars were made of glass. Do you think they won't scour the ranks of glassworkers, looking for connections with the bird children? The Ten already know you've been suspected of harboring them in the glassworks. Not from me. But they know. And now there's a guard who can identify you. You might well come through it, but there would always be questions. And if this night's work were ever known . . .”

“But you said you were finished.”

“I am. But there are others like me, and always will be.”

Renzo couldn't still his mind to think. It was a restless wind, sending one thought after another fluttering past him, until at last he latched on to the pin.

“My silver cloak pin. You . . . planted it. Why would you do that? Why would you help? Why should I trust you?”

The assassin set down his oars and moved to sit opposite Renzo. “If you knew my face, I'd have to trust you, too. Perhaps we might trust each other.” He reached up his crippled hands to his face and pulled off the mask.

It was an older face than Renzo had expected. A scar
slashed across one cheek, looking dangerous and harsh, but the thin line of the mouth, to Renzo's eyes, seemed to hold more pain than cruelty. The man's eyes, rimmed with dark circles, seemed tired and sad. Not the face of a man who had triumphed in life but of one who had been beaten down.

The man reached into his purse. Pulled out five copper coins. Held them out in his twisted hand.

“She reminds me of
my
sister,” he said. “Though that was long ago.”

Renzo stilled. Did not breathe.

“I watched you. At first my aim was to find your uncle through you. But even when I did, after he came to your house . . . I couldn't take him from there. Didn't want to violate
her
house. Didn't want to make her afraid.”

“Pia,” Renzo whispered.

“I was no one to her — just a beggar, a complete stranger. And still . . .”

He gazed at the coins, then funneled them back into his purse. “You might well come through it, but
she
will be safer if you go.”

Papà's voice came swimming up through the long, bending stream of memory.
There will never be a greater glassmaker than you; you have the eye and the hand and the heart for greatness; you will bring honor to the family; they will build on your legend for generations
.

Gone now, Papà and his dreams. Ashes. And Vittorio, gone. And Mama and Pia . . . Not gone, but lost to him?

Signore Averlino would step in and take his place as the man of the family. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing. Not for Mama. Not for Pia. Especially since Renzo might be a danger to them if he stayed — a danger to
family
.

But how could he bear to leave them?

And the glass itself, spinning at the end of the blowpipe, transforming into small miracles at his touch . . . What would his life be without it?

Suddenly Renzo remembered Vittorio's confession. He slipped the parchment from beneath his shirt. “The carpenter. He had nothing to do with . . . the glass bars. My uncle wrote out a confession — ”

“So he told me.” The man took the paper. “I'll give this to . . . the ones who hired me. And I'll tell them I know it to be true.”

They sat for a moment in silence. A wind gust brushed at Renzo's cheek; it ruffled the surface of the water. A wave rocked the boat with a soft, gurgling splash. He gazed at the reflected lights of the city, trembling and golden. How had he come to this place? he wondered. How had his heart become so entangled in the lives of strangers that he'd been willing to risk all he'd ever cared about? How had it happened? He could not say.

He tipped back his head and searched the stars — familiar, clear, and bright. Did they shine just the same in other places? Could they still guide you when you were far from home?

Behind him he heard shouting. The ship strained toward
them, the wind beginning to fill her sails. And another voice came to him:
She never doubted. She always knew you'd come.

Something heavy rolled off his heart; he felt himself grow calm.

The man sighed, stood, took up the oars. “Have you decided?” he asked.

Renzo nodded. “Take me to the ship,” he said. “I'm ready to go.”

T
he ship appeared in the distance in the soft pink glow at the rim of the world. The little owl veered toward it, pumping hard beneath fading stars. Although he was light — for he bore no message — the flight had spanned a great length of land and sea, and weariness dragged at his wings. When at last the ship's sails loomed above him, the owl swooped low across the deck, seeking the one he'd been sent to find.

He heard a rustling somewhere below — then a drowsy, chuckling
coo
. His heartbeat quickened; he spied an opening and dived down into a deeper darkness, where the air lay heavy and still.

She was sleeping among the others — the smallest of the companions. Feathers ruffled; the sounds of human breathing stirred the air. The owl lit down on the girl's knee, called softly. Her eyes opened; she sat up; she gazed at him. Slowly she held out a hand.

It was a tiny hand, and smooth — unlike the hand he'd known so long and well. He hopped onto the back of it,
stretching up in alertness, feathers shut tight. They gazed at each other, the owl and the girl, until a strange new kenning went shivering through him. Thinner and weaker than the kenning he'd known, yet oddly sweet and musical.

He blinked.

At the same time she blinked too.

The little owl fluffed his feathers. He settled down on her small, soft hand and knew that he was home once more.

In 1291, after a series of destructive fires, an edict went out from the authorities in Venice banning all glassmaking furnaces from the city. From that point forward the island of Murano became the center of glassmaking in the Venetian lagoon. Murano glass came to be renowned for its beauty and originality and was much sought after across all of Europe.

Glassmaking, like many crafts, has a vocabulary all its own. In this book I've taken all but one of the glassmaking terms from
Murano: Island of Glass
by Attilia Dorigato, who derives his terms in part from documents dating from the Renaissance. (I've taken
malmoro
from
Glassmaking in Renaissance Venice: The Fragile Craft
, by W. Patrick McCray.)

During the Renaissance the authorities made many efforts to keep Murano's glassmakers from taking their secrets to other countries. Numerous decrees were passed, imposing fines, banishment, or prison sentences on glass artisans who left Murano to practice their craft beyond the Venetian lagoon.

According to some historians the authorities went even further in their attempts to protect trade secrets: If a glassmaker left the lagoon, agents of the state would seek him out, wherever he was, and kill him.

At the time in which
Falcon in the Glass
is set, Murano was part of the Republic of Venice, which was governed by a doge — or duke — and the Council of Ten, a group of noblemen who had extraordinary powers and a fearsome reputation. Sometimes they were referred to simply as “the Ten.” If a citizen wished to denounce someone to the doge or the Ten, all he had to do was slip a written message through a slot in one of several Lion's Mouth boxes that could be found scattered across the city of Venice.

Visitors to Venice today can tour the prisons, located across a narrow canal from the Doge's Palace. But these prisons had not yet been built at the time of this story; most prisoners were then housed on the ground floor of the Doge's Palace itself. However, prisoners from elite classes or people not yet convicted might be taken to cells high up in the palace, cells called “the Leads,” from the sheets of lead used to cover the roof just above. It was from the Leads, much later, that Giovanni Giacomo Casanova famously escaped, managing somehow to scramble onto the roof and then climb down through a skylight into an attic. He passed through a number of rooms and at one point leaned out a window, where he was seen by a guard who mistook him for an official and let him out.

I was surprised to learn that at least some prisoners were
supplied with oil lamps, which they kept burning day and night. Apparently many of the cells were subdivided into chambers with wooden walls. I've chosen to use stone walls for the purposes of this story, and I've invented some details regarding the prison doors.

The Doge's Palace, situated in a low-lying part of Venice, is particularly vulnerable to a lagoon-wide phenomenon called
acqua alta
, or “high water.” These seasonal, exceptionally high tides tend to occur with the conjunction of a new or full moon, rain, and a sirocco wind. Although episodes of
acqua alta
are becoming more and more frequent in modern times, many such inundations have been documented back to the Middle Ages. Today visitors walk on elevated planks when an occurrence of
acqua alta
floods the palace and Saint Mark's Square.

Carnivale
(or Carnival) was the annual celebration wherein citizens wore costumes and masks, staged plays, ate heartily, danced, and made merry before the privations of Lent. The festival of
Carnivale
began in the Middle Ages and continues in the present day.

On a final note, if you go to Venice, you'll notice that people usually stand while rowing their boats — one oar per person. However in the past there was a type of small fishing boat in which a single man, with the aid of a central oarlock, rowed using two crossed oars. Renzo and Vittorio travel in such a boat when crossing from Murano to Venice. Some readers may be surprised when Renzo encounters the island of San Cristoforo, which is not in evidence today. Originally,
San Cristoforo and San Michele were two separate islands, but the area between them was filled in during the nineteenth century, and the combined island is now known as San Michele.

If you'd like to know more about Murano glass, I recommend
Murano: Island of Glass
by Attilia Dorigato and
Murano: A History of Glass
by Gianfranco Toso. If you'd like to delve even deeper into the historical and technical aspects of Murano glassmaking, I recommend
Glassmaking in Renaissance Venice: The Fragile Craft
by W. Patrick McCray.

If you'd like to know more about the old Venetian prisons, I recommend
The Prisons of the Doge's Palace in Venice
by Umberto Franzoi and
The Medieval Prison: A Social History
by G. Geltner.

If you'd like to know more about how people lived in Venice during the Renaissance, I recommend the elegant and richly illustrated
Private Lives in Renaissance Venice
and
Art and Life in Renaissance Venice
, both by Patricia Fortini Brown.

If you'd like a more general view of Venice and its history, I recommend the incomparable
The World of Venice
by Jan Morris.

— Susan Fletcher

I'm grateful for the generosity of so many people who helped me with this book.

Ellen Howard, Winifred Morris, Kathi Appelt, Marion Dane Bauer, Linda Zuckerman, and Kelly Fletcher read and commented on the manuscript; each one helped immeasurably. My critique group — including Carmen Bernier-Grand, Nancy Coffelt, David Gifaldi, Eric Kimmel, and Pamela Smith Hill — patiently listened to chapter after chapter on Wednesday evenings and showed me how the manuscript might be improved. Cynthia Whitcomb taught me a joyful way to move through the first draft.

Patricia Fortini Brown read the entire manuscript for accuracy and directed me to resources that told me just what I needed to know. Patrick McCray and Charlene Fort checked to make sure the details about glassmaking were correct. Dr. John Morrison lent me his expertise on injuries to the eye. Doris Kimmel set me straight on both glassmaking and birds and kindly lent me books from her personal library. Silvana Hale brought her knowledge of Venice to bear on
the manuscript and helped me with words and phrases in Italian and the Venetian dialect. Jim Nolte, head librarian at Vermont College of Fine Arts, gave me invaluable research assistance. Nina and Laurent Rochette and Janice Simnetta went out of their way to find resources for me. Jerry Fletcher advised me on many matters, most notably those involving the carpentry shop.

Thanks so much to Emily Fabre for her help and enthusiasm for the project. Most especially, I want to thank my agent, Elizabeth Harding — for taking me on, getting this project on the road, and smoothing the way — and my editor, Karen Wojtyla, for her wisdom, humor, and trust.