TWENTY
Girolamo Cellini had served as the stizzador at La Spada since before Sophia’s father was born, an orphan given a home and a purpose, one he still took seriously after all these many years. Night after night, he kept the fires of the great vetreria burning, moving about the deserted building through the loneliest hours like a ghost intent upon his haunting. He took to his bed in the early light of dawn, when the others gathered for work. His eyes had grown weaker and weaker; his vision burned away by the very task he completed with such pride. He would not relinquish the post to anyone and the Fiolario family allowed him his dignity, a reward for his years of devotion and hard work, never contemplating another man serving in his stead.
At the forefront of the workshop, Girolamo sh
