The Ghosts of Venice: Part Two
Millefiori
The Ghosts of Venice: Part One:
I also have a self-published book of short fiction available on Amazon, titled Iron Petal: A Collection of Tales New and Old (2024) by Mark Francis Bloom, available in Kindle, paperback, and hardcover:
I was ferried upon the canals, navigating the city’s waterways with gentle fluency. And as I journeyed, the maritime spectacle that is Venice occupied me with its marvellous feat of masonry. Gliding below arched bridges while loomed-over by towering façades, even when oppressed by such, I found myself in admiration of their darkened reflections lurking amid the depths.
As the so-called Eastern Star curtsied, and gracefully so, my vessel segued towards a façade more stately than the rest: The Palazzo de Mocenigo. Up above and spaced apart either side of the entrance were two picturesque stone crests, that of the Mocenigo family heraldry - a shield bearing two blooms, one above one below, and either crest mounted by the Lion of St. Mark. The myriad windows surrounding were eclipsed by their indigo shutters, ensuring the stately residence an air of ominous mystique.
Halting before the palazzo’s short flight of steps, I turned my attention to the silent ferryman, who remained expressionless at meeting my gaze, and offered him a parting jest: “Addio, Charon.” I then delivered a shallow bow of my head, before donning the moretta and departing.
~
Beyond the threshold my gaze fell upon a pair of bright eyes. The rest of her face was guarded by a mask similar to mine, though held-to by ribbon tied at the back of her head - a volto designed in the likeness of an owl; wide-eyed with a painted beak, and tawny feathers protruding about its border. Otherwise, the woman’s garb, though elegant, was inconspicuous and black as her raven hair.
She remained silent for my approach, instead gesturing with a splayed hand held chest-height to me. Given the moretta prohibited speech, I waited awkwardly, anxious for feeling myself an imposter despite the invitation pinched in my right hand. Upon remembering the handwritten note - a burst of relief cooling the warm ache in my gut - I offered it to her… and she received it. Without reading of its content, she then produced from her opposing hand a millefiori Murano glass ring, which flora were not dissimilar to those upon the Mocenigo heraldry, bearing too the indigo hue of the shutters and opaque white for contrast.
In the wake of hesitance, she took my left hand then slipped the piece onto my ring finger, remaining silent all the while. In return I politely bowed my head, as I had for the ferryman, but immediately upon doing so, her wide-eyed avian façade turned from me, and there she strode across the empty reception to a door at the far-left side, passing through without so much as a single glance.
