If so … how much of that creature’s essence was left behind in its host each time? And how much of one’s own essence might be lost to it?
Caroline opened her mouth to release the question.
The radiant expression on her secretary’s face stopped her words in her mouth. She looked down at her own linked hands, breathing deeply.
It had only been once that she had touched the darkness. Surely no harm could come of that.
“If only you could ask your old teacher for further details,” Charles said. “To have so much power so close by—so nearly within our grasp—”
“It’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”
“Well then … Will you excuse me, Lady Wyndham?” Charles pulled himself to his feet as he spoke, using the arm of the sofa for support. “I should like to begin my research immediately. All my books are hidden in my room, so …”
“Of course.” Caroline stretched her lips into a smile. “Do take time to rest, though, too. I am sure you are in need of it.”
“Rest? When such miracles are possible?” Charles flashed a sudden smile of surpassing sweetness. The light from the windows sparkled on his spectacles. “I do thank you for your consideration—but I wouldn’t dream of it!”
“Of course,” Caroline repeated softly.
She watched him limp across the floor and out the room.
She had touched the darkness only once …
But the damage, it seemed, had already been done.
Michael stalked outside onto the Dorotheergasse and slammed the front door of the building closed behind him. He had to take a deep breath before he could start moving again.
Damn the brilliant, goodhearted old Prince de Ligne for interrupting Michael’s first honest conversation with Caroline in twenty-four years. Damn that smug bastard Weston, who’d gloried in watching Caroline dismiss Michael as efficiently as any unwanted servant. Damn himself, most of all, for caring and letting her see it.
He hadn’t let himself be vulnerable to anyone, man or woman, for over two decades. What was the matter with him now?
Michael released his held breath with a shudder and woke for the first time to the environment around him. Cold air tingled against his face, carrying with it all the smells of the inner city—cooking meat from a nearby apartment window, horse muck and sewage from the cobblestones before him, roasting coffee from the Kaffeehaus next door … and, above all, the unmistakable scent of crowds of humanity pressed tightly together.
Michael breathed it all in as he stepped back against the pink outer wall of the building, making room for a group of Russian visitors to pass. The closest woman’s parasol brushed against his cheek as their rolling voices swept across and past him. Bright yellow, pink, and blue townhouses pressed plastered shoulders against each other across the street, while carriages rattled noisily past in both directions. Coachmen shouted inventive insults at their counterparts, and the occupants of the carriages yawned and gazed out the windows with fashionable ennui.
Michael felt his shoulders relax as he took it all in: the essence of city life, generic and universal, sweeping around him, even as the uniquely Viennese mixture of accents and smells carried with it the unmistakable message of home. It was in cities like this one that he had made his way all his life, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the rushing flood of the crowds, taking on different names and personalities as each day—or moment—called for.
It was in this particular city, until that terrible night twenty-four years ago, that he had learned what it was to be alive and breathing in tune with a quarter of a million other citizens, all jostling against each other in one compressed space.
This was all that truly mattered, when it came down to the essentials: to be alive and playing the game in the heart of a vibrant city …
No matter what anyone might say to the contrary.
Michael shoved aside the frustration that had driven him out of the building, and—with more effort—the memory of that morning. Those memories belonged to Michael Steinhüller.
He stepped out into the flow of the crowd and became Prince Stefan Kalishnikoff once more.
And what would Prince Kalishnikoff choose to do next, on a beautiful, bright, cold October afternoon?
A man of fashion in Vienna could occupy his time in many ways. He might ride out in the Prater, on horse or in a stylish phaeton, or stroll along one of the park’s broad avenues, tipping his hat to old and new acquaintances. He might choose to pay social calls or—like a true Viennese—spend the afternoon flipping through newspapers in his favorite Kaffeehaus.
Or …
Michael’s steps slowed as he remembered the previous night’s conversation.
If he wanted to progress the game, he knew what his next move would have to be: to find the radical pamphleteers of the present day, hidden from the ever-watchful Viennese secret police.
Fire, screaming, the sound of smashing metal …
He would not be intimidated by his past. He was Prince Kalishnikoff now, not a frightened boy, and he was in his element.
Michael turned his steps to aim himself toward the ninth district. If he could find pamphlets anywhere, he’d swear it would be in the university district. And so long as the police didn’t spot him making his inquiries …
He told himself that he wasn’t afraid. After all, what was there for Prince Kalishnikoff to fear? At worst, a visiting royal could only face banishment from the city, escorted by determined guards. Nothing worse than that could happen. There was no reason to be afraid.
After more than two decades of disguises and deceptions, Michael almost managed to make himself believe it.
It was even easier than he’d expected.
The student wine taverns hadn’t changed since Michael was a boy. They were still dark and full of smoke, and the wine they sold was atrocious. Michael bought a jug of white wine anyway and headed for the furthest tables, toward the foulest back corner, where the rats scuttled around the students as they argued. Smiling amiably, his expression abstracted, Michael listened to every conversation he passed as he navigated a path through the crowded tables.
It would be madness, of course, to debate politics, even here … but university students as a species, if not precisely mad, were more than reckless. They were, after all—barring a few charity cases—by and large the sons of Austria’s highest families, and some of them as young as seventeen years old. Who among them could truly believe in the reality of danger until it seized them by the throat?
The tavern he’d chosen was located underground, in a stone cellar beneath a Turkish restaurant and a thriving bookshop. Guttering candles lit the impassioned young faces that clustered along the rows of benches. The students’ gestures, in furious debate, made their dark robes flap like the wings of crows. Michael walked more slowly, to catch the details as he walked.
The first table was useless to him, engaged in a hot debate on the works of Immanuel Kant. Most of the group declared him the greatest philosopher in the German language; a single brave student laughed them all down in favor of the newest lectures by Professor Hegel, passed on through reports from Berlin.
At the next table, a fierce argument raged over the education of females, punctuated by lewd jokes and bursts of hilarity. Michael peered through the darkness ahead, clouded by smoke. He fixed on the single figure who sat in the furthest corner, alone and hunched over a text carefully hidden underneath the table.
Aha.
Michael’s steps quickened. He weaved his way through the last of the crowd and sat down across from the solitary reader, setting the jug of wine on the table with a clatter.
“Good afternoon, my friend,” he said, in his most rolling Eastern accent. “We meet again!”
The boy’s head jerked up. His hands loosened around his text. It slipped through his fingers and fell under the table. He dived for it …
But Michael reached it first.
His fingers closed around a thin pamphlet, made
of crookedly cut paper. Poor work, he thought. His old master would never have countenanced such a slipshod performance from his own apprentice, much less the hastily done print, which marched along the page in angled slopes full of misspellings.
But Prince Kalishnikoff wouldn’t care for such details.
“Why the Congress Is Deluded,” Michael read aloud softly. He flipped the pamphlet open, placing one finger idly in the middle to hold his place. He smiled gently at the student across from him. “An interesting work?”
“I—I wouldn’t—that is, I don’t …” The boy’s face looked suddenly sallow and far younger in the flickering candlelight. “I mean …”
“We met the other day, did we not? In the Café Rothmann. You were there with a group of friends.”
“I don’t—” The boy peered at him, blinking. “Prince Kalishnikoff?”
“Good, you do remember. I am honored. Herr … Hüberl, is it not? Please”—Michael gestured to the jug.—“won’t you share a glass or two with me?”
“Ah …” The boy’s eyes were still fixed on the pamphlet in Michael’s hands.
Michael laid the pamphlet down in his own lap and leaned forward to pour the wine into clay cups. “Fascinating literature, these pamphlets. Of course, it’s not surprising that the government forbids them. To allow dissent—to permit one’s citizens to reach such dangerous, possibly revolutionary conclusions …”
Young Hüberl swallowed visibly. “Your Highness, I should explain. I wasn’t—that is, that isn’t even my pamphlet, it was here when I sat down—I was going to report it to the authorities, of course, but—”
“But you thought you’d have a look first and see what the madmen said. I understand completely.” Michael pushed the second cup across the table. “Here, have another drink. As I was saying, I understand why the Habsburg authorities have forbidden such prints … but I must say, I personally find them most intriguing.”
“You do?” Hüberl eyed Michael warily, even as he raised the cup to his lips.
“But of course. After all, I no longer have the responsibilities of government, myself, and I’ve always cherished the idea of an open mind. Free debate can only be harmful, surely, if a man has something to hide.”
Had he gone too far? Not yet, Michael judged, but possibly soon, judging by the nervous look in the boy’s eyes—half-enticed but also half-horrified.
It was hard to remember, sometimes, that boys like this, even here in Vienna, hadn’t grown up with the institution of a free press as Michael had. They’d grown up with a government terrified by the French revolution, committed to repressing all dissent—to making the act of criticism itself a crime. Even at the university itself, there’d been a purge of professors in the 1790s, and those who’d remained had learned to forget all their inconvenient theories of natural law and social contracts.
Michael repressed a sigh. This was no moment for nostalgia, and he had no one to share it with, anyway. Caroline would remember what those heady days had been like … but Caroline, as she’d made perfectly clear, would never agree to discuss the past with him.
He widened his smile and leaned back, sipping his own wine. “Don’t worry. I shan’t tell anyone that I found you reading this. I understand the … confusion that might cause for you.”
The wariness in Hüberl’s expression disappeared, to be replaced by horror of an entirely different sort. “No! Please, Prince Kalishnikoff, I beg you, don’t—”
“I’ve no desire to cause you any difficulties, sir. Why should I? I’m only here for the duration of the Congress, and when I speak with the emperor himself at the Hofburg tonight …” Michael let the phrase linger in the air for a thrumming moment, before releasing it. “I shall certainly have more important matters of state to discuss.”
“Of course.” Hüberl slumped, and downed the rest of his wine in one gulp.
Michael looked away from the painful relief on the boy’s face, keeping his voice light. “Where would I find more of these, by the way?”
“Oh, anywhere on the campus. Or if you really want …” Hüberl stuttered to a stop, relief turning to sudden chagrin.
“It’s of no occasion. But I would like to see all sides of Vienna while I’m here.” Michael slipped the pamphlet into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Of course, I could simply keep this one as a souvenir to remember you by …”
He held the boy’s gaze for a long moment, fighting down an unwonted wave of self-loathing.
If his old master could see him now … or Caroline …
Hüberl swallowed visibly. “The fifteenth district,” he muttered. “Where the Jews and Musselmans live. On Rotringstrasse, above the grocery.” His voice dropped to a bare whisper. “Only say you want to buy one of their imported fruits.”
“Ah. Clever.” Michael snorted softly and withdrew the pamphlet from his jacket. “I thank you for your help, Herr Hüberl. And I promise …” His smile twisted as he dropped his own voice. “I shall remember you. In detail.”
Hüberl blinked rapidly. “I … understand.”
“I’m glad.” Michael passed the pamphlet across the table and stood up. “Enjoy your reading.”
He stepped away from the table and walked slowly out of the room, not letting his steps speed up as they wanted to. His legs wanted to break into a run, to distance himself from the boy he’d left behind and from the feeling that was creeping up on him against his will.
He felt … Michael shrugged his shoulders irritably as he emerged into the narrow, creaking staircase that led to the upper floor. He took a deep gulp of air—stale, constricted air, of course, but at least it was free of smoke and free of youthful student chatter.
He felt old.
Damn it! This should be the greatest game of his life, to be played with all his heart. He should have felt joy in the perfect conclusion of a conversation successfully maneuvered to meet all his ends.
He hadn’t.
Michael remembered the boy’s stricken face, the battle he’d glimpsed there between terror and outrage. Young Hüberl wouldn’t report him to the authorities, of that Michael was certain. But there had been no joy in manipulating such an innocent, unworldly pawn.
And as he’d threatened the boy into compliance, all Michael had seen in his mind’s eye had been Caroline’s face that morning, pale and drawn with remembered horror.
Weariness settled around Michael’s shoulders like a heavy cloak. He pushed open the door and stepped outside.
He wouldn’t go to the fifteenth district this afternoon, even if that was the obvious next step. Oh, he could find some fair excuse for putting off the visit—if anyone was watching him, for instance, it would be a poor strategy indeed to lead them directly from his informant to his goal—but that wasn’t what held him back, just now.
Michael had festivities at the Hofburg tonight to prepare for. And he found himself wanting more than anything else to take a fiery hot, purifying bath beforehand, to scrub himself free of the combined stink of guilt and fear.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Caroline arrived at the Hofburg palace an hour after full darkness. Smoking flambeaux lit the glittering procession of nobility that made up the emperor and empress of Austria’s receiving line. The line wound through two full stone courtyards, past statues of past rulers in heavy robes of majesty and statues of muscular Greek heroes in combat with writhing monsters. The torches cast flickering shadows across the statues’ curves, so that at one moment a hydra’s head came into view and at the next a stern Habsburg face.
As her carriage—required by fashion, if not by common sense, to carry her the three blocks from her apartment—drove away, Caroline stepped to the end of the line. At least a dozen other guests soon followed, streaming forth from their own carriages. Despite all her resolutions beforehand, Caroline couldn’t stop herself from looking back covertly to see if Michael was among them.
“Caro!” Marie, Lady Rothmere, swept across to join her from the furthest group, dragging her
tall husband behind her. “What a crush! I vow, I can barely breathe.” She inserted herself neatly into the line in front of Caroline. “Tedious beyond belief, don’t you agree?”
“Mm,” Caroline said. She exchanged a rueful smile with Marie’s weary-looking husband as he shrugged apologetically at her. “And how are you both today?”
Marie answered blithely, craning her smooth neck to peer at the line ahead of them. “Oh, fagged beyond anything. George has been off at his tiresome political meetings all day long, of course, leaving me to find my own amusement where I could.”
“My dear,” Lord Rothmere began, placatingly, “I hardly think—”
“Oh!” Marie spun around, her eyes lighting up. “You wouldn’t believe the gossip I heard today in Emmie Kelvinhaugh’s salon.”
“No?” Caroline gave in. “And what was it?”
It was her own fault, she told herself, for letting herself be distracted. If she had only concentrated on tonight’s business, she would never have turned around to look for Michael Steinhüller and thus attracted Marie’s attention.
“Well!” Marie drew a tingling breath. “Lord Stewart, from all reports, has been engaged in a desperate flirtation with one of the greediest high-flyers in Vienna—”
Lord Rothmere winced. “Marie, really—”
“And your own old friend Prince Kalishnikoff, whom you were showing so much favor the other night, is said to be quite the new favorite of that dreadful Princess Bagration!”
Caroline blinked into full attention. “I beg your pardon?”
“Shocking, is it not? Such a well-favored man, as you certainly seemed to think, with such undeniably excellent manners.” Marie gave a delicate shrug. “But I was told that Lord Kelvinhaugh himself commented on how taken the princess was by your friend. He said, if you can believe it, that perhaps the prince might offer her some consolation for her loss of Prince Metternich!”
Caroline forced a smile. “I wasn’t aware that Emmie Kelvinhaugh was such a gossip.”
Congress of Secrets Page 18
