Read Online The Secret of the Glass by Donna Russo Morin - Free Book Online
Authors: Donna Russo Morin
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, Love Stories, Venice (Italy), Glass manufacture, Venice (Italy) - History - 17th Century
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a husband, before one is chosen for you.”
Zeno and Sophia averted their gaze under the force of Viviana’s subtle reprimand. They shared culpability in bringing them to this moment. Sophia had refused more than one fine proposal, offers from the sons of other Murano families. But she had rejected each and every one. True, she hadn’t loved any of them, but love—or its lack—had not been her reason for refusal. Sophia had no desire to give up the life she led, to leave her own family—or the glass—to become someone’s wife. Zeno’s guilt lay in letting her.
It was all too much to endure. Sophia ran, rushing out the back door, down the narrow flight of steps, and into the cobbled courtyard. She screeched to a halt under the star-laden sky, stopping short a few inches from the wellhead in the center of the compound, spinning around step by step, looking at the home she loved so dearly.
Opposite the house lay the small family garden where the sprouts of fresh vegetables were just beginning to peek out of the spring-warmed earth. On each side, buildings flanked the quadrangle; on the left, the columns and arches of La Spada; on the right, the back of yet another glass-making factory, that belonging to the Catani family. In the center of the courtyard, a cisterna , capped by carved marble. Every wonderful memory in her mind centered on this world, these people. She would have to leave it all, them, this magical place that was Murano. She could not bear the thought.
Sophia threw herself to the ground, her tears wracking her bent and folded body. She cried until she could cry no more, could do nothing but gasp for breath with short, gut-wrenching inhalations. As her breath returned, an eerie calmness stole over her, one born of disbelief and denial; she leaned up against the cool stone of the wellhead. From inside the house she heard Ignacio and Vito taking their leave with subdued salutations of gratitude, dishes clicking against each other as the clean-up continued, chairs scraping, a broom swishing across the stone floor.
The back door opened and a pale gold beam of light streamed out, its rectangular shape long and bright across the gloomy courtyard. Sophia heard the delicate steps as they made their way down the stairs and across the terrazzo, but she didn’t move. She knew who approached, without a glance.
With a groan and a creak and cracking of old bones, Nonna gingerly lowered her body to sit beside her granddaughter. For a long moment, she spoke not a word, lifting an age-spotted hand to caress Sophia’s hair with long, slow strokes of pure succor. Beneath their sustaining touch, true calm enveloped Sophia, as if her loving grandmother’s hands dispelled all her fear. When Nonna spoke, it was with the same gentle caress.
“There are times in our life that try us, that test our will and our strength.” The older woman spoke in a rhythm, a cadence like a prayer. Her voice was thin with age but strong with the burden of all she herself had endured.
Like so many other Venetian women of her age, she’d lost her husband in the Battle of Lepanto, the moral and military victory over the Turks that ended the war. She had raised her four children alone, keeping the glassworks alive and vital through managers until her sons took over. But the twisted hand of fate was not finished with her yet and Marcella had watched, and prayed and cared for the rest of her family, all save Zeno, as they suffered and died from the plague as it rampaged through Venice. The silky skin on Marcella’s face showed the lines of her advanced age, yet the blood that ran in her veins was powerful, fortified by all she had weathered and survived.
“Did you think you would stay here with your parents, making the glass, forever?”
Sophia’s head snapped up. She searched the familiar face with her swollen eyes and heaved a sigh of relief; in the adored features, she found no judgment, nothing but loving acceptance.
“Well, did
Zeno and Sophia averted their gaze under the force of Viviana’s subtle reprimand. They shared culpability in bringing them to this moment. Sophia had refused more than one fine proposal, offers from the sons of other Murano families. But she had rejected each and every one. True, she hadn’t loved any of them, but love—or its lack—had not been her reason for refusal. Sophia had no desire to give up the life she led, to leave her own family—or the glass—to become someone’s wife. Zeno’s guilt lay in letting her.
It was all too much to endure. Sophia ran, rushing out the back door, down the narrow flight of steps, and into the cobbled courtyard. She screeched to a halt under the star-laden sky, stopping short a few inches from the wellhead in the center of the compound, spinning around step by step, looking at the home she loved so dearly.
Opposite the house lay the small family garden where the sprouts of fresh vegetables were just beginning to peek out of the spring-warmed earth. On each side, buildings flanked the quadrangle; on the left, the columns and arches of La Spada; on the right, the back of yet another glass-making factory, that belonging to the Catani family. In the center of the courtyard, a cisterna , capped by carved marble. Every wonderful memory in her mind centered on this world, these people. She would have to leave it all, them, this magical place that was Murano. She could not bear the thought.
Sophia threw herself to the ground, her tears wracking her bent and folded body. She cried until she could cry no more, could do nothing but gasp for breath with short, gut-wrenching inhalations. As her breath returned, an eerie calmness stole over her, one born of disbelief and denial; she leaned up against the cool stone of the wellhead. From inside the house she heard Ignacio and Vito taking their leave with subdued salutations of gratitude, dishes clicking against each other as the clean-up continued, chairs scraping, a broom swishing across the stone floor.
The back door opened and a pale gold beam of light streamed out, its rectangular shape long and bright across the gloomy courtyard. Sophia heard the delicate steps as they made their way down the stairs and across the terrazzo, but she didn’t move. She knew who approached, without a glance.
With a groan and a creak and cracking of old bones, Nonna gingerly lowered her body to sit beside her granddaughter. For a long moment, she spoke not a word, lifting an age-spotted hand to caress Sophia’s hair with long, slow strokes of pure succor. Beneath their sustaining touch, true calm enveloped Sophia, as if her loving grandmother’s hands dispelled all her fear. When Nonna spoke, it was with the same gentle caress.
“There are times in our life that try us, that test our will and our strength.” The older woman spoke in a rhythm, a cadence like a prayer. Her voice was thin with age but strong with the burden of all she herself had endured.
Like so many other Venetian women of her age, she’d lost her husband in the Battle of Lepanto, the moral and military victory over the Turks that ended the war. She had raised her four children alone, keeping the glassworks alive and vital through managers until her sons took over. But the twisted hand of fate was not finished with her yet and Marcella had watched, and prayed and cared for the rest of her family, all save Zeno, as they suffered and died from the plague as it rampaged through Venice. The silky skin on Marcella’s face showed the lines of her advanced age, yet the blood that ran in her veins was powerful, fortified by all she had weathered and survived.
“Did you think you would stay here with your parents, making the glass, forever?”
Sophia’s head snapped up. She searched the familiar face with her swollen eyes and heaved a sigh of relief; in the adored features, she found no judgment, nothing but loving acceptance.
“Well, did
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