The furnace roar is a living thing, a low-frequency hum that vibrates in the marrow of Bianca’s bones. She stands at the glory hole, the iron blowpipe a heavy, familiar extension of her arm as she rotates a glowing gather of molten glass. The air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and charred iron, a fragrance that has clung to her skin since her childhood in her uncle Pietro’s shadow. Twilight bleeds indigo across the Murano fondamenta, but here, in the orange heart of the shop, time is measured only by the cooling of the cristallo.
She moves to the marver, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone punctuating the silence of the empty studio. Just one more heat, she thinks, wiping a bead of sweat from her temple with a soot-stained forearm. The glass is temperamental today, resisting the fluid grace she needs to replicate the delicate curves of her uncle’s lost designs. Her divorce left her with the furnace but took the peace required to master it, leaving her with only the ghost of Pietro’s expertise and a mounting stack of unpaid ledgers.
Through the open archway, the sound of the lagoon slapping against the stone steps falters. The rhythmic splash of a water-taxi engine cuts to a sudden, echoing silence. Bianca stills her pipe, her dark eyes narrowing as the shadow of a tall figure stretches long across the workshop floor. Heavy footsteps slow to a halt just outside the open studio doors.
