Time was running short; the glass was getting harder and harder to contort with gentle guidance. Already its form was a visual masterpiece, the delicate base, the long, fragile flute, the bowl a perfect symmetrical shape. Her hands flew, creating the waves on the rim, capturing the essence of fluidity to the rapidly solidifying form.
With a deep sigh, an exhalation of pure satisfaction, Sophia straightened her curled shoulders, bending her head from side to side to stretch the tense neck muscles, tight from so long in one position. She studied the piece before her, daring to peek at her father. In his glowing eyes, his shining pride, she saw confirmation of what she herself felt, already this was a remarkable piece…but it was not done yet.
“Now you will add our special touch, sì?” her father asked as he retrieved the special, smaller pinchers from another scagno.
Sophia smiled with indulgence. Keeping alive the delusion for her father was yet another small price to pay him. The technique she would do next, the a morise, to lay miniscule strands of colored glass in a pattern on this base blown piece, had made their fabbrica famous. Since it’s release to the public, her father had reveled in the accolades he received over its genius and beauty. Her father had never, could never, reveal that the invention had been Sophia’s.
“Sì, Papa.” Sophia lay down the larger tongs, flexing the tight muscles of her hands. She gathered the long abundance of brunette hair flowing without restraint around her shoulders, unbound from its usual pulled back style, and laid it neatly against her back and out of her way. Taking the more delicate pinchers from her father’s hand, she rolled her shoulders once more and set to work.
Zeno hovered by her shoulder, leaning forward to watch as her long, slim hands worked their magic, as she wielded the pinchers to apply the threads of magenta glass, smaller than the size of a buttercup’s stem, in perfect straight lines. Dipping the tip of the tweezer-like device into the bucket of water by her side, releasing the hiss and smoke into the air, Sophia secured each strand with a miniscule drop of cool moisture.
“A little more this way,” Zeno whispered, as if to speak too loudly would be to disturb the fragile material.
“Yes, father,” Sophia answered reflexively, like a much said prayer’s response.
“It’s patience, having the patience to let the glass develop at its will, to cool and heat, cool and heat naturally.” Zeno chanted close to her ear, his voice and words guiding her as they had done since she was young. His muted voice small in the cavernous chamber; their presence enveloped by the creative energy. “As the grape slowly turns to wine on the vine, the sand and silica and nitre become glass on the rod. Ah, you’re getting it now, bellissimo.”
“Grazie, Papa.”
“Next you’re going to--”
The bang, bang, bang of a fist upon wood shattered the quiet like glass crashing upon the stone; the heavy wooden door at the top of the winding stair jangled and rocked. Someone tried to enter yet the bolted portal stymied their attempts. It was locked, as always when father and daughter shared these moments.
Zeno and Sophia stiffened in fright, bulging eyes locked.
“Are we discovered?” Sophia’s whisper cracked with a strangling fear. She shoved the rod into her father’s hands, dropping the slender metal pinchers on the hard stone floor below, wincing at the raucous clang that permeated the stillness.
“Can not be.” Zeno shook his head. “It can n--”
“Zeno, Zeno!” The urgent, distraught male voice slithered through the cracks of the door’s wooden planks. “Let me in.”
Parent and child recognized the timbre; Giacomo Mazzoni had worked at the Fiolario family’s glassworks since he was a young man, his relationship evolving into that of a dear and familiar friend. The terror in his recognizable voice sounded undeniable; the strangeness of his presence at such a late hour was nothing short of disturbing.
With an odd calmness, Zeno pointed toward the door. “Let him in, Phie.”
The dour intent upon her father’s wrinkled countenance told her he would brook no argument. Gathering the front of her old, soiled gown, she sprint up the winding stairs, glancing back at the wizened man who stood stock still, rod and cooling piece still in hand.
Sophia pushed aside the bolt with a ragged and wrenching screech. The door gave way the instant it was free. Giacomo rushed through the portal, pushing past Sophia where she stood on the small platform by the door. Clad in his nightshirt, a pair of loosely tied knee breeches flapping around his legs, he looked a fright with his short hair sticking out at all angles, and his black eyes afire with burning intensity. Flying down the stairs, he ran to his friend and mentor, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“They’re dead, Zeno, dead.”
Befuddled, Zeno stared at his friend, pale eyes squinting beneath his furrowed brow. “Who, Giacomo? Who is dead?”
“Clairomonti, Quirini, Giustinian, those who tried to get to France.”
“Dio Santo,” the words slipped from Zeno’s mouth through the lips of his falling jaw. His legs quivered. With a shaking hand he reached into empty air, groping for a stool. Rushing to his side, Sophia grabbed the wooden seat, yanking it forward and guiding her father into it by the arm.
Zeno looked to his beloved daughter’s face. Once more, their frightened gaze locked.
“They’ve killed them.”
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