The Secret of the Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

the largest and most opulent open square in all of Venice. As the bells of the towering brick campanile began to peal, they surged forward with the jostling crowd toward the domed Basilica and its distinctive façade. An amalgamation of east and west design, its exterior encompassed capitals from Sicily, columns from Alexandria, and sculpture from Constantinople, festooned with marble pinnacles and crockets, all under the glory of huge golden domes that dominated the Venetian horizon. Squeezing tight against the throngs of worshippers, the family filtered through the massive Romanesque arching doorways and into the glowing interior, illuminated by thousands of candles whose light reflected off the gold mosaics and colored marble.
    Only a smattering of empty seats remained, and the girls surrendered them to their elders with respect. Standing in one of the many rows of people lining up along the back, Sophia strained to see the front of the church. People filled every space of the building, uniquely designed in a cross of four equal arms, as opposed to the more popular Latin style found in most churches. She bowed her head to give thanks, allowing the chanting of prayers and singing of hymns to engulf and fill her. The cloying scent of the incense, emanating from the tendrils of smoke rising from the swaying, clacking gold censers, did little to mask the musky and bitter stench of so many infrequently washed bodies.
    Sophia’s own whispered yet fervent prayers mingled with those of the hundreds of other parishioners. Her gratitude overwhelmed her, for the beauty of this day, the magnificence of her country and most of all, the love of her family. She felt a moment’s repentance, for choosing the life she had, for forsaking marriage and motherhood as both society and the church insisted was her duty. She squeezed her clenched hands together, feeling the slim, hard bones within them. God had given her the gift in these hands; surely he forgave her and loved her for using it.
    Sophia sent a special prayer to Saint Mark, he who gave his life to spread the word of Jesus and whose remains lay entombed below them. His body—smuggled out of the heathens’ land by Venetian sailors and hidden amidst a cache of pork, rendering it untouchable to the Muslims—came to these shores hundreds of years ago, and his capacity to ignite the people’s passion remained as powerful as the day he arrived. He was their patron and the source of their strength.
    The mass ended and cheerful voices joined rustling fabrics and the now restless and cramped congregation filled the aisles. Behind Doge Leonardo Donato, a tall, somber man and the Republic’s ninetieth ducal ruler, they emptied out into the already crowded piazza, where more celebrants, too many to fit into the Basilica, waited. Surrounded by black-robed senators and council members, bishops and priests, Doge Donato, sweating under full ducal regalia—a scarlet brocade robe, cape, and doge’s cap—strode past the Palazzo Ducale and into the smaller Piazzetta where they stopped between the two majestic marble columns.
    The twelfth-century stone projectiles—“acquisitions” from Constantinople—marked the aperture of the Molo, the waterfront—the majestic gateway—of the grand city. Atop one stood the winged lion of St. Mark while upon the other St. Theodore, the former patron of the Republic, battled a crocodile. These imposing monuments were two of Venice’s greatest attractions, yet Sophia refused to look up to the top of the long, bright stone pillars. As a frightened child, she had seen men hanging upside down from a gibbet strung between them, and the horrifying sight had forever blighted their beauty in her eyes.
    The Fiolario women slowed as they neared the shore, but Zeno urged them on.
    “No, not this year. Today we will not just watch. We will be a part of this celebration.”
    He smiled infectiously, urging them forward through the teeming masses to the ramp of a