Read Online Dark Shimmer by Donna Jo Napoli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donna Jo Napoli
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to be cavernous. The floor shines in the candlelight.
We sit at the table and it’s just like the table on San Francesco del Deserto, the brothers’ island; it’s made for people my size. So are the chairs. I look around. The lamp sconces are at the right height for me. The framed paintings are at the right height for me. My head is level with Marin’s and Agnola’s. We look into each other’s faces without looking down or up. I feel light-headed. Marin says a prayer, the same prayer the brothers said, the same prayer the people on Torcello say, a simple thanks. The familiarity of it anchors me: this is all as it should be; I could belong here.
But then I look down at what Lucia La Rotonda has just placed in front of me, a spoon and an oddly shaped object. I want to ask her what it is, but she’s already rushing away. I look at Marin; he’s rubbing his mouth with his palm again, worried about something. I look at Agnola.
She smiles just the slightest. Her eyes go to the odd thing and back to my face. “Forks have become the rage in Venezia. We are a stylish town. Visiting dignitaries laugh at us, but I have to admit, it’s better than scalding your fingers.” She picks up her own fork. “No one would think of eating pasta without one these days. Don’t you think forks are fun?”
Forks are not fun. They are less agile than fingers by far. But at least the food is good. And I’m hungry. I eat my fill and rip off a crust of bread to wipe my bowl, then stop and check first. The others are wiping their bowls. Thank heaven. I clean mine to a polish.
“And now,” says Marin as he rises from the table, “I trust my dear Agnola to settle you for the night.”
Agnola nods. “She’ll share my bed.”
“I want her,” says Bianca.
“Not tonight,” says Marin. “Dolce will sleep with Aunt Agnola.”
Bianca bites her bottom lip.
“I bid you good rest.” Marin comes around the table and kisses Bianca on the top of the head.
That’s it? No singing together, no stories like with Mamma?
Bianca goes through a door with Lucia La Rotonda.
I follow Agnola through another door, and spend the rest of the night trying to will myself to sleep, as the woman beside me snores softly. The little dog lies on her chest and gives off tiny squeaks as he twitches in his sleep. Beyond those noises, I hear nothing. It’s so dark in the room, I see no outlines.
This is the
serenissima
—the most serene. My eyes are dry; I blink and blink. I am not serene.
But when have I ever been?
A gnola always speaks in a quiet voice. I have been here a month and have never heard her raise it. Our eyes meet often throughout the day, as we find ourselves side by side in a task. But we have talked little.
This morning I open my eyes in our wide bed when she asks in her warm, gentle way, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” I roll on my side without touching her.
Agnola is staring up at the ceiling through the gray air before dawn. As usual, Ribolin sleeps on her ample chest, which exaggerates the rise and fall of her breathing under the linen sheet. “It’s going to be a busy day, Dolce. Meeting these people…Let me prepare you.”
My cheeks heat up. “I am prepared for anything.”
She turns her head toward me. “Thank you for saying that. I know you guard your privacy. But without help, the rules of Venezia will elude you, and the nobility will trample you in the end.”
Marin fears this too. I have seen the way he frowns, then tries to smile when we talk of my being introduced into society. “Why would you care?”
Ribolin stretches, all four legs stiff, and grunts. Agnola gets out of bed and sets the dog in the basket on the floor beside the open window that faces the rear courtyard. Then, hand over hand on the rope, she lowers the basket down to the courtyard. She secures the end of the rope under a slab of marble and comes back to sit on the edge of our bed. “Dolce, listen well. There’s value in understanding what
We sit at the table and it’s just like the table on San Francesco del Deserto, the brothers’ island; it’s made for people my size. So are the chairs. I look around. The lamp sconces are at the right height for me. The framed paintings are at the right height for me. My head is level with Marin’s and Agnola’s. We look into each other’s faces without looking down or up. I feel light-headed. Marin says a prayer, the same prayer the brothers said, the same prayer the people on Torcello say, a simple thanks. The familiarity of it anchors me: this is all as it should be; I could belong here.
But then I look down at what Lucia La Rotonda has just placed in front of me, a spoon and an oddly shaped object. I want to ask her what it is, but she’s already rushing away. I look at Marin; he’s rubbing his mouth with his palm again, worried about something. I look at Agnola.
She smiles just the slightest. Her eyes go to the odd thing and back to my face. “Forks have become the rage in Venezia. We are a stylish town. Visiting dignitaries laugh at us, but I have to admit, it’s better than scalding your fingers.” She picks up her own fork. “No one would think of eating pasta without one these days. Don’t you think forks are fun?”
Forks are not fun. They are less agile than fingers by far. But at least the food is good. And I’m hungry. I eat my fill and rip off a crust of bread to wipe my bowl, then stop and check first. The others are wiping their bowls. Thank heaven. I clean mine to a polish.
“And now,” says Marin as he rises from the table, “I trust my dear Agnola to settle you for the night.”
Agnola nods. “She’ll share my bed.”
“I want her,” says Bianca.
“Not tonight,” says Marin. “Dolce will sleep with Aunt Agnola.”
Bianca bites her bottom lip.
“I bid you good rest.” Marin comes around the table and kisses Bianca on the top of the head.
That’s it? No singing together, no stories like with Mamma?
Bianca goes through a door with Lucia La Rotonda.
I follow Agnola through another door, and spend the rest of the night trying to will myself to sleep, as the woman beside me snores softly. The little dog lies on her chest and gives off tiny squeaks as he twitches in his sleep. Beyond those noises, I hear nothing. It’s so dark in the room, I see no outlines.
This is the
serenissima
—the most serene. My eyes are dry; I blink and blink. I am not serene.
But when have I ever been?
A gnola always speaks in a quiet voice. I have been here a month and have never heard her raise it. Our eyes meet often throughout the day, as we find ourselves side by side in a task. But we have talked little.
This morning I open my eyes in our wide bed when she asks in her warm, gentle way, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” I roll on my side without touching her.
Agnola is staring up at the ceiling through the gray air before dawn. As usual, Ribolin sleeps on her ample chest, which exaggerates the rise and fall of her breathing under the linen sheet. “It’s going to be a busy day, Dolce. Meeting these people…Let me prepare you.”
My cheeks heat up. “I am prepared for anything.”
She turns her head toward me. “Thank you for saying that. I know you guard your privacy. But without help, the rules of Venezia will elude you, and the nobility will trample you in the end.”
Marin fears this too. I have seen the way he frowns, then tries to smile when we talk of my being introduced into society. “Why would you care?”
Ribolin stretches, all four legs stiff, and grunts. Agnola gets out of bed and sets the dog in the basket on the floor beside the open window that faces the rear courtyard. Then, hand over hand on the rope, she lowers the basket down to the courtyard. She secures the end of the rope under a slab of marble and comes back to sit on the edge of our bed. “Dolce, listen well. There’s value in understanding what
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