Magicians of Caprona - Diana Wynne Jones [19]
Antonio was pulling his lip, which was a thing he did when his face could hold no more worry than it did already. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve met Mario Andretti, of course. A very respectable family.” He made that sound not altogether a good thing. “But I’m sure you’re aware, Signor Andretti, that ours is a special family. We have to be careful who we marry. First, what do you think of the Petrocchis?”
Marco’s pale face went fiery red. He answered with a violence which surprised the Montanas, “I hate their guts, Signor Montana!” He seemed so upset that Rosa pulled his arm down and patted it soothingly.
“Marco has personal family reasons, Father,” she said.
“Which I’d prefer not to go into,” Marco said.
“We—well, I’ll not press you for them,” Antonio said, and continued to pull his lip. “But, you see, our family must marry someone with at least some talent for magic. Have you any ability there, Signor Andretti?”
Marco Andretti seemed to relax at this. He smiled, and gently took Rosa’s hands off his sleeve. Then he sang. Elizabeth had been right about his voice. It was a golden tenor. Uncle Lorenzo was heard to rumble that he could not think what a voice like that was doing outside the Milan Opera.
“A golden tree there grows, a tree
Whose golden branches bud with green. …”
sang Marco. As he sang, the tree came into being, rooted in the carpet between Rosa and Antonio, first as a faint gold shadow, then as a rattling metal shape, dazzling gold in the shafts of sunlight from the windows. The Montanas nodded their appreciation. The trunk and each branch, even the smallest twig, was indeed pure gold. But Marco sang on, and as he sang, the gold twigs put out buds, pale and fist-shaped at first, then bright and pointed. Instants later, the tree was in leaf. It was moving and rattling constantly to Marco’s singing. It put out pink and white flowers in clusters, which budded, expanded and dropped, as quickly as flames in a firework. The room was full of scent, then of petals fluttering like confetti. Marco still sang, and the tree still moved. Before the last petal had fallen, pointed green fruit was swelling where the flowers had been. The fruit grew brownish and swelled, and swelled and turned bulging and yellow, until the tree drooped under the weight of a heavy crop of big yellow pears.
“… With golden fruit for everyone,”
Marco concluded. He put up a hand, picked one of the pears and held it, rather diffidently, out to Antonio.
There were murmurs of appreciation from the rest of the family. Antonio took the pear and sniffed it. And he smiled, to Marco’s evident relief. “Good fruit,” he said. “That was very elegantly done, Signor Andretti. But there is one more thing I must ask you. Would you agree to change your name to Montana? That is our custom, you see.”
“Yes, Rosa told me,” said Marco. “And—and this is a difficulty. My brother needs me in his firm, and he too wants to keep his family name. Would it be all right if I’m known as Montana when I’m here, and as—as Andretti when I’m at home with my brother?”
“You mean you and Rosa wouldn’t live here?” Antonio asked, astonished.
“Not all the time. No,” said Marco. From the way he said it, it was clear he was not going to change his mind.
This was serious. Antonio looked at Old Niccolo. And there were grave faces all round at the thought of the family being broken up.
“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” said Elizabeth.
“Well—my great-uncle did it,” Old Niccolo said. “But it was not a success. His wife ran off to Sicily with a greasy little warlock.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to!” Rosa said.
The family wavered, with the tree gently rattling in their midst. Everyone loved Rosa. Marco was clearly nice. Nobody wanted to break their hearts. But this idea of living away from the Casa—!
Aunt Francesca heaved herself forward, saying, “I side with Elizabeth. Our Rosa has found herself a nice boy with more talent and a better voice than I’ve seen outside our family for years. Let them get married.”
Antonio looked dreadfully worried at this, but he did not