Masks and Shadows

by Stephanie Burgis

  “The Princess?” Charlotte sighed. “No, she didn’t smirk. Or cling. She was very . . . dignified.”

  “Cow.”

  Charlotte bit her lip. She couldn’t remove the image of the little Englishman from her head. He’d always been so pathetically eager to please. So excited about his visit.

  “It was a monstrous poor entertainment that the Prince insisted upon, with Count Radamowsky.”

  Sophie grimaced. “You needn’t tell me that. I vow, my heart nearly stopped when that thing floated past me. Those horrid red eyes—oof. It gave me nightmares!”

  Charlotte leaned forward. “How did the Prince know to request—no, insist upon the elemental?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Count Radamowsky had only just arrived. How did the Prince—”

  “How would I know? Niko doesn’t talk about that sort of thing with me. I’m not interested in all his tedious correspondence.”

  “I wouldn’t call the elemental tedious.”

  “I told Niko I didn’t want to see that thing ever again. But he said he would protect me from it.” A secretive smile played around Sophie’s lips. “He was very—impressive, in his apology.”

  “Not to Mr. Guernsey.”

  “Don’t be disgusting!” Sophie stared at her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately. Is it that freakish castrato turning your head? I am very sorry that Mr. Guernsey died, of course I am. But aren’t you at all relieved that it wasn’t anyone more important?”

  “I’m sure he was important enough to his own family.”

  “But they aren’t our concern. And regardless, it was an accident. Or had you forgotten that part?”

  “Sophie . . .” Charlotte took a breath. “Haven’t you considered—the singers? The ones who ran away?”

  “Yes?”

  “They were killed by having their blood drained out of them. Just as that elemental started to do—did!—with Mr. Guernsey.”

  Sophie blinked, drawing back. “What a perfectly horrid thought.”

  “But what if it’s more than just a coincidence? Is it possible? What if—”

  “What if—what?” Sophie shook her head. “You’re overwrought, Lotte. It’s a mere coincidence. They were killed miles and miles from Eszterháza, in completely different circumstances. Besides, Count Radamowsky was in Vienna at the time, and I hardly think two common runaways were holding séances to summon up elementals, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m asking you . . .” Charlotte paused. “Do you truly believe, in your heart, that the Prince was entirely innocent in that first death?”

  “You think Niko—that Niko—?” Sophie let out a breath of disbelieving laughter. “Have you gone mad?”

  “I’m not saying that he must have been involved. I’m only asking—”

  “It was a horrible, nasty little coincidence, but that is all. And no matter how many coincidences there ever were, there would never be enough for you to speak against Niko. Not ever! And especially never to me.” Her blue eyes steeled. “Do you understand?”

  Charlotte looked at her younger sister, surrounded by dolls and journals, and all of her planned words dried up in her mouth. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose I do.”

  “Good.” Sophie looked back at the exquisitely dressed doll in her hands. “I won’t mention your foolishness to anyone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s getting late, you know. You should hurry to be at the recital.” She laughed shortly, still looking down at the doll. “Just don’t let yourself forget that you’re a true part of the audience, this time. Not on the same level as hired entertainment.”

  Charlotte shook her head wearily as she rose to her feet. “I don’t know why the Princess insists on inviting me to these functions. I can’t even imagine—”

  “I can,” said Sophie. “She’s using you to gloat over me. It makes perfect sense.” Her lips twisted. “It’s exactly what I would do, in her place.”

  “Well.” Charlotte sighed and straightened her shoulders. “I’d better go back for more gloating, then.”

  After the recital finished, after the customary gifts of appreciation from the Prince and the Emperor had been received, and after all the kind words from the Princess and the Empress, Carlo saw Baroness von Steinbeck waiting to approach him. He hadn’t looked at her once during the performance; he’d trained his gaze away from her that entire day. But in that single involuntary flash of vision, he saw her face, pale and troubled, and his resolve weakened.

  The royal patrons had already moved on to Herr Haydn. Carlo detached himself from the Prince’s giggling niece and walked toward the Baroness. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, then looked down again. He watched her long fingers plait themselves nervously together.

  “The music was marvelous, signor.” She smiled faintly. “As usual.”

  “I thank you, Baroness.” He half-bowed, keeping his voice cool. “I’m pleased you decided to attend, after all.”

  “Signor . . .” She paused, then looked him directly in the eye. “I must apologize to you.”

  He stiffened. “No apologies are necessary. I clearly misjudged your feelings last night. Rest assured, madam. I won’t offend you in that way again.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that!”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No!” She stared at him, her light brown eyes wide. “I meant . . .” She hesitated, glancing around the crowded room, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I—Signor—I wasn’t apologizing for last night.”

  “Really?” He lowered his voice to match hers. “I thought you’d made it abundantly clear that you regretted it.”

  Color flushed her cheeks. “Not because—that is, you didn’t misjudge what I wanted last night. As you must know.”

  A woman laughed, close by. Carlo made his voice the barest whisper.

  “Then why did you walk away without a word?”

  She looked down. “I couldn’t—I mustn’t follow my own desires. I can’t! Sophie was right. I owe her a duty, and my family . . .”

  “. . . Not to involve yourself with a common musician, you mean.” His mouth twisted on the words.

  She let out a puff of air, not quite a laugh. “You are anything but common, signor.”

  “No? You mean to say, I’m a freak.”

  Her face jerked up. “You are deliberately misunderstanding me.”

  “And you are insulting me.”

  “Only because you insist upon—”

  “My dears.” The Princess’s amused voice cut across the Baroness’s angry whisper. She patted the Baroness’s arm and smiled at both of them serenely. “We are moving on to dinner. Do please join us.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the Baroness said softly.

  She curtseyed, Carlo bowed, and the Princess glided away. The room emptied rapidly, as the rest of the court swirled behind the royal leaders, including Monsieur Jean, who lingered near the back and sent Carlo an impudent wink on his way out. Carlo gave him a withering look in return, but the man only grinned.

  As the last few groups left the room, Carlo turned back to the Baroness, dismissing all the rest.

  “Well, madam?”

  She shook her head, her face tight. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “No? I thought you were telling me how I had overstepped myself.”

  They were alone now.

  “You did nothing wrong. It was I who—”

  “Baroness, you cannot avoid insulting me by telling me that you were wrong to accept my advances. That is anything but flattering.”

  “As I recall, they were my advances,” she said crisply.

  A tight knot of tension in Carlo’s chest released itself. He began to laugh helplessly. “Madam . . .”

  “And I don’t know what you find amusing.” She raised one hand to her head. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here! I promised Sophie I wouldn’t talk to you, and now I’m arguing with you in private.”
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  Carlo shook his head. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to take her hand. It was cool and firm in his grasp. Her fingers closed around his palm.

  He raised her hand to his lips and saw her eyes half-close with pleasure.

  “My poor Baroness,” he murmured. “I could happily throttle your sister, you know.”

  She bit her lip but did not release his hand. “It isn’t Sophie’s fault. She only repeats what we were taught all our lives. What anyone would say.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sure—I mean, it must be true. I know it is. It’s only . . .”

  “Quite.” He slowly untangled his fingers from hers, regretting every lost touch. “Your family would never understand a misstep.”

  “They’ve made that very clear, in the past.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve always done my duty. I always will.”

  “I understand.” He sighed. “I wish I didn’t.”

  “So do I,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and lost. “So do I.”

  “Well, then.” Carlo offered her his arm. “May I escort you in to dinner, at least, Baroness?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She took his arm. The top of her powdered hair brushed against his cheek. He fought down the urge to pull her away in some different direction. To his bedroom, to a carriage, to somewhere, anywhere, far away . . .

  They stepped out into the corridor. Attentive footmen closed the doors behind them, faces carefully expressionless. Carlo cleared his throat.

  “What were you apologizing for?” he asked.

  “Oh.” Her fingers tightened around his arm. “I’ve just found out from Sophie that Mr. Guernsey—the Englishman—died this afternoon.”

  “Died?” Carlo blinked, jolted out of his reverie. Not an Englishman, he added silently. Aloud, he asked, “How did it happen?”

  “He was found by the Prince’s physician. I think—I believe they assume he must have died from his wounds.”

  “But he had been recovering.”

  “Yes.” She looked up at him, her face drawn. “And I wanted to apologize for doubting you, before. The night of Mr. Guernsey’s attack. You were right—the coincidences are too great to ignore. And the Princess warned me, when I first visited her . . .” Her voice dropped to the merest thread of a whisper. “She told me there were more guests at Eszterháza than I knew of.”

  “Aha,” said Carlo. “So the Count was here already, after all.”

  “Perhaps.” She hesitated. “The Princess also warned me there was trouble brewing in the palace. She told me that Eszterháza would soon become a place of danger.”

  “How very intriguing.” They turned the corner. At the end of the corridor, wide doors stood open, exposing the Chinese Drawing Room, crowded with people mingling before dinner. Carlo slowed his steps. “She warned you . . . but you chose not to leave?”

  “And abandon Sophie? I couldn’t.” She looked up at him. “But . . . you could. Still.”

  “No,” he said softly. “I couldn’t.”

  “But—”

  “Something holds me here just as strongly as your love for your sister binds you, Baroness.”

  She blinked. “And that is—?”

  “Call it curiosity,” Carlo said, and drew her into the salon.

  But in his head he named it for what it was.

  Call it love.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Franz changed back into his own clothes and slipped out of the opera house while applause still sounded in the audience. Delacroix would rant at him later for missing half of the requisite bows, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—take the chance of letting Fräulein Dommayer follow him again. He’d made a stupid, deadly mistake in letting the Brotherhood trick and use him. The least he could do was to keep anyone else from paying for it.

  Franz set out across the darkened lawn, though tension spiraled through his gut. Whether they gave him the promised reward or not, whether he was a fool or not, he was well and truly committed to their service. All he could do now was follow their wishes to the letter and pray that he’d survive them.

  He stepped into the shadows of the hedge-lined paths, holding his breath.

  “Ouch!” Friedrich hissed. “Your damned sword just caught my shin!”

  “Sorry.” Anton leaned over his shoulder, peering into the darkness. He adjusted the sword that hung at his waist. “Which way did he go?”

  “I don’t know. There are too many paths. Aren’t you in charge of this expedition, anyway?”

  “Don’t be a grouch, von Höllner.”

  “Thanks.” Friedrich gritted his teeth. He couldn’t stop the panic crawling through his stomach. It was only because they were walking in the direction of the Bagatelle. It was ridiculous. Unmanly. But every inch of his body was screaming for him to turn and run. He cleared his throat. “I think he’s gone. Can we go back to the tavern now?”

  “Don’t be so fainthearted!” Something moved in the distance, and Anton whispered, “There! Let’s go.”

  Friedrich followed, sighing. His own sword—insisted upon by Anton—slapped against his legs as he walked. He must’ve fastened it improperly, after so long without wearing it.

  As they moved farther and farther into the maze of gardens, reluctant curiosity began to mingle with his nerves. What was the actor doing this far from the palace, anyway? Meeting some wench from the village? No need to walk this far only to meet with Anton’s little actress.

  The actor stopped in a flower-lined clearing. He tilted his head to one side—waiting? Anton led Friedrich into the hedges ten feet away. They crouched down to watch. Sharp branches tickled Friedrich’s nose and ears. He twitched, and Anton put one hand on his shoulder to still him. Friedrich didn’t need to see his friend’s face to know that Anton would be grinning, filled with delight at the whole escapade.

  And why not? Friedrich sighed and gave up, peering through the hedges as if he cared, too. Half an hour was already past, after all, and only half an hour left until the agreed-upon hour was up and he could drag Anton back to the tavern. As long as his legs didn’t go entirely numb in the meantime, he might as well enjoy it.

  Then a deep, familiar voice spoke in the clearing ahead, and Friedrich realized just how great a mistake he had made.

  “Herr Pichler. I’m pleased to see you.” This time, the leader’s face was obscured by a wide, drooping hat. He carried a walking stick, but he swung it freely in the air as he walked toward Franz. “I trust your performance tonight went well?”

  Franz had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Tolerably well, sir. Thank you.”

  “Excellent. A fine preparation for tomorrow’s duties.” He stopped next to Franz and rested his walking stick on the ground. “Listen carefully, now. This is what we need you to do . . .”

  Friedrich couldn’t move. He had to run, had to get way—but as the hideously familiar voice rolled through the air, it seemed to turn his bones to glass. If he moved, they might shatter entirely.

  It took him a moment to see through his haze of terror and realize that Anton was inching forward, toward the voice.

  “What are you doing?” Friedrich whispered. “Get back, man! It’s not—”

  “Aren’t you listening to him?” Anton whispered back. “It’s a plot! They’re scheming against my cousin and the Empress and Emperor themselves!” He inched further forward, reaching into the brambles of the hedge to clear a spyhole. “If I can just get a good look at his face . . .”

  “You’ll be waiting for one of our Brotherhood at the back door during the chorus at the end of the first act. He will reveal himself to you with our mark. When he comes, take him—”

  A crack sounded in the hedges, and the leader’s voice cut off. His head snapped around.

  Franz swallowed. “I don’t—I still don’t quite understand why—”

  “Shh!”

  In three quick steps, the leader crossed the garden and pulled the branches aside.

  Moonlight broke thro
ugh the hedges and was blocked by the leader’s dark silhouette. Friedrich squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Oh, God . . .”

  “Why, Brother Friedrich. How good of you to join us.” The leader’s gaze followed Anton as he stood up. “And you’ve brought company. What a delightful surprise.”

  “It’s not my fault!” Friedrich said. “I didn’t realize—how was I supposed to know that—”

  “Do shut up, von Höllner.” Anton didn’t spare him a glance. “Sir—whomever you may be—I am Lieutenant Anton Esterházy, my friend is a lieutenant in the Esterházy Grenadier Guards, and you have been well and truly caught out.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Will you do me the honor of showing me your face before I arrest you?”

  There was a moment of taut silence. Then the leader chuckled.

  “Yes, why not?”

  He took off his hat and dropped it to the ground, then wrapped both hands around the head of his walking stick. Dark, compelling eyes stood out in a pale, thin face made entirely of hard angles.

  “Well?” he said. “Are you satisfied, lieutenant?”

  From the corner of his eye, Friedrich saw the man’s hands fiddling with the narrow head of his walking stick.

  Anton leaned forward, frowning. “I know you,” he said. “I met you in my cousin’s company, in the opera house. You’re Herr von . . . von Born?”

  “Very good,” said the man, and gave one sharp jerk to the head of his walking stick. A long, thin blade shot out in his hand, and the bottom of the stick, a hollow case, fell to the ground.

  “You wish to fight?” Anton pulled out his own sword, grinning fiercely. “All right, then!” He glanced back. “Come on, von Höllner!”

  “I . . .” Friedrich hesitated, still half-crouching, looking back and forth between them.

  “Yes, Brother Friedrich. Do join in, by all means.” Von Born’s teeth flashed in a thin smile. “What an interesting dilemma for you. Whose side are you on?”