by Karen Brooks
The woman who had once complained of being isolated from her quartiere was now permanently occupied, even popular. Quinn's head burst with the stories she was told; her tongue twisted with gossip, and she derived a peculiar pleasure from deceiving her customers. Each time her fingers clenched their lire and she passed them their newly purchased candles, her secret knowledge of their unwitting blasphemy gave her a dark thrill.
'Have you listened to a word I've said?'
A strident voice penetrated Quinn's thoughts. Halfway through wrapping a set of moulded candles for a customer, she looked around. Francesca Zonelli, the fruiterer's wife whose milk had once soured and who had a reputation as a notorious busybody, leant over the counter and pushed aside the woman Quinn was serving.
Quinn smiled at the customer apologetically and handed over her candles. 'Thank you, Signora. Please come again,' she called chirpily as she placed the shiny silver coin in her special tin and slid it back beneath the counter. She looked at Francesca and sighed. 'Shouldn't you be in your own shop instead of disturbing my customers?'
Francesca frowned. 'No, Giuseppe is there. Anyhow, I'm not disturbing the customers. I am a customer.' A few of the remaining patrons cast bemused looks over their shoulders and shook their heads; they were used to Francesca's ways. So was Quinn. She looked at her friend.
'You were right,' she admitted. 'I wasn't listening. What were you saying?'
Francesca beamed. 'I was saying that all she does is pine for him day in and day out!'
'Who?' asked Quinn.
'My daughter, Lucia,' said Francesca, affronted Quinn had to be told again. 'I can't get her to eat and she cries herself to sleep every night.' She suppressed a sob. 'See what it's doing to me? I cry at the smallest thing. Her pain is so great. I can't stand to see my daughter like this. So, I say to myself, what can you do, Francesca? You tell me, Quinnatta. What can I do?' As she spoke, Francesca began combing the shelves, taking candles and placing them on the counter.
Quinn began sorting them, stifling a yawn. She was exhausted and Francesca was making her feel worse. As she listened to her neighbour moan about her daughter, her hand brushed against her tin of money under the counter. It didn't move. There was a time when the merest touch would have sent the old container flying. Now it was as so laden with coppers and lire, it needed two hands to lift it. Quinn smiled. That Bond Rider had been right. Teaching Tallow how to control her special gifts and utilise them while making the candles had worked wonders. 'Praise be to God,' said Quinn under her breath. And no-one had a clue what was going on. She chuckled wickedly. What did she really care? So long as they kept filling her little tin, she was happy.
Francesca was indignant. 'I don't think my daughter's broken heart is anything to laugh about. You of all people should appreciate that!'
Quinn scowled at that barb and tried to pay attention. While she enjoyed a good gossip at the best of times, the stories about Francesca's daughter were tediously predictable. 'I wasn't laughing at what you said, Francesca. My mind was temporarily on other matters.' She weighed and wrapped Francesca's candles and tallied the amount on her abacus. It wasn't till she'd calculated the total that she noticed the expression on Francesca's face. The woman looked quite stricken. Quinn relented. 'Perhaps she should speak to this boy, let him know her feelings?' she suggested.
'That's what I tell her,' said Francesca, slapping the counter, eager to engage. 'But will she listen to me? No. She flutters her eyelashes and smiles. But he doesn't see. It's not love that makes men blind. It's stupidity! He doesn't have a clue!'
Quinn started. Francesca was echoing her thoughts.
Francesca threw her hands up into the air. 'Anyhow, I couldn't just let her fade away to nothing, could I? So,' she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'I took matter into my own hands. What do you think I did?'
Knowing it was expected of her, Quinn responded. 'I don't know, Francesca. What did you do?'
By now a couple of other women in the shop had paused to listen.
'I invited him around for supper. That's what I did!'
'You did?' asked Helena Sarapotini, the fishmonger's wife, heaving her basket on to the counter. Quinn noticed with pleasure that it was full of rush lights and tapers.
'I did,' said Francesca slapping the counter again.
Quinn slid the abacus in front of Francesca, hoping the woman would take the hint. 'That will be one lire and four coppers, thank you.'
Francesca reached into her basket for her purse. 'He comes the day after tomorrow. So, I think to myself, I must put on a feast – a show to make my beautiful daughter look even better. I tell her, she must also put on a good show – between us, we'll show him what he needs, what he wants.'
'That's the way to do it.' Helena nodded sagely. 'Sometimes men need that – to be shown. And I'm not just talking about what they put in their stomach.'
They all laughed.
'They don't always know what they need,' agreed Rosa Barcola, joining them. 'My husband, he knows nothing, except what I tell him. Bruno, we need a maid; Bruno, we need a cat; Bruno, we need a baby. He just says yes, Rosa. Afterwards, he wonders what the cat and child are doing there. Men!' Rosa rolled her eyes.
'Exactly,' said Francesca. 'So, in order to set the most perfect table, I need not one, but two of your candles. You tell your son I want two beautiful bayberry candles. Green for good luck.'
'Green for envy!' said Helena.
'Green for the poor boy who doesn't know what's coming,' quipped Rosa. The women cackled hysterically.
'Bayberry!' exclaimed Quinn, her eyes widening as she mentally calculated the cost. But Francesca could afford it. Her husband was the only fruitier in the quartiere.
Francesca's stories suddenly became more interesting.
Behind the workshop door, her ear pressed firmly against the wood, Tallow listened intently. She was taking a small break while Pillar and Katina picked up some more tallow from the Chandlers Quartiere.
When Francesca first started talking, Tallow had almost turned away. But, as she described her daughter's anguish, Tallow's heart swelled. She felt sorry for the poor girl who languished night after night, all because of a boy who didn't know she existed. She could hear the boredom in Quinn's responses and it was all she could do not to dash out and console Francesca. Then she heard Francesca place the order for the candles. After that, the conversation changed focus. Tallow sighed. Candles don't make themselves, she thought, looking wryly at the waiting broaches and the bubbling pot of tallow. Returning to the cauldron, she stirred slowly, preoccupied with what she'd heard.
It wasn't fair to have such feelings and not have them returned. She tried to picture Francesca's daughter ... what was her name? That's right, Lucia. She was a pretty blonde, with grey-green eyes and a thin mouth. She seemed nice enough. What was wrong with this boy that he didn't notice her? Perhaps the women were right and he just needed a little encouragement to open his eyes to what he was missing.
Well, Lucia deserved happiness – everyone did. Looking thoughtfully at the block of bayberry wax atop one of the vats, an idea began to form in Tallow's mind. One she couldn't discard.
She knew she wasn't supposed to distil without Katina's permission or knowledge, but this was different. Anyhow, it wasn't such a big deal. All she was going to do was alter the distillation slightly from what she had been doing. No-one need ever know. It wasn't as if she was doing anything bad. As Katina had reassured Quinn, there was nothing unnatural about doing something you were born to do.
When Katina and Pillar came home later that day, Tallow didn't say anything, but that afternoon, as she made the special bayberry candles, she distilled something a little extra into the early layers: something she'd stored from when she held that piece of wood from the gondola, something to which only a besotted girl and indifferent boy would respond.
LYING IN BED THAT NIGHT, Tallow felt gratified by what she'd done. Not only was she bringing a general air of happiness to the
community with her candles, but she was doing something specific to help her neighbours as well. She tried to imagine the look on Lucia's face when this boy admitted he loved her. She tried to picture what Francesca would say ... maybe she would buy more bayberry candles. That would make Quinn even happier than she had been tonight at dinner.
Feeling content with herself, Tallow eschewed her usual midnight stroll on the rooftop and fell into a deep sleep.
Hovering near the workshop the next day, she tipped her hat to Francesca when she came to pick up the candles.
Spying her by the door, Francesca gave her a big smile. 'Ah, you're, Tallow, aren't you?' she said holding the lovely green candles aloft. 'These look beautiful.' She ran them under her nose. 'Smell wonderful too. They're for a special occasion. Should work a treat. You must thank your master for me. He's very clever, that one. A late bloomer. But he's more than making up for it.'
'Grazie mille, Signora Zonelli,' said Tallow, swallowing the laugh that gurgled in her throat. 'I will tell him.' She quickly bowed her head and shuffled back into the workshop. She felt reckless, but also liberated in a way she had not known before.
'What's up with you?' Katina was watching Tallow curiously. Tallow spun around. 'Something's on your mind. Want to share?'
Tallow coloured immediately. 'No. I mean, there's nothing on my mind.'
'Is that right?' said Katina. 'Well, I hate to tell you this, Tallow, but if there's one thing you're not, it's a blank slate. I can tell you're up to something. If you don't want to tell me, that's entirely up to you. Now, come on, shut the door and get back to work. Young men don't exchange pleasantries with older women – not unless it's Carnivale or they're up to something. There are still plenty of orders for you to fill and techniques for you to refine.' She waited for the door to be closed. 'You're not a Master Estrattore yet, you know,' she added.
Without another word, Tallow joined Katina, aware the Bond Rider was studying her closely. To dispel suspicion, she worked extra hard, spending the next four hours learning to rid both wax and tallow of any negativity until it came as easily as breathing.
At the end of the day, Katina wiped her hands on an old rag and, smiling, draped an arm across Tallow's shoulders. 'That was good work,' she said. Tallow noticed Katina's arm was heavy along the back of her neck and she could feel her shaking. For the first time in days, Tallow took a proper look at her mentor. Katina was pale and drawn. There were dark shadows under her eyes.
'Are you all right?' asked Tallow.
'Hmm? What? Oh yes, me. I'm fine.' Katina gave a forced laugh and, pulling her arm back from Tallow, sat on one of the barrels. 'Just tired, that's all. Nothing a good night's sleep won't mend.' She sighed and rubbed her eyes. 'Tomorrow I'll teach you how to draw on the negativity you extracted and distil that too.'
'So soon? I thought you said we didn't want me refining negative emotions yet. I thought you said you weren't entirely comfortable –'
'Who's the instructor here, Tallow?' snapped Katina. 'You or me?'
'You, of course. I –'
'Well,' said Katina, lowering her voice as she looked over her shoulder to see where Pillar was. 'While balance is important, it's also time to teach you that there's more to being an Estrattore than sweetness and light.' Before Tallow could pose the questions that brimmed within her, Katina shook her head and placed her finger against her lips.
'How about you go upstairs and see how Quinn's going with supper,' said Pillar. He had approached so quietly that Tallow hadn't heard him. But Katina had. She shot Tallow a warning glance.
'Yes. All right. Sure,' said Tallow, untying her apron. What did Katina mean? She cast another worried glance in Katina's direction. The Bond Rider looked awful. How had Tallow not noticed before? Surely this couldn't have just happened. Why, Katina could barely even lift her head.
Noticing her concern, Pillar escorted Tallow to the door. 'Get cleaned up. We'll be with you shortly.'
'But Katina –'
'She'll be fine. She's just run down. You're not the only one working hard, you know.' Pillar winked.
Pillar never winked.
Uneasy now, Tallow crossed the floor of the shop, turning just as she reached the stairs. Pillar hadn't shut the door properly and it had swung open slightly. Through the gap she saw Pillar stand in front of Katina. He looked at her for a moment before taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipping her face towards his. Tallow couldn't hear what he said, only the tender tone with which he spoke. He was very worried and, it seemed, not without some justification. Her heart contracted.
One foot poised above the stairs, her hand pressed into the wall, she saw Katina smile, shrug and slowly rise to her feet. Pillar dropped his hand and opened his arms. Katina hesitated only a second before falling into them.
TALLOW FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO swallow her food. She kept stealing glances at Katina and Pillar. Sitting opposite each other, there was nothing in their manner to suggest anything was different between them. No secret glances or smiles. Preoccupied with what she'd witnessed, Tallow found herself spending more time pushing her food around her plate than eating it.
Quinn noticed her lack of appetite. 'What's wrong with you?'
'Nothing,' said Tallow quickly. 'I'm just not hungry, that's all.' She tried not to look at Katina.
'Fine for some,' snapped Quinn. 'Now that we've got ducats and lire coming in you think you can leave food on your plate? What you don't eat now, I'll serve you tomorrow and the next day and the next until you learn to appreciate what's put in front of you. I don't stand over that fire sweating like a smithy for pleasure, you know.'
'It's all right, Mamma,' said Pillar, reaching over and picking up Tallow's meal. He scraped her remains on to his own plate. 'I'll finish it. Tallow's been working very hard these weeks. All he needs is a good night's rest. Isn't that right, Tallow?'
'Yes. Yes, that's it,' said Tallow. 'I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed.' She stole one last glance at Katina, who gave her a weak smile. Tallow was about to say something when she changed her mind. Something was wrong – more than wrong. She knew it. And, from the look on Pillar's face, he did, too.
To the sound of Quinn's clucking and cursing, Tallow reluctantly made her way to the attic.
A wind whistled through the room, making Tallow shiver. Despite the cold, she grabbed one of the blankets off her bed and climbed the stairs up to the rooftop garden. Framed by a low wall with a thick ledge, it was no bigger than a small yard.
Sitting on the ledge, Tallow gazed out over the city. The moon was just rising, casting a sheen over the snow-covered Dolomites. A gibbous moon, it looked too large to heave itself into the heavens. Its light was muted but carried a long way, and Tallow could see the symmetrical outlines of buildings as far away as the Butchers Quartiere.
She looked up into the velvet night and saw a scattering of familiar constellations. She started counting them, but, because she could only count to forty, it didn't distract her for very long. She tried to listen to the usual nocturnal chorus of dogs, owls and bats, and the occasional mewl of a cat in heat. But, apart from the low chanting of padres in the seminary of the main basilica of the sestiere, tonight an eerie silence gripped the quartiere. None of it, however – the view, the moon, the stars, the unusual silence – kept her mind off Katina ... and Pillar! Were they more than simply friends? Was she reading too much into Pillar's concern and shows of affection towards Katina? After all, she was an attractive woman and Pillar's appearance had certainly improved with their new diet. Her two mentors had grown very close to each other over the weeks, and trust between them had bloomed. Pillar was grateful to Katina for their new prosperity as well, while Katina ... what did Katina, a Bond Rider, see in Pillar? Tallow pondered. Was it anything more than pity?
Ever since the Bond Rider appeared, Tallow had seen a different side to the browbeaten candlemaker. He'd revealed hidden aspects of his character that were only now being taken out and given a shine – humour,
some decisiveness and even inner strength. He'd stopped slouching and his laugh came more easily, especially at meal times.
