“I beg your pardon?” Carlo blinked, and tried to focus his gaze. Something about the darkness just behind the alchemist . . .
Red eyes flicked open above Radamowsky’s shoulder.
Carlo stumbled back against the closed door, his left hand loosening around the useless strip of cloth as his breath caught in his throat.
Fool, he thought. He’d only prepared himself for the least of the alchemist’s weapons.
Gray smoke floated forward. Red eyes watched him with greedy anticipation.
Radamowsky’s voice turned into a purr of satisfaction.
“You see,” he said, “I haven’t been waiting here alone. And all that you’ve managed, with this heroic display, is to delay me by a moment.”
Friedrich barely felt the burning heat. All his focus was on Sophie, sitting still and entranced as the flames leapt up her sleeve.
Sophie, whom he had promised to love and protect, on his word as a von Höllner, before God and the gathered society in the Michaelerkirche.
He would not let the flames take her, too.
He lunged past the orchestral benches and the long wooden music stands. The ashes of sheet music flaked against his clothes. He pushed past the corpses and the still-living bodies. He fell against Sophie and bore her to the ground, rolling over and over, beating out the flames. Fire surrounded them. He covered her body with his own.
Tears streamed from his eyes. Smoke scoured his nose with every breath. Flames burned his hair and skin until every inch of it seemed to scream at once, as Anton had screamed, as Sophie’s sister had screamed.
He stood within the flames and scooped up his wife with strength he hadn’t known he possessed. He bore her through the flames, her face pressed against his shirt, her arms protected between their bodies as the sleeves and the back of his own coat burned.
He lifted her to the height of his shoulders, above the mass of blazing seats and bodies, and he threw her body over it to fall at her sister’s feet. Through the fire, he saw the older woman drop to her knees to beat the flames from Sophie’s clothes. If she hurried, she could still drag Sophie out of the building to safety.
Friedrich turned before she could look up again.
The door that led from the audience to the back of the stage was blocked by the burning, toppled stage set; the fallen curtain on the stage itself blazed with fire, more effective than any wall.
There was no way out. But then, he had known that even before he had leapt off the stage.
He thought, at first, that he saw Anton’s face within the flames. Then, in the final moments before blackness devoured him, he realized that the man he truly looked at was himself.
Friedrich watched himself burning and melting within the fire, and for the first time in years, he was not ashamed of what he saw.
Franz staggered to his feet and stumbled across the stage, away from the blazing fallen curtain. His head hurt blindingly, and his back had stiffened into a warped, unnatural angle. His nose throbbed with pain as it dripped warm blood down his lips and chin. His ribs, his arms, his knees—everything was in agony.
But he was alive. It was incredible. It was more than he had dreamed possible.
His crashed through the thin door in the set that led backstage, away from the flames and the stink of death. As soon as he was free, in the fresh night air, he would run and keep on running until—
The door from the opposite end of the stage opened, letting in a narrow stream of light and heat that cut across the backstage floor. A familiar voice spoke behind him in the semi-darkness.
“I’ve been looking for you, Herr Pichler.”
Franz turned around, feeling a heavy weight settle in his stomach.
Lieutenant von Höllner had been right after all.
“You’ve failed,” he said to the leader of the Brotherhood. “Why haven’t you run?”
“I told you you would never escape if you betrayed us.” Von Born stepped forward and circled him slowly, smoothly, in the near-darkness. The tip of his blade hovered barely an inch from Franz’s skin. “Do you have any idea how long I planned tonight’s performance, only to see it ruined by your cowardice?”
“I’m sorry.” Franz licked his dry lips, watching the blade circle around him. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be a party to mass murder.”
“No? I can.” The leader leaned in closer. “The Brotherhood does not suffer its enemies to live. Particularly when they are the only witnesses left.”
“I’m hardly the only witness to what happened! There’s Lieutenant von Höllner, Fräulein Dom- . . .” Franz stumbled to a halt, as his mind made belated connections.
“Von Höllner is already dead. Fräulein Dommayer will be taken care of as soon as I finish with you here. And after that, only two of the Prince’s guests remain to be accounted for. By the time any questions come to be asked, all that anyone will remember is the dangerous Count Radamowsky putting us all to sleep. I, of course, will be as horrified as everyone else.” He pressed the tip of the sword lightly against Franz’s neck. “You see? You’ve accomplished nothing. You’ve gambled your life for nothing. And in betraying me, you’ve lost your future. Do you begin to regret your actions yet, Herr Pichler?”
Franz closed his eyes. He took a breath, feeling his throat move against the cold steel, as clarity filled him for the first time in weeks. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”
A deep voice spoke behind him, from the depths of the shadows by the back door that led outside to safety. The alchemist who had entranced the entire audience stepped out of the shadows, his eyes blazing, followed by the most famous castrato in Europe.
“Well, well,” Count Radamowsky said to his companion. “Signor Morelli, your little delay may have persuaded me after all.”
Carlo had held still, at Radamowsky’s signal, ever since the other two men had come backstage. Now he stepped forward, following Radamowsky. The hilt of his borrowed sword felt warm in his hand; his heart beat quickly against his chest. He pulled out the cloth that muffled his right ear, willing all of his senses onto high alert. The elemental hung somewhere behind them in the darkness, hidden from him. He tried not to imagine its hot breath on his neck.
The two alchemists faced each other in the darkness, lit only by the thin stream of light from the open stage door.
“Radamowsky.” Von Born lowered his sword, frowning. “I told you to wait for me outside Eszterháza.”
“And yet I didn’t choose to trust you after all. Astonishing, is it not?” Radamowsky glided forward. “All your promises, von Born. All of your tricks. I should have known better than to have ever believed a single word you said.”
Von Born’s eyes narrowed as he shifted, turning the sword in his hand. “I had a glorious vision,” he said softly. “I had hoped to include you.”
“Only as your scapegoat. Do you take me for deaf as well as gullible?” Radamowsky raised his own hand. “Do you know, unworldly or not, I think I’d rather not allow everyone to hold me solely to blame, after all. What do you say to that, friend?”
Von Born’s sword hissed through the air, poised and ready. “I’d say you’re a fool, as you ever were.” His sword flashed forward.
Radamowsky’s voice rapped out. His arm fell.
The elemental dropped straight onto von Born’s head from above.
Von Born’s screams seemed to last forever.
His sword dropped to the wooden floor. He reached up, desperately trying to claw away the mass of smoke that surrounded his face. His body wove in the air. His hands wavered and dropped to his sides. His screams slowly died to a gurgling moan.
Finally, only the hissing sound of the elemental’s feeding mingled with the sound of the flames and breaking furniture through the open stage door.
The actor, Pichler, dropped to his own knees, vomiting. Carlo only watched, held frozen by numb horror.
The other alchemist stood, unmoving, through it all, as von Born’s body gradually crumpled and fell to the g
round. Only when the elemental finally rose into the air, bloated and dripping blood above the empty corpse, did Count Radamowsky move.
“Come,” he said, and crossed the floor in three rapid steps to stand within the open stage door. The elemental floated after him.
Carlo followed from a safe distance. He felt amazed—in a distant, unreal way—that his legs chose to support him after all. There would be a price to pay later, he knew, for this temporary gift of numbness. For now, he only concentrated on remembering to breathe . . . and on trying to forget.
Radamowsky’s voice rolled out, chanting a mix of archaic languages through the roar of the flames that filled the stage and spread back toward the alchemist himself. Driven by horrified fascination, Carlo finally dared to step closer, to look over Radamowsky’s shoulder at the chaos without. Fire blazed from the fallen curtain at the front of the stage, and painted blue waves had turned into points of flame, crackling toward the back of the stage. High up in the burning balcony, soldiers on duty labored to rescue the highest nobility, while the entranced or dying bodies of their military comrades and the local gentry filled the auditorium.
At last Radamowsky’s chant cut off. Through the flames, Carlo glimpsed sudden movement among those who were still alive, throughout the theater. Eyes opening, adjusting. The paralysis of total shock and then panic, as people woke to find themselves aflame.
Radamowsky’s voice called out, impossibly loud, speaking German once more. At the unexpected sound, even the soldiers in the balcony turned to listen.
“You will all remember that it was I, Count Radamowsky, who chose to save you tonight from the traitorous machinations of Ignaz von Born.”
There was another moment—perhaps only a fraction of a second—of paralyzed silence. Then the screaming began, along with the thud of a hundred chairs being turned over, as the survivors fought to escape, scrambling over the corpses of their neighbors.
Radamowsky turned to face Carlo, ignoring the carnage and the approaching flames. The elemental hovered above his shoulder, staring at Carlo with hungry, blood-red eyes.
“You will not, I trust, try to hinder my escape any longer?”
There was a time for heroism . . . and a time for sanity. Carlo dropped the sword.
It clattered to the floor as he spoke, forcing his voice into an attempt at coolness. “I don’t imagine that I could stop you.”
“You are a wise man, signor.” Count Radamowsky smiled faintly. “Let us both hope that we shan’t meet again . . . entertaining though such a performance might be.”
He walked across the backstage floor at a deliberate pace, brushing past the huddled form of Franz Pichler and stepping over the remains of Ignaz von Born. The elemental followed after, at shoulder height, still dripping.
The door to the gardens opened and closed. Carlo gave a long, shuddering sigh.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” Franz Pichler pushed himself up from the floor. He looked astonishingly young in that moment, his face open in wonder. “It’s actually finished.”
“No,” Carlo said heavily. He felt every one of his years as he turned back toward the stage. “Not quite yet.”
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, to return to the flames and join the rescue attempts.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Many hours later, Carlo found Herr Haydn outside, standing near the wreckage of the opera house. Flames still shot high into the night sky above the crumbling building, though hundreds of workers fought with buckets of water to stem the blaze. Smoke veiled the stars over Eszterháza.
The shells in the path crunched under Carlo’s feet as he walked forward to join the composer.
Haydn spoke without turning around. “Every copy of tonight’s opera. All of the orchestral and vocal parts. My score.” He choked on the words, raising one hand to his face. A moment later, he added, “And all of my other operas, nearly. I kept all of my music in the theater. For safe-keeping!”
Carlo shook his head silently. What was there to say? He stood next to the older man, looking into the fire. It had been one of the grandest opera houses of any noble estate in Europe.
Almost two hundred people had been rescued from the flames, in total. He hoped that most of them would survive. It was more of a blessing than he could have dreamed of before Radamowsky’s change of heart.
It was still not nearly enough.
“I am sorry,” Carlo said softly, as he looked into the blazing ruin of Nikolaus Esterházy’s pride.
“Well.” The kapellmeister straightened his shoulders. “I had one or two of the older opera scores in my room, for revisions. The marionette operas are all gone, with no hope of restoration . . . but I remember tonight’s opera well enough. I ought to, after all the blood I’ve sweated over it.” He sighed. “I’ll start work on its recreation tonight, before I even go to bed. Before I can forget any more of the details. And I’ll write to my publishers—”
“You will do no such thing,” a harsh voice said, behind them.
Prince Nikolaus stood two feet away, trailed by guards. His face was ravaged beneath his clean white wig; deep, raw burns ran all the way up his cheeks. He gripped a blanket around his shoulders with thickly bandaged hands, but his voice was as commanding and inflexible as ever.
“Tonight’s performance, Herr Kapellmeister, never took place.”
Carlo’s eyebrows rose. “Never, Your Highness? With so many witnesses?”
“Signor Morelli.” The Prince’s face tightened. “Her Imperial Majesty Maria Theresia, Emperor Joseph, and I have all discussed the matter, and we have come to the conclusion that tonight’s . . . incidents . . . are best forgotten by everyone involved.”
Carlo took a breath to loosen the tight constriction in his chest. “Over two hundred people have died already, Your Highness. Is that to be forgotten, as well?”
“They died,” the Prince said curtly, “in a most regrettable fire, caused by the combustion of three of the stoves in the Chinese ballroom. As the newspapers will report, all over the Empire, in a few months’ time . . . and as, I am sure, you will confirm to any who ask. It was a most deplorable accident.” He looked past Carlo to the blazing remains of his opera theater, and his voice flattened. “Their Majesties and I agree that no blame accrues to anyone here for the event.”
And how much did you pay the Habsburgs to bribe them into that decision? Carlo watched the flickering shadows cross the Prince’s burned face. Had it been money? Esterházy gold? More soldiers to be sent out to the next Habsburg war? Or—could it have taken the form of the political concessions Maria Theresia had fought for since her accession to the throne, nearly forty years ago?
Perhaps the state of the Esterházy serfs would see improvement, after all, to fall in line with the Habsburgs’ reforming laws for the rest of the Empire. Carlo could only hope as much.
“It will all be rebuilt, of course.” Flames found reflection in Prince Nikolaus’s eyes. “It will be larger and grander than ever before. It will be the amazement of the Empire.”
“And my opera will be performed again, too,” Haydn said quickly. “I was just telling Signor Morelli, Your Highness, that I still remember the full score, and I can certainly order another copy of the libretto. If I start rewriting it tonight—”
“No,” the Prince snapped. “Never again.”
“Your Highness?”
The Prince scowled. “I want no reminders of tonight.”
“But . . .” The kapellmeister cut himself off, biting his lip. A moment later, in a muffled tone, he said, “Of course, Your Highness. I understand and obey. I’ll only write it out for myself, and—”
“Re-read your contract, Herr Haydn. You write only with my permission and only those pieces that I wish to hear. And I never want anyone to hear of this opera or its conception, ever again.”
“But—”
“Enough.” The Prince turned and strode away.
The guards fell into step behind him. Carlo glanced at Herr H
aydn . . . then had to look away. Such naked anguish was not meant to be seen. He felt the twist of it in his own chest.
He put out his hand. The older man took it and squeezed it briefly.
“Do you know, Signor Morelli,” the kapellmeister said, “sometimes . . . sometimes I could almost wonder if you and young Mozart are in the right of it after all.”
Carlo sighed and shook his head. He stepped back, away from the wreckage. His head ached with smoke, exhaustion, and grief. If he didn’t go to bed soon, he would collapse straight onto Eszterháza’s well-manicured grass.
In the distance, he saw the Princess approach the Prince, flanked by the Empress herself. He couldn’t hear the words that followed, but he could see the lines of confrontation in the Princess’s cutting gestures.
“Ah, well. It’s probably for the best.” Haydn turned and gave Carlo an unconvincing smile. “Why cling to old ideas, eh? Always best to move forward. In the next few weeks, my friend, we must take the opportunity to work together at last. Perhaps a new opera, if you would lend your voice—”
“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.
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