Masks and Shadows Page 26

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hundreds of wax lights filled the opera house. Set in mirrored sconces, they shot sparkling reflections off the glittering array of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies worn by the courtiers throughout the audience. For a moment, as she stepped into the royal box, the brilliant light blinded Charlotte. She paused and put a hand out to the gilded rail.

  Far below, the orchestral musicians warmed up with a myriad of different melodies and scales competing in strings, warm brass, and high, fluting woodwinds. Ahead of her, the Empress and Emperor had already taken their seats in the first row of the box, overlooking the crowded auditorium of nobles, officers, and local gentry. The Prince helped the Princess to her seat at the end of the first row with charming gallantry, while the Archduke seated the Prince’s niece in the row behind. The rounded, frescoed ceiling soared high above them.

  “Baroness?” Signor Morelli held her seat for her, the second to the last in the order of precedence, directly behind the Prince’s own seat. He smiled as he caught her eyes. “Are you ready?”

  She met his eyes and her vision cleared. She stepped forward to take his hand. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  Friedrich let his wife’s chatter float straight past him as he followed her into the officers’ row of seats. Once upon a time, he had enjoyed the way she could burble on endlessly without ever really saying much; when they’d first married, and life had looked very different, he’d found it rather sweet. Endearing. He’d thought he would cherish it, and her, forever. Odd, that. It seemed like far more than only a few years since he had felt that way. He felt like a different person.

  He was a different person, since last night.

  He tried to sit down in the last seat of the row, but Sophie tugged him onward.

  “No! I want to sit in the center.” Her glance flicked up toward the balcony. “Hardly anyone can see us here.”

  “Good.” Friedrich dug in his feet, fighting against her pull on his arm. “I need to leave in the middle of the act, Sophie. I’m not going any further.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t just leave in the middle of a performance! How do you think it would look for me to be left sitting here alone? You can’t—”

  “I told you I didn’t have time for this tonight. I have an appointment.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! What sort of appointment could you possibly have? You never do anything!”

  Friedrich stared at her pretty, petulant face, and felt pressure pound behind his temples. “I never do anything?” he repeated. “Never? Are you sure?”

  She blinked and stepped back. “Friedrich, what is the matter with you tonight? You’re behaving very oddly.”

  I just helped murder my best friend, he thought. Isn’t that enough? His fingers twitched in his clenched fists. Do you want to be next?

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If you’re going to be stupid about it, then I suppose we can sit here.” She swept out her skirts and sat with a sniff. “But I don’t know what could possibly be so important that you’d need to leave the opera for it.”

  “No,” Friedrich agreed. He unclenched his fingers and sat down at the end of the row, where he could slip out before the finale of the first act. Following more orders. His fingers were trembling.

  “Friedrich, don’t let him—”

  What else could he do? What could anyone possibly expect him to do differently?

  “No,” he repeated grimly. “You have no idea.”

  “Baroness von Steinbeck.” The Empress pointed a plump, black-gloved finger at the auditorium below the balcony. “Isn’t that your sister, there, in the officers’ row?”

  Charlotte stiffened. She’d been arranging her full, black silk skirts around her seat; now, keeping her expression mild, she half-stood to look down into the auditorium.

  Sophie stood at the end of the third row, next to her husband; from the set of his shoulders and the look on her face, they were in the midst of a heated argument. Charlotte stifled a sigh.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, that is my sister.”

  “Is that so?” The Princess raised her eyebrows and leaned over the wide balustrade to look.

  Her husband stayed rigidly upright, his face suffusing with red color. Behind the Emperor and Empress, the Archduke leaned over the Prince’s niece in flirtatious conversation, ignoring the rest of the party.

  “Why, it is indeed Frau von Höllner,” said the Princess. “With her husband. What a rare sight indeed.”

  The Empress frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Herr von Höllner is a lieutenant in my private bodyguard,” the Prince said curtly. “His duties keep him much occupied.”

  The Emperor snorted. “Well, they don’t seem terribly well pleased with each other now that they are together.”

  “Who knows?” said the Princess. “Any marriage can be improved by close companionship. Perhaps their hearts will grow fonder by the end of the piece.”

  “Indeed. I have always thought modern couples ought to spend a great deal more time together. My own dear Franz and I shared many of the happiest hours of my life.” The Empress sighed. “I only wish that Joseph would find himself a new wife to keep me company in my old age and give me more grandchildren to coddle.”

  The Emperor’s lips twitched. “One might think, with all your many children, your lust for grandchildren might finally be sated.”

  “Joseph, your vile sense of humor—”

  “Never fear, madam. I am perfectly well aware of your wishes.”

  “Good.” The Empress nodded firmly. “Marie, Frau von Höllner ought to be presented before me, so that I can give news of her to her mother in Vienna. Summon her up to us after the first act.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” The Princess smiled serenely. “That will, of course, be a great pleasure.”

  Charlotte wrapped her fingers tightly in the silken folds of her skirt. The look on the Prince’s face filled her with foreboding.

  Oh, Sophie, she thought. What have you done?

  Signor Morelli’s hand brushed lightly against hers. She looked up and found him watching her, his eyes concerned. She smiled at him and let her fingers relax their death grip on her skirt.

  The door to the box swung open behind her. The tap of a walking stick sounded before the first footstep.

  “Majesties.” Herr von Born bowed before them. “I only wished to present my duty to you before the opera began, as I wasn’t able to attend dinner tonight.”

  The Empress nodded stiffly; the Emperor smiled.

  “Why, Herr von Born,” said the Princess. “I did not think you were a lover of opera.”

  He deepened his bow. “In truth, Your Highness, I am not. But to watch a premiere in such a company . . .” He straightened, crossing his hands over the head of his walking stick, and smiled. “How could I resist?”

  Backstage, Anna practiced walking in her great billowing skirts. They swung so far around her padded hips, she nearly tripped each time she turned around, even after all the dress rehearsals and performances so far. How could noble ladies bear to wear such costumes every day?

  “Anna.” Herr Haydn had been walking up and down the floor, stopping by each singer for a moment of conversation. Now, he smiled at her as kindly as if he hadn’t had to spend over half an hour of last-minute rehearsal time in correcting her pronunciation. “How are you holding up, child? Do you feel ready?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  The noise of the orchestra warming up outside had been joined by the muted roar of conversation. Anna hoped her smile hid the churning of her stomach. Her stage fright never seemed to grow less, no matter how many performances she gave.

  As if he’d heard the turn of her thoughts, the kapellmeister frowned. “This is your last performance without a contract, you know. I had forgotten that myself in the confusion of these past days.”

  “Oh.” Anna swallowed. “Oh. I forgot that, too.”

  She’d been wor
king so hard, she had completely lost sight of the most basic of truths: all of this was only a test. No matter how hard she tried, tomorrow she might well become once again a maid, waking at dawn, scrubbing clothing, and singing only when she could steal a spare moment of privacy.

  How could she ever bear it?

  “Forgive me, Kapellmeister.” The words tumbled out of her. “I know my Italian is still terrible, but I am trying, I really—”

  “Shh, shh. My dear child, do you think I said it to frighten you? You have been doing an excellent job.”

  Anna steeled herself. “I still can’t read music well. And my Italian—”

  “Is better than it was a week and a half ago, when you first joined us. It takes time to learn a new language.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. The Prince is pleased with your performance so far—you saw that last night. The Emperor himself was most impressed. And if you do well tonight . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  He lowered his voice. “I think, if tonight’s performance pleases the Prince, you may look forward to a very pleasing contract indeed. At a salary you will truly enjoy.”

  Relief flooded through her in such a rush, her legs turned weak. “So you won’t be dismissing me?”

  He snorted. “Trust me, my dear. Unless something goes horrendously wrong tonight, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Anna hadn’t made the sign against evil for over six years, since she was ten years old and first admitted into the service of Baron von Steinbeck. She made that sign now.

  “Nothing will go wrong, then,” she said. “I promise!”

  Madame Zelinowsky passed Franz a sealed note just as Herr Haydn walked out into the theater. Silence fell in the audience; the singers froze backstage, listening. The Prince must have given his nod of approval: the overture began with a flourish. Franz looked down at the note in his hand and half laughed.

  “It lacked only that,” he whispered.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t seem honored.”

  “Have you read it already?” The seal looked unbroken, certainly, but with steam, curiosity and persistence . . .

  “It was only passed on to me fifteen minutes ago.” She paused. “He said you should know that these were your final orders.”

  Franz’s lips twisted. “How charming.” He slipped it into the inner pocket of his costume jacket.

  “Aren’t you even going to read it?”

  Franz stepped away, toward the stage door. In a moment, his cue would come. In the meantime, he would cherish the illusion of being a free man.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I have time, madam. Still.”

  Minutes, probably.

  Anna didn’t want to watch the exchange, but she couldn’t look away. The sounds of the storm in the overture intensified as Herr Pichler slipped the note into his pocket.

  Stupid. She’d offered him her help in every way she could, and all he’d done was humiliate her in public. Well, she had learned her lesson at last. She wouldn’t feel sorry for him anymore, and she wouldn’t try to save him from his problems. She needed all her energy now for herself, to give the best possible performance tonight. To win herself a future.

  Still, when Herr Pichler came to stand beside her, waiting to step onstage, she hesitated.

  By all rights, she ought to ignore him—or say something as horrid as what he had said to her earlier, to repay him. But when she looked at the shadows beneath his eyes and the hunched, defensive set of his shoulders, she couldn’t do it.

  Instead, she whispered, “Be careful.”

  His eyes widened. “I will,” he whispered back, without looking at her.

  The overture drew to a close. Flutes and strings signaled the morning, and Herr Pichler’s cue.

  He gave her the fraction of a nod and stepped onstage.

  Chapter Thirty

  A storm broke through the orchestra. Shuddering strings and percussion charted its progress. From his seat at the harpsichord, Herr Haydn nodded firmly to the horns. They entered, building tension, building—

  Carlo frowned, shaken out of the music of the overture. From his seat by the closed door of the royal box, he’d heard unexpected movement outside. Footsteps—and the unmistakable tap of a walking stick.

  After making his bows to their Majesties, Herr von Born had excused himself to find a seat in the auditorium below. What was he thinking now, to be pacing around the royal box in midperformance?

  The storm in the music peaked and faded. Whispering flutes and oboes replaced the chaos, mimicking the calls of birds. Carlo shook off the irritating mystery and returned his attention to the stage as the curtains drew apart to reveal an island scene.

  Even as the lead tenor stepped out and began to sing, though, Carlo could not rid himself of the sensation of lingering unease.

  The first scene went well, Franz thought. He sang his opening recitative loudly and clearly, aiming it straight at the royal box. Illuminated by the hot beams of the spirit lamps in the wings, he knew he made a striking figure. He sang of his character’s bewilderment at the strange island the storm had washed him onto. As mechanical waves swayed behind him, he launched into his aria, commending himself to the love and trust of his long-missing beloved. He made the tune as soulful and as heartfelt as he possibly could. After all, it might well be his last performance.

  The applause of the audience rewarded him at the end of the aria. He bowed deeply and strode offstage, ears ringing.

  The ladies swept onstage as he left it, followed by Delacroix and the chorus. Franz collapsed against the wall, sweating, and glanced around. The few remaining men backstage stood in a small cluster at the far corner, throwing dice.

  It was time.

  As women’s voices soared up in greeting to the new day, Franz reached into his pocket and withdrew the sealed note. It felt limp in his hand. He handled it as carefully as he would a viper.

  He stared at it for a long moment. If he never opened it, he would never have to know . . .

  But then he would not survive the night.

  Franz broke open the seal.

  As the ladies of the chorus finished their paean to the new day, the rest of the islanders ran in and swept into a festive dance, and Charlotte half-closed her eyes to appreciate the sheer beauty of the music. Bright colors swept across her narrowed vision. Then the lead soprano entered with a high, thrilling note, from the right of the stage, and the chorus silenced to give her full pride of place.

  She was, of course, the tenor’s long-lost beloved, first kidnapped by pirates and then washed up from a shipwreck onto this shore. Now, she had been taken in by the local count and was living as his ward, oppressed both by the pain of her lost love, and by the count’s determined and unwelcome courtship. As her melancholy aria ended, she was swept unwillingly into the village’s celebrations—and the lead tenor entered, from the other side of the stage, too far away to see her. He raised his voice in appeal. It should have soared across the orchestra and chorus. Instead, Charlotte could barely hear it. She blinked, and fully opened her eyes.

  Something was terribly wrong with the lead tenor. Even through the haze of beauty that the music had spun around her, Charlotte could see it. As he continued to sing, Herr Pichler’s voice was a pale shadow of its normal self. His actions were slow and sluggish; his face, a sickly white. Was he ill?

  Charlotte glanced around the royal box. Signor Morelli frowned at the stage; he had noticed the change, certainly. The Emperor and Empress, in the row ahead of them, watched with every appearance of enjoyment. The Prince glared down at the audience below him . . . at Sophie. Charlotte looked past him, at the Princess—and stilled.

  The Princess’s face was rigid with tension. Her bejeweled hands had clenched into fists around the balcony’s rail. She looked a veritable statue. Only her eyes moved, sweeping the audience—for what? Unease crawled up Charlotte’s neck. Suddenly, the opera seemed far less compelling.

  A flicker of motion in the audience
caught Charlotte’s attention. She leaned forward and saw her brother-in-law standing and slipping out through the auditorium doors.

  Clearly, the opera wasn’t holding his attention, either.

  “It’s time,” Friedrich whispered as he stood.

  Sophie pouted, but she didn’t move to stop him. The interminable music droned on and on as he slipped out of his seat and out of the auditorium. The corridor outside was dim, with only a single brace of candles burning. The servants hadn’t arrived yet for the break between acts.

  He walked up the corridor quickly, listening to the echoes of his boot-heels against the marble floor and clenching his jaw to hold back the voices. All the damned voices. The voices that would send him to Hell—where he’d sent Anton.

  I had no choice.

  He pushed open the door to the backstage waiting area. Five or six singers looked up at the sound, then recognized him and looked away again, focused on their card game. For a moment, Friedrich was tempted to join them.

  Then the singing onstage finished, amidst loud applause, and Friedrich leaned back against the wall to wait for the singer he’d met before, Franz Pichler, and the beginning of his final orders.

  Anna hurried backstage as the chorus took over. She arrived just in time to catch Herr Pichler as he tripped.

  “Careful!”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry . . .”

  He was heavy in her arms for a moment, before he straightened and stepped away. Anna gasped when she saw his face.

  “You’re ill!” she whispered.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  He tried to move away, but she caught his arm.

  “You look like death! What’s happened to you?” She narrowed her eyes. “Was it—that letter?”