Masks and Shadows

by Stephanie Burgis

  “Your pardon, Highness,” Baroness von Steinbeck murmured. “I have not practiced the accompaniments, so—”

  “You played them marvelously well four nights ago,” Carlo said coolly. “I’m certain you could play them again.”

  She bit her full lower lip. He wished he hadn’t noted it. She was not for him and had made that clear enough.

  “It’s settled, then,” the Princess said. “Signor—”

  “I’m afraid I have not memorized the parts,” the Baroness said quietly. “The music is in my apartments.”

  “Then we’ll send a maid to fetch it.” The Princess’s nod sent another maid scurrying out the door. “You have had the rooms cleaned, have you not?”

  The Baroness’s head jerked up. “The rooms—?”

  “After last night’s disarray.” The Princess shook her head. “Shocking, that it could happen here. Was anything taken?”

  “I . . . no. Nothing was taken. But . . .” The Baroness took a breath. “I didn’t know that the news had spread.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. News always spreads. And news of a burglary—even if it was really only a search . . .”

  Carlo watched the interaction like a theatrical play. The Baroness’s face was taut with distress.

  “I did warn you,” the Princess murmured softly. “But I am sorry for your discomfort, Baroness.” She turned her razor-sharp smile to Carlo. “And you, signor? I trust you’ve suffered no such inconveniences in your stay here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, Your Highness.” Carlo kept his voice even. “But then, I’m sure Monsieur Jean could have told you that already, after last night’s conversation.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “No doubt. But you must indulge me, signor, in telling me yourself of your last stopping points, before Eszterháza. I may live in seclusion, but I am prodigiously fond of imaginary travels. Tell me of the wonders of Constantinople and Saint Petersburg, pray, and how those courts compare to my husband’s palace here.”

  And do you desire compliments or insults on your husband’s behalf? Carlo wondered. But he knew better than to ask. He obliged her instead, filling the minutes with polished tales of the two different courts, while the Princess stroked the dog on her lap and listened with every appearance of enjoyment, and the Baroness stared down at her own knotted fingers and failed entirely to look anything but worried and unhappy.

  At last, a soft knock sounded on the door.

  “Aha!” The Princess looked up as her maid returned. “Here is your music now, Baroness. I am all attention.”

  Carlo stood and gestured for the Baroness to walk before him. Her back was straight, her face tense. He felt a momentary pang of sympathy.

  She was no fool, even if she did choose to blind herself to the natures of those around her. What could she hope to gain by such willful ignorance?

  “Which piece, signor?”

  He looked down into her clear brown eyes and named a different piece than he had planned.

  “The serenade.”

  He hadn’t warmed up his voice with exercises yet, and he would pay for that later with strain. But for now he only closed his eyes, summoning up the mood of the song. When he drew in his preparatory breath, her fingers brushed against the keyboard. He began to sing.

  The song was aimed at the Princess, his audience, who sat listening with her eyes half-closed. But with every breath, Carlo was conscious of the Baroness beside him, watching him, playing below his voice and against it, supporting his song with grace and strength.

  The serenade was familiar, one he had sung for years. It showed off the top range of his voice; it was pretty and sentimental; today, it felt like more. He found real tenderness infusing his voice, instead of theatrical emotion. The second time through, instead of adding the usual carnival of showy ornamentations to the notes, he only bent them in sweet, rippling inflections.

  He never looked away from the Princess, but he felt the Baroness’s every breath.

  At the end of the piece, the Princess clapped slowly. “Bravo, signor. I see the reports have understated the truth, for once. And brava, Baroness.”

  The outer door opened, and Monsieur Jean walked in with a lady his own size. They made their courtesies to the Princess.

  “Asa, this is the famous Signor Morelli. He and the Baroness have been delighting me with a recital.”

  “Hmm,” said Asa, and took her seat with the air of one restraining herself from comment.

  Her companion, though, showed no such restraint. “Delightful indeed!” Monsieur Jean grinned up at Carlo as he pulled up his own chair. He looked healthy and windswept, his cheeks still red from exertion. “And how are you feeling this morning, signor?”

  Carlo smiled thinly. “Tolerably well, I thank you, sir. Your Highness.” He bowed. “I am distraught to have to take my leave of you, but I cannot be late for dinner.”

  “Of course. And neither can the Baroness. We wouldn’t want to risk the two of you being missed together, would we?” Laughter rippled through the Princess’s cool voice. “Signor, you will escort the Baroness, won’t you?”

  Carlo set his teeth together at the smirk on Monsieur Jean’s face. The Princess had an efficient network of spies. How far did it go? Could they report to her not only the content of his actions, but also of his thoughts? His most secret desires?

  “It would be an honor,” he said, and offered the Baroness his arm.

  If there was anything worse than walking through Eszterháza’s endless corridors with a man who had taken her into contempt, Charlotte thought, then it was being seated at dinner beside the man who had nearly caused a murder the night before.

  Count Radamowsky did not appear discomposed in the slightest by the looks and whispers of the other guests at Prince Nikolaus’s high table, nor by the looks of sheer hatred that were directed at him by Herr Ignaz von Born, across the table. He gestured for a footman to refill his wine as he smiled at Charlotte.

  “I hear that your late husband was interested in the alchemical arts, Baroness?”

  Not in your sort of alchemy. She bit back the words, as Ernst’s kind face, drawn with pain, appeared in her mind’s eye. No matter how great his sufferings, Ernst had rarely complained, nor had he ever been discourteous, even to his oldest son’s grasping wife as she’d pushed past Charlotte to count the silver, china, and family jewels, visibly impatient for Ernst’s demise. He would not have been rude now, either.

  “He took a keen interest in the quest for the Philosopher’s Stone,” Charlotte said quietly.

  Radamowsky laughed. “And why should he not? The transmutation of lead into gold, the kiss of immortality, the search for ultimate power—but von Born knows more of such things than I.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Herr von Born jerked as if stung.

  “You’ve spent hours messing about with noxious liquids and stones, have you not, my friend? Have you yet discovered the infamous Philosopher’s Stone that you’re all looking for?”

  “I am a seeker of knowledge.” Herr von Born enunciated his words clearly. “Whereas you trick people into believing in illusions.”

  “What we saw last night was no illusion,” Charlotte said. Her fingers clenched beneath the table. “Has anyone heard news of Mr. Guernsey’s health?”

  Herr von Born stared at her as if she had spoken Turkish. Count Radamowsky dropped his gaze and toyed with his wine glass.

  “A sad case. Most regrettable. But the Prince’s physician is excellent—or so I hear.”

  “Mm.”

  Despite herself, Charlotte found her gaze slipping up the table to where Signor Morelli sat. His face was as pale and beautiful as ever, in that disturbingly feminine way, and his mouth was set in a polite smile as he tilted his head to listen to the Prince.

  Charlotte remembered his words from the night before and swallowed. Madness, truly.

  Yet she couldn’t stop herself from picking at the dilemma, like a scab she was hopeless to ignore.

  �
��I wonder if you could tell me, Count Radamowsky,” she said. “How did His Highness know to ask for your elemental last night?”

  Radamowsky blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Across the table, Herr von Born’s eyes narrowed with sudden interest.

  Charlotte fought to keep her tone pleasantly cool, as though she were discussing only the weather, or her sister’s favorite fashions. “I only wondered, sir, how Prince Nikolaus knew of your elemental.” She paused, then dropped in the last words like pebbles into deep water. “As you had only arrived yesterday morning.”

  “Well . . .” Radamowsky took a sip of wine and shrugged. “My projects are not entirely secret, Baroness. I’d imagine—”

  “I’d certainly never heard of your so-called ‘elemental,’” von Born said, with relish.

  “My friend.” Radamowsky smiled at him. “We do not, as you know, always see eye-to-eye. Do you really expect me to share all of my experiments with you?” He leaned forward, still smiling. “Do you tell me all that you do in private? I’ve heard tell of strange doings, darker offshoots gathered from the Viennese houses of Freemasonry—”

  “That’s enough!” Von Born drew himself up, eyes flashing. “You slander me and my work.”

  “And you disparage mine to all and sundry. I—”

  “Gentlemen!” the Prince called, from the head of the long table. Everyone was craning their necks to look at them now, drawn by the increasing volume of the men’s voices. The Prince’s stare was glacial. “Is aught amiss with your food?”

  Herr von Born only shook his head tightly.

  Count Radamowsky said, “Not at all, Your Highness. It is superb beyond description.”

  “Then I hope you may both save your breath for your meal.”

  The Prince turned back to his companions, but Signor Morelli’s gaze lingered a moment longer. It burned against Charlotte’s skin.

  He thought her a fool for disbelieving his wild theories. Charlotte stabbed her knife into her meal with the force of her frustration.

  The two men beside and across from her ate in fuming silence, and she did not attempt to draw either of them out.

  She had found their conversation to be anything but reassuring.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Franz held his smile through the interminable rounds of bowing to their noble audience. He kept it pinned to his face through the endless applause and while Herr Haydn was summoned up to the balcony to receive a velvet pouch full of gold, a mark of His Highness’s great appreciation. He kept his smile clamped to his face even when he spotted Lieutenant Anton Esterházy sitting three feet away from Prince Nikolaus in the royal box. Not the usual seat for a mere military officer, surely, but for one with the right last name . . .

  When a footman ran up to the stage to present Fräulein Dommayer with a great bouquet of red roses, Franz lost his smile entirely.

  Bloody Esterházy name. Bloody Esterházy fortune.

  Fräulein Dommayer blushed and held the flowers close to her as she curtseyed, breathing in the scent, oblivious to the venomous looks shot at her by the other ladies in the cast. And if Prince Nikolaus’s cousin did make his way into Fräulein Dommayer’s bed, Franz thought viciously as he bowed again, there’d be no royal outcries of immorality then, oh, no. “Immorality” only transpired when two servants fell in love, like poor Antonicek and Madame Delacroix, and never when another wealthy, indulged aristocrat bought his own way into an actress’s arms.

  Not that Franz was in any danger of falling in love himself. He turned on his heel and stalked offstage as the applause finally, finally faded. He’d been playacting his heart out this morning, as he’d learned to years before. But to be so ignominiously shoved aside, and for a petty aristocrat with that cursed last name . . .

  He changed out of his costume, seething. His back flamed with renewed agony every time he leaned over. The other men around him chatted, trading jokes and making plans for the rest of the evening. Delacroix pointedly ignored him, as usual. Franz didn’t care. He’d show them all, soon enough. Especially the Esterházys.

  He stepped out of the men’s changing room just in time to see Lieutenant Esterházy stride backstage as confidently as if he owned it. Franz bowed, biting down rage. The lieutenant gazed evenly at him and nodded infinitesimally. Then his face lit up.

  “Fräulein Dommayer!” He crossed the wide floor in a few quick steps to bow over her hand.

  Franz hesitated—then crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, bracing his muscles against the pain. Why shouldn’t he stay and watch, after all? If it afforded Esterházy the slightest hint of embarrassment, then Franz would be richly rewarded indeed.

  “Lieutenant Esterházy.” Anna curtseyed awkwardly, one hand in his and her other arm occupied with her bouquet. “You are very kind, sir. The roses are beautiful.”

  At first, she’d thought they might have come from the Baroness, who had sent her a small bouquet and a kind note the day after her first performance. But a card had been buried deep in their midst, and she’d found it while changing out of her costume.

  Anton Esterházy. In admiration.

  It was a terribly strange feeling. It was nearly intoxicating, like the scent of the dozen roses in her arms. She felt her breathing quicken as she looked up at the intensity of his gaze.

  Anna swallowed and withdrew her hand. “Where . . . wherever did you find such beautiful flowers, sir?”

  “I begged them from my cousin’s gardens.” His face opened into laughter. “I hope you’ll not think the less of me for it! I would have ordered them from Vienna or Paris for you, if I could. But as such beauties were blossoming here already, only waiting to be picked . . .”

  Anna flushed. “They are perfect.” She buried her face in them for a moment to escape the meaning in his eyes. As she lifted her head, she saw Herr Pichler glaring at her from across the room. She sighed.

  “Are you tired?” Lieutenant Esterházy leaned closer. “You gave a marvelous performance. My cousin was most impressed, and I—I was bewitched.” He smiled crookedly. “I think my heart may never recover from it.”

  A maid curtseyed before Herr Pichler and handed him a note. His eyes widened as he read it.

  “Fräulein?” The lieutenant frowned.

  “Forgive me, sir. I am only tired. As you said.” Anna smiled up at him, but half her attention remained on Herr Pichler, who had folded up the note and slipped it inside the inner pocket of his frock coat. His gaze slipped from side to side, as though he were calculating an escape route. He began to saunter, ever-so-casually, toward the back door.

  There were so many mysteries in this palace . . . but perhaps Anna might solve this one tonight.

  Lieutenant Esterházy had been speaking words she hadn’t heard. Anna curtseyed again and held out her hand to him.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, “but I must go to sleep. I’ve been rehearsing so much for tonight’s performance. And . . . and, of course, I must find water for my roses.”

  “We could find a maid to do that,” he said quickly, “and then perhaps a short walk outside in the evening air—”

  “Not tonight.”

  She backed away, smiling apologetically. Herr Pichler had already disappeared out the back door. She’d have to find somewhere to deposit the roses, then circle around the building and try to find him in the miles of parkland. Difficult, but not impossible—if she hurried. She fought down images of ghouls and demons out in the darkness.

  “Perhaps tomorrow, sir?” she offered, and fled.

  Franz turned past the first tall hedge, as the message had directed—and a hand reached out to seize him by the throat.

  “You’ve disappointed us, Herr Pichler.”

  The gloved hand was too strong to fight. If he squirmed, his breath would be cut off entirely. Franz went limp, breathing shallowly through his nose. He couldn’t see his captor in the shadows of the hedge, but he recognized the voice.

  “How?” he gasped.
“I haven’t—”

  “I told you to be discreet. I ordered you not to make yourself unpleasant to the Esterházys or draw their notice.”

  “And?” Franz swallowed against the iron grip around his throat.

  “Anton Esterházy complained to the Prince of your impertinence today. His Highness has asked Rahier to keep a sharp eye on you and report your every doing.” The hand tightened around Franz’s throat. “Now do you understand how you’ve failed me?”

  Franz closed his eyes, lanced by horror. “I didn’t—I only meant—”

  “Yes?” The hand loosened infinitesimally. “Do explain yourself.”

  Franz paused, licking his lips. What could he say? That he’d been too jealous and discomfited to even consider the consequences of irritating Anton Esterházy? That he’d been foiled in his own plan to insinuate himself deeper into the Brotherhood’s secrets by making up to Fräulein Dommayer? That—

  No. He opened his eyes and took a rasping breath. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It won’t have the chance to happen, ever again. You should know that already, Herr Pichler. We do not tolerate failure.”

  “I haven’t—” His captor’s hand pressed hard against Franz’s Adam’s apple and he choked. When he recovered, he gasped out the words. “I haven’t failed. Yet.”

  “You think not?”

  “Rahier is a suspicious bastard. But he delegates the work, he doesn’t do it himself. He trusts Haydn and Delacroix to report back to him.” Franz took another shallow breath. “Herr Haydn detests Rahier. He’ll only speak to me himself, give me a warning, and then turn a blind eye. That’s his way.”

  The hand remained firmly wrapped around his throat. “And Monsieur Delacroix?”

  “He hated me already. This will make no difference to him. Anyway . . .” Franz swallowed, fighting dizziness. Too little breath . . . how much longer could he last like this? “The man’s a fool.”