by Karen Brooks
I picked up a piece of my glasses and threw open the window. When I twisted the glass fragment just so, I could see my reflection. The gouge that split my lip had gone, as had the line that ran from the corner of my right eye and along the top of my cheekbone. I'd borne those scars since I was little – badges of Quinn's anger.
I wasn't a vain person, but I was delighted with the results – the unblemished me. Every single cut and bruise, yesterday's and those given to me over the years, had disappeared; healed without leaving a mark.
Beside me, a tiny stump of wax smouldered. I touched it briefly and it radiated in return. My body pulsated. If I could do this ... I felt strength and an unaccustomed determination flood my body.
I would never doubt again.
'Thank you,' I whispered skywards.
FOR ALMOST A MONTH, PILLAR and I remained confined to the house. In that time, we barely said a word to each other. Occasionally, I'd catch him staring at me, his face drawn but intense as if his thoughts were dire. If he noticed how quickly I'd healed from his mother's beating, he never made mention of it. We slipped into new roles. He cleaned, I cooked. Neither of us bathed. There didn't seem any point. Candlemaking was put on hold, as was the inevitable discussion of the future. Most days were spent with Pillar propped at the table or in the chair by the grate of the fire, drinking his mother's vino. Our supplies slowly dwindled away.
Despite what had happened, I was concerned. I'd never seen Pillar so reckless with his drink before. He would fall asleep with the mug still clenched in his hand. I tried to move him once, but he lashed out at me. After that, I left him alone.
Outside, the sexton's wagon rumbled and his cries echoed long after night had fallen. Days passed and his call for the dead became less frequent, until one day his cart didn't come at all. The dottore also stopped calling. At first I thought it was because he too had contracted the sickness, but other signs indicated that he had no reason to any more. The smoke that had filled the sky dissipated and the lingering smell of death was gradually replaced by the fresh winds that swept down from the Dolomites.
I dared to hope again.
Exactly four weeks after Quinn died, I awoke to a cacophony of bells and loud banging.
I slipped on my shirt and trousers and took the stairs two at a time, Cane close on my heels. But Pillar was already there. He pulled aside the curtain that had been drawn across the front door and swayed in the sunlight, looking curiously through red eyes at whoever was outside. There was shouting. The words were hard to hear and Pillar seemed loath to open the door.
I quickly turned and ran to the rooftop. I leaned as far over the ledge as I could and saw at least ten people. More were running up the fondamenta. Francesca and Giuseppe were there and Fabrizio and Carlita – even Enzo, the cobbler. It was the first time we'd seen our neighbours in weeks. They looked pale and careworn. Surprisingly, they were smiling. Despite all that had happened, I smiled in return.
Their voices carried up to me.
'It's all right, Pillar. It's over. It's over. Let us in!'
Francesca held up her arms. 'The disease has gone! It's left the city! God be praised. We've been spared.'
I heard the bell ring and the door swing open. One by one they disappeared inside the shop.
I stood still for a moment and inhaled, filling my lungs. I didn't need the shouts from downstairs to tell me the Morto Assiderato had gone. I could feel it, smell it and see it. There was a clarity and sweetness to the air that I'd forgotten. The oppressive heat of summer had gone, and with it death had passed as well.
I thought briefly of those who had died and my heart swelled with pity. So many – too many. Now we'd all have to rebuild our lives. There would be some who would never be able to do that. The pain of their losses would be too great to bear. But for the time being, they would choose to give thanks. Later, the recrimination and guilt would set in.
I sank to my knees and embraced Cane. His wagging tail hit the ground, the sound reverberating around the room.
'Come on then, boy! Let's go downstairs and see the others.'
At the top of the kitchen stairs, I heard Francesca speak. 'They're saying it's your candles, Pillar. Your candles!'
Cane tried to bolt down the stairs. I caught him by the scruff of his neck and pushed him behind me, blocking his way. Now I no longer had my glasses, I couldn't go downstairs.
Instead I crouched on the stairwell, just out of sight, and listened.
Pillar muttered something.
'No good protesting,' said a voice that I thought belonged to Enzo. 'When my little Sophia showed the symptoms, I was sure it was over for her. But Carlita gave us one of your candles. I placed it by my Sophie's bed and the next day, her headache and fever were gone.'
'She was misdiagnosed,' said Pillar flatly.
Enzo laughed. 'It was the candle, Pillar. It's no good denying it. You're a hero.'
There was a chorus of voices, each trying to tell their story.
It took Pillar almost a minute to shout them down.
'If these candles were so miraculous, don't you think I would have used them to save my own mother?'
I bit my lip and sank onto the step.
There was quiet followed by murmurs of sympathy.
'Quinn is dead?' asked Francesca.
'Four weeks today. It was quick. Too quick.'
'They were all quick,' said Francesca crossing herself.
'But –' began Enzo.
'I tell you,' insisted Pillar. 'It's got nothing to do with my candles. You're mistaken.'
'But it's not just us, Pillar,' pleaded Carla. 'They're talking about it all over the sestiere. There's even a family in the Chandlers Quartiere who swear burning your candles saved their lives.'
'They're wrong. They're not mine, I tell you.'
'No?' said Francesca. There was a sly tone to her voice. 'Then perhaps they are the work of your little apprentice? I hear they're calling him the angel of mercy.'
I didn't stay to hear the rest. I turned and fled up the stairs to the safety of the rooftop. They'd guessed. Somehow, the people had worked out that it was the candles and – worse – that I was behind them. But it had only been a matter of time. It was bound to happen, wasn't it? I bit my lip. Or had I exacerbated things by not doing as I'd been instructed? Pillar had made me promise not to use my talent any more and I'd broken that promise. You did more than break his promise. You broke the one you made to Katina as well.
Guilt ate at me. For months I'd been extracting and distilling into the candles I made without raising suspicion. And now, the one time I do something to the candles so I can provide genuine help, I'm caught. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. Why now? Now, when I knew I could really do something to help people.
What would Pillar say? What would we do? If people were starting to jump to those sort of conclusions, it wasn't a huge leap before they made the connection – that there was an Estrattore in their midst. All it would take was one disgruntled customer to report what they'd heard to the authorities or, worse, the Church. There'd be a search, maybe even some more omicidi.
That was all the people needed after what they'd just been through – more death and distress.
But perhaps that was what they needed. Not distress, but a scapegoat – someone upon whom to pin their grief and despair. I looked down at the murky waters of the canal and shook my head. A feeling of foreboding began to build inside me. I would have to be careful – very, very careful.
I was still standing there when Francesca and the others left an hour later. They moved in a huddle, the joy that had infused their arrival gone. I sensed anger, confusion.
And I didn't like it.
It was mid-morning before Pillar came up to the rooftop. I knew he would come – eventually. He moved slowly towards me, a mug in one hand, the other hidden in his pocket. His eyes were downcast. Cane ran towards him, nudging his leg with his wet nose, but Pillar didn't respond. He took a long, slow drink from
his mug, and then placed it on the ledge and stared down at the street. I waited for him to say something, but he just stood there.
I searched for the right words, anything to make it all right between us. Nothing came to mind, so I remained mute.
Just when I thought he wasn't going to speak, he started.
'Tallow –'
'Yes?' I said eagerly, determined that, whatever it took, I would make up for what I'd done.
'I ... I want you to understand that I have no choice with what I'm about to say. I want you to leave.'
They were not the words I expected to hear.
'Leave?'
'Yes.' He swung around and looked at me. 'Mamma was right. You've been nothing but trouble.' He held the mug to his lips for a long time.
I was speechless. How could he say that? Surely he didn't believe it?
'Oh, don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about. You may have single-handedly turned my business around, but at what cost? Mamma's dead; the neighbours are all abuzz with talk of magic and miracle cures. If that wasn't enough, there's you.'
He swept his arm towards me. 'Look at you. Look at those eyes. I've hidden you for so long, disguised you, stopped you from mixing with anyone. But did it matter? I warned you about the danger – Katina told you, too. But did it stop you? Has it stopped you?'
The unfairness of his words stung. Apart from Dante, I hadn't really spoken to anyone properly except for social niceties, and then only enough to avoid suspicion. And as for Dante, it was Pillar who had given me permission to see him – well he knew what I was doing. I longed to defend myself. But I could tell from Pillar's tone that there was no point. Not today.
'The problem is you don't listen, Tallow. Not to me, not to Mamma. You didn't even listen to Katina. Even if I thought I could continue to hide you, protect you from what you are, I don't think I could – I don't think you'd let me.'
He gave a long, profound sigh. 'You're dangerous, Tallow – not only to me, but to yourself.' He raised his head and, without the shield of my glasses, locked his wretched gaze upon me. 'And I can't take it anymore. Not now.' He turned aside and finished off what was in his mug.
I can't describe what hearing his words did to me. To say I was crushed, numb, full of fury, sadness and disbelief would only touch on the emotions coursing through me. This gentle, lonely man – a man who had been father and teacher to me, who had anchored my entire life – was now abandoning me.
Tears welled in my eyes and a great lump sat in my throat. I tried to swallow a few times and willed myself not to cry. I would not break.
As Pillar said, not now.
Pillar looked in my general direction. His eyes were red and kept losing focus. I wasn't sure if he saw me or not. He swayed on his feet. I returned his gaze, seeing him properly for the first time in weeks. What I saw shocked me. I saw how weak his chin was, how thin his lips. His cheeks had suddenly hollowed, his brows thickened, the grey hair in scattered clumps giving him a fractured, surprised appearance. The loss of his mother was an open wound that divided his soul and crushed his spirit.
It was then something profoundly shocking occurred to me.
It had never really been Pillar who'd protected me; it had always been Quinn. In some strange way, despite the beatings, she'd made sure I'd been hidden, trained and given a sense of family. Like an Estrattore, she extracted the best and worst from Pillar and used it to suit her own purposes. In challenging her son, his every decision, his every action and reaction, she'd drawn out the little strength that lay within him. Her contempt defined him; her abuse propped him up and, through her, my presence as well. He refused to be scared of me when she was around. Instead, I became an ally, a companion by default.
Quinn had known that.
Now that she was gone, he no longer had the courage to keep me. I was simply a constant reminder of what he'd lost. Now there was no enemy to bond us, I'd become a burden too great to bear.
No, I corrected myself. Not a burden. I was the enemy and, as he said, a dangerous one.
I absorbed his words slowly. I knew my face mirrored my emotions but doubted that Pillar would recognise or understand how I felt. Not in his current state.
'All right, Pillar,' I said. 'If that's what you really want. When would you like me to go?'
'Now,' he said sharply.
I nodded, doing everything I could to hold myself together.
'Very well. Can I ask, how will you explain my absence?'
Pillar scratched his face. 'There won't be a need for much explaining. If anyone asks, you've simply gone back to my cousin in Jinoa. Your apprenticeship is over.'
I took a deep breath. 'All right. I can see you've thought this through. But what about the gossip? How are you going to respond to what they're saying about the candles?'
'Oh, you heard that, did you?' I didn't answer. 'Well, if you're not here, that should blow over in a couple of days. People have more important things to think about than some so-called miracle candles.'
I hoped he was right, for his sake.
We stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence. He stared mournfully into his empty mug – his mother's mug. He'd finished what he had to say. It was my turn. I placed my hands behind my back and pressed my palms against the rooftop walls. I began to draw from the stone. I extracted its strength, its firmness, and allowed it to infuse me.
'Pillar.' I squared my shoulders, fought back the tears. 'Before I go, there's something I have to ask you. Why didn't you let me burn a candle by Quinn's bed? I could have saved her, you know.'
Pillar looked directly at me. 'I know. But she didn't want you to. She said – she begged me – not to let you near her. So, I –' His bottom lip trembled.
'Did what your mother said.'
'Wouldn't be the first time.'
He was right. It occurred to me, what if this had been another of Quinn's tests – another one of her attempts to goad Pillar into defying her and force him to stand up for himself, make his own decisions. If it was, he had failed, and Quinn had paid the price of that failure.
'Don't look at me like that!' said Pillar suddenly, backing away, pointing a shaking finger at me. 'Don't you dare judge my behaviour. It was you who brought that ... that disgusting sickness, here, Tallow. It was you who killed Mamma. Not me.' He began to sob. 'Not me. Don't you judge me. Don't you accuse me.'
I wanted to put my arms around him – take away his pain and explain what I believed was the real reason behind the sickness. But I knew he didn't want that – my explanations, my touch or my talent – not at this moment, not ever.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Pillar had made a choice. It wasn't my place to question it. Instead, though I longed to rail against his injustice and plead with him to change his mind, I would respect his choice. I spun on my heel and went to the door, calling for Cane. I grabbed the handle and glanced back.
Pillar stood in the sunlight, his head bowed, his back bent.
I couldn't hate him. I couldn't even pity him. 'Pillar?'
He raised his head.
'I don't care what you say. We always have a choice.'
He didn't reply.
'Quinn was right, you know,' I added. 'You're exactly like your father.'
Pillar froze and for just a second I thought he hadn't heard. But then I saw the tic in his check pulsing. He knew what I meant. I'd hurt him deeply, just as he was hurting me.