Read The Secret of the Glass Online
Authors: Donna Russo Morin
Tags: #Venice (Italy), #Glass manufacture, #Venice (Italy) - History - 17th Century, #Historical, #Fiction, #Historical Fiction, #General, #Love Stories
The Secret of the Glass
Praise for THE COURTIER’S SECRET
“**** Four Stars. Morin debuts with a novel as opulent and sparkling as Louis XIV’s court and as filled with intrigue, passion and excitement as a novel by Dumas. [A] feast for the senses….”
—RT Book Reviews
“Morin fills her tale with maidens, mistresses and musketeers mired in intrigue…supplying lots of action as Jeanne goes through quick costume changes, one minute a voluptuous virgin about to be raped, another a daring do-gooder, rapier in hand.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This story was absolutely enchanting. Obviously a very talented writer, Donna Russo Morin has created magnificent characters that you cannot help but fall in love with; they are so vibrant and full of life.”
—Front Street Reviews
“
The Courtier’s Secret
is a wonderfully spun gem of a story.”
—Jenny Salyers,
Armchair Interviews
“I couldn’t put it down. I’m giving this one 4 stars****!”
—Historical-fiction.com
“Russo Morin’s writing style is as smooth as fine cognac, while the story’s plot rolls along like thunder across the French countryside.”
—Steven Manchester, author,
The Unexpected Storm
and
Pressed Pennies
“Exquisitely done…fabulous historical research…unforgettable characters!”
—Marilyn Rondeau,
Reviewers International Organization
“Compelling…brings vividly to life the constrained life of the noble Frenchwoman; unforgettable.”
—Allie Bates, author,
Earthchild
“
Magnifique!!
Donna Russo Morin’s debut novel is a delightful dance through the decadent Louis XIV era.”
—Robin Kall, host,
Reading with Robin
920 WHJJ
A
LSO BY
D
ONNA
R
USSO
M
ORIN
The Courtier’s Secret
The
S
ECRET OF THE
G
LASS
DONNA RUSSO MORIN
KENSINGTON BOOKS.
To my parents,
my mother, Barbara (Petrini, DiMauro) Russo, and
my father, the late Alexander (DeRobbio) Russo,
for their love and devotion,
for the Italian heritage of which I am so proud,
and for the work ethic that has served me so well
and
For my sons,
Devon and Dylan,
always
D
RAMATIS
P
ERSONAE
SOPHIA FIOLARIO: Nineteen years old; the eldest daughter of Zeno Fiolario.
ZENO FIOLARIO: Glassmaking
maestro
and the owner of La Spada glassworks on Murano.
*
LEONARDO DONATO: Ninetieth Doge of Venice; served from 1606 to 1612.
PASQUALE DA FULIGNA: The only son of a poor nobleman.
*
GALILEO GALILEI: Physicist, astronomer, mathematician, and philosopher; born in Pisa.
*
PAOLO SARPI: Venetian-born Servite friar, scholar, and scientist who served as canonist and theological counselor for the Venetian Republic.
*
GIANFRANCESCO SAGREDO: Venetian philosopher, diplomat, and libertine.
TEODORO GRADENIGO: Youngest son of a poor nobleman from the Barnaba area of Venice.
Contents
One
T
he scalding heat rose up before her, reaching deep inside her like a selfish lover grasping for her soul. The fiery vapors scorched her fragile facial skin; yellow-orange flames seared their impression upon her retinas. When she pulled away, when she finally turned her gaze from the fire, her vision in the dim light of the stone-walled factory would be nothing more than the ghostly specters of the flames’ flickering tendrils.
Sophia Fiolario performed the next step in the glassmaking process in an instant of time, her instincts and years of practice leading the way, from the feel of the
borcèlla
in her hand, from the change in the odor and color of the molten material as it began to solidify. This was the most crucial moment, like the second of conception, when the glass was barely still a liquid, yet on the precipice of becoming a solid. Then, and only then, would she use her special tongs to conceive its ever-lasting form. If she didn’t perform perfectly, if her ministrations were inelegant or slow in the tiny void in time, she would have to start again, reheating the glass and returning it to a shapeless blob.
The layers of clothing encasing her body trapped the energy thrown by the furnace. With a stab of envy, Sophia pictured the men of Murano who worked the glass clad in no more than thin linen shirts and lightweight breeches. As a woman, forbidden to work the furnaces, particularly during these prohibited hours following the evening vigil’s bells, she had no choice but to stand before the radiating heat clad in petticoat, chemise, and gown. The sweat pooled beneath her full breasts and trickled down the small of her back. Within minutes of stepping into the circle of sweltering air thrown by the furnace, a heat in excess of two thousand degrees, she became drenched in a cloying layer of her body’s fluid. Her own pungent odor vied for dominance over the caustic scent of the melting minerals and burning wood.
Sophia pulled the long, heavy metal blowpipe out of the rectangular door, the ball of volcanic material retreating last. With a mother’s kiss, she put her lips to the tapered end of the
canna da soffio
and blew. The excitement lit deep within her as the ball of material expanded and changed, a thrill unlike any other she had ever known elsewhere in all of her nineteen years.
Now was the time; this was the moment. The glass came alive by her skill and her breath. The malleable substance glowed with an internal energy, the once-clear material now a fiery amber, having absorbed the heat of the flames as well as its color. It waited for, longed for, her touch as the yearning lover awaits the final throes of passion. Quickly she spun to her
scagno,
the table designed uniquely for glassmaking. She sat on the hard bench in the U-shaped space created by the two slim metal arms running perpendicular to the bench on either side of her. Placing the long
ferro sbuso
across the braces, her left palm pushed and pulled against it, always spinning, always keeping gravity’s pull on the fluid material equal. With her right hand, Sophia grabbed the
borcèlla
and reached for the still-pliable mass. For a quick moment, she closed her eyes, envisioning the graceful, distinctive shape she imagined for this piece. When she looked up, it was there on the end of her rod. She could see it, therefore she could make it, and she set to her work.
When the man moved out of the corner’s shadows, Sophia flinched. He had been quiet for so long, she had forgotten him. As he stood to stoke the
crugioli,
she remembered his presence and was glad for it. Uncountable were the nights they had worked together like this. From her youngest days, he had indulged her unlawful interest in the glassmaking, teaching and encouraging her, until her skills matched those of his—Zeno Fiolario, one of Venice’s glassmaking
maestri,
her papà.
Zeno moved from furnace to furnace, adding the alder wood wherever needed, checking the water in the plethora of buckets scattered throughout the factory. The glow of the flames rose and spread to the darkest corners of the stone
fabbrica
. The pervasive, sweet scent of burning alder tree permeated the warm air. For his daughter, Zeno often fulfilled the duties of the
stizzador
—the man whose sole function was to keep the fires of the furnaces blazing—and his old frayed work shirt, nearly worn out in spots, bore the small umber burn marks of the sparks that so frequently leapt out of the crucibles.
His steps were slower than in years gone by, his shoulders permanently hunched from so many years over the glass, yet he jigged from chore to chore with surprising agility. As he passed Sophia, Zeno brushed a long lock of her deep chestnut hair away from her face, thick and work-roughened fingers wrapping it behind her ear with graceful gentleness. The touch was a succor to her soul and a jolt to her muse. Her wide mouth curved in a soft smile but her large, slanted blue eyes remained staunchly focused upon the work before her.
“It was the Greeks you know…uh, no,” her father began, faltered, tilting his head to the side to think as he often did of late.
Sophia felt the urge to roll her eyes heavenward as young people are wont to do when their elders launched into an oft-repeated tale, but she stifled the impulse. She could have finished the sentence for him. She had heard this story so many times she knew it by heart, but she let him tell it at his own pace. She would work, he would talk, and though he feigned unconcern for her methodology, his narrow, pale eyes, fringed with thick gray lashes, followed each flick of her wrist, each squeeze of the pinchers. Her smile remained, undampened by the least twinge of impatience; she had learned too much, been loved too well by this man to begrudge him his rapt study of her work.
“The Phoenicians, that’s it.” Zeno’s voice rang out in triumph. “They had been merchants, traders of nitrum, taking refuge on the shore for the night. They could find no rocks to put in their fires, to hold their pots while they cooked, so they pilfered a few pieces of their own goods. You can imagine their surprise when the lumps began to glow. This was years and years before the birth of our Lord and these were simple, uneducated people. When the clumps liquefied and mixed with the sand, the beach flowed with tiny trickles of transparent fluid. They thought they were seeing a miracle, but they were seeing glass…the first glass.”
Her father’s voice became a cadence, like the lapping of the lagoon waves upon the shore that surrounded them; its rhythmic vibrato paced her work. Her left hand twisted the
ferro sbuso
while the right manipulated the tongs, pinching here, shaping there.
“Our family has always made the glass. Since Pietro Fiolario’s time four hundred years ago, we have guarded the secret.”
Sophia stole a quick glance up; the young eyes found the old and embraced in understanding. This secret had been the family’s blessing and its curse. It had brought them world renown and an abundance of fortune greater than many a Venetian noble family. And yet it had made them prisoners in their own homeland, and Sophia, a woman who knew the secret, doubly condemned.