Masks and Shadows (4 page)

Friedrich squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of sunlight through the window. The memories played against his closed eyelids.

They'd gone to another tavern; he remembered that much. And then a third and a fourth, and, finally, down a long and twisting alleyway, with the sound of a string quartet leaking out of a nearby building. Down a trapdoor. Down slippery steps.

He'd been so drunk. So stupidly drunk. He'd convinced himself it was a wonderful game, a perfectly safe adventure.

“Friedrich!” Anton shook his shoulder. “Wake up, man!”

“I'm awake,” Friedrich muttered. He opened his eyes to finish the letter.

Friedrich wouldn't even recognize any of the men he'd met if he ever saw them again. They'd all been wearing dark robes. In the guttering candlelight, their faces had looked like black voids beneath their hoods.

And some of the men there—some of them, he could have sworn—

No
. Friedrich swallowed down the taste of bile. He'd been drunk. Too drunk to know what he was swearing to. Too drunk to tell between men and . . . and . . .

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Anton said. “What the devil does that letter say?”

“Nothing.” Friedrich crumpled it into a ball in his fist. “It's nothing.”

“But—”

“Forget it.” Friedrich pushed himself up from the table, avoiding the Prince's cousin's eyes. No use trying for help there. Nausea clenched his stomach as he felt his wonderful, comfortable life dissolve around him.

Chapter Three

“Aha.” Charlotte swept down the corridor, sighing with relief. Just one more turn—

Or not
. She stood in an unfamiliar corridor, ready to scream with frustration.

How indescribably vexatious. How
stupid
, to lose herself on her way to dinner after nearly a week of living in this palace!

Of course, on every other day, Sophie had collected her and led her down safely. She'd offered to do so again today, but no, Charlotte had been determined to prove her independence. And she truly did remember, even now, how to find the salon where the courtiers would gather in four more hours to drink their pre-concert wine . . . but after following what seemed miles of twisting passageways, the location of the Sala Terrena itself was as great a mystery as ever.

She slumped. If her black skirts hadn't billowed out to such an absurd width, to match the latest Viennese fashions, she would have leaned against the painted wall and let her hair powder be damned.

After all her wandering, she didn't even know the way back to her own room.

She laughed softly, to keep herself from crying. This wasn't how she had envisioned her widowhood. Free at last from the dark, hushed confinement of her married home and nursing duties—and she couldn't even find her own way to dinner. Perhaps she should let her parents marry her off to another seventy-year-old baron, without even trying to resist this time. Perhaps she really couldn't manage her own life.

Stop it
. She jerked her spine upright.

A flash of movement at the end of the corridor caught her eye.

“Oh, please!” She hurried forward, cursing her precariously high heels. “I beg your pardon, but can you tell me how to find the Sala Terrena?”

The tall figure stopped and turned, revealing an unfamiliar, older woman's face. The hauteur that stiffened her features revealed her status as a great lady, just as much as did the three maidservants scurrying in her wake.

“Pardon me?”

“I'm afraid I've lost my way.” Charlotte sighed and sketched the tiniest of curtseys. “I've been here nearly a week already, so my forgetfulness is really deplorable.”

The woman's stern features softened into the hint of a smile. “I made the same mistake myself often enough, when this palace was first built. It is truly a labyrinth.” She inclined her head briefly. “I don't believe I've met you before.”

When it was first built . . .
A sinking sensation formed in the pit of Charlotte's stomach. “Baroness Charlotte von Steinbeck.”
Please, oh please, don't let it be . . .

“Princess Esterházy.” The Princess's face stilled. “Baroness von . . . Steinbeck, did you say?”

“I did. Your Highness.”

“Then you must be Sophie von Höllner's sister.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Charlotte sank into the full curtsey reserved for royalty this time, grateful for the opportunity to turn her gaze to the floor, away from the Princess's face.

Silence stretched taut between them. Heat suffused Charlotte's cheeks. She stared down at the wooden floorboards, counting her heartbeats. Damn Sophie, for putting her in this situation. Damn herself, for accepting it and never even considering the Princess until now.

“Well,” the Princess said. Her voice was colorless. “I have been remiss in not welcoming you sooner.”

“Oh, no—Your Highness—”

“The Sala Terrena is one floor down. If you take the next right turn, you can follow the second staircase.” The Princess gave a wintry smile. “I would show you the way myself, but I prefer to eat alone, in my own rooms, nowadays.”

“Oh.” Charlotte swallowed. “I . . . thank you, Your Highness. And thank you for your hospitality. It has been most welcome.”

“No need to thank me, Baroness. As I'm certain you're aware, the hospitality is my husband's. In this palace, nothing belongs to me.”

The Princess's full skirts swished stiffly as she walked away, followed by the line of maids. Charlotte waited until the last echo of their footsteps had faded before she lifted herself from her curtsey.

All of her muscles trembled from their cramped position . . . and more.

Had Charlotte really dared feel sorry for herself, earlier? In the Princess's cold, clear gaze she had felt flayed open before a deeper and more bitter pain than she had ever known or dreamed of as the young wife of Baron Ernst Michael von Steinbeck.

Biting down hard on her lower lip, Charlotte hurried down the corridor, toward the staircase.

“There you are at last!” Sophie fluttered away from the crowd to seize Charlotte's arm. “What in heaven's name kept you so long? You must meet our new guests. Niko is late, unfortunately, so our dinner is delayed—oh, there's been a great scandal in the musicians' quarters!”

“Scandal?” Charlotte echoed faintly, as Sophie tugged her through the glittering mass of courtiers. Half-familiar faces flashed past her, scowling or open in laughter. Through the crowd, she caught glimpses of the several fountains that splashed merrily in the room, filled with marble dragons, swans, and storks. Frescoed figures stood high on the green inlay of the white walls, gazing down coolly at the assembled company, while allegorical scenes rose high above them on the painted ceiling.

“It's too shocking for words. The two romantic leads of the opera company—Herr Antonicek and Madame Delacroix—have actually eloped, in the middle of the night! They were breaking their contracts with Niko, of course, and worse yet, Madame Delacroix is married to the head of the company. Niko strictly forbids immorality among the servants, of course, so they have
twice
insulted him. He is in a towering rage.” Sophie dragged Charlotte to a stop, smiling brilliantly. “And here are our illustrious guests! May I present my older sister, Baroness von Steinbeck?”

Head still whirling, Charlotte inclined her chin. The tall, spare man before her leaned on an ebony walking stick, but he took her hand in a dry, firm grip.

“Charmed.” His lips brushed across her knuckles like crackling paper.

“Lotte, this is Herr von Born, the famous alchemist.”

Von Born's face tightened around his smile. “Natural philosopher, please, madam.” He transferred both hands to the head of his walking stick.

“Of course.” Sophie brushed aside the correction. She shot Charlotte a look of pure mischief as she gestured past her. “And here is the illustrious Signor Morelli, whom I know you've been simply longing to meet!”

Charlotte gritted her teeth and sank into a slight curtsey as she turned, only as excuse to hide her eyes for a moment. “Signor.”

“Baroness.” A pale, strong hand took hers. As she looked up, soft, warm lips pressed lightly against her knuckles.

She had to restrain an impolite gasp. Signor Morelli was not as she'd expected. Not at all. Rather than being a flabby, womanly figure, he stood taller than any man in the room, with a broad, powerful chest. His curling black hair shone, free of powder, in its queue, a vivid mark against the sea of powdered silver heads that surrounded him.

Yet the lines of his—her?
its?
—face were disturbingly feminine, matching the unnervingly high, pure voice. It was not a man's voice—yet not, quite, that of a woman, either. Discomfort crawled through Charlotte's stomach. The curve of those smooth, soft, cheeks, untouched by hair—the full lips—

“Madam?” the castrato asked, lips twitching in amusement.

Charlotte blushed fiercely and withdrew her hand. She prayed that the powder on her face would hide her discomposure. She had stood staring at him for much, much too long.

“I look forward to hearing you sing, signor.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Ah, but I've been invited as a guest, not as a performer.”

“Ah . . . of course.” Charlotte moistened her lips, conscious of Sophie's brimming amusement. “Pray forgive me, signor. I never meant to imply—”

“—But perhaps His Highness will do me the honor of allowing me to sing for my own pleasure one evening.” He smiled, eyes glittering.

“That would be lovely for all of us,” Charlotte murmured. It was all she could do not to pick up her skirts and flee the condescending amusement in his high, unnatural voice. She shot a discreetly imploring look at her sister.

“Perhaps Lotte can play accompaniment for you, signor,” Sophie said brightly. “I vow, she devotes half her life to her clavichord. I know she would be delighted to assist you.”

Charlotte swallowed venomous thoughts and stretched her lips into a deprecatory smile. “My skills are so poor—”

“Nonsense, Lotte.” Sophie turned to the others. “Why, our old music master always called it a great pity she was born to too high an estate to pursue the vocation professionally.”

Signor Morelli tilted his head. “There are some very great ladies in Paris and in Dresden who hold salons as venues for their own marvelous performances.”

“I'm afraid my own talents would never merit such a display,” Charlotte murmured, through clenched teeth. “Monsieur Lemartre was only being flattering, to please our mother, I believe.”

“A wise servant indeed.”

Signor Morelli's long eyelashes flicked down to cover his eyes for an instant, but they could not shield the dry tone of his voice. It sparked a hot flare of irritation in Charlotte's chest.

“I would be honored to offer up my skills as accompanist, though, should they prove useful to you.” She met his eyes, raising her own eyebrows slightly in challenge.

His own eyes widened. “I am honored . . . Baroness.”

“And what of you, Herr von Born?” Sophie fluttered her curling eyelashes at the silent figure and grinned impishly. “You must tell us all about your alchemical adventures! I am all agog. Niko—that is, His Serene Highness—has very nearly promised me that you will summon up a ghost or two for our entertainment while you are here. Please, sir, you must oblige me in this!”

He coughed into one fist. “I am afraid I pursue a line of enquiry far too tedious for feminine interest, madam. I study minerology—”

“The quest for the Philosopher's Stone?” Charlotte asked. “My late husband took a great interest in that subject.”

Ernst had never believed in it—quite—or so he'd claimed, but he had often asked Charlotte to read tracts and letters to him about it, on evenings when the pain of his rheumatism was not too great to allow him to think clearly. She had penned his vast correspondence on it, too, after his fingers lost their own control.

“Was your husband a philosopher, then?”

“Only an enthusiast and a patron. I believe you knew him, actually—his name was Ernst von Steinbeck, but he wrote his letters under the name Ernst Stein.”

There are few enough realms in which men may be equals
, Ernst had told her, his voice gently regretful, when she had questioned him about that choice.
In the realm of natural philosophy, at least, I don't require any man's reverence for my birth
.

“Ah.” Von Born's eyes widened briefly. “I did know him very slightly, then. We exchanged one or two letters on the subject of natural philosophy. A fine mind. If I'd known his true identity . . . Never mind. I am sorry to hear of his death.”