Masks and Shadows Read online

  “I didn’t,” she hissed. “Antonicek and Marianna would have died regardless. The Prince had no information from me on where they fled. I didn’t even know which direction they would take.”

  “And I? How had I fallen into your bad graces? Enlighten me, I beg you.”

  “You—idiot—boy!”

  She darted for his hand and the letter, but he jumped back too quickly for her.

  “Now, now, madam. You’ll have to wait before you inform on someone else. Would it be Fräulein Dommayer, by any chance? Do you write to Lieutenant Esterházy to accuse her of some imagined infidelity?” He shook his head. “By God, you are a cat.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She glared at him, nearly spitting. “I didn’t write to Delacroix, you fool.”

  “No?” He raised the letter before him, still unread, and set his hands atop it to rip it in half.

  “I wrote to someone else! Just as I pass on all interesting gossip. It means nothing, it’s perfectly harmless—”

  “And then the anonymous letter was sent to Monsieur Delacroix, using the information you’d given.” Franz lowered the letter, staring at her. “You kept sending more information after that?”

  She shrugged. “I could hardly take back the strokes of the bastinado from your back, merely by giving up a perfectly good source of income, could I?”

  “But . . .” Franz glanced at the heading of the letter in his hand. My dear sir, it began, without a name. “Why harass Fräulein Dommayer? I heard you working to persuade her.”

  “She’s young and ignorant. I only tried to help her a little, as a kindness.” Madame Zelinowsky stepped forward. “Now give me my letter.”

  Franz backed away. “You’ve no interest in helping out beautiful new, young singers. Someone told you to do it. Someone who wants her to attract the Archduke. Why?”

  “I am not writing about Fräulein Dommayer and the Archduke, you fool! She’s of no interest to him. At least . . .” Her eyes slitted. “Not directly.”

  “Then—”

  “I am weary of your importunities, Herr Pichler, and of your wild imagination. If you’d please—”

  Herr Haydn’s voice sounded through the closed stage door. “Zelinowsky! Pichler!”

  “There.” She snatched the letter back from him and flashed a triumphant smile. “Now, if we can finally return to work . . .”

  Paper whispered against cloth and then against the floor—a different, folded letter, fallen from her sleeve when she had reached for the first note.

  They both dove for it. Franz’s hand reached it first, and he snatched it.

  “Yet another secret letter,” he purred. “How intriguing.”

  Voices called their names from the stage. Still kneeling, he raised one arm to block her reaching hands. He turned the letter over to open it—and froze.

  The seal was black and only too familiar.

  Franz’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked up and met Madame Zelinowsky’s petrified stare.

  The stage door burst open.

  “There you are!” The kapellmeister glared at both of them. Other actors peered over his shoulder. “If the two of you would be so kind as to indulge us in a moment or two of dull rehearsal . . .”

  Madame Zelinowsky twitched the letter from Franz’s frozen hand. She stood up, smoothing down her skirts.

  “Of course, Herr Kapellmeister. I am so sorry for the delay, but to be fair, I can hardly accept any blame for it.”

  She sailed out, past Herr Haydn’s waiting figure. After a long, paralyzed moment, Franz managed to pull himself up from the ground to follow her.

  Every inch of abraded flesh on his back ached with the movements.

  Fräulein Dommayer was among the group of singers watching him. Her eyes were wide and worried. He winced away from them.

  Sweet Christ. He passed through the door, past Herr Haydn, and stepped onstage. All he could see, though, was that familiar seal.

  How could he have been such a fool?

  Kettledrums crashed, and Friedrich woke with a start. He’d been dreaming confused, whirling dreams of fire and darkness, cloaks and skeletons, and a deep voice saying, “In just five days . . .”

  Five days, Friedrich thought sleepily. It sounded familiar. He blinked and yawned and took it in. It was what the leader had told him, four nights ago, at that nightmare ritual. “In just five days, you will be our shining star.” More bloody riddles. Riddles and . . .

  Tomorrow.

  Friedrich shot up in his seat, heart pumping. Five days from that ritual meant tomorrow, damn it. All their plans would be coming true, and they wanted him to be their “star”?

  He bloody well thought not.

  If he ran . . .

  “There you are. Might’ve known it, hmm?” Anton slid into the seat beside him, shadowed eyes already fixed on the stage. “Surprised you’re not asleep yet.”

  “I was.”

  Those actors had tried to run, hadn’t they? Tried, and been devoured for their plans. And the leader of the Brotherhood had laughed about it.

  Anton frowned into the audience. “Isn’t that the Archduke?”

  “Mmm . . .” Friedrich blinked. “Suppose so.”

  “I haven’t seen Ferdinand in years. We’ll have to go greet him properly in a moment. But not yet.” Anton leaned closer. “Listen. My cousin had his administrator look into that Pichler fellow, but they haven’t found anything yet. So I’m taking the matter into my own hands. After tonight’s performance, I’m going to follow him. See where he goes, what he does . . . who he sees.” Anton grinned fiercely. “Are you with me?”

  Friedrich sighed. “No.”

  “No?” Anton stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want to go drinking tonight. Relax. Have a bit of fun.” It might be my last. Where would he be, two nights from now? Dead? Strapped against the rack, being tortured in one of the Empress’s prisons? Or, worse yet, trapped in that private room in Hell where the Brotherhood had met the other night? Friedrich shivered. “Trust me. Tonight is not the night for me to go creeping around bushes in the dark.”

  “Come on, man. I have to do this!”

  “Then you’ll have to do it on your own.”

  “Von Höllner . . .”

  “I mean it.”

  “Who says it won’t be fun? Creep around a bush or two, pretend we’re spies in enemy territory . . .”

  Friedrich snorted. Anton beamed.

  “You see? I knew you’d get into the spirit of it. It’ll be as if we were boys again, skipping our lessons, playing at soldiers. And if we haven’t seen anything interesting in an hour, then I promise we’ll go straight back to the tavern and drink till we fall over. Eh?”

  “Until you fall over, you mean,” Friedrich said.

  “Ha! Western weakling.”

  “Barbarian.”

  They grinned at each other.

  What the hell, Friedrich thought.

  He still had one more day.

  Half an hour after Edmund Guernsey had left it for the first and last time, the door to Count Radamowsky’s room opened. Inside, the Count started up from the table, his face pale. Beside him, the elemental roiled within its lantern, constantly seeking escape.

  Ignaz von Born closed the door behind him and snorted at the look on Radamowsky’s face.

  “What? My dear Count, don’t tell me you were actually concerned for me? Our Mister Guernsey was hardly a fearsome challenge to confront.”

  “And if you had been caught?” Radamowsky subsided back into his seat, scowling. “That door might next have opened to a squadron of Prince Nikolaus’s guards.”

  “Surely not,” von Born said. He dropped into the chair across from Radamowsky, fingering the head of his walking stick. “I’m certain only three or four of the Prince’s guards would have been sent for your arrest.”

  “Your jest’s ill-timed. As are you, I might add.” Radamowsky regarded him sourly.
“You were gone too long for my liking.”

  “Not more than half an hour, surely. Your nerves are running away with you. Have you never entered into a simple scheme before?” Von Born’s eyes narrowed. “The little spy’s been taken care of, as I promised, and there’s nothing left for you to fidget about. You know exactly what we need from you tomorrow, and what prizes you’ll win from it, now that we know how useful you can be. Only be prepared, do what’s required, and—”

  “Don’t talk to me like a lackwitted servant, or one of the serfs from those miserable shacks outside the palace!” Radamowsky’s lips curled into a snarl. “I’m your equal, by birth and abilities. And if I choose to walk away—”

  “Then you’ll never have access to the funds and space that you require.” Von Born’s voice softened to a hiss. “Not to mention official support and sanction for the . . . less savory experiments you’ve been dreaming of for years. Do you think our prudish Empress would ever condone them? Or her son? No matter what you may like to think, you’ve exhausted the limits of Prince Nikolaus’s generosity, and you know it. All he wanted from you was his chance to impress the world, and you’ve handed it to him on a platter.”

  Von Born snorted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “You must have been desperate indeed, my friend, to agree to hand over all those years of hard-won knowledge in exchange for mere room and board and the repayment of your debts. Once the Prince presents his fabulous new weapon to the Empress and her co-regent, what then? Do you plan to spend the next ten years tromping around imperial battlefields like a common soldier in its wake?”

  Radamowsky bit out his words. “I am no commoner.”

  “No, indeed,” von Born agreed smoothly. “So I can only imagine that you must have agreed to teach Prince Nikolaus’s own officers how to control your creature themselves . . . thus leaving yourself with nothing more of value to offer the Prince afterward. Eh?” He raised his eyebrows, his lips curving in contemptuous amusement. “Have I guessed aright?”

  Radamowsky did not answer. But his hands clenched around his desk.

  “Ah, my poor, unworldly friend.” Von Born sighed, laying his walking stick across his legs. “Your mind may be keen enough in the quest for alchemical power, but you should have learned what I did, years ago—that power over men is so much more important. Once our petty Prince has his imperial honors, and your elemental in his keeping, he’ll toss you out of Eszterháza without a second thought. And then where will you turn for your support?” Von Born shook his head slowly. “No, Radamowsky, you may bluster all you like, but I don’t think you’ll be walking away from what I offer.”

  Radamowsky took a deep, shuddering breath, but his voice remained even. “And if you choose to rescind that fine offer, when the moment finally comes? Once the Emperor and the Empress are dead and you’ve had what you wanted—your new Emperor calling a halt to his older brother’s reforms, his new government filling up with all of your cronies, your precious Brotherhood running it all behind the curtains . . . What then? Why in God’s name should I trust you to deliver on any promises?”

  “Come now, Count. Have a little respect for both of our intellects, please.” Ignaz von Born gave him an indulgent smile. “We all know what an impressive mesmerist you were even before your recent alchemical advances. But really, are you fooling even yourself with these maunderings now? Because we have may have been opposed for most of our lives, but at the moment, we both know I’m the only patron you have left. So the truth is . . .” He cocked his head. “Like it or not, you have no option but to trust me. What a novel experience for both of us!”

  Radamowsky regarded him in seething silence. Von Born stood up, tucking the walking stick beneath his arm.

  “I can’t linger to calm any more of your fears, my friend. If anyone sees me coming out of your room, there’ll be questions enough for me to answer. But don’t forget, when we see each other at dinner . . .” Von Born’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “Do, please, remember to act as if we are still bitter enemies.”

  He closed the door softly behind him. A moment later, Radamowsky heard the walking stick rapping down the corridor into the distance. Within the lantern, the elemental pressed against the glass, compressing itself into a quivering ball of rage.

  “Shh, little one,” Radamowsky murmured. He reached out to stroke his hand soothingly down the lantern’s side. “Shh . . .”

  But as he gazed at the closed door, his eyes burned as fiercely as the elemental’s own.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Prince Nikolaus’s enormous touring carriage rolled to a stop behind the palace at four o’clock. Charlotte had to force herself to wait her turn to step decorously out of the coach after the Empress, the Princess, and the Prince’s niece and her companion, instead of shoving her way directly out and gasping for fresh air. That or simply running away . . .

  “Delightful,” the Empress pronounced, once she’d been helped out of the carriage to stand in the sunlight. “Nikolaus, Marie, you’ve done wonders with the grounds. I am most impressed.”

  “It was nothing,” the Princess murmured, as she stepped out after the Empress. She flashed a barbed smile back at her husband. “Truly nothing.”

  An upper servant ran out of the palace to greet the carriage, but waited, hovering, until all the ladies had stepped out, followed by the six gentlemen in their ranked procession. As soon as the Prince appeared, the man hurried to his side, whispering frantically. The Prince stepped away from the rest to listen, frowning.

  Charlotte took deep breaths of the warm air and tried to feel grateful. Hundreds of women in the Empire would have fought tooth and nail for the privilege of spending the afternoon in intimate quarters with such exalted company.

  Signor Morelli stepped out of the carriage last and glanced casually around the courtyard. Despite the breadth of his survey, his glance never touched upon Charlotte. He had not looked at her once in the entire afternoon.

  She’d been right to walk away from him, the night before. She knew she had. She couldn’t have imagined, though, just how painful the effects would feel.

  “Ah, signor.” The Princess turned to him gracefully. “When can we hope for your recital?”

  “At your own convenience, Your Highness.” He bowed. “I sent a note to Herr Haydn early this afternoon, and he assured me that he was only waiting upon your summons for the performance.”

  The Princess turned to her guests. “Majesties?”

  “By all means,” said the Emperor, “let’s have it now. I could do with some good music to settle my stomach before dinner.”

  His mother nodded smiling assent.

  “We’ll summon Herr Haydn, then, and meet in the music room.” The Princess glanced at her husband, who was still locked in conversation with the agitated servant. Her eyebrows drew together. “As soon as Nikolaus is ready . . .”

  Charlotte stifled a sigh. She hadn’t been in the music room since the disastrous summoning, four nights ago. She had no desire to return.

  “If Your Majesties and Your Highness will forgive me . . .” She curtseyed deeply.

  “My dear Baroness, don’t say that you’re leaving now. What, and miss the recital?” The Princess turned her cool gaze onto Charlotte. “I couldn’t possibly brook such an insult to Signor Morelli’s talents.”

  Under the combined gaze of three royals, Charlotte surrendered. There would be no hour of escape, after all. “Of course not, Your Highness,” she murmured. “I only need to . . . refresh myself. I would be honored to join you in the music room.”

  “I am glad. We’ll expect you there in half an hour, then.”

  As Charlotte backed away, the Prince finally disengaged himself from the whispered conversation and returned to his wife and guests with a nod and a smile. “What have you decided upon, my dear?”

  “We are to enjoy a recital,” she said. She placed one hand on his arm and frowned at him. “What were you discussing for so long, Nikolaus? Is aug
ht amiss?”

  He shook his head and covered her hand with his own. “Only a small mishap,” he said. “Nothing of any significance.”

  “Dead?” Charlotte repeated.

  She stared at her sister. Sophie was sprawled across her bed, surrounded by scattered fashion journals and five of the costumed dolls that were sent to her from Paris every season to show off the latest designs and hairstyles. She looked utterly undisturbed by the news she’d just related.

  “What do you mean, dead? How did Mr. Guernsey die?”

  “Well, he was attacked by a horrible smoke creature, wasn’t he? Honestly, Lotte! How do you think he died?”

  “But the physician said that he was recovering.”

  “Oh, physicians will say anything.” Sophie shrugged. “Anyway, the physician himself was the one who found Mr. Guernsey this afternoon, just after dinner. So, obviously, he was wrong.”

  Charlotte sank down onto the bed. “That poor man!”

  “Mm.” Sophie sighed. “What do you think?” She pulled together two of the dolls. “I was thinking I might order this underskirt”—she held up the first doll—“but matched with the overdress á la reine, from this one.” She gestured with the second doll. “Do you think they would match?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.” Charlotte shook her head. “How can you worry about such a thing? Poor Mr. Guernsey was perfectly healthy only a few days ago, and now . . .”

  “I know, I know. It’s terrible.” Sophie sat up, pushing the dolls aside. “But please, spare me any self-righteous lectures. I was horrified when I first heard of it, I really was. But that was hours ago, while you were off enjoying yourself with Niko’s guests.”

  “I was not enjoying myself.”

  “Of course you were. And I was trapped here, bored out of my mind. I’m going crazy in this room, Lotte!” Sophie grabbed Charlotte’s hand. “Tell me everything. What did they talk about? What did they do?” She scowled. “Did she smirk and cling to Niko the whole time?”