by V. Briceland
His tone was low and reverent. “Oh no. I cannot make it happen at all. I have more knowledge of the craft than any, but I cannot. It is all in here.” He pointed to his skull. “And not in here.” He held up his hands. “Tell me, child. What were you thinking of when you saw your parents in the bowl?”
“We were arguing,” she said. There had been a great deal of arguing with Milo. She would have given all the gold and wealth in that parlor at that moment for just one glimpse of him as he had been at Mina’s taverna—strong, lively, confident. She would just as quickly have given her own family’s fortune to erase the look of hurt she had caused during their final argument. “I had the bowl in my lap. I was touching it,” she said, thinking back. “Then it started to show my parents’ shadows.”
“And the poker?”
“I was angry,” she recalled. This was much easier to remember. “I wanted to hurt something. The poker seemed heavy. Then it grew heavier—as if it was changing beneath my hands.”
At last Ferrer said slowly, “You’ve no idea what I would give, just to know how that sensation felt. If it can be felt, it can be manipulated. For a lifetime I have wished for such a blessing. Yet you do it instinctively, without even a single lesson.”
His reverence alarmed her. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t be frightened. What happened to your bowl, the one you brought for me to see?”
“Oh!” Her sudden hope crumbled at the memory of the terrible and sharp sound of it striking the pavement. “My cousin broke it. He probably left it in the streets.” Her shoulders slumped in despair.
“In what sort of conveyance had you stored it?”
“A brown sack padded with—that’s it!” At the end of his cane hung the sack. While she was speaking, Ferrer had speared it with his cane’s tip and withdrawn it from under the sofa. Risa immediately opened it to extract its contents.
“They obviously found it harmless, for they threw it in after you when you were brought in here,” Ferrer said. “I tucked it away for safekeeping.”
“It’s in pieces.” The impact from the pavement, or her cousin’s rough treatment of it after she was reduced to unconsciousness, had broken the glass into a number of pieces. The largest of these was roughly one third of the bowl, a beautiful section where the blue and green glasses had melted into each other to form a rippling aqua. Mourning the loss, Risa assembled the shards on the sofa, laying them side by side as if hoping they might magically join edges and form a whole.
“Tell me about glass, my dear,” said Ferrer. “What is it? What does it feel like? What does it do?”
It was an odd question, and obviously intended to draw her mind away from her loss. She reached out and touched the largest of the glass pieces. “It’s really just sand and alkali, you know, melted together. And … I don’t know!”
“It’s impossible to achieve an enchantment when the mind is in disarray.” Ferrer’s interruption was not in the least unwelcome. “There are ways we teach the insula initiates to clear their thoughts, but distressed as you are, it may be futile—”
“Oh! I can do that!” The old man rewarded her with a look of surprise. This was another thing for which she could thank Milo, she realized. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thinking of a box. With her hands upon the bowl’s remnants, she mentally opened the box and withdrew a marble fashioned in the flames, streaked with red. She imagined holding the perfectly round globe in the palm of her hand. Her heart was gladdened at the sight of it. She felt at peace, and at home.
“I thought glass came from the moons when I was young,” she whispered to him. “My father told me he would visit the moons and bring back glass for his workshops. I knew he was teasing me, but I liked pretending.” Her voice grew dreamy as she talked. A curious feeling of stillness came over her. “I still think it’s beautiful. Whenever I take one of my own works from the furnaces, I still marvel. It’s wonderful to think that something so hard and smooth was born of fire.” She heard Ferrer let out a loud exhalation, but she kept talking. “I love the colors—so pure. At the insulas they sprinkle metals over the molten glass to produce sheets, but the colors always seem so alive … ”
“Risa. My child, look.”
She opened her eyes. The shards of glass flickered with light and shadow. They tingled to the touch, as if vibrating.
“Milo,” Risa whispered. The largest, pie-shaped chunk reflected plainly the image of Milo standing by a balcony ledge, his face in profile. As she watched, scarcely daring to hope the vision was real, Camilla joined him and placed her arms around his shoulder. The faint image of a gondola drifted by.
The other shards were alive as well. Though she kept her fingers on the remnant that danced with Milo’s face, she reached out with a gasp to see her mother reflected in one piece, her father in another. They both stared out a window at the sky beyond. Though it was difficult to see fine details, she thought she had never before seen them so careworn. She silently prayed that they had not yet lost hope.
In the smaller chunks she could see other people. There was Tania, wiping her face with a cloth, and Ricard, seemingly asleep on a pillow-covered bed. Mattio, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. Amo, staring at something in her father’s workshop she could not see. Mattio’s mouth was moving—was he talking to the new craftsman? There was Fita, peeling fruit, a grim look upon her compressed lips. Her siblings—Romeldo, Mira, Vesta. Her lip trembled at the sight of Petro as he sat in a classroom surrounded by other youths.
She exclaimed in excitement as she pointed to the last of the pieces. “It’s you!” In the curved splinter of blue and green, Ferrer was looking down at something out of vision—the very pieces of glass on the cushion before her.
“Remarkable,” he breathed, and looked up directly into the mirror above the mantel. In the glass shard, he seemed to be looking directly at Risa. “I never thought I would see this day. And in one so young. It must be the secondary function of glass—as a reflective substance—that enables you to perform so remarkable, so rare a—”
“Milo!” she cried out, seizing the largest of the shards between her hands. Its knife-sharp edges bit into her palms, warning her that it would soon draw blood. She continued her scrutiny.
“I don’t think he can hear you, my dear. There are limits.”
“He must! Milo!” It was almost as if she willed the glass to carry her message to him. With fire, she had shaped the raw material into a thing of beauty; it was still hers to command.
The figure in the jagged piece turned in his place, suddenly alert. His mouth moved. A moment later, she heard her name spoken as if from a distance. Faint it was, softer than even her parents’ voices when first she had heard them speak through the bowl. “Risa?” he said again. “By the gods, Camilla. It’s—”
“Milo! You must listen. We’re in the palace.” His face grew larger as he moved toward her.
“You’re in the glass!” he said. “I can see you in the glass!” She saw his fingers reach up to touch whatever was in front of him, momentarily blocking her view of his face.
Camilla’s familiar form appeared behind him, her expression awed. “Don’t,” she chided. “You’re smudging up her face.”
Milo leaned forward and huffed on the glass to clean it. “I can’t hear you well. Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” she cried. She looked toward the door guiltily, fearful the guards outside might overhear. “We’re in the palace!” she repeated, saying the words distinctly. “Do you understand?”
His lips moved again, and a moment later she heard his voice. It was as if it took seconds for the sounds he made to travel to her. “The palace,” he repeated. He turned and spoke to Camilla. “We’ve got to get to the palace.”
“How will we find her?”
“Look for me in a window!” she cried.
“Say it again,” Ferrer suggested. His voice was breathy as he followed the drama.
She repeated the words. “In a window,” Milo finally said. “It’s so hard to understand you! I hope that’s right.”
“Yes!” she said.
“I vow I’ll get you out of there! On my honor, Risa. Oh, thank Muro,” she heard him say to Camilla. The shadows flickered. They were gone.
“Milo … ” There was so much she wanted to tell him. There was so much to apologize for.
“Who is this boy, Milo?” Ferrer’s voice was gentle as he put one of his hands over hers. There was little warmth to his skin, but she felt comforted.
Like candles extinguished by a wind, the faces in the other shards of glass vanished. For a single tick of the mantel clock, she mourned the loss. The memory of how easily she had accomplished the feat emboldened her to a smile, however. Somewhere inside her glowed a crystal marble, streaked with ribbons of red glass. “He is a friend.”
“A city guard is your friend?”
She stood, irritated by the question. “Yes. He is not of the Seven and Thirty, but he is still my friend.” Busying herself with the objects in one of the cases enabled her to turn her face away. It would not do to show her frustration.
“My dear,” said the old man. “I meant no censure. I have always felt that if the Thirty were not as exclusive and, well, greedy for social distinction as they have become, we would not be as vulnerable to coups such as the prince is attempting! My own wife, may the gods have mercy upon her soul, was a physician’s daughter. A mere physician’s daughter, some said at the time.”
This curious fact relieved Risa’s fears. She would have very much disliked it had Ferrer shown contempt for the friendships she had made over the past few days. “Really?”
“Yes. She was working in one of the city’s poorer sections, distributing medicines, when I first met her. A lovely creature she was. I think it was sixty years ago—dear girl, what are you doing?”
As patience-testing as she found the Cazarro’s monologues, his last had inspired in Risa an idea. “We’ve a few minutes before my friend can reach the castle. We have to awaken Baso.”
“He is deeply affected by the narcotic. It may be too late.”
“Would you give up on him so easily? Let us try to help him if we can!” The sensation of her newly found powers both intoxicated and alarmed her. It felt as if she was a very small girl given a fortune to spend as she pleased—yet the gold was in a foreign currency, and no one would tell her where she could find markets willing to sell her the things she desired. She did not even know what she desired. Ferrer’s mention of physicians had inspired her, however, and she would do what she could to aid the Buonochio boy. “If Milo manages to get to us, we don’t want to have to carry him, and we can’t leave him here at the mercy of the prince!”
“Do you really believe your friend can aid us?” The Cazarro’s voice was low.
“I do.” She was sure of it.
He rose from his sitting position. His spine gently bent forward as he took tiny steps around the split table. “I place my trust in you, child. You are the promise of eight hundred years fulfilled.”
Risa flushed at the excessive praise. “No, I’m just a Divetri with a mission.” It was a phrase her mother had used, more than once. “And a Divetri with a mission,” she murmured to herself, feeling the force of new purpose, “is fearful to behold.” She turned her full attention to the precious knick-knacks arranged around the room.
“Before you were brought in here, I looked high and low for objects with a primary purpose that might doctor him back to consciousness,” mourned Ferrer. “There is nothing.”
“There is something,” she contradicted him. At last she found the object she sought: an ornamental silver spoon with a handle so richly encrusted with silver and amethyst roses that it looked as if it would be painful to grasp. It was protected inside a glass case. Without hesitation, she lifted a hideous porcelain elephant and smashed it against the glass, wincing to protect her eyes. Using two of her fingers and the utmost of care, she reached among the shards of glass and elephant and withdrew the spoon.
“A spoon’s natural purpose is to deliver food to the mouth,” sputtered Ferrer. Whether he was amazed at the object itself or the means by which she had obtained it, Risa could not tell. She wanted badly to grin, but felt he might mistake it for overconfidence rather than nervousness. “A Cassamagi enchantment could proof it against dripping … ”
Risa marched over to the water ewer and carried it to Baso’s side. Desperation was what made her so bold, she decided. They had little else to lose if she was mistaken, but much to gain should she be correct. “When my brother and I were sick, my mother would always dose us with tonic.” He looked at her blankly. “Fed to us from a spoon,” she explained. “A secondary purpose of a spoon is to feed the sick medicine.”
Ferrer did not look as if he quite believed her reasoning, but he nodded. Did he doubt her? The old man was the expert on enchantments, after all. Was she merely playing at enchantments, and he humoring her? Biting her lip, Risa dipped the spoon into the container and drew up a dripping portion. Ferrer looked at her with expectation.
It wasn’t right. She could feel that nothing was happening. The spoon was merely a spoon, with water drawn from the palace wells.
I’ve so much to learn, she thought to herself, nearly despairing. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Once more, from that most enclosed place inside, she withdrew the globe of glass that represented poise and self-assurance. It seemed to have grown since the last time she’d seen it, and the ribbons of red seemed alive with flame. She imagined Giulia hovering above her, balancing a spoon full of tonic.
Where it touched her skin, the metal began to prickle. Filaments of energy spread from her fingertips and wove around its length, delicate as a spider’s web. She opened her eyes, and once more dipped the spoon into the ewer.
What had once been clear turned wine-red as she lifted it from the jug. The spoon was full of a dark liquid that smelled exactly like one of the more foul-tasting herbal stimulants in Giulia’s cupboard of remedies—a mixture of willow bark, dried cone flower, spicy coriander seed, and fish oils. Within her, the glass marble flared as mentally she put it away once more. “Hold his head,” she instructed Ferrer, trying not to spill her precious cargo.
Were those tears in the Cazarro’s eyes? She could not spare even a moment to look. With trembling hands, Ferrer lifted the boy’s head onto his knee and gently pulled down his jaw. Risa carefully moved the spoon forward and tipped its contents between Baso’s lips.
For a moment nothing happened. Then, with great deliberation, the boy’s mouth began to move. Briefly he choked, then swallowed. Breath escaped his mouth as his jaw opened in a violent cough. His eyelids began to flutter. A sob caught in her chest. She had done it. When she looked at Ferrer, there were tears among the wrinkles and folds surrounding his eyes.
It was painful to watch him cry, tears of joy though they might be. “I’ll watch for Milo,” she said. “Can you—”
As he cradled the boy’s head and dabbed at his face with a moistened cloth, Ferrer was already waving her away. “You watch for your friend,” he said, his face bowed low. “I can care for Baso.”
It was not until she was at the window that Risa realized the old man had not wanted her to see how very fiercely happy she had made him.
30
—
Are we preparing our children well enough for the insulas?
They come in with knowledge of their family trade, the basics of the sciences and history, and an eagerness to please, but in their work I see little in the way of true innovation or thinking.
Why do we seem to be treasuring obedience and rote learning more than exploration?
—Arnoldo Piratimare, Elder of the I
nsula
of the Children of Muro,
in a letter to Gina Catarre, Elder of the Insula
of the Penitents of Lena
While you were still unconscious, I attempted every reversal available to my caza,” Ferrer told Risa, just as distressed as she. “Nothing would make it open.”
“But he’s out there!” Risa said, frustrated. Milo and Camilla had arrived a good ten minutes before. From her high window she had spotted their twin uniforms, mere red blots, the moment they had stepped into Palace Square from the Via Dioro. After disappearing into the crowds around the market booths, they had re-emerged near the statue of King Orsino. By then she could see more distinctly; two large men accompanied them. Tears had risen in Risa’s eyes as she recognized Amo and Mattio.
The old man was still sitting by Baso’s side, having assisted him to an upright position. The boy was still stunned from the after-effects of camarandus poisoning, but at least he had been asking for water and seemed to hear their voices. “Can he see you?” Ferrer asked.
“I don’t think so.” Below, her four friends stood together on the bricks of the square, their heads turning to take in the sheer immensity of the palace wall before them. The palace’s southern wall was the only side upon which the canals did not run; rows of windows reinforced with insula-made glass faced the square, each window recessed into the wall and surrounded by columns and statuary. Would they be able to see her on the top floor from so far away? They began to wander away from each other, continuing to study the stronghold’s façade.
There had to be a way for her to open the window. There simply had to be. She reached out with her hands and once more felt beneath them the prickle of the enchantment’s energy. Somehow she could alter those energies, if she could figure out how to redirect them. A window’s primary purpose, as Ferrer would have said, was to keep out the elements.
