The needles were green and fresh, and there was hardly any snow on them, as if it had just been placed there.
Frowning, Kuisl came closer. Now he also saw the grave candle, flickering inside a glass despite the wind. Only a finger’s breadth of the wax had melted—someone had lit this candle not long ago. The hangman looked for prints in the snow, but the heavy snowfall had covered everything in a white blanket.
Kuisl knelt down to read the inscription on the cross, which was so new that it still smelled of resin. The name startled him.
ELFRIEDE TANNINGER, 1654–1672
It was the impaled girl. Deibler had mentioned her name only yesterday.
Had Hans been looking for this grave? Deep in thought, Jakob Kuisl was rising to his feet when he heard a noise behind the rowan bush. Someone was running away. Then a howling gust of wind drowned out every other sound again.
Kuisl didn’t hesitate. He ran around the bush and peered into the whirling snow. The wind was chasing the flakes almost horizontally across the graveyard, but Kuisl thought he could make out the outline of a person. Or was it just his imagination? No, it was definitely a man in a coat or cape. He was wearing a hood or something similar, which fluttered along behind him like big, leathery wings.
Like a black angel.
“Stop!” shouted Kuisl, feeling odd, as if trying to order a ghost. He ran after the figure.
The man was fast. He was twenty or thirty paces ahead. Once again, Kuisl felt his age. The freezing air hurt his lungs, and he was panting after just a short distance. And his legs still ached from the long run that morning. What he wouldn’t give to have Georg or Simon here now. A stabbing pain cut through his chest like a knife.
The hangman gritted his teeth and suppressed the pain, running even faster. He would catch this specter, even if lightning struck him down.
The man—or whatever he was—ran toward the gate, but then he took a sharp turn and ran along the cemetery wall, which was about man high on that side. He stopped abruptly, jumped, and grabbed hold of the top of the wall.
Then he flew.
A black angel of death . . .
Kuisl squinted. The dense snow blurred everything. For an instant, he could see the man’s black outline against the white sky, like an angry goblin dancing on the wall, then he jumped down the other side.
“For Christ’s sake! Stop, whatever you are!”
Kuisl went after him. Gasping, he pulled himself up the icy, snow-covered wall. Twice he slipped, then he was finally up.
But by then, the man had disappeared.
Or had he only imagined everything? An angel, calling him home to his beloved wife? Beckoning him to follow?
The street on the other side of the wall was empty. He could hear footsteps in one of the side alleys, but they soon disappeared, too. Only the wind howled, high-pitched and loud.
Kuisl felt it was mocking him.
On the other side of the city wall, Magdalena watched the dancing snowflakes outside one of the small, barred windows of the Au silk manufactory with tired eyes.
Her fingers hurt and her back ached from sitting hunched over all day, but she tried not to show it and moved the shuttle with the silk yarn through the shed, pushed the pedals and the batten, again and again. The steady clicking and whirring, the constant noise around her, made her both tired and restless at the same time. She studied the other roughly twenty girls, hunched over at their looms, tight mouthed and ashen faced. Magdalena thought none of the girls were older than twenty, except perhaps Agnes, who worked beside her and hadn’t as much as glanced at her since their last conversation. Magdalena had no idea why Agnes had turned so cold since she’d asked about Eva.
There were some pretty girls among the weavers. Agnes was one of them, but also the pale fifteen-year-old Magdalena had helped out that morning. Most of them, however, looked as though they had aged before their time, cowering at their looms like lost dolls in the dim light.
Magdalena was used to working outside, searching for herbs in the forest, weeding the garden, or walking for miles through fields and meadows when she visited pregnant women with Martha Stechlin, the midwife. The few hours she’d been locked up in this stuffy room were nearly driving her insane. She didn’t want to imagine what a whole lifetime at the loom would be like.
But she knew some of these young women would be facing just that for the rest of their lives.
It was late afternoon. A snowstorm was raging outside, and the large room was dark. Joseffa had put up cheap tallow candles so the work could go on, but the girls still had to strain their eyes to see what they were doing.
Mother Joseffa sat comfortably in her chair in the center of the room, nibbling on dried berries from a pouch, and kept a watchful eye on the silent weavers. Every now and again, she stood up and inspected the fabric here and there, scolding, swearing, and occasionally slapping the girls. She had only left the room once more. Magdalena had immediately tried to talk to Agnes about the dead girls, but the woman had ignored her. When Magdalena looked around for someone else to speak to, Joseffa returned.
At least Magdalena found the work easier now. She could let her thoughts roam while her hands wove monotonously. She thought about Sophia, her pregnant sister, and Barbara’s future husband. Would it be the elderly, good-natured Conrad Näher from Kaufbeuren, or would they find someone else? She thought about Peter and the botched opportunity to gain a place at a Munich school for him. Most of all, however, she thought about the recent murders and how they might be connected to the silk works. What was going on inside this gloomy building?
Her father had told Magdalena that three of the young weavers had been friends: Anni, Elfriede, and Eva. Two of them were dead now, the third one locked up in the basement of the manufactory. The pale girl had told Magdalena this morning that she believed Eva was going to be killed. That awful Uffele had spoken of getting rid of the problem for good. Clearly, Eva knew something, and Joseffa and Uffele wanted to silence her.
If Eva was still alive, Magdalena needed to find her as soon as she could.
But how?
An opportunity arose in the early evening, when they fell short of yarn and Joseffa asked two skinny boys to fetch more silk from the store in the basement.
“And don’t you drop the bales and get them all dirty and tangled up,” Joseffa threatened the boys, who were no older than Peter and Paul. “Or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.”
“But the bales are so heavy and bulky,” one of the boys replied, his voice shaking. “And we haven’t eaten since this morning . . .”
“You’ll get your supper soon enough, you greedy pigs,” Joseffa groused. “You’re eating us out of house and home already.”
“I could give them a hand,” Magdalena suggested timidly.
“You?” Joseffa’s head shot around. “Trying to get a break, are you?”
“No, but I think we’ll need more yarn very soon,” Magdalena replied. She pointed to the back. “I think several other looms are running out of filling yarn, too.”
Joseffa hesitated briefly, then waved dismissively. “What the hell. You’re just wasting time here, anyway, so you might as well be useful somewhere else.” She raised a warning finger. “But no excursions, understood? The three of you go down to the storeroom, fetch the yarn, and come back upstairs.”
“You can rely on me, mistress.”
Joseffa grinned at the word mistress. She made a jovial gesture, and Magdalena left the room with the two boys. When they walked down the stairs, two younger, broad-shouldered men came toward them—simple tradesmen, judging by their clothes. They talked loudly, and Magdalena listened. If she wasn’t mistaken, they spoke Italian. She couldn’t understand a word, but it seemed the men were very upset about something.
“Who was that?” she asked the boys once the men had gone.
“The Venetians,” one of the boys whispered. “There’s a few of them working in rooms under the roof, where they make raw silk and
spin it. None of us are allowed in there. The Venetians are the only ones who know how to make the silk. It’s a big secret.”
“There seem to be a few secrets in this house,” Magdalena murmured.
She noticed in passing that the bolt on the front door was secured with a heavy lock.
Like a prison, she thought.
They followed the stairs down to the basement. Behind a heavy door, a long, poorly lit corridor led to the left and right. The air was damp and moldy, and it was bitter cold. Magdalena tightened her rough woolen scarf, shivering. The two boys turned left, where Magdalena could make out a number of doors. She pointed in the opposite direction.
“What’s down there?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” the smaller boy said in a hushed voice. “And we’re not allowed to go there, or we’ll get beaten.”
“When we came here yesterday, we heard a whimpering down there,” the other boy whispered, looking about nervously. “It was creepy.”
Magdalena’s heart beat faster. The pale girl from upstairs had said the same thing. Was Eva locked in a room down the corridor?
“Listen,” she whispered. “You know Eva, the girl who disappeared?”
“What about her?” the taller boy asked.
“She’s a good friend of mine. I need to find out where she is. If I go take a quick look down the hall, you warn me if anyone comes, all right?”
“But Uffele will kill us if he finds out,” the younger boy whined.
“I won’t be long, promise. You keep watch. If someone comes, just whistle.” She gave the boys a friendly smile. “I’ll give you my supper if you do it.”
That swayed the two boys. They nodded, and Magdalena turned around and hurried down the dark corridor. Unlike the left branch, no torches lit the way down this end of the passage. Soon it was so dark that Magdalena could only just make out the outlines of doors. There seemed to be no end to the gloomy corridor, and it reeked of rot and feces. Where on earth did this passage lead?
“Eva?” she whispered into the darkness. “Eva? Are you there?”
No one answered. But then Magdalena heard a soft, barely audible whimpering from up ahead. It sounded like the whimper of a child or a young woman. Eva! She was about to rush down the corridor when she heard a whistle behind her.
Someone was coming down the stairs.
Cursing softly, Magdalena stopped. She was so close to uncovering the secret, and now this. What should she do? If she didn’t turn around now, she was putting not just herself in danger but the boys, too. After hesitating for a moment, she hurried back. And not a moment too soon. Magdalena heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She didn’t have much time. The torches lit the way ahead, and she saw the two boys waiting for her anxiously.
Breathlessly, Magdalena reached the bottom of the stairs as the two Venetians arrived with a lantern. They eyed Magdalena and the boys suspiciously.
“Dove vai?” one of them asked harshly.
Magdalena pointed down the left-hand corridor with a smile. “Um, new yarn,” she said. “We’re just fetching some new yarn. I took the wrong hallway. Sorry.”
The two men didn’t appear to understand her. They shook their heads and walked past them into the darkness of the right-hand corridor.
There goes my chance for today, Magdalena thought despairingly.
She followed the boys in the opposite direction, where they soon reached a room full of spindles, loom parts, and bundles of silk yarn. The two boys grabbed several bundles each, and Magdalena followed their example. The bundles were surprisingly heavy and awkward to hold, and Magdalena feared she’d drop one and tangle the yarn. With slow steps, the three of them carried their heavy loads upstairs to the weaving room. When they entered, Magdalena saw to her horror that Uffele was standing next to Joseffa, looking agitated. Had the Venetians already said something? But when Uffele spotted Magdalena, he broke into a sugary smile.
“Ah, there’s our pretty little dove,” he said. He tilted his head and looked Magdalena up and down. “Hmm, some soap and water, a decent dress . . .” Nodding, he turned to Joseffa. “You might be right. She’d make a good replacement, though she’s a little older. I’m not sure he’ll like that.”
“Agnes is old, too. And this one’s prettier than Agnes,” Joseffa replied. “Look.” She walked over to Magdalena and grabbed a handful of her hair. “Healthy black hair, full lips, large breasts . . . Her skin’s not too reddened from work. And Agnes is getting sicker every day. God knows how long she’s got to live. So we’ll need a new girl soon, anyway.” The two of them scrutinized Magdalena like a cow at the market. “Let’s at least try,” Joseffa said eventually. “He can always throw her out.”
“You’re right.” Uffele gave Magdalena one last scrutinizing look. “We have to give him something. That goddamned codface is giving me a hard time because he thinks his money is going down the drain.”
“And he’s not entirely wrong, either,” Joseffa snickered.
“Don’t start!” Uffele snapped. Then he nodded. “So we’re agreed. Agnes, Carlotta, and the new one are going tomorrow.” Only now did he address Magdalena directly. “What’s your name again?”
“Uh, Magdalena.” Her hair stood on end. What was going on here? She cleared her throat. “If you’d be so kind as to tell me—”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Joseffa said. “Now get back to your loom. Your other work starts tomorrow morning. You’ll spend the night here with us.”
“But—” Magdalena protested.
“No buts,” Joseffa snarled. “We have plenty to prepare for your new work. And you’re not done weaving yet.” She smirked. “Take good care of your pretty little fingers, darling. You’re going to need them.”
Bewildered, Magdalena returned to her loom. Agnes glared at her from dark-ringed eyes, and another coughing fit rattled her. “Lucky you,” she said quietly after a while. “Seems like you’re Uffele’s new favorite. I better start packing my bags.” Her smile was sad and bitter. “Looks like you’re going to find out why dear Eva is no longer here after all.”
Simon stood inside the huge building they called the Munich Opera House and gaped. He tried not to tremble. Never in his whole life had he felt so clearly how small and pathetic his world was. This house was as far removed from Schongau as the sun or the moon.
Entranced, Simon took in the three stories of small balconies arranged in semicircles. Nymphs and angels smiled at him from every stucco-decorated column. The domed ceiling was painted in the brightest colors, with scenes from Greek mythology. Opposite Simon lay the stage, which was hung with a red velvet curtain so large and heavy that they could probably sew dresses for every woman in Munich from it.
Almost more impressive than the opera house itself were the many people gathered in front of the stage with Simon and Peter. The men were dressed in coats of the finest material, decorated with colorful ribbons. Their shirts bore lace collars and cuffs, and thin cloths were tied around their necks—they were called cravats, Simon had heard, a new fashion from France, just like the powdered wigs the French king wore. The women wore puffy dresses with low necklines and had piled up their hair into true masterpieces.
People conversed and laughed, sometimes in French or Italian. Simon hoped fervently no one would speak to him. He guessed his slight Schongau accent would be enough to expose him as a country bumpkin.
He glanced down at himself. Before he and Peter had been driven to the wealthy Munich Kreuz Quarter by carriage, the electoral envoy had outfitted him with appropriate clothes at the Residenz. Simon wore a pair of the baggy trousers he loved, a white shirt, and a blue velvet coat. Next to him, Peter looked like a little lord with his vest and neatly combed hair. But Simon still felt like the people avoided them, as if they could smell their provincial origins. On top of that, Peter seemed to be the only child at the opera. Simon had already noticed a few surprised glances—and also displeased ones.
“Well, as for me, I’m awful
ly curious about Kerll’s new piece,” fluted a lady next to him, whose hair could have held about a dozen birds’ nests. “It’s supposed to be very entertaining. And the maestro himself is on the harpsichord.”
“I hope it’s going to be better than his last opera, L’Erinto,” a man with a periwig replied. “Do you remember the Italian tenor? That Macolino? I still have nightmares about his terrible bawling.”
The people nearby laughed, and Simon put on a strained smile so he wouldn’t look conspicuous.
“Papa,” Peter whispered to him. “What is an opera?”
“Um, I think it’s a play with lots of music,” Simon replied quietly. “I believe it’s from Italy. I’m not entirely sure, either. We’ll soon find out.”
On the way there, the messenger had explained to them that the Munich Opera was the first opera house in the German Empire, an incredibly generous gift from the Bavarian electress to her subjects. Unfortunately, Simon thought, most of her subjects would never experience the pleasure of seeing an opera.
The last few hours had been like a dream to Simon. He still couldn’t really believe what was happening. From the scant explanations of the messenger, he’d gathered that their invitation had indeed come from the young Bavarian crown prince. Apparently, Peter had run into Max Emanuel at the Residenz, and the two had become friends. The envoy didn’t hide the fact that he thought this invitation was a huge mistake. Simon’s own feelings were mixed, too. What if the electress asked him about her accursed dog? He hadn’t made any headway in his search yet, and he feared the next few days would be no better. And he had plenty of other things to worry about.
“Her Electoral Excellency is taking her time,” a powdered lady with towering hair hissed. “Typical!”
“At least she’s not dancing herself this time,” snickered an elderly woman, who had applied so much dry rouge that she had cracks in her face. “Do you remember La Ninfa Ritrosa, how she strutted about the stage like a peacock?” She sighed theatrically. “Soon it will be time for the first masquerades of the carnival season again, where we’ll have to admire her. I’m already dreading the ball at Nymphenburg Palace. What are you going to wear?”
The Council of Twelve Page 22
