Free Falcon in the Glass by Susan Fletcher

Taddeo,pried the little girl off his leg, tucked her under an arm, and led Taddeo to the padrone ’s bench.
    â€œSit, Grandfather,” Letta implored. “Rest.”
    Abruptly Taddeo sat.
    Grandfather? Renzo was confused. Was he the little one’s nonno ? But how was that possible?
    The light-haired girl held out her arms to Taddeo. The boy set her down on Taddeo’s skinny legs. The girl leaned into Taddeo, nestled against him. She thrust her thumb into her mouth and began to suck. Taddeo’s arm, seemingly of its own accord, gently curved itself about her, supporting her.
    Letta motioned for the other children to come, murmuring to them as they passed. Slowly they gathered about Taddeo. She motioned for them to sit at his feet. Taddeo gazed in wonderment.
    Renzo caught Letta’s eye. “Do you know him?” he whispered.
    She shook her head, biting her upper lip. “The little one thinks she does. As for the others . . . He’s very like someone they once knew. Someone who died in . . . Well, where we were before. And,” she added, “they do as I say!”
    When Taddeo recovered from his surprise, he would begin to ask questions. For which Renzo still had no acceptable answers. If Taddeo told the padrone  . . .
    The marsh boy coughed again, not so frighteningly as before. Letta watched him a moment, then turned to Taddeo. “Is there aught we can do for you, Grandfather? Fetch you a cup of water? Rub your feet?”
    Taddeo’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. But he quickly recovered himself; his face crumpled into its habitual cast of grievance and pain. “My shoulders,” he whined. “My old shoulders, they pain me.” He looked down at the children, to gauge the impact of his words.
    The twin girls came around behind him and began to rub his shoulders. Taddeo closed his eyes and leaned into their hands, moaning. But one eye opened and slewed toward Renzo, as if to make sure he saw. As if to reproach Renzo that he had never treated Taddeo with the kindness and deference he so richly deserved.
    Renzo let out a deep breath, releasing the fear that had seized him.
    For now it seemed that Taddeo would not tell.
    But it was only a matter of time.
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    â€œGabriella?”
    Renzo heard his mother’s name as he stepped out of the church and into the cold winter sun. Pia slipped over the threshold to join him; he took her hand and peered back inside, whence had come the voice. The darkness was a balm to his eyes, which had been blinded by the dazzle of sunlight flashing off stone and water. Beside him Mama stopped and turned back too. Renzo breathed in the lingering scents of incense and candle wax, waiting for the man who had said Mama’s name.
    â€œGabriella, it is you.” A man approached them through the sea of departing worshippers. His face — long and thin and homely — was unfamiliar to Renzo.
    The man fell in beside Mama, on the side opposite from Renzo and Pia. He was tall — the top of Mama’s head reached only to his chin — and walked with a slight stoop, as if he preferred not to tower above others. He shuffled beside her down the steps, leaning into her, speaking so softly that Renzo could not make out his words among the voices of the other churchgoers. Mama smiled, replied. The man was touching Mama’s elbow, Renzo saw. A light touch, well within the bounds of courtesy, but there was something about it that Renzo didn’t like. As if, were Mama to stumble, it was this man instead of Renzo who should rightfully check her fall. And the way he called her Gabriella, instead of Signora Doro. . . . It was disrespectful. He had no right.
    â€œLorenzo,” Mama said, when they reached the path, “do you remember Signore Averlino?”
    Renzo shook his head.
    The man’s face creased into a smile.