Masks and Shadows (2 page)

“This is wild country indeed.” The English traveler, Edmund Guernsey, lifted a scented handkerchief to his nose and leaned away from the carriage window with a shudder. “I wonder that you gentlemen would brave such dismal surroundings for pleasure. The smell alone is torture!”

Carlo Morelli, the most famous castrato in Europe, looked out his own window at the clusters of straw huts that dotted the harsh brown landscape. In the distance, high walls surrounded Eszterháza Palace, home of the wealthiest nobleman in Hungary. The contrast was . . . instructive, to say the least.

Only two nights ago, in Vienna, an idealistic young poet had ranted at Carlo for an hour about the wonders of the shining new Enlightenment that would soon make all of Europe a paradise. That news had plainly not yet reached the Esterházys' serfs. The men and women who worked outside looked like skeletons, digging hopelessly for roots in the dry, arid ground, their thin frames bent by the wind that swept across the plains. Carlo had never seen such wretched poverty, even in the village where he'd grown up. Yet it was only the smell of the pigs' filth that bothered Guernsey?

Across from both of them, Ignaz von Born let out a short laugh that twisted his thin, ascetic features. “You'll find Eszterháza rather different from the rest of the Hungarian plains, my friend. It is quite the Versailles of our empire . . . apart from the Empress's own Schönbrunn palace, of course.”

“Every prince has his own Versailles nowadays,” Carlo said quietly. “I've sung in most of them.”

“And better, I'm sure.” Guernsey leaned forward eagerly. “You've sung for the Sublime Porte in Constantinople, have you not?”

Carlo leaned back slightly, keeping his fixed smile. “And the tsarina in St. Petersburg.”

“A happier choice.” Von Born fixed Carlo with his glittering gaze. “Our co-regent, Emperor Joseph, is none too happy with the Turks, these days.”

“Really?” Carlo said. “I thought he'd be happier than ever, now that they've displayed such weakness before the Russian armies. The gossip in St. Petersburg was that he and the tsarina together might well carve up a new Ottoman Empire for themselves . . . if only they can create an expedient political excuse to do it.”

“You're in Habsburg lands now, my friend.” Von Born wrapped his bony hands around the elegant, ornamental walking stick that he held even while sitting in the carriage—an odd affectation for a man who seemed otherwise uninterested in fashion. “I would judge your words well.”

“Yet I am no Habsburg citizen, and music knows no borders.” Carlo met his gaze and felt, more than saw, the flinch that ran through both men at the high, sweet tone of his voice.

A freak
. It was how most saw him. Every bone in von Born's aristocratic body probably felt the twinge of repulsion, yet his face retained its normal hauteur. Guernsey, on the other hand . . . Carlo had met his type too often to be surprised any more. That sort of man couldn't hide the fascination that matched the repulsion. Left to his own devices, he would probably ask to see if there was still a scar left from the operation, all those years ago.

Carlo thought back to the scarecrow farmers toiling outside. Better to be a freak, and fêted by kings, than to lead that life. If his parents hadn't listened to their village organist and taken the risk, he might well be dead by now of starvation or any one of the creeping diseases that ran amok in poor farming communities. Who would want the ability to bring more children into such circumstances?

He met von Born's gaze full-on and smiled gently. Von Born might be an aristocrat, but Carlo's voice had carried him into greater palaces than the old man's noble birth ever could.

Von Born coughed and looked away. “Is this your first visit to Eszterháza, Signor Morelli?”

“It is.”

“You'll find it a wonderland of culture after this dreary countryside.” He raised his walking stick to gesture at the massive building taking shape before them. “Operas and concerts beyond compare, and one of the finest art collections in the world.”

“And are you here on business or pleasure, Herr von Born?” Carlo asked gently.

Von Born stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our friend Mr. Guernsey is writing his book of travels, are you not, sir?”

Beside Carlo, the little man twitched. “It has been my dream for a long time to surpass Dr. Burney's memoirs. He wrote well about music, but he could not understand the cultures.”

“Indeed.”

Carlo kept his lips firm with an effort. Guernsey—if that was indeed his name—must have worked long and hard on his English accent. It was exceedingly rare to find a German native who could mimic it so well. Carlo, though, had spent a year in London, singing at Kew Palace and at the Haymarket Theater. He would swear on his kingly salary there that this little man had never set foot in England in his life.

King Frederick of Prussia had spies already scattered throughout most of Europe. Had the Esterházys attracted his rapacious attention now, as well?

“So.” Carlo inclined his head politely to the aristocrat across from him. “We have all, I'm sure, heard stories of your amazing feats of alchemy, sir. I only wondered whether your trip was purely for pleasure, or if you were planning a—shall we say, professional retreat?”

Von Born's lips thinned. “The philosophical quest is a matter of passion, sir, not ‘business' . . . much like the pursuit of great music, I would imagine.”

“Of course,” Carlo murmured. He noted to himself, however, as the carriage slowed, that von Born had refrained from answering his question.

The title of “alchemist” covered a multitude of sins, in Carlo's experience. Von Born presented himself as a natural philosopher and student of minerology, and in earlier life had become famous for his scientific experiments . . . yet his fingers, now wrapped around his ever-present walking stick, no longer displayed the tell-tale stains of laboratory work.

Perhaps his passions were leading him in other directions, nowadays.

“We've arrived!” Guernsey nearly bounced in his seat. “Eszterháza itself!”

Marble pillars soared high into the air around them. Uniformed servants pulled open a wrought-iron gate to reveal the palace itself, opening before them. Eszterháza's golden body and front wings formed three sides of a giant square, enclosing a front courtyard filled with rippling fountains, a wide reflecting pool, and classical statues that gazed coolly down at the approaching carriage. Carlo leaned back in his seat and smiled as the golden walls of the palace closed around them.

The most notorious alchemist in Europe and a probable Prussian spy rode in the carriage with him.

This might well be an interesting visit, after all.

Inside the walls of Eszterháza, at the end of a corridor through which only the most trusted servants were allowed, a plume of dirty gray smoke escaped under the crack of a closed door. It rose up into the air, twisting and contorting until it formed a snake-like, coiled mass. Deep within its roiling center, eyes opened and flashed red.

Its gaze fixed on the end of the corridor and the opening that led to the rooms beyond. Uncoiling, it flowed forward in a smooth, predatory glide.

Inside the room, a deep voice began to chant. The words rolled out, following the smoke down the corridor. It twisted and turned, fighting their grip.

The voice hardened. The smoke lurched gracelessly backward, still struggling. It clung for one last moment to the ornately carved beveling around the bottom of the wooden door. The voice rapped out a single word.

With a hiss of anger, the smoke released the door and disappeared into the room.

Chapter Two

The central kitchen of Eszterháza boiled over with activity. Black smoke billowed out of the open ovens, choking the air. Anna squeezed her way through the mass of shoving bodies and noise, fighting to keep her tray steady in her arms. Unbidden, a song rose up through her chest, a reaction to her panic. She forced it down with a gulp. Singing here, in public—that was the last thing she needed! She'd been teased enough for it back in Saxony, where at least everyone knew her and understood what she was like.

“Watch where you're going!” A big footman slammed straight into her shoulder, sending her reeling.

She scrambled to right her slipping tray. Her feet skidded on the floor. The empty silver vase teetered on the edge of the tray.

“Here.” Another maidservant grabbed her arm, steadying her. Anna jerked the tray upright, just in time.

The footman who'd slammed into her strode ahead and out the great doors, still balancing his two trays perfectly.

“Ass.” The other maid shook her head. “Don't worry about György. He's like that with all the visitors.” She stepped back. “You're all right now?”

Anna had to think through the woman's thick Hungarian accent before she could answer. Anna couldn't tell, yet, what the minor variations in the Esterházy livery signified. Was this woman a housemaid, part of the cleaning staff, perhaps? Or another personal maid, like herself? “I'm fine, thank you.” She managed a weak smile, feeling her heartbeat flutter against her chest. She would not humiliate herself and her mistress. She would
not
.

The other woman's eyes narrowed. “Are you new to service?”

“No!” Anna flushed, tightening her grip on the tray. “I've been a maid for six years—since I was ten! But I only arrived here last week. I've never seen so many people before.” She ducked her head, avoiding the other woman's gaze. “I worked for a baron in Saxony, in the countryside. There were only thirty of us working there.”

And I knew them all . . .
She swallowed down homesickness, as sudden and sharp as glass in her chest. It had been her own decision to follow her mistress after Baron von Steinbeck's death, rather than stay on and work for the new baron's wife. It had sounded like such an exciting adventure . . .

“You'll grow used to it soon.” The other woman smiled. “I'm Erzebet. You can always find me if you have any questions.” She began to turn away, but stopped. “Oh, and you shouldn't have any more trouble from György—as soon as I tell him you're from the middle of nowhere, not Vienna, he'll leave you alone.”

“Doesn't he care for Vienna?”

“Care for it?” Erzebet snorted. “He's jealous to the teeth of anyone who actually lives there. Our prince only visits for four months a year, so we're trapped out here the rest of the time.” She rolled her eyes. “It's not as bad here as György makes out, though; don't worry.”

She disappeared into the bustling crowd. Anna pushed her way through, gritting her teeth, until she could finally deposit her mistress's breakfast dishes. The clock began to toll as she set down the trays. Only two hours until the ladies went down to dinner, and she hadn't even laid out her mistress's clothing yet!

Tears blurred her vision as she plunged back into the dimly lit servants' corridor. Barely two feet wide and hidden within the thick walls of Eszterháza, the corridor ran along the edges of the nobility's halls and salons, offering discreet entrance to rooms filled with beauties and oddities. Late at night, when the nobles were finally abed, Anna had walked through those rooms, barely daring to breathe as she gazed at Chinese figurines, exotic fans, textured paintings made entirely from crushed seashells, and sculptures that gazed with impassive eyes across the marbled floors. Now, she raced through the stifling passageway, past the doors that led to the Silk Room, the Cedar Room, the Greek. There was no time to run the whole circuitous route behind the walls that would take her, unobserved, from here all the way to the servants' staircase. She emerged, head down in her rush, into the corner of the Blue Salon—

—And slammed straight into a gentleman's brocaded chest.

“Oh, no!” She leapt back and sank down into a deep curtsey. “I'm so sorry, sir! Oh, please forgive me!”

Prince Nikolaus had his own executioner, they said, and his own dungeons—and—

“Don't worry, lass!” Warm hands pulled her up. “I'm no great gentleman to offend, only another servant like yourself.”

Anna let her gaze rise up from the floor. He wore a gorgeous brocaded red coat—but, yes, now she saw it: on his apple-green waistcoat, expensive though the cloth might be, the Esterházy insignia was clearly embroidered.

Gray eyes twinkled at her from a pockmarked, gnome-like face. “You see? Not so frightening.”

“I am sorry, Herr—”

“Haydn, my dear. His Serene Highness's humble kapellmeister. On my way back from an excellently productive meeting. And you?”

“Annamaria Dommayer, sir, personal maid to Baroness von Steinbeck.” Anna backed away. “But I am late, so—”

“On your way, my dear, on your way.” He strode off toward the next room, whistling an unfamiliar melody. It sounded bright and jaunty, like a child's skipping tune.