He liked to watch them, the woman and the bird. Sometimes he stayed for quite a while. The woman seldom opened her eyes anymore. She curled up into herself, wrinkled and frail. She seemed to have shrunk.
But the little owl always swiveled its head and saw him right away.
After the assassin had left the woman’s cell, Guido and Claudio had found her: bleeding, propped against the wall. They’d been amazed she was alive.
In Guido’s experience no prisoner had ever survived an assassin’s visit before.
But since then she seemed to sleep all the time. Maybe she was dying.
If she died, what would happen to the owl? Who would take care of it?
How would it be, Guido wondered now, to have an owl of his own? One that would keep him company, be loyal to him, do his bidding? It was a wild little thing. Dangerous. He could train it to fly in the face of anybody who threatened him. Maybe pluck out an enemy’s eyes.
He put his face right up to the bars. The bird blinked at him with its spooky yellow eyes. He reached his hand through, stretched out a finger.
“Here, birdy, birdy.”
The woman’s eyes flew open. Guido snatched back his hand.
She moaned and sat up slowly. Guido stepped back and was about to steal away, when she turned to him and spoke.
“Would you like t’ hold my owl?”
Guido stopped. He couldn’t recall having heard her speak before. She talked funny — a little foreign, like.
They said she was a witch. True, he himself might have started the rumor. He had told his sister and her friends about the assassin; he had told his aunt and his uncle and the neighbors who lived below. He’d told them too about the little owl — how it seemed to obey the woman, to come to her bidding, to know her thoughts.
Witch! they had whispered.
“Well?” the woman asked.
He eyed her warily. She rubbed her back, squinting in pain. “Will it bite me?” he asked.
“Not if I tell him not to.”
He knew he shouldn’t do it. He should walk away, right now.
“Will you tell it not to bite?”
“ ’Course. If you’ll fetch me some of that water.”
Guido put his key into the lock. The door opened with a rusty creak. He set the torch in the wall cresset, then dipped the ladle into the water bucket, poured water into the cup, and took it to the woman.
She drank. When she was done, she turned to him and said, “Hold out your finger, like so.”
She held out hers to show him.
Guido did the same. “It won’t bite?” he asked. “Certain sure?”
“He won’t. I promise.”
She flicked her eyes to the bird, and something passed between them: quick and light, but with a sizzle to it, like the tingling blue flash when you touch metal on a cold, dry day.
The bird jumped onto his finger.
He felt the weight of it, impossibly light. Through the wiry, clutching talons he could sense its aliveness — the beating of its heart. Its feet were warm. Its feathers tickled his fingers. Soft. So soft. The owl’s breast was speckled with gray; its wings and back were a tawny brown. Its eyes, which had looked so fierce from across the room, now seemed thoughtful and sad.
“Little thing,” Guido breathed.
It fluffed its feathers, settling down. It squirted out a chalky dropping and closed its eyes.
Guido glanced at the woman.
She smiled.
Looking kindly and pleased, like somebody’s grandmother. Not like a witch at all.
20.
The Test
On the night before the test, Renzo crept through the dark alleys, his conscience pricking him. He had meant to tell Mama that the test had been moved up, but . . .
How to explain why the test had been moved? How to explain that he’d given up on the padrone’s list of skills and risked all on the falcon in the glass?
Reckless!
Foolish!
Childish!
He couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t face her disappointment.
Not yet.
At the glassworks with the children, his hands didn’t work as they should. He broke six birds in a row, and completed none.
Doom.
As he was gathering the glass for a seventh, he heard a key grate in the front door lock. His eyes, of their own accord, sought Letta’s. They gazed at each other for a stunned moment, then — “Go!” he said.
The children bolted for the storeroom as the outer door creaked open; their birds fluttered after them. Renzo took his blowpipe from the furnace and held it before him, advancing toward the intruder as the glass cooled. It must be someone from the glassworks, else he wouldn’t have a key.
Behind him he heard footsteps and murmurs — the children. “Who’s there?” he called, hoping to drown out the noise — but then Sergio materialized out of the dark before him, running hard, heading for the storeroom.
Renzo tried to block him, but Sergio feinted one way and dodged past him on the other side. Renzo dropped the blowpipe with a crash of shattering glass, and followed.
Just as Sergio reached the storeroom doorway, Taddeo burst out of it; they collided in a heap.
“Umph!” Taddeo grunted. “Oh, my hip!”
Sergio leaped to his feet and disappeared inside.
Renzo arrived a moment later. He leaped over Taddeo and found Sergio leaning out the storeroom window.
Moonlight slipped in through the space between the shutters. In the storeroom there were only the shallow, cluttered shelves; there were only the sacks and crates and baskets on the floor.
Sergio turned. “I saw them,” he said.
“Who?”
“You know who. What were you doing with them?”
Behind him Taddeo moaned. “Oh, my elbow! My leg!”
“You saw shadows,” Renzo said.
“I saw witches — and their birds.”
Sergio bent down, picked up something from the floor, then held it up before Renzo’s face, twirling it, the accusation plain in his eyes.
A tail feather. Long and gray, with a black stripe at its tip. Probably from the kestrel.
Renzo reached for it; Sergio jerked it away. A wind gust rattled at the shutters. They flew open, banged against the casement — one straight and true, the other askew on its hinges.
Sergio tucked the feather inside his doublet. He brushed past Renzo, stopped at Taddeo. “And you were in on it too.”
Taddeo looked up at him for a long moment, and Renzo feared he was going to tattle. “Oh,” Taddeo whimpered at last, “my neck!”
Sergio stepped over Taddeo and disappeared into the glassworks.
For a moment Renzo couldn’t force his feet to move. Was it over now? Would the padrone refuse to let him take the test? And why had Sergio come in so early, anyway? To spy on him?
No telling. One thing for certain, though. The children couldn’t come here anymore, ever. No matter what happened with the test, Renzo would have to stay up late tonight and warn Letta, send them away.
◆ ◆ ◆
The padrone wanted to be done with it, and quickly. He hung up his cloak, strode to the furnace, and called to Renzo. Sergio tried to intervene, but the padrone waved him away.
“Basta,” he said. “I’m through with waiting. We decide this now.”
“But — ” Sergio protested. He murmured something into the padrone’s ear; the padrone cocked an eye toward Renzo but pushed Sergio away.
“Forget Renzo. He’s nothing to do with you. Look to your own skills, which have much need of your attention.” The padrone raised his voice. “All of you, attend to your work.”
An odd sense of calm came over Renzo as he assembled his tools. There was nothing more he could do to prepare. The padrone would allow someone to bring him extra glass for the wings — or he wouldn’t. The bird would come out well — or not. He would pass — or he would fail.
For a moment as he stood before the furn
ace with the blowpipe in his hands, Renzo thought he could feel Papà’s presence filling the air around him: You have the eye and the hand and the heart for greatness. You will bring honor to the family. Suddenly Renzo felt steady on his feet. A surge of strength flowed down through his arms into his fingers.
“Well?” the padrone demanded.
Renzo began. The banded bowl came out well, and the one-eared jug. The long-stemmed goblet listed a bit to one side, but the padrone did not stop the test. He grunted and motioned for Renzo to continue. The large platter. The mold-blown bowl.
After a while, he came to the end of the skills he knew with confidence. His back was beginning to tire, and his arms felt heavy. Sweat dripped into his eyes and plastered his shirt to his chest; his eyes were gritty and dry. He didn’t know how long he’d been working — only that it must have been hours.
It was time.
He gulped down a glass of water, then gathered a mass of glass from the crucible, trying not to think too much, trying to feel Papà there beside him. Quickly, quickly. The padrone would soon see that Renzo was making something he’d never asked for. The sooner he got to the wings, the better.
The body of the bird came fairly easily, considering the weariness in Renzo’s arms. They were beginning to get shaky. The head came out well enough, and the little rounded base. He shaped the curve of the beak, expecting at any moment to hear the padrone command him to halt. Instead, he heard Letta’s voice, in imagination, urging him to see. The barbed hook at the end of the beak. The rounded convexity of the falcon’s wild eyes. He coaxed out the tail from the body of the bird, tugging gently, for the illusion of feathers.
Now, for the wings.
Renzo’s throat felt rough and dry. “Could somebody,” he asked, “fetch me a bit of glass?”
Silence. Renzo moved to the furnace, warmed up the little falcon. If the padrone took too long to decide, the bird would be ruined.
Behind him came Sergio’s voice, sharp with anger. “What’s he doing? This isn’t what he agreed to. Why don’t you end this? Tell him he’s failed!”
“What are you doing?” the padrone asked.
Renzo removed the bird from the furnace. He lifted his gaze to the padrone. “I need more glass,” he said.
A bead of sweat dripped into his eyes. The glowing glass began to dim.
The padrone moved. He picked up a speo rod and glided to the furnace, then touched a pendulant drop of glass to the place on the bird where Renzo indicated. Renzo snipped off the excess, then teased out feathers, straining to control his trembling arms. He took the bird back to the furnace to warm it for a moment, and, “Once more,” he said.
Behind him Sergio was protesting, but the padrone fetched more glass. Renzo tried to shut out Sergio’s voice, but his hand slipped, and to his horror he saw that he’d distorted the shape of the second wing. He’d have to warm it up again and try to repair it. He wiped the sweat from his brow and returned the falcon to the furnace, praying that the wing wasn’t too far gone. He removed the bird from the heat and began to rework the wing. The padrone moved in close. Again Renzo feared that he’d stop him, but the padrone merely circled the glass bird, examining it from one side, then the other, and before Renzo knew it, the second wing was coming true — the wing tips stretched long, seeking to row on the air.
The glass was hardening now. Darkening. Renzo tweaked the wing one last time, then cracked the falcon off the blowpipe and laid it on its back on the marble tabletop.
Suddenly he was aware of the silence. No voices. No sounds of clinking tools. Renzo dared not look up, but he could feel all eyes upon him. He counted to ten, then set the bird upright — a light and feathered thing, caught in the last moment of flight.
Joyful.
Alive.
Renzo’s knees went weak. He turned to face the padrone.
The padrone gazed at the bird. Then “Anzoleto!” he called. “Take this to the annealing oven. And heaven help you if it cracks!”
The padrone watched as Anzoleto bore the bird away; then he turned to Renzo. “Did your father teach you how to do that?”
“Yes,” he said. Only a half lie. Papà had taught him the skills that had made the bird possible. And if the padrone craved Papà’s secrets, why disappoint him?
“Why did he never show it? I’ve seen his work. But never anything like this.”
Renzo shrugged. “It . . . wasn’t ready.”
“Show me how to make it.”
Renzo swallowed. Stood firm. “I will if I’m to be a glassmaker. If you decree that I’ve passed the test.”
“But he hasn’t finished!” Sergio said.
The padrone shot Sergio a warning glance. To Renzo he said, “You haven’t yet completed my list. Can you?”
Renzo hesitated. Shook his head.
“Then he fails!” Sergio said. “Tell him, Father. It’s over. He’s a drudge now, once and for all.”
The padrone wheeled on him. “Shut your stupid yawp! Do you hear me? I don’t want to hear another bleat from you.”
Sergio threw down his blowpipe, stalked away. And Renzo felt a small, mean gladness in his heart, that the padrone might be embarrassed and disappointed by Sergio. That he might, in this one thing, put Renzo above his own son.
“You will have to learn those skills, Renzo,” the padrone said sharply, “and learn them soon. Ettore will teach you. You’ll trade off, working with him and with me.”
But Renzo wanted to get the padrone’s word, wanted the other men to hear it. “So I’ve passed the test? I’m an apprentice now?”
The padrone nodded curtly. “You’ve passed.”
◆ ◆ ◆
It was not as Renzo had imagined, passing the test. He had thought to feel a flame of triumph burning. He had thought to comport himself with quiet dignity while singing and dancing inside. But the way it had happened — almost wresting it from the padrone without having mastered all the skills . . . Almost tricking him to think he was giving him Papà’s secrets . . . It made an odd, heavy queasiness in Renzo’s belly. Which grew worse as he watched the argument between Sergio and his father. Sergio drew out the feather, pointed to Renzo. But the padrone flung the feather to the floor and slapped the back of Sergio’s head.
Ettore was the second-best glassworker in the shop, and he kept up a grueling pace. Renzo’s hands slipped; he maimed things; he dropped them. Still, he ached to know all the many secret ways of the glass. Ettore was matter-of-fact and brisk — neither scolding nor sympathetic. By the time for the midday meal, Renzo’s mind felt addled, and every muscle ached.
But for him there was no respite. The padrone dismissed everyone else, but motioned for Renzo to stay. Together they fumbled their way toward another falcon in the glass, retracing the steps Renzo had taken — first with the padrone watching Renzo, and then with Renzo assisting, manning the pontello. The bird did not come easily or well; Renzo’s hands were clumsier now than they had been before. He had been fortunate during the test; perhaps fear or hope had guided his hands. Perhaps Papà had been there, looking over him. In any case only labor and sweat and patience could bring them a second falcon as fine as the first.
The padrone, on the other hand, moved gracefully, without a flicker of wasted motion. He learned quickly. Renzo feared that once the padrone had mastered the falcon, he might demote Renzo to drudge again, despite what he had said earlier. Still, it was the small details about the bird that were hardest to grasp. How to capture its lightness, its fierceness, its eager anticipation of flight.
When the padrone’s daughter arrived with food, they still had not produced a bird nearly as fine as the one Renzo had made by himself, but the padrone seemed well enough satisfied.
“We will do this again tomorrow,” he said. “And tomorrow and tomorrow again, until it is mine.”
As they ate — bread and cheese and sausage — there came a timid knock at the door. Renzo went to get it, and there stood Pia, with his dinner wrapped in a napkin. “Yo
u didn’t come home,” she said. “Mama is worried.”
Renzo ached to pick her up and embrace her; he wanted to dance with her, shout, “I’ve done it! I passed!”
“Who is there?” the padrone called.
“It’s my sister, with dinner.”
“Tell her you’ll be late tonight. Some of us are meeting at the tavern after work; I want you to come.”
Renzo took the napkin. He bent down close to Pia. “Tell Mama not to worry,” he said softly. “Tell her I have very good news.”
And, he thought, there were others who would be glad to hear what he had done. Letta . . . Would she be happy for him? Would she be proud?
◆ ◆ ◆
The tavern was dark and warm, filled with the smells of sweat and wet wool and cooking meats. Renzo joined the padrone, Sergio, Ettore, and the third master, Luca, at a table near the fire. The padrone ordered a flagon of wine, a dish of stuffed capons, and a platter of steaming beef. Luca told Renzo that he had worked for a short time with Papà ten years or so ago. “He was a wizard with the glass,” he said. The others nodded, all save Sergio, who sat sulking. And then they were congratulating Renzo on his apprenticeship, and commenting on the glass falcon — although carefully, not dropping any useful information for prying ears to hear. “I’ll wager your father had many secrets,” Luca said.
The padrone raised his glass. “To the first of many!”
Ettore and Luca raised their glasses as well. “To the apprentice!” Ettore said.
Belatedly Sergio lifted his glass and cocked an ironic eye at Renzo. “To secrets!”
Renzo gulped his wine, uneasy. The children. He mustn’t forget to warn Letta about Sergio.
And yet the platters of food kept coming; the wine flowed. Soon Renzo felt as stuffed as one of the capons he had consumed. There was no more talk of secrets; he ate and drank in a pleasant haze. The twin warmths of wine and fire seeped into his sore muscles, easing the pain. Twice he stashed bits of meat in a napkin on his lap to take home to Mama and Pia. But the long-legged, mangy dogs that roamed the tavern quickly nosed out the treats and gobbled them up.
And all the while the glassblowers spoke with him as one of themselves: joking and swearing, boasting and complaining. Spoke with him as a man. Renzo drank deeply, swimming in the glow of their companionship. He contemplated his future, which stretched out bright before him.
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