Falcon in the Glass (23 page)

The light passed. The voices faded. Renzo let out his breath. He swished through the water to the table and set down lantern, box, and bars. He opened the tin box.

The coal had gone dead.

He felt himself sag. What was he doing here, in Venice, in the middle of the night? He should be home, warm in bed.

A thin wash of gray leaked in through the shutters, but just a few paces away from them, the room was as black as a crow. Renzo tried to remember what the brighter light had shown a moment ago — the positions of benches and tables. He swished through the water. Was it higher now? It seemed so. Halfway to his knees. One leg bumped against something hard — a table. Reaching for the edge, his hand brushed against something hard and smooth and cold.

He ran his fingers along it.

Bars.

These were the longer ones. He knew the shape of them by heart. He moved along the edge of the table, groping blindly for the second set.

And there they were.

He felt them, learning their dimensions.

Yes.

He went back for the glass bars and switched the two sets, putting the iron ones on the floor. The glass bars felt naked, unprotected. How was it possible they wouldn't be jostled or hit or twisted? How was it possible they wouldn't break?

Voices.

He stilled, hoping they would pass.

They grew louder. A bright light flickered through the shutters. A rattling sounded at the door.

The padlock. Still open, hanging from the hasp.

He cast about for a place to hide. The door opened; a widening pool of light bled across the surface of the water. Renzo threw himself under the bench, shuddering at the shock of cold water.

“Fiorello? Are you here?”

Renzo recognized the voice — Signore Averlino.

“Look, he left his lantern.” A different voice.

“Fiorello!” Signore Averlino called.

Silence. Light flared across the room.

“Well, if he was here,” Signore Averlino said, “he didn't accomplish much. Let's to work.”

There came a din of splashes, footfalls, thuds, scraping sounds, grunts. Renzo crouched low in the water, trying to make himself small. They must have passed him; they had moved to the back of the shop.

A dull ache spread across Renzo's legs and back; his feet had gone numb. He shifted, knocked a boot against the iron bars beside him.

The bars.

Underwater they wouldn't be noticed. But once the flood receded . . . An extra set of bars would be a puzzle, would call attention to the glass ones.

It would be best to drop them into the canal, but he
couldn't do that now. He'd better hide them somewhere in the shop.

But where?

He recalled seeing a chest flush against the wall beneath the windows.

He twisted round. There it was, not three paces away.

Slowly he picked up the iron bars, praying the men would stay where they were a little longer. He scooted on his knees through the black water, staying in the shelter of the table for as long as he could. When he came to the chest, he set down the bars in the water beside it. He reached his fingers to the bottom of the chest.

A gap.

He felt the bars.

Yes. They would fit.

Carefully he scooted the bars beneath the chest. They scraped the floor, loud as thunder in his ears.

Then they were in.

Renzo crept back beneath his table. He sat for a moment, plotting an escape route among the benches and tables. The men were at the back of the shop; with a head start he could beat them out the door.

All at once he realized that it had grown quiet. There was only a slow swish of footsteps, coming near. He crouched, kept his head down. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw a slick of yellow light glide across the water, illuminating floating flecks of sawdust.

Swish. Swish.

The flecks swirled before a new disturbance: a pair of tall, black boots.

Renzo peered up through the light — into the long, homely face of Signore Averlino.

A younger man appeared behind him. He lunged toward Renzo. “A thief! I'll show him — ”

But Signore Averlino held out a restraining hand.

“Wait,” he said. “I believe I know this boy.”

S
ignore Averlino reached out a hand to help him to his feet. Renzo, rising, ignored it. He was behaving like a petulant child, he knew. But he couldn't help it. He glared at Signore Averlino.

“Renzo.” Signore Averlino sounded perplexed. There was a questioning in his voice, an invitation for Renzo to explain himself.

Renzo halfway wished Signore Averlino would berate him, lay hands on him, and try to toss him bodily from the shop. Then he could lash out; he could run. But this . . .

He'd better think of something quick, not just stand there gaping like a fish. “You're such a . . . friend to my mother,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself what manner of man you are.”

“And it's by my
shop
that you would know this?” Signore Averlino raised an eyebrow, seemed to be amused.

Renzo bristled. “How else?”

Signore Averlino said nothing, only regarded him with level eyes. The other man broke in. “Let me take care of him,
padrone
.”

“You go ahead to work. I'll be only a moment.”

“But,
padrone
— ”

“Go.” Signore Averlino waved the man toward the rear of the shop, then turned back to Renzo. “Well?” he asked. “So what do you think? What does my shop say of me?”

Renzo's shirt and hose clung to him, frigid and clammy. He did not like this game, though he had begun it. Signore Averlino's tone was mild, but Renzo could hear the challenge in it. Still, he supposed that this was better than being accused of thievery — or having his true purpose discovered. Besides, Signore Averlino would no doubt report his presence here to Mama, so it behooved Renzo to play along and not make things worse.

He looked about. Light from Signore Averlino's lantern flickered through the workshop, illuminating work surfaces, ceiling, and walls.

Last time, Renzo had been impressed with the size of the shop. But now, as the light slid past, he marked the neat rows of pegs on which hung tools grouped by type and ranked by size: hammers, saws, rasps, chisels, awls. He marked the orderly tiers of shelves that held vises, planes, and tools of which Renzo didn't know the names.

There was nothing grandiose about the shop. The cabinets were unornamented, the windows unglazed. And yet it seemed the shop of someone who respected his craft.

“I think,” Renzo said, “you are a man who cares well for his tools.”

In the wavering light he could see Signore Averlino's
expression change, a shifting in the leathery creases of his face. Not a smile, precisely, but a softening.

Voices at the door. Renzo turned to look. Two more men, wading in through the doorway. Signore Averlino greeted them, motioned for them to help the first man.

Now it was four to one.

Renzo longed to run, make a break for the door, but something about Signore Averlino's steady gaze prevented him. Renzo recalled that he'd ever treated him with respect, even when Renzo had insulted his profession.

What would Papà have done if he'd found some intruder lurking about in his glassworks? Likely cuffed him about the ears, dragged him across the floor, and shoved him out the door — at the very least!

What would Signore Averlino do?

Rain tapped at the roof. A sudden wind gust rattled in the shutters. From the rear of the room came grunts, scraping sounds, swishes, splashes.

“Can you make it home safely?” Signore Averlino asked.

Renzo nodded.

“And what of your mama? Did you think of
her
when you embarked on this little escapade?” For the first time Signore Averlino's voice warmed with quiet anger. “No doubt your house is flooded too. You're the man of the family. She needs you.”

Renzo's face burned. Who was there now to help Mama set up boards and trestles and stack the carpets and furnishings upon them? Who would help lift Mama's wedding chest,
Papà's chair? Pia? Uncle Vittorio, with his grievous wound? All Renzo had been worried about when he'd left was that Mama might catch him and scold him.

Like a little boy.

He made to go, but Signore Averlino blocked his way.

“I think your mama doesn't need to know of this. It would disturb her, and I think she doesn't need to be disturbed.”

Renzo swallowed, met Signore Averlino's eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

The older man yielded; Renzo started for the door.

“Renzo.”

He turned back. “If you ever have questions about me, son, I'll be happy to talk with you. Just the two of us. Man to man.”

◆      ◆      ◆

Outside, rowing back through the dark canals, Renzo tried to choke down the stubborn lump that had risen in his throat. So clearly had he conjured up the nightmare — that he'd be found out, perhaps beaten, perhaps released to the authorities.

Disgrace.

Signore Averlino's words echoed in his ears:

If you ever have questions about me, son . . . Just the two of us. Man to man.

Son.

So long since he had heard that word from a man's lips.

What would Signore Averlino think of him if he knew
that lying on a bench in his workshop was a set of bars that could destroy all he'd ever worked for?

Renzo almost hoped the bars would break before the dungeon doors were installed.

As they might.

Or the old ones might be discovered.

Truly, he could almost wish it.

Ahead now he could see the lagoon. An owl called from a nearby rooftop; Letta's face swam before his eyes.

Was she cold? Was she hungry? Was she ill? And the children . . . How long would they last in the dungeon?

His father would have told him to give up his plan right now. He'd say that a man shouldn't concern himself with the affairs of strangers. That his duty was to his family.

And yet . . . The children.

How were you supposed to know what was right to do?

How did a man decide?

T
he old woman woke to the sound of running water.

She shifted on the cold, hard floor, tried to ease the painful imprint of the rough stones against her hip. She felt feet pressing against her legs, and a head tucked into the small of her back, and a small body cradled in the curl of her chest and belly and thighs. She touched her owl with a light kenning and sensed him asleep on her knee.

Carefully she sat up. The bodies shifted to accommodate her, then leaned into her again. Her owl, now awake, flitted up to perch on her shoulder.

In the dim light cast by the oil lamp, she could make out the outlines of the sleeping children and their birds. She smelled the familiar dungeon reek of dank and sour decay; she heard breathing all around.

And the gurgle of water flowing.

Something damp on her hip, her legs. She touched the floor.

Not just damp.

Wet. Water on the floor.

She sniffed her fingers.

Salty.

Acqua alta.

“Letta,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

◆      ◆      ◆

They roused the children, sent all the birds away, and gathered close together, standing in icy rising water halfway to the old woman's knees. The two older boys hoisted Paolo and Ugo to their shoulders; Letta held Sofia. But how long could they go on like this?

Voices sounded through the corridors. Wailing. Shouts.

The old woman felt the children shivering against her; she felt them breathing — a trembling, many-stranded plant rooted deep in the stone floor of the dungeon.

Paolo began to cough.

“A rat!” Marina screamed. “ 'Tis swimming! It — ”

The group lurched, gasping. “Just kick it away,” the woman said. “Kick it away!” If a rat hooked its claws into Marina's clothing, it would climb up to get out of the water, and more of them would follow.