The Glassmaker's Daughter by Donna Russo Morin

Author:Donna Russo Morin [Morin, Donna Russo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter

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“May I help you, signore?” The young, skinny boy rushed from his stool in the front corner and bowed before them. The two young cavaliers strained to hear him over the ruckus of so many hands and tools at work.

Bright morning light streamed in the high windows, finding the blaze of each fornace as if it were the energy that lit the fires within. The dripping resin of the alder wood pinged onto the flames, releasing its tangy odor into the air.

Teodoro opened his mouth, his lower jaw working uselessly. He could think of nothing to say. He had come hoping to see Sophia, had hoped to find her on the grounds of the factory as if waiting for him to arrive. It was a nonsensical fantasy but it had been with him for days. Now he felt little but disappointment. He could ask for her father but, as they were unacquainted, the meeting could prove awkward.

Alfredo put a supportive hand on Teo’s shoulder. “My friend here would like a gift for his mother, a glass swan, and we’ve heard this is the best vetreria in all of Venice.”

“Sì, sì.” Teo found his voice, offered a smile of thanks to Alfredo, and bobbed his head with enthusiasm, grateful for the lifeline and the return of his senses. “A swan, for my mamma.”

Metal pans fell upon the stone floor with a horrendous clatter, their noise raucous and splitting, as if all the bells of San Marco cracked and tolled at once.

“Porco mondo.”

The female voice rent the ensuing quiet, distinctive with its feminine tone, surprising with its guttural curse.

His voice, one so clear in her recollections, sent Sophia spinning to the sound, her flailing hand knocking the metal sheets to the floor. She bent, reaching out clumsily, trying to pick them all up at once, trapping them against her body, her arms contorting gracelessly. She leaned forward and dropped them back onto the scagno, creating yet another banging barrage. Her hands flapped against them, slapping them to stillness, feeling as silly as she knew she must appear.

Rolling her eyes heavenward, an infuriated gesture of impatience with her clumsiness, an impassioned entreaty for help from above, Sophia dared to look around. All eyes were upon her; the men stared at her in confusion, some of the younger ones, those akin to brothers, giggled at her ungainliness. Through the forest of their faces, Teodoro’s rose like the tallest oak, tinged with surprise and, perhaps, pleasure.

Sophia gave herself a mental prod, pushed back some of the errant strands of hair from her forehead, and took a few steps forward, rubbing her hands, front and back, on the skirt of her plain, smudged work gown.

“Signore Gradenigo.” She dipped a slight curtsy to Teodoro, her legs quivering far too frantically to attempt anything grander. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Teodoro bowed. Rising, he looked upon her face, and the smile of pleasure that touched his mouth lit in his eyes. “I could say the same for you.

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