“The men need to return to work now,” she whispered.
Zeno answered with a wobbling nod. “To work, to work,” he called, the marionette of his daughter’s intent, and the artisans grudgingly retreated and returned to their stations. Her father returned to his stool.
These days he sat upon it for hours, watching as the men worked, and again through the night while Sophia did. His cognizance flitted in and out like the hummingbird as it fed off the flower, quick to appear and just as quick to vanish. There was little Sophia could do to help him while the men filled the fabbrica, to disguise his growing strangeness to these people who knew him intimately. She whispered in his ear when his fragile mind could not find answers to questions posed, appointed foremen from among the other masters to
