“I don’t follow.”
“Well, the right description of a Phoenix, especially when you’re a glassblower, is artists with the breathing talent to make glass, but few of them also have a certain power.”
“Which is?”
“They could create fire at will,” Cerené said.
19
Pandora’s Box
“Bianca could create fire at will?” Shew asked. “That’s why she could produce so much glass, I guess.”
“It’s a gift from the Creators,” Cerené said.
“The same Creators who’d shaped Italy after a shoe?”
Cerené nodded, “It’s a very rare gift among glassblowers. I heard only seven women in the world had this power among the ages. Three of them were in Venice. My mother was one of them, and I don’t know anything about the other two.”
It was on the tip of Shew’s tongue; asking Cerené if she had any idea if her mother had burned the Wall of Thorns and Candy House. She was just grateful Cerené opened up to her without a temper, and she wouldn’t risk changing that at the moment.
“Unfortunately, the story doesn’t stop here,” Cerené said. “To the extremists, who influenced the church, creating fire was considered an act of witchcraft. Venice was very skeptical—and secretive—about the art of making glass, and a rumor began to spread. It warned of witches who had the ability to create fire from hell, and were soon going to burn the city. The locals believed it, and decided to burn the witches.”
“But why would they? Nothing burned but houses. Why would they foretell the burning of Venice?”
“Teatro Le Fenice, Venice’s most famous opera house, burned the day after,” Cerené said.
“Le Fenice? I haven’t heard about it.”
“It’s very famous. Check out the history books. The Venetian Carnival took place all around it later,” Cerené said.
“I assume the city went rogue,” Shew said.
“The hunt for the witching glassblowers began, and all glassblowers in Venice suffered a great deal of humiliation, and were burned at the stake for years. I’m sure you’ve heard about falsely accused witches being burned at the stake.”
“Ignorance and stupidity, the true apocalypses of the world,” Shew commented. She had heard all about the burning of witches in Lohr where her father was originally from.
“Eventually, the governors of Venice decided to solve the matter,” Cerené said, sounding bored. Although she was bursting with knowledge, it meant the least to her. Unlike Shew, all Cerené wanted was to make Art.
“They decided to catch all glassblowers and send them to the Island of Murano. It was the best thing to do to stop the killing and save the secretive art from spreading all over the world.”
“And that’s how you came to be born in Murano,” Shew said.
“My mother was pregnant when she was banned to Murano,” Cerené said. “She told me someone advised her to name me Cinder before she was deported.”
“Why Cinder?”
“My mother’s life could have been summed up with the word ‘cinder’,” Cerené said. “She was always covered in ashes from the cinders and the fire she created—or the things she accidentally burned. My mother had even decided to call me Cinderella to make it sound more girlish.”
“Then why is your name Cerené?” Shew asked, knowing the answer already.
“Cerené means cinder in Italian,” Cerené said. “I also dream sometimes that my name is Ember. I don’t know why, but I like Cerené best.”
“Ember is a derivative of cinder, ashes, and fire,” Shew commented. “So when did your mother die in Murano?”
“Sometime after she gave birth to me,” Cerené said. “I don’t remember much in Murano, just that that single image of the ship taking me away.”
“You have one hell of a story, Cerené,” Shew considered. “I’m sure there is so much more to it, if you could only remember. So how come you can’t make fire like your mother, don’t you think you should’ve inherited it?”
Cerené’s face reddened, out of fear, not shyness. She shook her head ‘no’, eyes wider than usual, “I wish I did,” she said. “I tried to create fire with my mind many times, but failed.”
“With your mind?” Shew hadn’t imagined how Bianca created fire.
“That’s how I saw my mother do it in my dreams,” Cerené said. “She showed me how to make glass, and she made sure I got better. She tried to teach me how to create fire with the power of my mind, but I couldn’t do it. One time, she told me she’d never seen someone who could mold living glass like me, if I could only create fire like her.”
“How did she try to teach you to make fire? I mean, is there a process to it?”
“It’s actually a bit funny,” Cerené giggled. “I’m supposed to stretch the palms of my hands like this,” she held out her arms and almost face-palmed Shew. “Then I should focus my mind, thinking about fire, and say ‘Moutza!’”
Cerené repeated the word ‘Moutza’ a couple of times, and Shew looked around her to see if something burned around them. It was clear by now that Cerené wasn’t capable of creating fire. She couldn’t have burned the Wall of Thorns or Candy House.
“See? Nothing,” Cerené was disappointed, shrugging her shoulders. “I really wish I could make fire. Can you imagine how powerful I’d be?”
Shew thought she saw a golden tinge in Cerené’s eye when she said that. She knew she had that golden tinge in her own vampiric eyes when she killed in the Schloss.
“You don’t need the fire power, or the Art,” Shew said. “You’re very special the way you are, Cerené.”
“I am?” Cerené questioned, wondering if Shew meant it as a compliment. “I’d like to think so. The reason I want to acquire the power of creating fire is that Art is rarely respected or feared. Just look at me. I can create magic itself, but if I talk about it, I will get hurt. I’ve read about so many unappreciated artists in the world. A poet could write a mesmerizing poem, a singer could sing the most heartfelt song, and a painter could paint the most beautiful picture, but without power where would they be in this world?”
“You mean that having the Art without power is like clapping with one hand?” Shew nodded.
The most important things in the world come in pairs, Shew. Your mother might be the devil himself, but when she speaks, you should listen carefully.
“That’s right,” Cerené said. “Sometimes I wonder what will become of me if the Queen or this family I live with find out about my Art.”
“I imagine they’d sell you for the highest price,” Shew joked.
“Or worse,” Cerené said. “Torture me, trying to figure out how I do it. Not to mention that we both know that people kill for glass these days,” Cerené said. “Do you see now what I’m talking about? If I had power, I wouldn’t be feared, and I wouldn’t need the Art in the first place. I could have such a different life.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a great life,” Shew said, ruffling her ashen hair. “Moutza!” she tried her luck, stretching her five fingers in the air. Cerené put a hand on her heart and fell back; pretending Shew had killed her with a spear from her hands.
Shew laughed, “get up, silly.”
Cerené could not stop laughing. Shew had not laughed like that with a girlfriend for a long time, almost a hundred years, she guessed.
“Sometimes, when I say ‘Moutza’ over and over for hours trying to create fire, I think I’m going crazy. Seriously, who’d say something like that?”
“You have any idea what it even means?”
“I don’t think it has a meaning,” Cerené said. “Moutza sounds funny. You notice how awkward your lips look like when you say ‘mou’ then when you say ‘za’ your eyes get bigger and your eyebrows act surprised,” Cerené propped herself up on her elbows, gazing at Shew again. Her gaze dimmed slowly and she scratched her temples.