1 - Interrupted Aria by Beverle Graves Myers

Long, silky strands tumbled down her back, which was turned toward me. I could see her face in the oval mirror.
    “Recognize this, Tito?” She held up a small glass box filled with hairpins.
    “Of course, I gave it to you on your tenth birthday. Aunt Carlotta took me down to the market stalls on the Rialto to pick out a present for you. I was so taken with that box. I thought it was made of jewels, not just cheap, colored glass.”
    “I did, too. We used to lie in the sun under my window and use that box to shoot rainbows of light all over the ceiling.”
    “You’ve remembered that all these years?”
    Annetta’s face became grave in the oval mirror. “After you left I had plenty of time to remember,” she whispered softly.
    I hung my head, reminded of the aching homesickness that had plagued me at the conservatorio , but I knew there was no use in recalling past sorrows. I changed the subject to the current state of the household. I was particularly interested in Father’s activities.
    “Father spends most evenings out,” Annetta told me.
    “Where does he go?”
    My sister’s hair crackled as she took an energetic brush to it. “I’ve always thought he had a woman somewhere. It’s been well over ten years since Mother died and I wouldn’t expect him to live like a monk. No other Venetian man would be so virtuous. Come to think of it, even the monks are not so virtuous these days.”
    She gave me a wisp of a smile from the mirror. I tried to return her gaze, but found myself looking down at my hands without anything to say. “Are you surprised that I talk of such things, Brother?” she asked in a low voice.
    “Perhaps. I know that Venetian girls are usually closely sheltered until their marriage.”
    “I suppose I’m not the typical Venetian girl. I’ve been in charge of the household for many years now. After Mother died, Berta was supposed to manage things and chaperone both Grisella and me, but Grisella has been such a handful. She always demanded the lion’s share of Berta’s attention.”
    I was beginning to understand what the past few years must have been like for my sister: too much responsibility and very little amusement. While I had been feeling sorry for myself and struggling with my studies at the conservatorio , I had imagined everything at home staying exactly as I had left it. Now I saw how illogical that thinking had been. Despite the cheerful tone of her letters, my sister had been struggling too. I had a sudden inspiration. I told Annetta about the reception at the Palazzo Viviani.
    “Would you like to go? I don’t see why I can’t get permission from Torani for you to come with us.”
    Annetta turned toward me, face alight. “I would love to see the inside of the palazzo . And hear you sing with Adelina, of course,” she finished lamely.
    We laughed at the same time and launched into gossipy speculation about the notable figures we might see at the reception. I recounted Viviani’s afternoon visit to Adelina’s dressing room, and we both wondered how Signora Viviani and her circle would receive the beautiful soprano.
    A small cough announced the presence of Felice and Grisella at the doorway. The girl held a candlestick. Its flame picked out random highlights in the long, red hair tumbling over her shoulders and illuminated her smooth, peach-tinged cheeks. I was reminded, not for the first time since my return, of what a little beauty Grisella was becoming. She gave me a faint smile and began to move on down the hall.
    Annetta stopped her by calling, “Grisella, come in here for a minute.”
    Grisella, expression now blank, glided into Annetta’s room and sat down on the bed. Our older sister moved to her side. Felice perched on the low footstool by my chair. His legs were so long that it was easy for him to cross his arms over his bent knees and rest his chin on this pile of limbs.
    Annetta pushed a few lustrous strands off Grisella’s moist brow. “Are you all right,