Free Falcon in the Glass by Susan Fletcher Page A

“It’s good to see you again, Lorenzo.” A sweet smell clung to him — a pleasant smell, and familiar, but Renzo couldn’t quite place it. He did not return the smile.
    â€œYou met long ago,” Mama said, “when you were Pia’s age, I think. Marcello — Signore Averlino’s parents were friends of my parents in Venice, when we were children.”
    â€œWhy is he here ?” Renzo said. The question sounded ruder than he had intended, but Signore Averlino didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œFor my niece’s wedding,” he said. “She’s to live on Murano; I may come here more often now.”
    â€œAnd here is my daughter, Pia,” Mama said.
    â€œPia.” Signore Averlino said, bowing to her. “So pleased to meet you.”
    Pia curtsied gravely.
    â€œSignore Averlino is padrone of a carpentry shop in Venice,” Mama said.
    So that was the smell. Sawdust.
    â€œCarpentry must seem dull work to you, Renzo,” Signore Averlino said. “Compared with the splendid art of glass.”
    Renzo shrugged. Chests, tables, chairs, paneling . . . they were all the same to him. Heavy. Earthbound. Lightless. He felt sorry for men who worked in wood. It was a slow and tedious and pedestrian art. Nothing about it of quickness, of grace. Nothing to test a man’s courage. Nothing to fire his soul.
    The path narrowed; Mama and Signore Averlino edged ahead of Renzo and Pia, as there wasn’t room for them all in a row. Renzo noticed, for the first time in a long while, how pretty Mama was. Graceful and lithe, with hair the color of honey. She laughed now, a warm, low rumble. How long since he had heard that laugh?
    A sudden wind gust stirred up sand at his feet and flung it into his face. Renzo blinked and rubbed his eyes. Who was this Signore Averlino to come sniffing around, speaking so familiarly with Mama, taking her elbow, replacing Renzo at her side? Renzo was head of the family now. He could take care of them.
    But could he? Things were going slowly in the glassworks.Far too slowly, no matter how fast Letta learned. The children lurched from one crisis to the next. There were scrapes and cuts and bruises, there were toothaches and stomachaches and earaches, there were tears to kiss away and noses to wipe. And though Taddeo seemed to have taken to the children, perhaps he doted too fondly. He no longer went home early. He brought food — more food, Renzo feared, than he could possibly afford to buy. Renzo had heard rumors of pies vanishing from windowsills, of bread disappearing from the communal oven. If Taddeo had stolen them, and if he were caught, and if it were to come out why he’d stolen . . .
    â€œLorenzo!”
    He lifted his eyes from the paving stones and looked up at Mama. “Where is Pia?” she said. “I thought you were watching her.”
    Renzo felt the heat of shame creep up his face, made all the more humiliating by the patient, concerned gaze of Signore Averlino. He was but a boy. Couldn’t even take care of his little sister. Must be reprimanded by his mother.
    Renzo turned to scan the path behind him. The churchgoers had mostly dispersed by now, though a few black-clad matrons still stood about talking. And there she was, all the way back at the church, holding out her hand to a beggar, perhaps the selfsame one she had given to the week before.
    Renzo hurried along the path, skirting the matrons. Above him gulls cried, reaching to touch the sky with their feathertips, teetering in the air. Light glinted off the water,diamond hard. The wind, smelling of salt and fish, buffeted his ears, making them ache with cold. “Pia!” he called, hearing the sharpness in his voice.
    She turned to him as the beggar’s knotted fingers closed about her coin, the blue-black shadow of the wall veiling his face.
    Renzo took Pia’s hand and dragged her away. “Didn’t you hear Mama last