Masks and Shadows Read online

  “As my father, madam, was French himself, he would hardly—!” The Emperor cut himself off with a snap and turned back to the Prince and Princess, his shoulders stiffening. “You are wise in your patronage here. There is no finer medium than opera for moral education and the development of a national character.”

  “Joseph, I beg you will not seize the opportunity for one of your tedious rants!”

  Charlotte sucked in a breath and looked discreetly away from the glares of the co-rulers.

  “Ah! Von Born.”

  The Emperor, still flushed, stepped away from his mother to hail the alchemist, who had eased close to the central group. His mother only sniffed and looked away.

  Ignaz von Born stepped up, smiling, and tucked his walking stick beneath his arm to bow to the Emperor.

  “Your Majesty. A delightful surprise to see you here.”

  “We kept it a secret these past weeks to surprise Esterházy and to escape the heat in the capital. Ferdinand is here, too—somewhere.” The Emperor grinned. “Chatting with some fine young lady of the court, no doubt. How go your experiments? You must give me a tour of your traveling laboratory.”

  The Empress coughed pointedly. “I hope your scientific experiments are taking up all of your time nowadays, Herr von Born?”

  “Majesty?” He smiled questioningly, leaning on the head of his walking stick.

  Her plump face hardened. “When we invited you to arrange our Imperial Museum, we did so on the basis of your scientific work, not your political theories. But we hear odd rumors about the goings-on in some of the Lodges of Freemasonry these days. False rumors, we hope. And rumors . . .” She paused, exchanging a look with her son. “Rumors that there may be a new lodge, not properly registered with the authorities.”

  “I am shocked indeed.” Von Born half-bowed. “But I would be honored to look more deeply into the matter, if it would please Your Majesties. I can swear to you I know of no new order of Freemasonry.”

  “Good Lord, there’s Radamowsky in the corner.” The Emperor let out a crack of laughter. “The French ambassador may quiz us over Vienna being the center of alchemy, but it seems Eszterháza holds that title, now! You’ve gathered quite a nest of alchemists here, Esterházy.”

  The Empress’s voice was sour. “I hope we may have an evening Mass tonight, Nikolaus. We were forced to have a very truncated morning Mass in the course of our travels, and I feel . . .” Her pale gaze settled on Count Radamowsky’s tall figure in the corner. “I am greatly in need of that comfort.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Prince Nikolaus said smoothly. “We shall all attend.”

  Oh, yes. Charlotte let out a sigh of sheer relief. She had missed services that morning, too exhausted and troubled to pull herself out of bed in time. If ever there had been a moment that she needed the comfort and reassurance of a Mass, today was surely that day.

  She felt Signor Morelli watching her. She did not meet his gaze.

  “I am glad.” The Empress’s face softened again as she turned away from the two alchemists. “And perhaps I may soon have the pleasure of hearing the famous Signor Morelli sing?”

  “I would be honored, Your Majesty.” Signor Morelli bowed.

  “Signor Morelli and the Baroness perform beautifully,” the Princess murmured. “I look forward to hearing them together again.”

  Charlotte swallowed and opened her mouth to speak. Signor Morelli replied first.

  “Your pardon, Highness, but I should not like to trouble the Baroness again. I have already taken far too much advantage of her good will.”

  Charlotte dropped her gaze. Her bare fingers looked pale against the black of her dress. She forced them not to clench into fists.

  Signor Morelli’s voice was smooth. “I know, however, that Herr Haydn would be pleased to oblige me as accompanist before Your Majesties.”

  “Ah, now that would be a rare pleasure.” The Empress beamed. “May we hope for a new opera from him on this visit?”

  “You may,” the Prince said. “Tomorrow night, in fact.” He smiled and shifted a few more inches away from his wife. “I hope that it may prove a great triumph.”

  The lock on Radamowsky’s study door was proving difficult. The Prussian spy cursed softly to himself as his sweat-slick fingers slipped on the tiny iron tool he used. It fell to the ground with a clatter that made him jerk, but he quickly steadied himself.

  The long corridor was still. Everyone would be occupied with the imperial guests for hours yet.

  Guernsey leaned over to retrieve the tool. Blood flooded into his face with the exertion. Sweat streamed down his cheeks and neck, and dizziness nearly overcame him. He swore underneath his breath.

  After all the futile searches, all the false leads and time wasted, he had finally discovered the source of Eszterháza’s secrets. Only forty minutes more, at most, and he’d be back in bed recovering and writing his report to the Prussian king. The physician wasn’t due to check in on him until an hour after that. Plenty of time, if only his cursed injuries didn’t render him completely useless.

  The iron clicked softly in the lock. Guernsey took one last look down the empty corridor and slipped inside. He left the door open by a fraction of an inch, so that he could hear any approach.

  The room was dark and filled with dust. Most of the light from the windows had been blocked off. Guernsey moved cautiously through the room, careful not to tread on the scattered books. In the center of the room, atop a table covered with yet more books and papers, dirty gray smoke filled up a lantern case. Guernsey took a quick step back, then forced himself onward. He leaned over the table to peer into the lantern.

  Red eyes snapped open inside the smoke. Guernsey glared back at them, forcing himself to ignore the churning in his stomach.

  “Not this time,” he whispered.

  He searched through the books and papers on the table, committing the titles to memory. When he found one written in fresh ink, in obvious code, he took out a blank sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his frock coat and copied the symbols down, using the alchemist’s own feather pen. The gray smoke roiled but could not escape its prison.

  In the far distance, footsteps sounded. Guernsey stiffened and thrust the paper back into his coat. No one but Radamowsky stayed in this corridor, nor did the servants ever visit it. The alchemist must have abandoned his social duties early.

  He glanced quickly around the room. No closets in which to hide.

  The footsteps were still some distance away. He would have to brazen it out.

  He dropped the pen back into its holder and darted out of the room, closing the door behind him. No sign of anyone in the corridor yet. He leaned over to re-lock the door from outside.

  “Mister—Guernsey, was it?” Count Radamowsky paused a moment at the end of the corridor and then strode toward him. “Were you looking for me, sir?”

  “I was indeed.” Guernsey straightened hastily, forcing a smile. He’d have to hope the Count hadn’t seen the quick flow of motion as he’d slipped the lock-picking tool from his hand into the wide sleeve of his coat. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  “You nearly did.” The Count smiled, but his eyes focused intently on Guernsey as he walked toward him. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long?”

  “Only a moment, no longer.” Guernsey didn’t have to feign the sudden spell of dizziness that made him stumble. “Forgive me. I came to thank you, sir, for rescuing me the other night. I fear, though, I may have overestimated my recovery.”

  “A natural error.”

  The Count put his hand on the door handle and pressed it lightly. It held firm. Locked. Guernsey held his gaze, smiling inanely.

  The Count’s eyes narrowed. “You must hurry back to your sickbed, Mister Guernsey. I hope we may speak again soon.”

  Guernsey felt the alchemist’s gaze on his back, all the way down the long corridor.

  Too close. It was time to leave Eszterháza. He would send his apologies and c
ompliments to the Prince this afternoon and arrange to leave the next morning for Vienna. Vienna and then Dresden . . . where King Frederick’s appreciation would more than outweigh the wounds that he had suffered.

  He slipped back into his bed gratefully and rested his head on his pillow with a sigh of relief. Before memory could fail, he would record the names of all the books that he had seen, all the clues that might help King Frederick’s own pet alchemists follow Count Radamowsky’s example.

  He was halfway through the list when a knock sounded at the door. The physician was half an hour early. Guernsey shoved the letter under his pillow with a grunt of frustration.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened. Guernsey blinked.

  “Herr von Born! I was not expecting you.”

  “No?” Ignaz von Born closed the door behind him and crossed the room, his walking stick tapping lightly against the floor. “I thought the very least I could do was pay a condolence call, as your former traveling companion. How goes your recovery, sir?”

  “Very well, sir. Well indeed.” Guernsey beamed up at the older man, mind racing. He had theories about von Born, theories already passed on to King Frederick in his earlier letters. The man had political ambitions and connections to spare, and a mind that had already switched loyalties once, from the quest for scientific knowledge to the quest for material power. He was a figure to be reckoned with in the game of espionage and bought loyalties. “I am honored by your visit.”

  “That pleases me.” Von Born smiled thinly. He leaned over to touch a drop of spilled ink on the sheet. “Writing letters in bed, Mister Guernsey? A dangerous habit.”

  “I’ve been working on my book.” Guernsey began to push himself up onto his elbows. “Let me—”

  Before he had moved more than an inch, the heavy walking stick pressed against his chest, forcing him back down.

  “Ah, the book,” said von Born. “How could I have forgotten?”

  The older man held down the stick with only one hand, but all Guernsey’s struggles came to nothing. It was like a rod of iron against his chest. If he moved too sharply, he’d break his own ribs.

  “Herr von Born,” Guernsey gasped. “I must protest—I don’t understand—”

  “Do you not?” Von Born raised one eyebrow. With a quick flick, he scooped the pillow from beneath Guernsey’s head. The hidden letter fell off the mattress, onto the floor. Von Born shook his head. “As I said, Mister Guernsey. A dangerous habit indeed.”

  Guernsey opened his mouth to scream. But the pillow was on top of his face, suffocating him, before he could make a sound.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gossip flew along the musicians’ dining table all through dinner, but Anna didn’t know what to believe—nor, in her miserably hungover state, could she force herself to care much, either way. She dragged herself back to rehearsal at one o’clock and found the kapellmeister nearly rabid with impatience.

  “Hurry, hurry! Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored—beyond all of my hopes are we honored!” He gathered them around him on the stage, his back to the audience where Lieutenant von Höllner was snoring in his accustomed seat. “The Archduke has arrived indeed—and has brought with him the Emperor and the Empress herself!”

  Whispers rippled through the company. The wildest rumor of the day had been confirmed. Anna rubbed her aching forehead and tried to summon up excitement.

  “Tonight we perform Traetta’s comedy, as rehearsed. Tomorrow, though . . .” Herr Haydn swelled with pride. “Tomorrow, as the climax to a day and night of royal celebrations, the Prince wishes us to premiere my new opera for his great visitors. And everything, my friends, must be perfect.” He clapped his hands together. “We rehearse them both today!”

  Wonderful, Anna thought drearily. Her head already hurt. Now she would have to try to recall two sets of Italian at once.

  Herr Pichler, too, looked pale and wan. He caught her gazing at him and smiled briefly at her.

  The door to the audience opened and he jerked his gaze away.

  For one terrible moment, Anna expected to see Lieutenant Esterházy step into the theater. She couldn’t bear it. Not now, not after last night’s humiliating encounter. She stiffened, turned away—

  But it was an unfamiliar voice that spoke. “Herr Haydn? Is that you?”

  The kapellmeister spun around. His face lit up, and he bowed deeply.

  “Your Highness!”

  The young man grinned, openly appraising the group of singers on the stage. His face was plain but good-natured beneath his powdered hair. “I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, sir. My uncle couldn’t escape the formalities this afternoon, so he sent me in his place to hear your rehearsal.”

  “I am delighted, Your Highness, and deeply honored. Won’t you take a seat? I’ll call for refreshments.”

  “I won’t turn them down, sir. It was a long ride from Vienna.” The Archduke’s eyes rested briefly on Anna and on Frau Kettner, the leading lady. His smile broadened. “I’m delighted to finally be here.”

  As the Archduke turned to find a seat, Herr Haydn hurried offstage to find a footman. Madame Zelinowsky drifted close to Anna.

  “I hope you remember our little discussion, my dear. Lieutenant Esterházy is all very well in his way, but the Archduke is a very fine figure of a man. And he certainly noted you.”

  Anna was horribly conscious of Herr Pichler, listening in. “Lieutenant Esterházy and I are . . . not a concern, madam.”

  “No? Last night—”

  “Ended. Last night.” Anna’s cheeks burned. “I thank you for your kind advice, madam, but I am not interested in advancing my career in that fashion.”

  The older woman tsk’d. “No need to be self-righteous, little Anna. A fine voice can only carry you so far. If you ever wish to rise higher—”

  “I’ve risen quite high enough. Thank you.”

  “If you say so. Once a maidservant, always . . .” Madame Zelinowsky’s voice drifted off meaningfully. She walked away, skirts rustling.

  Anna let out her held breath. She couldn’t stop herself from looking to Herr Pichler for his reaction.

  He was frowning. “Is it—Fräulein Dommayer, were you telling her the truth?”

  It was the end of enough. Anna’s temper snapped. “Unlike some people, I don’t make a habit of lying, Herr Pichler! Even to malicious, gossiping cats like her.” She cut herself off belatedly and spun around to look for eavesdroppers. “Oh, I shouldn’t have . . .”

  But he was laughing. “I thank you, Fräulein. It is good to hear truth spoken on this stage, for once.”

  Anna lifted her chin. “I always tell the truth.”

  “I know.” His eyes were warm. “It’s one of the things I most admire about you.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened.

  He took a breath. “Fräulein, I am not permitted to speak to you. To spend time with you, or show admiration for you.” He grimaced. “Or, in other words, to offend Anton Esterházy in any way.”

  “What?” She stared at him. “Anton Esterházy is not—! I mean to say, I refused him.” She flushed anew, but forced herself to continue in a low voice. “Last night I told him I would not—could not—be what he wanted me to be.”

  “I’m glad of it,” Herr Pichler said. “But it’s the worse for me, if he blames me for it.”

  The audience door opened and he jerked away, but it was only Herr Haydn, joining the Archduke for one last moment of conversation. In the back of the audience, Lieutenant von Höllner stirred in his sleep.

  Herr Pichler finished in a hasty undertone. “I only wanted to tell you, because you have been kind. I don’t avoid you out of dislike or . . . any other cause. I would do otherwise if I could.”

  “But why can you not? I don’t understand!”

  Herr Haydn leapt up onto the stage and brushed his hands against his breeches. “Places, everyone! We shall begin with the Traetta. Kettner! Pichler!”

  Anna gritted her teeth as
Herr Pichler walked away from her without a backward look.

  When she looked up and out into the audience, she found the Archduke watching her with bright attention.

  Anna stifled a groan.

  Franz waited until Monsieur Delacroix was deep in rehearsal of his buffo aria before he went in search of Madame Zelinowsky. He found her standing in a corner backstage, writing quickly.

  “An important letter, madam?”

  She straightened hastily, slipping the paper into the folds of her skirt. “Why, Herr Pichler, you startled me. You ought to be more careful—if you keep creeping around this way, people will start to take you for a spy.”

  He smiled and propped himself against the wall beside her, carefully angling his still-healing back. “A spy, madam? What would make you think of that?”

  Madame Zelinowsky tsk’d irritably, even as her color rose. “I am no young ingénue to be intrigued by your riddles, Herr Pichler. And, if I recall correctly, we both have a rehearsal to think of.” She paused, widening her dark eyes in mock-horror. “Unless you’ve been tossed out?”

  “Your wit is remarkable, madam. As is your persistence.” He leaned closer, watching her hands in her skirts. In just one move, he could—no. Not yet. “Tell me,” he said smoothly, “why did you send Monsieur Delacroix the letter that incriminated me?”

  “What?”

  She stumbled back, her hands slipping for a moment from their hiding place. He leapt forward and snatched the half-written note.

  “Give that back!”

  “I think not.” He whipped it behind his back. The painful stretch of muscles along his scabs only intensified his resolve. “Now tell me the truth, madam. Why did you inform on me?”

  She dropped her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean, but—”

  “You knew I’d helped them. That much I could see even at the time. But what possible reason could you have had for telling Delacroix? You’d heard Marianna Delacroix—we all did!—when he beat her. You knew . . .” He drew in a shuddering breath, fighting to retrieve his self-control. But it was a lost cause, just like his poor doomed attempt at heroism had been, when he’d sought to help his friends. “Poor Antonicek sincerely loved her. Now they are both dead and buried, for their pains! How could you?”