Masks and Shadows (48 page)

“No,” said Carlo. “Forgive me, sir, but . . .” His weary gaze passed over the flaming remains of the opera house and settled on Herr Haydn's face. “I cannot play this part any longer,” he said quietly. “I leave Eszterháza tomorrow.”

Charlotte left her sister's room at five-thirty in the morning, half an hour after Sophie had finally fallen asleep again, after her first awakening, hysterics, and medical treatment. Deep burns covered Sophie's skin, turning it from peach to deep red and oozing yellow. Prince Nikolaus had come and gone, and promised to return later. The doctor, too, had promised to return, but he also swore that the only permanent damage was to Sophie's right arm, which would never again be perfectly smooth and unmarked. Gloves and long sleeves would hide that, Charlotte supposed . . . but still, the news of the small disfigurement had struck Sophie with even more outward horror than the news of her husband's death.

Three maids hovered near Sophie's bed, ready and waiting to fill any of her needs. Even with her damaged skin, Sophie looked like a beautiful doll, tucked up beneath soft covers with her burned hands hidden beneath silk sheets. As dawn broke through the window, Charlotte finally stood, stretched her aching arms and legs, and walked out of the darkened room.

Exhaustion had transformed itself, hours ago, into a numb and hollow wakefulness. She knew she ought to go to bed, but the horrors of the night still felt too close. Instead, she walked, forcing energy into her tingling legs, down the long corridor, down the grand stairway, out of the palace, and into the coolness of the early-morning air. Her arms throbbed steadily despite the soothing creams that the doctor had applied to her own burns.

Smoke tinged the breeze that swept against her face. Across the wide lawn, she saw a line of dark smoke rising from the ruins of the opera theater.

She couldn't bring herself to think, yet, about all that she had witnessed there. She turned around—and sucked in a breath.

Signor Morelli stood framed in the doorway, scarcely a foot away. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed; he leaned against the golden wall for balance.

“Signor.” Charlotte stepped back, lifting a hand to her hair. It was a mangled mess, she knew; nearly half of its curled and piled mass had burned off, leaving the remains sticking out in wildly different lengths, unbrushed and horribly disordered. She would have taken the time to have it fixed, or to put on a wig, had she imagined that she would see anyone outside at this hour.

“Baroness.” He nodded, but did not smile. “I followed you outside. I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind? No, of course not. But . . .” Charlotte bit her lip. He had changed his outfit, at least, since the fire—but his expression . . . “Should you not be in bed, signor?”

“I couldn't sleep.” His dark eyes fixed on hers. “How does your sister fare?”

“She is sleeping, and safe, and she should recover soon.”

“Thanks to you.”

“No.” Charlotte swallowed. “I was too late. It was her husband who saved her.”

“Her—? Oh, yes.” Signor Morelli's eyebrows lifted. “The young lieutenant.”

“He lost his life in saving hers.” Charlotte closed her eyes, but she couldn't escape the memory. “I watched him disappear into the flames.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“As am I. He was very brave. Heroic.” She paused, fighting down the impulse to tears. “I was so certain, all the way down to the auditorium—I thought it had to be me, to save her. And then I was too late.”

“Yet she was still rescued, after all. Perhaps . . .” His voice trailed off; she saw him draw a breath. “Will you walk with me, Baroness?”

“I'd like that.”

His arm felt strong and warm beneath Charlotte's fingers. She walked beside him across the wide lawn, into the first of the Eszterháza gardens.

Birds chattered in the tall hedges that lined the garden paths. Charlotte matched her steps to Signor Morelli's as they walked in silence past clusters of bright flowers just beginning to open to the sun, roses and lilies and bowing tulips. Bees hummed through the unfurling blossoms, droning softly. Rising sunlight warmed Charlotte's skin.

She found herself lapsing into a near-daze, lulled by the tranquility. She had to struggle to restrain herself from letting her head drop to rest on Signor Morelli's strong shoulder. It was situated at such a perfect height for her . . . Impossible to believe, now, how alien he had seemed to her, when they'd first met.

His high, pure voice broke the peaceful silence. “I couldn't sleep,” he said. “I tried, but every time I closed my eyes . . .”

“I understand.” Charlotte winced.

“Do you?” He stopped walking and turned to look down at her. “I leave Eszterháza today. I've already made the arrangements.”

“You—today?” She stared at him, almost too numb to absorb the shock. “But . . . where will you go?”

“I have standing invitations from half the royal families in Europe,” he said. “Frederick of Prussia, Gustavus of Sweden, George of England . . .”

Charlotte couldn't meet his eyes. She had to force herself to breathe, against the tightening in her chest. “Which one shall you accept?”

“None of them.” His mouth twisted. “I find I can no longer stomach the role of courtly guest. The dance of belonging . . . has finally lost its attractions for me.”

“Oh.” She looked down. Perhaps she ought to withdraw her hand from his arm—but her fingers clung stubbornly to the fabric of his jacket. They would feel so cold, bereft of his heat. “Where will you go, then?”

“Back to Naples,” he said. “I have a house there. A palace, nearly.” He gave a muffled laugh. “My voice has made my fortune, at least, if not my . . . I can still sing there, if I choose; there's a fine opera house in the city that's sent me invitations every year. And my brothers live in Naples, too. I thought . . . I wondered . . .”

He paused so long, she looked back up to see what was wrong. When she met his gaze, it made her breath catch in her throat.

“I could not sleep,” he said softly, “for wondering if I had any chance at all of persuading you to come with me.”

Charlotte stared at him. His smooth, feminine face was open and vulnerable. His high voice rang in her ears.

In the distance, she heard the hum of other voices: gardeners, beginning their day's work. Warmth spread through the early morning air. All around her, thousands of flowers opened to the rising sun.

“Will you?” Signor Morelli asked. “Will you come?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Anna parted from Franz Pichler in bright sunlight, the day after Eszterháza's opera house had burned down and her life had changed forever.

“Well.” He shook his head and laughed. They stood outside the servants' hall, but the carriage that waited for Anna was as gilded and ornate as any princess's conveyance. “The Emperor must be in a great hurry for you to start rehearsals.”

“He said his German-language troupe has needed a new soprano for months.” Anna had to hold herself back from reaching out to run her hand along the gilding in wonder. “When he summoned me this morning and asked whether I had a firm contract with the Prince, I—oh, I had no idea what he was leading to!”

“Why not? You are the heroine of the hour.” Herr Pichler's face softened into a genuine smile. “And a wonderful singer. And I owe you my life.”

“Herr Pichler—”

“No.” He reached out and took her hand. “Let me thank you. You were the only witness to what I did—
all
I did. If you hadn't sworn to the Prince that I was innocent—”

“You were innocent. At the end, when it mattered.” He really was the most handsome man that she had ever known; she felt a shiver run through her at the admiration in his gaze. “You saved all of our lives last night.”

“I don't think it's that simple. But . . . I'm glad it wasn't any worse.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I hope everything is perfect for you in Vienna.” His kiss brushed warmth against her skin; he lowered her hand without letting it go. “It's odd. I thought, at first, that I'd be the one going to Vienna at the end of the masquerade.”

Anna bit her lip. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” he said. “I'm not. I couldn't make the bargain that von Born demanded. I'm grateful to you for helping me see that.” His smile twisted. “Who knows? Perhaps I will find myself in Vienna one day. Then we'll see each other again.”

“Perhaps,” Anna echoed.

Tears rose behind her eyes; she blinked them back. She didn't know what she was crying for, exactly—but the mass of conflicting emotions rose within her chest so strongly that she had to brush her free hand across her eyes and turn away before he could see her tears.

“I hope I will see you again,” she whispered.

“I hope so, too.” He released her hand.

A footman stepped up to help her into the carriage. The incongruity of it helped to distract her a bit. She had jumped out of her mistress's carriage by herself less than a month before, hurrying to see to the Baroness's comfort. But when she arrived in Vienna as the new soprano in the Emperor's national opera company, a maid of her own would be waiting for her. It beggared belief.

She settled in the cushioned seat of the carriage and waited while the footman closed the door. The driver called out a command from above, and the carriage rolled smoothly forward.

She watched Franz Pichler's still figure until it disappeared from view behind the turns of the palace drive. The carriage rolled through Eszterháza's great wrought-iron gate. Anna pressed her face into the glass of the window and watched the golden palace recede behind her.

The tears she'd fought flowed freely down her cheeks. In her hand, she clutched the note the Baroness had sent her like a talisman. The note had been accompanied by a banker's draft so generous it would ensure her financial security if anything ever went wrong—but the note itself, of course, said nothing of money.

I wish you all the great good fortune and delight that you deserve
, the Baroness had written, in the same flowing hand that had taught Anna her letters all those years ago.
Know that you can always call upon me, no matter where I am—and I hope you may find everything you've dreamed of in Vienna.

“Vienna,” Anna whispered.

The national opera company performed in the Burgtheater, Emperor Joseph had told her. The most beautiful, most elegant royal theater in the Empire—and she, Anna Dommayer, at sixteen years old, was to be fêted as its newest star.

Anna turned around in her seat to look west, toward Vienna. Her voice bubbled up inside her chest.
Why not?
she thought. Alone in the carriage, she set it free.

She sang for hours as she crossed the Hungarian plains, leaving Eszterháza behind forever.

“You can't leave!” Sophie stared at Charlotte from her great bed. Designs for mourning dress spilled across her lap, momentarily forgotten; her eyes were red with tears in her burnt face. “Lotte, you must be mad. You know you can't marry him, so—”

“What other course would you approve for me?” Charlotte reached out to stroke a patch of unblemished skin on Sophie's forehead. “You know you don't want to let Maman marry me off again, either.”

“But why can't you just stay here with me?” Sophie leaned into Charlotte's hand. “You're welcome to stay as long as you like—forever! Niko says—”

“I couldn't stay. Not after what's happened here.”

“But that's all over now. We're safe. We're—”

“I meant, after the actions that the Prince countenanced. The murder of the singers. His plans with Count Radamowsky. His . . .” Charlotte gave up as she took in the utter incomprehension on her sister's face. She sighed. “I would not feel comfortable remaining as his guest.”

“But what about me?” Sophie's pretty face screwed up, as fresh tears appeared. “Don't you even care about me anymore?”