The Secret of the Glass by Donna Russo Morin

cucina into the dining room, insinuating herself between her arguing girls as she was so often forced to do.
    “She said the prince was staring at her.”
    “He was!”
    “See, roba da matti .” Lia tilted her head back and forth, crossed her eyes, and twirled a forefinger beside her temple.
    “Fesso!” Oriana tried to lunge past her mother, aiming at her sister with balled fists.
    “Stai zitto!” Viviana barked, shoving the girls apart, one hand on each of their firm bellies. “Be quiet, right now or you will never see another prince as long as you live. Your father will be here any moment for a nice quiet dinner and I will not have him besieged by this…this nonsense after a long day of work.”
    Oriana’s eyes darkened as they narrowed at Lia, her tight mouth forming a thin line upon her reddened face. Lia stuck out her tongue. Grudgingly they separated.
    At once, every door leading into the room opened; from the kitchen Marcella glided in, humming a merry tune, carrying a large, brightly painted ceramic bowl overflowing with steaming food. Through the outside door, Sophia made her way in, followed by her father and two young men, workers from the factory. Oriana and Lia began to snipe again. Zeno laughed and joked with his two guests. The house overflowed with people and noise like a pot set too long to boil.
    “ Buonasera, Mamma.” Sophia pecked a kiss on her mother’s cheek and placed another on the top of Marcella’s head.
    “Ignacio and Vito’s mamma is away, so we are feeding them tonight, all right?” Zeno asked, greeting his wife with his own kiss, though why he posed the question when he had already brought the boys with him, Viviana did not know. It was not the first time the family fed some of its workers; it would not be the last.
    “So much for a quiet dinner,” she grumbled.
    “Che?” Sophia turned back to her mother with a squeeze upon the older woman’s shoulder.
    “Nothing, Sophia, no more than a bit of my own nonsense. Two more chairs and settings, Oriana,” Viviana said. “Sit. Eat. Everyone mangia .”
    Noise flourished as the food was served. Chairs scraped the stone floor, and the family sat as they talked, argued, and laughed. Malvasia flowed from basket-covered decanters as Viviana and Marcella flitted back and forth from table to kitchen, heaping the slab with plate after plate of food. They served leg of mutton with gnocchi, roasted chicken stuffed with artichoke hearts and red peppers, hard-boiled eggs and crabmeat soaking in a steamy bowl of freshly churned butter. In the smaller ceramic bowls, there came sarde in saor —sardines marinated in sour sauce—olives drenched in spiced oil, and fresh ciabatta baked that afternoon.
    The Fiolario household employed a small retinue of servants, a few loyal and hardworking villagers to do the cleaning and the gardening, not a full household like so many of the other Murano glass-making families. One middle-aged couple lived with them, assisting with the never-ending chores of a household and business. Santino and Rozalia had been with them for many years, since their own marriage more than two decades ago, dedicated to the family that treated them as their own. The family could afford more domestics if they chose—La Spada was one of the most successful, most affluent glassworks in all of Murano, earning more than enough to bear the cost of a whole contingent of servants, but Viviana preferred to do some things herself. The women of the house prepared the meals, especially the pranzo —the evening’s repast—with great care and expertise. With the abundant feast set before them, and a quick word of gratitude offered to God, the eating began in earnest.
    Sophia’s stomach gurgled; the tantalizing aromas of the beautifully presented meal awakened an appetite, up till now ignored. She reached out to the heaped and bulging platters strewn before her.
    “Pass me the mutton, Sophia, per favore? ” Vito asked.
    Sitting to her