Vienna (25 page)

Vienna's expression froze into baffled emptiness.

“Come on, Vienna. Are you certain we aren't being trolled?” Justine continued before Vienna could ask. “Internet lingo meaning someone is pulling a spiteful joke. We have this astounding secret code, so important people are dying to see it, that reads like the opening monologue of a high school play.”

“You think it's a sham?”

“I don't know. Would you ever write something like that?”

Vienna shifted. “‘Let all be made level' was an anarchist motto used before the Great War. No more rich kings and poor peasants, yeah? If the royal families wouldn't step aside, they would have to be killed. Not just Sisi, but Marie-Francois Carnot in France, and Alexander II in Russia, and William McKinley in the United States. They were all assassinated by anarchists, so that all might be made level.”

“Not a good time to have a recognizable coat of arms. What of the rest?”

“I think the anarchists were terrified of what they'd become.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every assassination and every bomb plot weakened the old order. The center could not hold. They felt the war coming—I see it in their books. So they pretended to speak from science and history, as if claiming ties to respected disciplines would somehow bring calm.”

“That fits with the allusions to astronomy and ancient Egypt,” Justine said. “But why so strident?”

Vienna gave a small shrug, hummed a single, short note. “Horace,” she said. “He was the one who talked about words being purple. It's because purple dye used to be an extravagance.” The timid smile. “We're stupid to solve a code and not understand it.”

Justine rearranged the blankets around Vienna. “It doesn't seem fair.”

“But some of it is real. It mentions the Star of Memphis.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“I remembered it in my dreams.”

“It can wait a few hours.”

“I'm tired of sleeping.

Justine sat. “When I was in the third grade, I caught pneumonia. I was in bed for four weeks. Bored to tears but my parents wouldn't let me do anything. I swore I would never put anyone else through that.”

“Now would be a good time to start.”

“Except my parents were right.”

Vienna sighed. “The Holy Grail: the vessel that caught the blood of Christ. You know the tale?”

“Vienna, there are vast sections of cable wasteland that make a living by revealing the shocking truth about the Holy Grail. Is this important?”

“I'm just trying to help.”

She's beautiful when she's all business.
The thought came before Justine had a chance to amend it with something safer. “Apologies, oh Master of History. Please continue.”

“Several Eastern Christian traditions hold that the Holy Grail was a plate. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, many people thought this plate resided in the treasury of the House of Habsburg. It was carved in ancient Rome from a single piece of agate, over half a meter across. It passed to the House of Burgundy after it was plundered from Constantinople in 1204.” Vienna sighed while switching tracks. “The Fourth Crusade. Three days in April. Constantinople burned. Did you know that?” Her voice grew soft. “The city's treasures plundered. Blood so thick in the streets that horses lost their footing. The stench of rotting flesh. Girls raped while their fathers were forced to watch.”

This is what it is to never forget.
The nasty flip side to idyllic dreams of reincarnation. Justine gave Vienna's shoulder a soft squeeze. “So you think you've found the Holy Grail?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“Don't be daft. Historians catalogue it as a fourth-century ornamental plate commissioned by a Roman aristocrat. But even that's something special. The craftsmanship has never been duplicated, and the legends only add to its value. The bowl is one of two recognized Inalienable Heirlooms of the Habsburgs. It's on display in Vienna. I saw it when I was small, an emerald surface polished to hold light. All green, in a million different hues. It appears very deep, as if the stone isn't really there at all, just the color. It's priceless.”

Justine exhaled. “Grant mentioned inalienable artifacts, didn't he? Priceless ones at that.”

Vienna nodded. “The other publicly known Inalienable Heirloom is a unicorn horn. Well, the horn of a narwhal, yeah? It's on display as well. I thought it was depressing.” She rubbed her hand across the bedcover. “Anyway, there was a museum guidebook. That's the German I remembered.”

“So far so good.”

“But it's wrong. There was a third artifact. It was lost, or maybe stolen, in the nineteenth century. The only place I saw it was in a painting when I was younger. A unicorn horn, a plate, and a star, just like on the bottom of the statues.”

Justine nodded but said nothing. She was no longer thinking about plates and stars.

A long time since colonial history, but the pieces were there, lying in the bed next to her. King George III. Not really a British king at all. He represented the House of Hanover, a German family brought in to replace the Stuarts. His Majesty had been a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, just as the Habsburgs had been before him.

The mirror shifted and she saw a new reflection. A handicapped girl left in an Austrian orphanage. The workers there had no idea who she was—Sir Davy had mentioned redacted records. But others had been watching. In light of her asthma, Vienna was taken to the clean air of southern Wales. When her health improved, she was fostered by an English gentleman living in one of the world's wealthiest neighborhoods. Centuries'-old ties never forgotten. Vienna's family name would be something familiar.

“Justine?”

“What?”

“I said the star disappeared in the 1880s. That's when the manikins were made. Maybe the star is hidden in one of them?”

“I don't think so, or chances are they would have found it by now. Or gone after it way before this. We already know they're willing to kill.” Justine rubbed her hands over her face. “I'm in your shoes. Too many facts I can't put together and a pounding headache for my efforts.”

Vienna fidgeted. “What do we do?”

“Follow the girl.”

“The girl?”

“Lina Zahler.”

“Who is…” Vienna's eyes tracked through memory. It would be much harder without seeing the name written. She found it all the same. “David Bell's girlfriend in Hungary. The woman who helped plan the assassination of Sisi.”

“Almost girlfriend.” Justine paused. “Girlfriend.”

Realization hit so fast Justine was caught between laughter and disbelief. Crossed signals triggered a minor bout of coughing.

“Are you okay?”

“Nerds in love.”

“What?”

“The code—it's a love letter. Rich boy falls for a girl from the wrong side of town. Bell's social standing would amount to nothing in the eyes of Lina Zahler. So he puts his fine English education to use by writing a cipher. He's a clever boy and he has studied the jargon. He knows how to do a proper job. You see? He's trying to impress her.”

“How can you know?”

“Nothing generates pretentious language faster than a hard-on.”

“You're only guessing.”

“It's as flawless as your geometry. The code was written in English, and the timing is aligned with the star vanishing. Somehow Bell ended up with it.”

“How?”

Justine shook her head. “No idea. But Zahler was an anarchist and Bell had something valuable to help her cause. He hid the star and dreamed up an elaborate code to prove his bona fides as a True Believer. If Lina wanted the star, she would have to deal with him.” Justine leaned back. “She must have thought it hopelessly juvenile. At any rate she never answered Bell's passion. Bell returned to England. He carved his love's name into the sole of his father's Budapest manikin. He must have carved the unicorn head and plates and stars as well. A final reminder of his deeds for the cause.”

“But they died over a hundred years ago. How can you know what they did?”

“Love comes and goes, but people never change.”

“Okay.” Vienna looked away. “Do you think I'm a nerd, too?”

“Of course. But you wear it with panache.”

“And that makes you the mean woman who thinks everyone is juvenile?”

Justine closed her eyes for several seconds. “You give me too much credit. I'm going to pull the trick Lina refused to.”

“What trick?”

“Pretend love where there is none.”

Vienna's face clouded. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know why I tease you sometimes?”

“I think so.”

Emily's right. She's a terrible liar.

Justine spoke just above a whisper. “For what we have to do next, you have to turn off what you think and trust me.”

“What do we have to do?”

“In Brussels you said the manikins were puzzle boxes. Could you take one apart and put it back together?”

“The diagram I saw was very old. It was hanging on the wall of the Cart House.”

“The same villa my dear dead lover was booted out of for stealing books. The same one where his father first came across the code. God only knows how Sinoro got it. I suppose Grant got careless in his haste. That would be like him.”

“That's not right. Andries was rich and he was friends with members of the Golden Fleece. I'm a nobody.”

“The Cart House was in a forest, wasn't it? You remember trees.”

Vienna seemed to shrink within herself. “Yes. Uncle Anson took me there on holidays. Sunset clouds the color of cherry wine. I didn't think much of it then, but it was beautiful. In winter, the trees shimmered under snow. My foster father once took me for a ride on a horse-drawn sleigh. When I think about it sometimes I feel like crying because it was so perfect. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. It sounds like a wonderful place.”

“The walls had all these pictures and things, dusty and sad. I asked Uncle Anson about it, and he said sometimes it was important to remember the way things used to be. And even if things used to be arrogant and wrongheaded, it was okay to be proud of your past. I'm not sure what that means. But outside it was peaceful, no one for miles around. Only the lake where Nerthus was supposed to have ridden her cart.”

“Lario's Cove.”

“What?”

“Two hour's cruise out of Nadi Town in Fiji there's a little island. You can't find it in guidebooks and maps show it as off-limits as an historic preserve. Lario pretty much owns the place. Crazy old islander, but sweet as any man you will ever meet. Unless you step on his island uninvited, then he starts talking native rights and lawsuits. Scary stuff.”

“I don't understand.”

“Lario's Cove is a playground for the famous. It's a chance to get away from the crowds. Drink too much and talk even more. It's blessed freedom from celebrity, but there are many unwritten rules. Privacy and respect above all else. Overstep the bounds even once and you're gone for good. There are several such places scattered around the world: Takachiho Spa; Marten's Ranch near Jackson Hole; St. Bessel on the Aegean.”

“There was some drinking at Cart House,” Vienna said. “And hunting and card games and a huge telly with football. There were seven old pinball machines in one of the old servant's houses. Uncle Anson kept them in perfect condition. He was very good at playing them.” Vienna's finger's flashed as if she were working pinball paddles. “Lots of different men were there. Not as many women. I didn't recognize any of them, but they all seemed to know each other.”

“Europe's gentry. Likely all related, however distantly. People from families that can trace their ancestry back for centuries. Dukes and counts and margraves. Titles that were once prestigious but now serve as fodder for gossip blogs. I can see why they hold on to their history. I would, too. I would love to see the inside of your forest villa.”

“Why can't you? You're famous, yeah? More famous than any of them.”

Justine smiled. “Same planet, different world. We Americans don't have the genealogy for it.”

Vienna shrugged. “A few times I was there, they were dancing. Men in uniforms and the women in beautiful gowns. Everyone smiling and laughing. I didn't recognize many of the dances, but they always came back to waltzes. Chopin and Strauss and Haydn. It's like a painting.” Vienna sipped at her water glass. “But I think you're right. If anyone made a commotion, they would never be allowed back.” She went silent for several minutes before finding the original thread of the conversation. “The first time Uncle Anson took me to Cart House was seven months after I recited the German Bible in Bath. How could you know about the forest? I don't think I told you about that.”

So Lord Davy was in the picture from the start. Big surprise.

“But you did tell me that Grant's troubles started near Groisbach. I looked it up. It's on the edge of the Wienerwald, not far from your orphanage. I didn't see your fairyland estate on the map, but it's there, hidden in the forest.” Justine bit her lip. “That's probably where Grant first saw you, a decade ago. He would have been about eighteen. You would be easily remembered, a single child in a house of adults. He discovered you were in Brussels and he found a way to introduce himself. You still have access to the estate and everything there. He could use you.” She held up her hand before Vienna could repeat that she was a nobody orphan. “We can talk about it later. For now it's enough to know that the schematic for assembling the manikins is either rare or hidden. Can you follow it?”

“The big toe on the left foot is held with a wooden pin. Take the pin out and the toe drops. The ankle shifts down…” She swallowed. “Yes, I can do it.”