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At the dawn of the 17th Century, the glassmakers of Murano are revered as master artisans, enjoying privileges far beyond their station, but they are forced to live in virtual imprisonment, contained by the greedy Venetian government who fears other countries will learn the intricacies of the craft…and reap the rewards.
Sophia Fiolario, the comely daughter of a glass making maestro, has no desire for marriage, finding her serenity in the love of her family and the beauty of the glass. She learns of its secrets at her father’s side, where a woman is forbidden to be. The life Sophia loves is threatened by the poor health of her father and the determined attentions of a nobleman who could and would never love her but seeks to possess her wealth and the privilege it affords. Thrust into the opulent world of the Venetian court, Sophia becomes embroiled in the scheming machinations of the courtiers’ lives. The beauty of Venice, the magnificence of the Doge’s Palace, are rivaled only by the intrigue and danger that festers behind their splendid facades. As she searches for an escape, she finds the arms of another, a man whose own desperate situation is yet another obstacle in their path.
Amidst political and religious intrigue, the scientific furor ignited by Galileo, and even murder, Sophia must do anything to protect herself, her family…and the secret of the glass.
“Donna Russo Morin has written a majestic novel, breathtaking in its prose, and sweeping in its scope, about 17th century Venice at the height of its glory. It literally transports you to Venice with all its beautiful sights. The characters had depth and realism with scores of emotions. From its festivals and government, life in Venice is masterfully rendered. Ms. Morin is a master storyteller and this is one of best written novels of Venice I have ever read. For lovers of Venetian history, or aficionados of the 17th century, this is one novel worth reading.”
Historical Novel Review
The Secret of the Glass is an invitation into a world with as much delicacy as the finest glass and more than a hint of the heat that goes into its creation. It is a book that is filled with characters that are easy to like and a plot that twists and turns through history to a most satisfactory conclusion.
Armchair Interviews says: This is a wonderful 5-star historical fiction.
-- Alex McGilvery, Armchair Reviews
“The latest inspiring historical from Morin celebrates the eternal charms of Venice, Murano glass, and Galileo, with the story of a courageous 17th Century woman glassmaker. Morin conjures an unlikely upbeat destiny…making for a decidedly dulce ending.”
Publishers Weekly
“*****Five Stars. Donna Russo Morin does a spectacular job at crafting a story that evokes such a strong emotional response to the characters and their lives. THE SECRET OF THE GLASS is a phenomenal historical fiction tale about an often disturbing time period. Donna Russo Morin sheds light on the glassmakers’ plight, as they were oppressed despite their often vast wealth. Knowledge is often thought of as a key to freedom but Donna Russo Morin shows us how it has also been used to imprison. Absolutely superb!”
Book Illuminations
“****Four Stars. History comes to life as Morin recreates the lush and dangerous world of the Murano glassmakers. Like the brilliant glass, her story swirls together colors of political and religious intrigue, murder and romance. Readers will be enmeshed in the lives of her fascinating characters.”
RT Book Reviews
“*****Five Stars. A beautiful story…The Secret of the Glass should not be missed.”
Single Titles, Catanetwork Reviews
Time was running short; the glass was getting harder and harder to contort with gentle guidance. Already its form was a visual masterpiece, the delicate base, the long, fragile flute, the bowl a perfect symmetrical shape. Her hands flew, creating the waves on the rim, capturing the essence of fluidity to the rapidly solidifying form.
With a deep sigh, an exhalation of pure satisfaction, Sophia straightened her curled shoulders, bending her head from side to side to stretch the tense neck muscles, tight from so long in one position. She studied the piece before her, daring to peek at her father. In his glowing eyes, his shining pride, she saw confirmation of what she herself felt, already this was a remarkable piece…but it was not done yet.
“Now you will add our special touch, sì?” her father asked as he retrieved the special, smaller pinchers from another scagno.
Sophia smiled with indulgence. Keeping alive the delusion for her father was yet another small price to pay him. The technique she would do next, the a morise, to lay miniscule strands of colored glass in a pattern on this base blown piece, had made their fabbrica famous. Since its release to the public, her father had reveled in the accolades he received over its genius and beauty. Her father had never, could never, reveal that the invention had been Sophia’s.
“Sì, Papa.” Sophia lay down the larger tongs, flexing the tight muscles of her hands. She gathered the long abundance of brunette hair flowing without restraint around her shoulders, unbound from its usual pulled back style, and laid it neatly against her back and out of her way. Taking the more delicate pinchers from her father’s hand, she rolled her shoulders once more and set to work.
Zeno hovered by her shoulder, leaning forward to watch as her long, slim hands worked their magic, as she wielded the pinchers to apply the threads of magenta glass, smaller than the size of a buttercup’s stem, in perfect straight lines. Dipping the tip of the tweezer-like device into the bucket of water by her side, releasing the hiss and smoke into the air, Sophia secured each strand with a miniscule drop of cool moisture.
“A little more this way,” Zeno whispered, as if to speak too loudly would be to disturb the fragile material.
“Yes, father,” Sophia answered reflexively, like a much said prayer’s response.
“It’s patience, having the patience to let the glass develop at its will, to cool and heat, cool and heat naturally.” Zeno chanted close to her ear, his voice and words guiding her as they had done since she was young. His muted voice small in the cavernous chamber; their presence enveloped by the creative energy. “As the grape slowly turns to wine on the vine, the sand and silica and nitre become glass on the rod. Ah, you’re getting it now, bellissimo.”
“Grazie, Papa.”
“Next you’re going to--”
The bang, bang, bang of a fist upon wood shattered the quiet like glass crashing upon the stone; the heavy wooden door at the top of the winding stair jangled and rocked. Someone tried to enter yet the bolted portal stymied their attempts. It was locked, as always when father and daughter shared these moments.
Zeno and Sophia stiffened in fright, bulging eyes locked.
“Are we discovered?” Sophia’s whisper cracked with a strangling fear. She shoved the rod into her father’s hands, dropping the slender metal pinchers on the hard stone floor below, wincing at the raucous clang that permeated the stillness.
“Can not be.” Zeno shook his head. “It can n--”
“Zeno, Zeno!” The urgent, distraught male voice slithered through the cracks of the door’s wooden planks. “Let me in.”
Parent and child recognized the timbre; Giacomo Mazzoni had worked at the Fiolario family’s glassworks since he was a young man, his relationship evolving into that of a dear and familiar friend. The terror in his recognizable voice sounded undeniable; the strangeness of his presence at such a late hour was nothing short of disturbing.
With an odd calmness, Zeno pointed toward the door. “Let him in, Phie.”
The dour intent upon her father’s wrinkled countenance told her he would brook no argument. Gathering the front of her old, soiled gown, she sprint up the winding stairs, glancing back at the wizened man who stood stock still, rod and cooling piece still in hand.
Sophia pushed aside the bolt with a ragged and wrenching screech. The door gave way the instant it was free. Giacomo rushed through the portal, pushing past Sophia where she stood on the small platform by the door. Clad in his nightshirt, a pair of loosely tied knee breeches flapping around his legs, he looked a fright with his short hair sticking out at all angles, and his black eyes afire with urgent fear. Flying down the stairs, he ran to his friend and mentor, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“They’re dead, Zeno, dead.”
Befuddled, Zeno stared at his friend, pale eyes squinting beneath his furrowed brow. “Who, Giacomo? Who is dead?”
“Clairomonti, Quirini, Giustinian, those who tried to get to France.”
“Dio Santo,” the words slipped from Zeno’s mouth, through the lips of his falling jaw. His legs quivered. With a shaking hand, he reached into empty air, groping for a stool. Rushing to his side, Sophia grabbed the wooden seat, yanking it forward and guiding her father into it by the arm.
Zeno looked to his beloved daughter’s face. Once more, their frightened gaze locked.
“They’ve killed them.”
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