Veretti's Dark Vengeance

‘How do they get that wonderful ruby-red?’ she marvelled.

‘They use a gold solution as a colouring agent,’ he told her.

Another marvel was the row of furnaces, three of them. The first contained the molten glass into which the tip of the blowpipe was dipped. When the glass had been worked on and cooled a little it was reheated in the second furnace through a hole in the door, known as the Glory Hole. This happened again and again, keeping the glass up to the ideal temperature for moulding. When the perfect shape had been achieved it went into the third furnace to be cooled slowly.

‘I’m afraid you may find it uncomfortably hot in here,’ Salvatore observed.

But she shook her head. True, the heat was fierce, but far from being uncomfortable it seemed to bathe her in its glow. She stood as close as she dared to the red-white light streaming from the Glory Hole, feeling as though her whole self was opening up to its fierce radiance.

‘Get back,’ Salvatore said, taking hold of her.

Reluctantly she let him draw her away. The heat was making her blood pound through her veins and she felt mysteriously exalted.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, keeping his hands on her shoulders and looking down into her flushed face.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she murmured.

He gave her a little shake. ‘Wake up.’

‘I don’t want to.’

He nodded. ‘I know the feeling. This place is hypnotic, but you have to be careful. Come over here.’

He led her to where a man was blowing glass through a pipe, turning it slowly so that it didn’t sag and lose shape. Watching him, she felt reality return.

‘It’s incredible that it’s still done that way,’ she marvelled. ‘You’d think it would be easier to use a machine.’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘There are machines that will do some kind of job, and if “some kind of job” is what you want, that’s fine. But if you want a perfect job, lovingly sculpted by a glass worker who’s put his soul into his art, then come to Murano.’

Something in his voice made her look at him quickly. Until now their conversation had been a light-hearted dance, but his sudden fervour made the music pause.

‘There’s nothing like it,’ he said simply. ‘In a world where things are increasingly mechanised, there’s still one place that’s fighting off the machines.’

Then he gave a brief, self-conscious laugh.

‘We Venetians are always a little crazy about Venice. To the outside world most of what we say sounds like nonsense.’

‘I don’t think it’s—’

‘There’s something else that might interest you,’ he said as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Shall we go this way?’

She followed him, intrigued, not by whatever he had to show her, but by the brief glimpse behind his eyes that he discouraged so swiftly.

‘The glass isn’t all blown,’ he said, leading into the next room. ‘Figurines and jewellery take just as much art of a different kind.’

One piece held her attention, a pendant in the shape of a heart. The glass seemed to be dark blue, but with every movement it changed through mauve and green. She held it in her hand, thinking of one just like it, except for the colour, safely tucked away in her jewel box in the hotel. It had been Antonio’s first gift to her.

‘From my heart to yours,’ he’d said, smiling in a way that had moved her, because he seemed almost shy.

She’d worn it for their wedding, and again as he lay dying, just to please him.

‘Do you like it?’ Salvatore asked.

‘It’s really beautiful.’

He took it from her. ‘Turn around.’

She did so, and felt him pull her long hair aside, put the chain around her neck and clasp it. His fingers barely brushed her skin but suddenly she wanted to clench her hands and take deep breaths. She wanted to take flight and run as far away from him as possible. She wanted to press closer and feel his hands on the rest of her body. She didn’t know what she wanted.

Then it was over. His touch vanished. She returned to earth.

‘It looks good on you,’ he said. ‘Keep it.’

‘But this belongs to the firm. You can’t give it to me, unless—oh, my goodness, you’re the manager.’ She put her hand over her mouth in simulated dismay. ‘You are the manager, and I never realised. I’ve been taking up your time—’

‘No, I’m not the manager.’

‘Then you’re the owner?’

The question seemed to disconcert him. He didn’t reply and she pushed her advantage.

‘You do own this place, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At least, I will soon, when some trivial formalities are cleared up.’

Helena stared at him. This was arrogance on a grand scale.

‘Trivial formalities,’ she echoed. ‘Oh, I see. You mean the sale is agreed and you’ll take over in a few days. How wonderful!’

He made a wry face.

‘Not quite as fast as that. Sometimes things take a little negotiating.’

‘Aw, c’mon, you’re kidding me. I bet you’re one of those—what do they call them?—speculators. You see, you want, you’re sure to get. But someone’s being awkward about it, right?’

To her surprise he grinned.

‘Maybe a little,’ he conceded. ‘But nothing I can’t cope with.’

It was marvellous, she thought, how amusement transformed his face, giving it a touch of charm.

‘What about the poor owner?’ she teased. ‘Does he know it’s “in hand,” or is that delightful surprise waiting for him as he steps around a dark corner?’

This time he laughed outright.

‘I’m not a monster, whatever you may think. No dark corners, I swear it. And the owner is a woman who probably has a few tricks of her own.’

‘Which, of course, you’ll know how to deal with.’