The Secret of the Glass by Donna Russo Morin Page B

the door closed and Zeno returned, shuffling toward them, head down, consideration intent upon a small parchment unrolled in his hands. His pale eyes flicked back and forth then rose up, brows bunched incredulous upon his age-spotted forehead. Looking down, he read again. Without a word, he raised his arm, extending the letter toward his wife.
    Viviana stood up fast, her chair flinging out behind her with a shriek that rent the pregnant air, and grasped at the missive. As she read the message, one hand rose up with a slow hesitant motion to cover her slack-jawed mouth. Her stricken gaze found her husband’s and held. The bubble of straining, silent apprehension drew near to bursting; it crackled unanswered in the air, until Viviana said one word.
    “Sophia.”
    Sophia blanched, pointing one trembling index finger at her own chest in stunned question. Oriana shot her sister a narrow-eyed stare, ticking her head toward their parents. Sophia stood and slogged toward them, her steps slow and plodding, her trepidation transparent on a visage distorted with ill-disguised fear. She took the vellum from her mother’s hand. The invitation was for two nights hence, to dine at the home of the noble da Fuligna family, a summons extended to Viviana, Zeno, and Sophia alone.
    Sophia stared with bulge-eyed, blatant fear at her father and mother.
    “But what is this? What does it mean?”
    Zeno’s thin mouth sunk at the corners.
    Viviana stared at her daughter. “You have been chosen.”
    “Chosen?” Sophia’s shoulders rose high in bewilderment, her voice terse with annoyed uncertainty. “Chosen for what?”
    Viviana turned again to her brooding husband, seeking a strength neither felt.
    “Marriage.”
     
     
    “Marriage?” Sophia hissed the word like a curse upon her tongue, as if she spoke of hell itself, her olive skin bursting with red splotches of anger. “ My marriage? To whom?”
    “It must be the oldest, Pasquale, I think his name is,” Viviana ruminated. She laid one hand gently upon Sophia’s back, rubbing small circles with comforting repetition. “It must be. The da Fulignas are a poor family. Noble, but poor. It must be the oldest who is allowed to marry, who must marry to infuse the family with some wealth and some heirs.”
    The quiet in the once laughter-filled home became unearthly, disturbing in its foreboding. Sophia beseeched her family in silence; with outstretched hands and a frightened expression, she pleaded for someone to tell her it was all a mistake. Zeno stood with hands gripping the back of a tall armchair, his knuckles white under the stretched skin. His mouth splayed but no words, not a sound, came out.
    Oriana rose, tip-toeing across the room to stand by mother and sister.
    “Will I still be able to marry?” Her voice quivered with pending tears.
    Sophia whirled, sharp words poised on the tip of her tongue like a drawn sword in her hand, words that would lash out with the power of her anger and frustration. How could her sister be so self-centered? Oriana’s face twisted with grief, tears welled in her eyes, and her lips trembled. A wave of pity and remorse washed over Sophia and she rubbed at her face as if to wash the ill-will from her thoughts.
    On the islands, as through most of the Republic, the marriage portion settled on a daughter was exorbitant, ten thousand ducats or more, and few families could afford to make such a settlement for more than one of their female offspring. For others the convent awaited. The conventual dowry was almost as dear as that for marriage, yet its toll on women was much harsher. The price would be a great deal more egregious to Sophia’s sister. For Oriana, marriage was an idolized ideal of almost religious proportion. To not be married would be to shatter her, heart and soul.
    “Shh, dearest, hush.” Viviana wrapped her other arm around the small trembling shoulders. “All our daughters will marry, have no fear. But perhaps it would be wise to choose