Falcon in the Glass Read Online Free

But now he felt hollowed out, bereft.
    â€œHello?” he called again. “If you’re there, please come out. Hello?”

4.
The Marsh Boy
    F ive days later a messenger came into the glassworks.
    The padrone looked up from his work. “Well?” he demanded.
    He had been more than usually harsh all morning, snapping at Sergio, criticizing his work, calling him lazy and sloppy and slow. Though Renzo wouldn’t have hesitated to take Sergio’s place, he couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.
    â€œThe shipment’s here,” the messenger said. “The quartz.”
    Ah! Renzo looked at the padrone . Someone would have to go to the dock, pick up a load of the quartz-rich sand required for the finest glass, and return it here.
    â€œI’ll go,” said Sergio. Surprising no one. Who wouldn’t crave a respite from his father after such a morning?
    The padrone ’s scowl deepened as he regarded his son, considering his request. It was well known that Sergio took suspiciously long to return from such errands. It was said that he tarried through the marketplace, trading storieswith fishermen, coaxing marzipan or fruit from the vendors, flirting with pretty girls.
    Usually Renzo looked forward to the times when Sergio went out on errands, because there was a chance that he might be asked to take up the blowpipe and assist the padrone . But now Renzo longed to go out himself. He had searched the glassworks in the small hours of every morning, but the girl had not returned. He had searched the marketplace every afternoon when the glassworks had closed for dinner. Still, few people were out and about at dinnertime; he’d seen no sign of the girl.
    But if he could get away now, he could take delivery of the sand and detour through the marketplace at the height of business.
    â€œNo,” the padrone told Sergio at last. “You have too much to learn, and you’re too slow in learning it. You stay with me. Renzo will go.”
    Sergio muttered under his breath; Renzo tried to hide his elation. He fetched the handcart from its place in a far corner of the glassworks; in a trice, he was out the door.
    Tattered clouds blew in across the lagoon. The water was gray and ridged and sullen; even the seabirds looked cold. Renzo hunched against the rasp of the January wind and pushed the bulky old cart toward the Faro dock, maneuvering it awkwardly through alleys crowded with craftsmen, servants, magistrates, and fishermen. He kept a sharp lookout for signs of the girl — a tattered cloak, a dark tangle of hair, a kestrel nearby.
    In vain.
    The ship lay rocking gently, serene above the hubbub all around it. Porters, hefting heavy burlap bags and barrels, wove in and out among the crush of sailors and peddlers and dogs. Carters shoved through the throng, making for the ship; a donkey drover pushed back in the opposite direction, herding his braying charges toward town. Merchants haggled over stacks of cargo, a knot of sailors laid wagers on a cockfight, and troops of small boys ran screaming through it all.
    It could take an hour, Renzo guessed, to push this clumsy cart through the press and take his turn to receive the heavy bags of sand. By then it would be dinnertime, and Mama would be expecting him.
    But what if he went hunting for the girl now and returned later? By then much of this crowd would have dispersed.
    He headed for a nearby patch of marshland, the empty cart rattling on the paving stones. He shoved it through the reeds at the dry edge of the marsh until he came to a clump of sedge. He hid the cart within it.
    Then he hastened toward the marketplace. He wandered, searching, among the knots of shoppers at the stalls — the butcher’s, the farmer’s, the confectioner’s, the baker’s.
    Not a green-eyed waif among them.
    He eyed the drifts of pigeons pecking at the paving stones. Gulls soared and cried overhead, and on the rooftops,here and there, he