Falcon in the Glass (18 page)

“It was Taddeo, then,” the
padrone
said.

One of the officials raised his brows. “It's a pity he's not alive to defend himself. We'd been searching for those children, and then — ”

Renzo gasped. “Not . . . alive?”

“Dead,” the
padrone
said gruffly. “Not slain — or at any
pass, it seems not. He was likely affrighted; his old heart probably seized and gave out.” He dismissed Renzo, turned again to the men.

Renzo stumbled back toward the furnace.

Dead. Taddeo, dead.

All at once Renzo recalled the look on Mama's face the day before, as if she'd been regarding a stranger. Someone she'd thought she'd known but did not.

Who are you, Renzo? What have you become?

R
enzo couldn't sleep.

He lay in bed, gazing up at the dark rafters, listening to the rain tapping on the roof. His thoughts refused to settle. They leaped about, kicking up visions — of feathers; of blood; of birds; of stern-faced officials in long, dark robes; of mounds of sleeping, ragged children in the depths of the dungeon of the Ten.

Of Letta.

And Taddeo!

In his mind's eye Renzo saw him, dozing on the
padrone
's chair, drooling contentedly, with Sofia snuggled on his lap.

Dead?

How could that be?

Not five days past he had been fully alive in all his prickly cantankerousness — pointing a sharp, accusing finger at Renzo, upbraiding him in his high, querulous voice.

Taddeo had never seemed to care much for Renzo. And, truth be told, Renzo had not been overly fond of
him
, though he had never wished him ill.

Still, if it weren't for Renzo, Taddeo would be alive today.

But no, Renzo told himself. No one had forced Taddeo to let the children into the glassworks when Renzo was gone. No one had forced him to stay all night. And besides, it was Taddeo's old heart that had killed him — not an assassin's blade or a hangman's rope.

So why the sick guilt that weighed on Renzo's chest?

You didn't need a knife or a rope in order to kill. You could kill with heedlessness, with neglect. People said the dungeon was always chilly and dank. If Paolo's cough returned . . .

It's not my fault!

Renzo threw the blanket aside, leaped to his feet, followed the glow of the dying embers to the hearth, and began to pace before it.

How had
their
problems become
his
?

Surely the Ten wouldn't hold the children long. They were just vagrants, like gypsies. A year ago, when a band of gypsies had come to Venice, they'd been held briefly and then herded onto a boat and let off down the coast, near Ravenna. Likely that was what the Ten would do now.

Vittorio's words echoed in his ears.
Rumors of witchcraft.

But no.

They'd be banished. Spring was coming. They'd find somewhere warm to shelter, maybe farther south.

But with the gypsies, hadn't they been flogged? Hadn't some of them died?

His knees buckled; he dropped to the floor and lowered his face into his hands.

What could he do?

You may well need me, after all.

The voice echoed in memory. Slowly Renzo raised his head.

He'd never wanted to see Vittorio again. He was dead to them. A ghost. And yet . . .

Who else could Renzo go to?

No one.

And only a ghost could be trusted to keep a secret.

Every Monday at midnight.

Maybe he wouldn't be there. But if he was, he might know something. Maybe he could assure Renzo that the children were well and that they'd only be banished.

And then, maybe he could sleep.

◆      ◆      ◆

At first Renzo didn't see him. The lantern hollowed out a small circle of light, pierced by slanting needles of rain. Beyond, in the darkness, the headstones bristled so thickly that the seated figure seemed but another stone. Yet when the stone unfolded, and stood, and spoke, Renzo knew the voice of his uncle Vittorio.

“Renzo. It's you?”

Renzo edged nearer. Vittorio looked thin and hunched and sodden. How long had he been waiting? Had he been coming every Monday night since he'd made his promise? Had he refused to believe Renzo when he'd told him he would never come to meet him, not ever?

Renzo moved through the thicket of headstones until
Vittorio stood before him. “I want to know about the bird children,” Renzo said. “Do you know what's become of them?”

Slowly Vittorio nodded. His eyes had sunk deep into shadowy hollows. His face, in the darkness, seemed to be waiting, seemed to be wanting something else.

Renzo realized he'd spoken abruptly. It would have been kinder to greet Vittorio first, to ask him how he fared.

But Renzo didn't want to be kind.

He pressed on. “I heard they're being held in the dungeon.”

“I . . . heard the same.”

“It's like those gypsies last year,” Renzo said. “They kept them for a couple of days, then transported them down the coast.” He waited. Vittorio said nothing.

“
Will
they banish them?” Renzo asked. “Do you know?”

Water oozed into his boots, chilling his feet. He lifted his lantern to his uncle's face. It was gaunt and grave and still. “Vittorio?” he asked, suddenly afraid.

“No,” Vittorio said. “They won't banish them, like the gypsies. They're going to put them all on trial . . . as witches.”

A
fter dark the birds came swooping in. They dipped down from the rooftops and, brushing cold iron bars with their wings, glided from the living, breathing darkness to a place where the air lay still and dead.

They followed the faint kenning-threads toward the nest of their companions, so deep in the belly of the dungeon that the scents of sea and fish and grub scarcely penetrated. Feathers brushed iron again — and then the bliss of reunion.

Only three of the companions remained apart — the youngest one, the hawk's child, and the severed one, whose bird was gone forever.

◆      ◆      ◆

This bird, Guido thought, had only ever bitten him. It had bloodied the finger he'd poked between the bars of its cage in the marketplace; it had attacked his thumb when, after the bird seller had bound its feet with twine, Guido had thrust it into the burlap sack; it had savagely struck at the back of his hand when he'd tried to stroke its head.

Blasted little bird.

But maybe the boy could tame it. Not the oldest boy, whose hawk, they said, couldn't fit between the bars. But the sick little boy, the one with the missing front teeth, the one whose bird had died.

Guido moved through the dark corridor toward the cells of the women prisoners. He held the torch in one hand and cupped the other on his shirt, over the bag that hung round his neck. He could feel the bird in there, feel its wings straining against the cloth, feel its quick, urgent heartbeat. He had feared that Claudio would notice the bulge there beneath his shirt, but he had not.

Guido set the torch in the cresset just outside the cell. His key grated in the lock; he pushed open the door. They all turned to stare at him — the bird eyes and the bright green human ones. “I brought something,” he said, “for the little boy.”

He shut the door behind him. He pulled the pouch up from under his shirt, slipped the leather thong from round his neck, and made his way carefully through the huddle of children and birds until he came to where the boy sat leaning against the old woman. He crouched beside them, undid the cord that tied the pouch. Carefully he took out the bird. It flapped and squawked and tried to bite him. The heavy twine crippled it; it couldn't walk; it couldn't stand; it couldn't fly.

“Untie it,” the old woman said. “Let it be free.”

Guido would have thought that she'd be grateful. He'd have thought she'd at least have smiled.

He bent, untied the bird. It attacked him savagely with its beak. Blast! He put his finger into his mouth, sucked off the blood.

The old woman cupped her hands; the bird jumped in. It settled itself there, as in a nest, as cozy as you please. “A turtledove,” the woman said. Now she sounded pleased. She held out the bird to the boy, the poor little birdless boy, who was pale and looked bruised under his eyes.

The boy ducked his head and turned away.

“Paolo,” the old woman said. “This young man has brought you a bird.”

The boy coughed, long and deep. He waved his hand as if to shoo the bird away.

The old woman turned to Guido. “ 'Tis kind of you,” she said. “But this . . . You can never tell.”

The bird fluffed its feathers, stretched up. It hopped onto the little boy's shoulder. The boy tried to shrug it off, but the bird stuck fast. The bird made a cooing sound. Gently it pecked the boy's cheek.

It had only ever drawn blood with Guido. But this peck was like a kiss.

Slowly the boy turned to face it. The bird pecked at his nose, then cocked its head and regarded him with its small ringed eye. They sat there — boy and bird — each gazing at the other, unblinking. For a very long time they sat.

And then, at the selfsame moment, they blinked.

The bird fluffed its feathers; the boy coughed. Chills rippled across Guido's back; he crossed himself.

Witches?

Well, maybe they were, and maybe they weren't. But the old woman turned to smile at him now, and Guido was glad for what he'd done.

W
itches.

They hanged witches, Renzo knew.

Or burned them.

He wavered on his feet. He set down the lantern with a clank; the flame leaped. He put out a hand to brace himself on a tombstone — cold, and slick with rain. Vittorio reached toward him, as if to support him, but stayed his hand. He picked up the lantern, motioned to Renzo. “Come.”

He set off through the forest of headstones, toward a row of small crypts on the north edge of the churchyard. Renzo followed the bobbing light, a little way behind. Soon Vittorio opened a small door in one of the crypts. He went down a few steps until his shoulders were on the level of the ground, then motioned for Renzo to follow.

Inside, Vittorio set the lantern on the packed earth floor. Renzo shut the door behind him and sat on the lowest step as Vittorio rounded up a motley collection of candle stubs and began lighting them from the lantern.

Stolen candles. Stolen from the dead.

All at once Renzo wondered how Vittorio managed to live day to day. Where did he go? What did he do? Haunting the shadows, breaking into abandoned houses. Stealing, picking up scraps of food and gossip.

Rain pelted at the door but did not reach them, snug in Vittorio's little house of bones. Something brushed against Renzo's hand. A spider. He flicked it off; it scuttled away in the dirt. Vittorio perched himself on a small raised platform between two coffins. His face, at the dim, flickering edge of the light, looked haggard and old.

“Was it those coincidences?” Renzo asked. “The doge's daughter and the magpies? The pigeons and the gondolier?”

Vittorio shrugged. “Rumors of witchcraft dogged them from the moment they set foot in Venice. But their tricks were amusing, and most people saw them as harmless. There was an old woman with them, but she stayed mostly out of sight.”

The old woman. Letta had mentioned a grandmother. “But then winter came,” Renzo prompted.

“Yes. And suddenly they were a nuisance. The old woman was arrested; the children somehow escaped and came here. Then came those coincidences, and now . . .” Vittorio shook his head. “Who knows why these rumors take root when they do?”

“But they're not witches,” Renzo protested. “They're not . . . evil. They're not practicing a craft.”