Masks and Shadows (32 page)

He was halfway through the list when a knock sounded at the door. The physician was half an hour early. Guernsey shoved the letter under his pillow with a grunt of frustration.

“Come in!”

The door opened. Guernsey blinked.

“Herr von Born! I was not expecting you.”

“No?” Ignaz von Born closed the door behind him and crossed the room, his walking stick tapping lightly against the floor. “I thought the very least I could do was pay a condolence call, as your former traveling companion. How goes your recovery, sir?”

“Very well, sir. Well indeed.” Guernsey beamed up at the older man, mind racing. He had theories about von Born, theories already passed on to King Frederick in his earlier letters. The man had political ambitions and connections to spare, and a mind that had already switched loyalties once, from the quest for scientific knowledge to the quest for material power. He was a figure to be reckoned with in the game of espionage and bought loyalties. “I am honored by your visit.”

“That pleases me.” Von Born smiled thinly. He leaned over to touch a drop of spilled ink on the sheet. “Writing letters in bed, Mister Guernsey? A dangerous habit.”

“I've been working on my book.” Guernsey began to push himself up onto his elbows. “Let me—”

Before he had moved more than an inch, the heavy walking stick pressed against his chest, forcing him back down.

“Ah, the book,” said von Born. “How could I have forgotten?”

The older man held down the stick with only one hand, but all Guernsey's struggles came to nothing. It was like a rod of iron against his chest. If he moved too sharply, he'd break his own ribs.

“Herr von Born,” Guernsey gasped. “I must protest—I don't understand—”

“Do you not?” Von Born raised one eyebrow. With a quick flick, he scooped the pillow from beneath Guernsey's head. The hidden letter fell off the mattress, onto the floor. Von Born shook his head. “As I said, Mister Guernsey. A dangerous habit indeed.”

Guernsey opened his mouth to scream. But the pillow was on top of his face, suffocating him, before he could make a sound.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gossip flew along the musicians' dining table all through dinner, but Anna didn't know what to believe—nor, in her miserably hungover state, could she force herself to care much, either way. She dragged herself back to rehearsal at one o'clock and found the kapellmeister nearly rabid with impatience.

“Hurry, hurry! Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored—beyond all of my hopes are we honored!” He gathered them around him on the stage, his back to the audience where Lieutenant von Höllner was snoring in his accustomed seat. “The Archduke has arrived indeed—and has brought with him the Emperor and the Empress herself!”

Whispers rippled through the company. The wildest rumor of the day had been confirmed. Anna rubbed her aching forehead and tried to summon up excitement.

“Tonight we perform Traetta's comedy, as rehearsed. Tomorrow, though . . .” Herr Haydn swelled with pride. “Tomorrow, as the climax to a day and night of royal celebrations, the Prince wishes us to premiere my new opera for his great visitors. And everything, my friends, must be
perfect
.” He clapped his hands together. “We rehearse them both today!”

Wonderful
, Anna thought drearily. Her head already hurt. Now she would have to try to recall two sets of Italian at once.

Herr Pichler, too, looked pale and wan. He caught her gazing at him and smiled briefly at her.

The door to the audience opened and he jerked his gaze away.

For one terrible moment, Anna expected to see Lieutenant Esterházy step into the theater. She couldn't bear it. Not now, not after last night's humiliating encounter. She stiffened, turned away—

But it was an unfamiliar voice that spoke. “Herr Haydn? Is that you?”

The kapellmeister spun around. His face lit up, and he bowed deeply.

“Your Highness!”

The young man grinned, openly appraising the group of singers on the stage. His face was plain but good-natured beneath his powdered hair. “I hope you don't mind my intrusion, sir. My uncle couldn't escape the formalities this afternoon, so he sent me in his place to hear your rehearsal.”

“I am delighted, Your Highness, and deeply honored. Won't you take a seat? I'll call for refreshments.”

“I won't turn them down, sir. It was a long ride from Vienna.” The Archduke's eyes rested briefly on Anna and on Frau Kettner, the leading lady. His smile broadened. “I'm delighted to finally be here.”

As the Archduke turned to find a seat, Herr Haydn hurried offstage to find a footman. Madame Zelinowsky drifted close to Anna.

“I hope you remember our little discussion, my dear. Lieutenant Esterházy is all very well in his way, but the Archduke is a very fine figure of a man. And he certainly noted
you
.”

Anna was horribly conscious of Herr Pichler, listening in. “Lieutenant Esterházy and I are . . . not a concern, madam.”

“No? Last night—”

“Ended. Last night.” Anna's cheeks burned. “I thank you for your kind advice, madam, but I am not interested in advancing my career in that fashion.”

The older woman tsk'd. “No need to be self-righteous, little Anna. A fine voice can only carry you so far. If you ever wish to rise higher—”

“I've risen quite high enough. Thank you.”

“If you say so. Once a maidservant, always . . .” Madame Zelinowsky's voice drifted off meaningfully. She walked away, skirts rustling.

Anna let out her held breath. She couldn't stop herself from looking to Herr Pichler for his reaction.

He was frowning. “Is it—Fräulein Dommayer, were you telling her the truth?”

It was the end of enough. Anna's temper snapped. “Unlike some people, I don't make a habit of lying, Herr Pichler! Even to malicious, gossiping cats like her.” She cut herself off belatedly and spun around to look for eavesdroppers. “Oh, I shouldn't have . . .”

But he was laughing. “I thank you, Fräulein. It is good to hear truth spoken on this stage, for once.”

Anna lifted her chin. “I always tell the truth.”

“I know.” His eyes were warm. “It's one of the things I most admire about you.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened.

He took a breath. “Fräulein, I am not permitted to speak to you. To spend time with you, or show admiration for you.” He grimaced. “Or, in other words, to offend Anton Esterházy in any way.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Anton Esterházy is
not
—! I mean to say, I refused him.” She flushed anew, but forced herself to continue in a low voice. “Last night I told him I would not—could not—be what he wanted me to be.”

“I'm glad of it,” Herr Pichler said. “But it's the worse for me, if he blames me for it.”

The audience door opened and he jerked away, but it was only Herr Haydn, joining the Archduke for one last moment of conversation. In the back of the audience, Lieutenant von Höllner stirred in his sleep.

Herr Pichler finished in a hasty undertone. “I only wanted to tell you, because you have been kind. I don't avoid you out of dislike or . . . any other cause. I would do otherwise if I could.”

“But why can you not? I don't understand!”

Herr Haydn leapt up onto the stage and brushed his hands against his breeches. “Places, everyone! We shall begin with the Traetta. Kettner! Pichler!”

Anna gritted her teeth as Herr Pichler walked away from her without a backward look.

When she looked up and out into the audience, she found the Archduke watching her with bright attention.

Anna stifled a groan.

Franz waited until Monsieur Delacroix was deep in rehearsal of his
buffo
aria before he went in search of Madame Zelinowsky. He found her standing in a corner backstage, writing quickly.

“An important letter, madam?”

She straightened hastily, slipping the paper into the folds of her skirt. “Why, Herr Pichler, you startled me. You ought to be more careful—if you keep creeping around this way, people will start to take you for a spy.”

He smiled and propped himself against the wall beside her, carefully angling his still-healing back. “A spy, madam? What would make you think of that?”

Madame Zelinowsky tsk'd irritably, even as her color rose. “I am no young ingénue to be intrigued by your riddles, Herr Pichler. And, if I recall correctly, we both have a rehearsal to think of.” She paused, widening her dark eyes in mock-horror. “Unless you've been tossed out?”

“Your wit is remarkable, madam. As is your persistence.” He leaned closer, watching her hands in her skirts. In just one move, he could—
no
. Not yet. “Tell me,” he said smoothly, “why did you send Monsieur Delacroix the letter that incriminated me?”

“What?”

She stumbled back, her hands slipping for a moment from their hiding place. He leapt forward and snatched the half-written note.

“Give that back!”

“I think not.” He whipped it behind his back. The painful stretch of muscles along his scabs only intensified his resolve. “Now tell me the truth, madam. Why did you inform on me?”

She dropped her gaze. “I don't know what you mean, but—”

“You knew I'd helped them. That much I could see even at the time. But what possible reason could you have had for telling Delacroix? You'd heard Marianna Delacroix—we all did!—when he beat her. You
knew
. . .” He drew in a shuddering breath, fighting to retrieve his self-control. But it was a lost cause, just like his poor doomed attempt at heroism had been, when he'd sought to help his friends. “Poor Antonicek sincerely loved her. Now they are both dead and buried, for their pains! How could you?”

“I didn't,” she hissed. “Antonicek and Marianna would have died regardless. The Prince had no information from me on where they fled. I didn't even know which direction they would take.”

“And I? How had I fallen into your bad graces? Enlighten me, I beg you.”

“You—idiot—boy!”

She darted for his hand and the letter, but he jumped back too quickly for her.

“Now, now, madam. You'll have to wait before you inform on someone else. Would it be Fräulein Dommayer, by any chance? Do you write to Lieutenant Esterházy to accuse her of some imagined infidelity?” He shook his head. “By God, you are a cat.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about.” She glared at him, nearly spitting. “I
didn't
write to Delacroix, you fool.”

“No?” He raised the letter before him, still unread, and set his hands atop it to rip it in half.

“I wrote to someone else! Just as I pass on all interesting gossip. It means nothing, it's perfectly harmless—”

“And then the anonymous letter was sent to Monsieur Delacroix, using the information you'd given.” Franz lowered the letter, staring at her. “You kept sending more information after that?”

She shrugged. “I could hardly take back the strokes of the bastinado from your back, merely by giving up a perfectly good source of income, could I?”

“But . . .” Franz glanced at the heading of the letter in his hand.
My dear sir
, it began, without a name. “Why harass Fräulein Dommayer? I heard you working to persuade her.”

“She's young and ignorant. I only tried to help her a little, as a kindness.” Madame Zelinowsky stepped forward. “Now give me my letter.”

Franz backed away. “You've no interest in helping out beautiful new, young singers. Someone told you to do it. Someone who wants her to attract the Archduke. Why?”

“I am not writing about Fräulein Dommayer and the
Archduke
, you fool! She's of no interest to him. At least . . .” Her eyes slitted. “Not directly.”

“Then—”

“I am weary of your importunities, Herr Pichler, and of your wild imagination. If you'd please—”

Herr Haydn's voice sounded through the closed stage door. “Zelinowsky! Pichler!”

“There.” She snatched the letter back from him and flashed a triumphant smile. “Now, if we can finally return to work . . .”

Paper whispered against cloth and then against the floor—a different, folded letter, fallen from her sleeve when she had reached for the first note.

They both dove for it. Franz's hand reached it first, and he snatched it.

“Yet another secret letter,” he purred. “How intriguing.”

Voices called their names from the stage. Still kneeling, he raised one arm to block her reaching hands. He turned the letter over to open it—and froze.

The seal was black and only too familiar.

Franz's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked up and met Madame Zelinowsky's petrified stare.

The stage door burst open.