The horses were reined in and the carriage came to a halt, jolting Hans from his slumbers on the seating beside Gretel.
“What’s that? The king! Oh, where are we?” He came to blearily.
“I bid you both farewell,” Ernst said, shaking first the hand of Hans and then Gretel. “Come to the Schloss at the end of the month, Fraulein,” he said to her, “so that I can remove your cast. I am confident you will make a full recovery.”
“I am thankful for it, Herr Arnold.”
“Me too,” said Hans. “I’d never hear the end of it otherwise.”
Gretel shot him a look that said, healed or not, it would take a long time for her to forgive him for causing her leg to snap like a piece of kindling.
Ernst went on. “And of course, should either of you ever fall ill, you know where to find me.”
“A comfort indeed,” Gretel told him.
There was a small movement in his sleeve and Jynx appeared. The little bat flitted around the interior of the carriage for a moment before alighting on Gretel’s shoulder. She stroked his furry body.
“You are officially now a physician’s assistant,” she told him. Jynx hooked his tiny claws around her proffered finger and she handed him back to his master.
Ernst climbed out of the carriage and had barely set foot to the ground when Evalina came running out of the house to fling her arms around him.
“Oh, husband! My dearest, you are returned to me!” she cried as she wept tears of joy.
“My darling wife!”
If Ernst had thought he would need sweet words to win back his wife’s affection he had not taken into account the strength of her love for him, nor the potency of a sincere kiss. The two stood in a loving embrace, heedless of the stares of passersby, lost in their own happiness.
Gretel felt both satisfaction at a case well handled and a satisfied client, and sour envy at their delight in each other. She rapped upon the ceiling of the carriage with her cane and called up, “Home, driver, if you please.”
Home. However humble the little house Gretel shared with her brother, however quaint its window boxes and shutters, however provincial and parochial, there was nothing like it for returning to after a trying case elsewhere. Once Gretel had been helped from the carriage by Hans—who knew his sister would milk her injury and his guilt for as long as possible and could do nothing about it—and as soon as she had overcome the familiar disappointment at finding the place smaller and shabbier than she remembered, the sight of her own daybed in her own living room cheered her enormously. Sunshine fell through the south-facing window, carrying dizzy dust motes in their carefree dance. The room smelled of shut-up air, and gone-out fire, and forgotten schnapps in glasses on the mantelpiece.
“Wonderful!” Gretel declared as she sank into the welcoming embrace of her tapestry daybed and its assortment of silk cushions. “Simply wonderful.”
“Another case successfully solved, sister mine,” said Hans, setting down their rucksack and the baskets of comestibles he had obtained from the cook at the Schloss. His action of saving the king, even at the cost of his own sister, had marked him out as something of a minor hero at the castle. His back had been slapped thoroughly and often, and he had been given gifts of wines, cheeses, some splendid wurst, preserves, and mustards. The three days he had spent waiting for Gretel to be fit to travel had been both fruitful and enjoyable. “I shall fix us a light meal. You must rest, and soon all will be as it should be again.”
“Almost all,” she said, tapping her cast with her cane to make the point. “Some things may take a little longer.”
“Oh look,” said Hans, ignoring the remark. “Some post has been delivered. Let me see.” He picked up a small pile of letters and notes. “Coal bill. Milk bill. Butcher’s bill … ooh, better settle that one quick sharp. Someone selling windows. Huh, can’t they see we already have them? What’s this? Looks important.”
He handed Gretel a letter written on expensive vellum, with an elaborate seal. She opened it.
“Ah-ha. Excellent. ‘Diligence Insurers are pleased to enclosed your full fee, as agreed … blah, blah, appreciation … blah, endeavors, etcetera, etcetera.’” She checked the banker’s draft. “Oh yes, that will do very nicely indeed.”
“Enough to keep us in wurst and ale for a while, eh?” Hans asked.
“Happily, yes. And more besides.”
The more, Gretel had already decided, included the rather sumptuous gown she had required the seamstress to make while she was away. It would be ready by now. She would go for a fitting that very afternoon. There were only three days before the concert, and she would need all of them to expunge the ravages of the forest and make herself glorious for the concert.
“A light meal would be most welcome, brother mine. And then a nap. Later, I must trouble you to fetch the bathtub and light the fire. I shall get myself to the dressmaker as soon as possible, but not before I feel fully restored.”
With that thought she lay back upon her wonderfully familiar bolsters and pillows, closed her eyes, and fell into the manner of sleep only ever experienced by those who have recently completed a challenging and exhausting task.
The evening of the concert was pleasantly warm, the season having begun its downward descent into the cool dip of autumn at last. Gretel was grateful for the change of temperature. She was pleased with her new gown and knew she could look her best in it, particularly without the high color summer heat could bring about. The dressmaker had excelled herself, and the only final alterations necessary were, for the first time Gretel could remember, some taking in. It seemed her time spent marching about in the forest and living on berries and whatnot had robbed her of some of her voluptuousness. Thankfully, enough of it remained to do the new gown justice. Before setting out for the town hall she appraised herself in her full-length looking glass. Running her hands over the melon-green silk, smoothing it over her pleasing curves, she nodded, satisfied.
There was a moment’s mourning for her lost wig, which alas there had not been time to replace. And it was hard to ignore the unsightly boot she was forced to wear over her leg cast, but most of it was hidden by her skirts. She would need her cane for a while, but had cheered herself up a little on this front by purchasing an elegant ebony one with a silver and amber top to it. On the whole, she felt she would present the very best version of herself to the great and the good of Gesternstadt. And to Ferdinand. Not that she cared.
“Hans!” she called as she went downstairs. “We shall be late!”
“Fear not, I am ready,” he said, emerging from the kitchen chewing on a sandwich. “Just partaking of a small snack. Can’t digest music on an empty stomach,” he explained.
“On that we are in complete agreement, brother mine,” she told him, removing the sandwich from his hand as she passed and biting into it. “Mmm, very good. Although perhaps a little more mustard next time … ?”
They walked through the town, slowed a little by her injury. Hans, on Gretel’s insistence, was turned out fittingly for the occasion, with not a trace of Bavarian peasant on show. If his tight-fitting hose were less than flattering, the finely tailored velvet cutaway jacket made up for it, and the overall effect was of a well-to-do gentleman. As they neared the town hall, which stood as the theater and concert hall when the need arose, other music lovers began to throng the streets. People had made an effort, much to Gretel’s delight. Everywhere was evidence of money having been spent, Sunday best having been spruced up, and a general air of expectation and excitement. If Gretel hadn’t felt the painful twist of cobbles beneath her Italian leather shoe she might have imagined herself, just for an instant, in some sophisticated city, where such cultural events were the norm. Everyone who was anyone, and quite a few who weren’t, had turned out. Evidently, even the people of Gesternstadt had recognized the importance of having a renowned composer visit their insignificant home. It was an occasion not to be missed.
She was a little surprised, therefore, n
ot to see a royal carriage among those now depositing bejeweled ladies outside the venue. She reasoned that any members of the royal family would prefer to arrive fashionably late and make a grand entrance. No doubt Ferdinand and his fiancée would do the same. Gretel could not afford to be late at all, for she would have to fight for a good seat, not having the privilege of a royal box to ensure she would be able to see, and, more importantly, be seen. She and Hans bustled their way through the foyer and into the auditorium. There were rows of cushioned seats in the stalls, with benches up in the balcony. Gretel, having purchased superior tickets, made straight for the front row of the orchestra, hoping to better enjoy the great composer’s presence, and be in the sight line of the royal party from their box.
“I say,” said Hans, “this is all rather grand, isn’t it? Not your usual Saturday night in Gesternstadt, have to say.”
But Gretel wasn’t really listening. She was using her lorgnettes, freshly polished and recovered from their woodland trek, to scan the audience. She saw many clients, past and present, neighbors and their guests, even Kapital Kingsman Strudel, but no one betitled. No one royal. And crucially, no one with a burgundy cape with gold silk lining with a skinny fiancée on his arm. Gretel let out an exasperated sigh. She did not want to admit to herself how much she had wanted to see Ferdinand that night. Did not want to face the fact that she did not, in fact, wish to merely show how content, how happy indeed, she was without him, and perhaps make him experience a twinge of regret at having passed her over for another. For the truth was, she now saw, that she had hoped for one last chance to change his mind. One final opportunity for him to sit amid the stirring and beautiful music of Herr Mozart, to gaze down upon Gretel at her very best, to ponder the frisson that had fizzed between them for so long, and to realize that he could not, after all, live without her.
“Stupid woman!” she said at last of herself and to herself.
“What’s that?” asked Hans.
“Nothing. But budge up, these seats are rather small.”
“Aren’t they just,” he agreed.
Gretel stopped a second sigh escaping and attempted to pull herself together. She had done all she could. She could do no more. There was nothing left to do except allow herself to be soothed by the balm of the maestro’s magnificent music.
The rest of the audience took their places, the rows of seats were quickly filled, the excited buzz of the music lovers hushed, a charged quiet filled the hall, and at last the curtain went up.
There is a line of thought that states that misery loves company. There is another that holds bad things happen in groups of three. Gretel was not aware of the dictum that insists disappointments travel in pairs, but she was beginning to see evidence of it. Only seconds before she had had to accept that Ferdinand would never be hers, and that this mattered to her a great deal. Now, as she held her breath for the majesty and miracle that was the gift of a sublime talent and his orchestra, she was instead presented with Herr Wolfgang Alfred Mozart and his ensemble of Alpine Horns. The sight of them was sufficient to draw a gasp from the crowd that suggested Gretel was not the only one present to have been sold her ticket under false pretenses. As if unaware of the fury building in the building, Herr Mozart—a man of advancing years and retreating hairline—beamed happily as he took center stage, raised his baton, and encouraged his musicians to put their alphorns to use.
Even above this aural onslaught scandalized expostulations could be heard: “Monstrous!”
“Outrageous!”
“Utterly unscrupulous!”
“A full refund, or there will be blood spilled!” one particularly enraged gentleman insisted.
Through it all the band played on, with Herr Mozart But Not That Herr Mozart even turning occasionally to smile broadly at his audience, apparently oblivious to the reception he was getting. Gretel could only surmise that he was genuinely unaware that anyone might mistake him for a composer of operas and requiems. And why would they? She, for one, felt more foolish than furious. She sat still, conscious of the exodus of many of the more disgruntled music lovers behind her. She knew she could not sit through an hour of being blown back in her seat by the lusty blasts from the admittedly impressive horns on stage. She would wait until the initial rush had died down and then make her escape discreetly. She had no desire to enter into a group rant on the pavement with other foolish Gesternstadters. To her left, from Hans there came the sound of humming and a thigh being happily slapped in time to the music, if such it could be called.
Taking a side exit from the hall, Gretel hoped to slip away unnoticed. She had left Hans enjoying the performance. Herr Mozart had at least gained one new follower. Gretel put her head down and hurried along the narrow street away from the square, her cane rapping against the cobbles as she went. So intent was she on fleeing that she did not see the man standing on the edge of the street and barreled straight into him.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” she muttered, attempting to step back from the stranger who now held onto her arm.
“Fraulein, are you hurt?” asked a voice that most definitely did not belong to a stranger.
Gretel looked up. Ferdinand looked down at her.
It took all her self-control not to squawk.
“You are too late to take your seat for the concert,” she told him as levelly as she was able.
“I have had a lucky escape, judging by the speed at which you appear to be running away from it. With your leg still healing, is it wise to move so swiftly unaccompanied?”
Gretel gathered what little self-respect she had left in both hands and set her mouth in a determined line. Being spurned by the man was bad enough; she would not tolerate him laughing at her also.
“My experience of alphorn music tells me we were not being given the best,” she said.
“Indeed?”
“Quite so. I paid good money for my ticket, and I refuse to sit through second-rate horn playing.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“I see.”
“Good.”
“I was not aware of your expertise on the topic of alphorn and Kuhreihen.”
“No reason you should be.”
“Another of your hidden talents.”
“There are many.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
An itchy, irritable pause worked its way into the equally irritating exchange. Ferdinand still had hold of Gretel’s arm and seemed in no hurry to relinquish it. After a while he spoke again.
“I should like to discover more of your hidden talents.”
Gretel widened her eyes at him. “I’m sure you would!” she said, more than a little crossly. She could not fathom what manner of game this was for a man to be playing when he was about to be married to a woman other than the one with whom he was playing it. Suddenly the complexity of this thought and the memory of the alphorns brought on a sharp headache.
And then Ferdinand leaned forward and kissed her, full on the mouth.
And the headache went away.
And somewhere distant a bird sang.
And Gretel felt as if possibly her feet had lifted a little off the ground.
And then she recalled a skinny countess with engaged-to-the-Uber-General stamped all over her, and the headache came back.
And then Hans appeared.
“I say, sister mine, wasn’t that the most splendid music? Don’t you think? Oh, good evening, Herr Uber General. You’ve missed the first half. I just stepped out for a breath of air during the intermission. Splendid stuff, have to say, quite splendid. Don’t dally now, or you’ll miss the second half.”
“Go away, Hans,” Gretel told him, but he had already gone, scuttling back to enjoy what was clearly the musical highlight of his year.
“Where were we?” Ferdinand asked, evidently not expecting a reply as he moved in for another kiss.
It took Gretel all her resolve and self-control to pull back. She held up a hand. “I am not in th
e habit of kissing other people’s fiancés,” she told him.
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“Or being kissed by. Other people’s. Fiancés.”
“I would never have believed you capable of behaving otherwise.”
“Then why do it?”
“To my knowledge I have not.”
“But you did, just then. You kissed me.”
He raised his eyebrows a fraction. Gretel was annoyed to find this singularly attractive. “Do you have a fiancé?” he asked.
“I do not!”
“Then we do not have a problem.”
“But you have.”
“A problem?”
“A fiancée!”
“I do?”
“Do you not?”
“I do not!”
“But … what about Countess Whatsername? Tall woman, young-ish. Skinny, some might say angular. Sharp hip bones, one might imagine. What about her?”
“Countess Margarita? What about her?”
“You are engaged to her, to be married, for heaven’s sake!”
“That, Fraulein, is news to me.”
Another pause stepped in. This one was altogether different from the first, for although it was fidgety and uncomfortable, it clutched close to itself a small, bright nugget of hope.
Gretel chose her words with care and spoke them clearly and calmly. “Am I to understand, then, that you are not affianced, not betrothed, not engaged nor promised to anyone? At all?” she asked.
“I am not,” he confirmed.
“You have not plighted your troth to the woman of your choice and are about to be married?” she double-checked.
He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, smiling.
And then he kissed her again. And this time lots of birds sang. And sweet gentle music played inside Gretel’s head with not a single alphorn involved. And her heart lifted as she returned the kiss with rather less restraint than a woman of good reputation should risk, standing in the street in broad view of any who happened by. Happily, none did. Gretel pulled away, quite breathless, uncertain in a fashion that was wholly unfamiliar to her.
The Sorcerer's Appendix Page 21