“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.