Tormented by guilt. Haunted by scandal. Freed by love.

Austria, 1804

Eight years ago, composer Arie De Voss claimed his late mentor’s final symphony as his own and became an icon. But fame has a price: fear of discovery now poisons his attempts to compose a redemptive masterpiece. Until a new muse appears, intoxicating and inspiring him…

Mathilda Heidel renounced her own musical gift to marry, seeking a quiet life to escape the shame surrounding her birth. Sudden widowhood finds her tempted by song once more. An unexpected introduction to her idol, Arie De Voss, renews Mathilda’s passion for the violin—and ignites a passion for the man himself.

But when lust and lies reach a crescendo, Arie will be forced to choose: love or truth?

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Song of Seduction

Carrie Lofty

To Keven, as always.

Acknowledgements

At least two dozen people contributed to the completion of this romance, working as beta readers, research helpers, craft doctors, and native speakers of German and Dutch. Any mistakes are my own. My particular thanks go out to Ann Aguirre, Carin Andreski, Patti Ann Colt, Michelle Curet, Cathleen DeLong, Diane Drew, Cathy Hill, Kalen Hughes, Maya Missani, Jennifer Ritzema, Kate Rothwell, Kelly Schaub, Sandra Schwab, Isabel L. Scott, Silvia Segatori, Lindsey Sodano, Pam Strout, and Carin van Doremalen.

I also appreciate how generously my husband and family let me ignore them long enough to make it work.

And thank you to my wonderful editors and support team at Carina Press, particularly Deborah Nemeth.

Contents

COPYRIGHT

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HISTORICAL NOTE

About the Author

PART ONE

Intoxication must first enhance the excitability of the whole machine, else there is no art…. Above all, the frenzy of sexual excitement, the most ancient and original form of intoxication.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

CHAPTER ONE

Fürstentum of Salzburg
January, 1804

Arie De Voss flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders against the tension pooling between his shoulder blades. Wind whipped through the canyons between tall, narrow town homes, down from the steep slopes of Mönchsberg where it loomed above the city. He caught his hat against the gust. Around him, laughter and conversations flourished with the intensity of a circus. If the curious guests noticed the stubborn glut of traffic along Kaigasse, they paid the irritation little mind. The lure of Lord and Lady Venners’ ball, the first of Fasching, the Carnival season, claimed the city’s attention.

Preparing himself as if for combat, Arie pulled his spine straight and yanked the lapels of his coat into place. When the heads of powerful families regarded him as they would the lowest musician, he would smile. When ignorant asses offered praise, attempting to demonstrate their modern taste in music, he would nod. And when his tolerance failed him, as it always did, he would have a sherry, grin, and lie his way through the evening.

After all, Arie accepted the necessity of lies. Lies eased his way onto every stage. And one indefensible falsehood—that he had composed Love and Freedom—formed the bedrock of his career.

He caught his breath as a hot wave of paranoia swept up the muscles of his chest. Someone would discover the truth. One day. But until then, he would do whatever society required of him to keep performing, writing, playing.

“Pardon me, Herr De Voss.” At the entrance to the Venners’ town home, a wigged footman offered a precise bow. “My name is Oliver, sir. Lord Venner requested that I attend to your requirements. May I take your hat and cloak?”

A hush settled among the guests who lingered in the grand entryway. Their fixed stares clung to Arie like ruthless vines, raising his ire beyond its elevated pitch. He quickly, carelessly shed his winter outerwear. A pageant of eyes followed every move.

“Sir, Lord Venner wishes to meet you before you join the other guests.”

“Of course,” Arie said.

Oliver’s livery, wig and manners exactingly matched the other footmen. Arie kept his gaze fastened to the back of the man’s powdered head through a maze of hallways and up two flights, lest he mistake his escort for another or lose him in the crowds.

Just inside the floral damasked walls of a private smoking room, the footman stepped smartly aside. “Lord Venner, esteemed gentlemen, I present Herr De Voss.”

Arie bowed to his host. “I am honored, my lord.”

Christoph, Vizegraf Venner, returned the courtesy. With a poised if somewhat lanky physique, he towered over Arie. Faultless manners revealed neither enthusiasm nor disdain. “Good to make your acquaintance, Maestro. You do us credit with your attendance.”

“You flatter me with the invitation and your patronage, both.” Dutch origins tinted his German with an accent he could not shed, despite years of practice. He heard it grow stronger with his nerves.

Introductions to a dozen bureaucrats, burghers and minor nobles spun Arie with unfamiliar names. He received a glass of sherry from Oliver and took a quick gulp.

Venner indicated a set of double doors leading to an adjoining ballroom. “We were readying to join the gala. The ladies will not allow us to linger in seclusion forever.”

“Certainly,” said Arie, nodding.

“We recently purchased a pianoforte from Broadwood & Sons that should meet your approval. The Kapellmeister, your friend Michael Haydn, called it the finest instrument in Salzburg.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, my lord. You must have a keen appreciation for music to import so fine an instrument.”

“Not at all,” Venner said. “I have neither the patience nor any particular fondness for the arts. My wife reserves that domain.”

His blunt honesty inspired Arie with the first enthusiasm he had experienced all evening. He felt an unexpected desire to please his new patron, if only to reward the man’s candor.

Quickly, he stifled the sentiment. Lord Venner had likely learned the technique during his political career. Arie did not begrudge the man his chosen means of manipulating people, but neither did he feel like being manipulated.

He bowed again. “I await your direction.”

As the gentlemen adjourned, Arie confronted his dread of the awaiting throngs. But also awaiting him was the unexpected chance to play a Broadwood, a temptation he chose not to resist. Curiosity and excitement outweighed his anxiety.

Damned two-faced sycophants, all of us.

Suddenly unsure of his ability to remain civil, caught in the grip of a suffocating panic, he took another drink.

Mathilda Heidel perused the splendid gathering of Salzburg’s most influential citizens. She leaned closer to Lady Venner, their words shared privately. “Have we produced a success?”

“No calamity has yet befallen us,” Ingrid said. “We may escape tonight in good standing—a testament to your planning, I must say. I owe you our thanks, dearest.”

Surveying her companion for signs of tension, Mathilda could not help but admire Ingrid’s grace and resolve. Despite a bout of nerves that had upset her unflappable good nature only hours before, she appeared every inch the practiced hostess. Her obedient chestnut hair, which did not mind being mercilessly curled and coiffed, shone with a deep, radiant luster.

Mathilda offered a genial smile. “Your constant demands kept me distracted. I only wonder what I’ll do come morning, once our project is concluded.”

“Begin preparations for a May Day celebration?”

“Is this an attempt to demonstrate my continued usefulness to Venner?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ve lived here since just after your wedding,” Mathilda said, watching guests step to the rhythm of a jaunty contredanse. The air hummed with sweet flirtation. “Surely he must have made some mention of my eventual departure.”

“He’s said no such thing.” Ingrid’s smile wobbled enough to reveal the truth. “He knows how much I care about you. Until you are remarried, you will not leave.”

Mathilda glanced down at the mourning gown that enshrouded her body. The glaring contrast of pale trim against black bombazine shouted without words: my husband died unjustly. She shrank from the attention fostered by those garish adornments, the curious looks and pity intent on stealing her peace.

“Do not tease, Ingrid. You know I cannot remarry, most likely not for months.”

“But you’ve helped us beyond measure. I can at least find you a dance partner.”

“No dancing either,” Mathilda said.

“Still? Father Holtz is being unreasonable. A year of mourning is all he requires of the war widows, and even those restrictions are ignored if they have enough money.”

Her fingers wrapped in black kid leather, Mathilda toyed with her Fraiskette. She recognized the anxious habit and tucked the protective amber amulet into her bodice. “He’s only ensuring that I respect Jürgen’s memory.”

“You do already,” Ingrid said. “But what if Christoph had refused our entreaty when you wanted to move house? Where would you have gone?”

“I could’ve moved with your father to the country, or joined the nuns at Nonnberg.”

“The convent.” Ingrid wrinkled her tiny nose. “Well, at least you would’ve taken up the violin again, out of boredom if nothing else.”

Grimacing, Mathilda escalated her defenses in opposition to her friend’s other favorite debate: why she no longer played the violin. “I have my reasons.”

“Ja, I know.” Ingrid threw up her hands. “Very practical reasons, like when you married Jürgen. I disagreed with those, too, if you recall.”

“I recall.”

“Your hiatus has continued long enough.”

Blood throbbed beneath the skin at Mathilda’s temples. “Do you intend to force me? Make me play music against my will?”

“Not exactly.” Ingrid dropped her gaze and cupped an elbow in each hand.

“What are you hiding?”

“Congratulations, meine Liebe,” came a deep male voice.

Engrossed in their quiet dispute, both women jumped at Lord Venner’s greeting. Mathilda glared at Ingrid, wanting only to drag her aside and demand a reply. But she stayed still and silent as the younger woman fled to the safety of her husband’s tall presence.

“Any success we achieve tonight will be because of Frau Heidel,” said Ingrid. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Venner wore the stresses of his responsibilities at the corners of his eyes and in the slight hunch of his shoulders, but his expression remained thoughtful and open. A striking black suit and a gold-checked waistcoat accentuated the barest hint of red in his closely cut hair.

He bowed slightly to Mathilda. “What she really wants me to insist is that you may stay as long as you wish. And you may.”

Pushing aside Ingrid’s arguments and schemes, Mathilda smiled at his uncomplicated acceptance. “Thank you, Venner. But you both applaud our success prematurely. The more conservative matrons will find some fault in our choice of music. They always do.”

Ingrid scowled. “Old biddies.”

Venner chuckled quietly, in the private way he reserved for his inner circle. “I agree, Frau Heidel. They’ll be especially displeased when Herr De Voss performs.”

The hairs on Mathilda’s forearms prickled within the confines of her gloves. Her heart bumped in a lopsided rhythm. “Who?”

“The maestro.” Above the heads of his female companions, Venner discreetly searched the room. “He arrived some thirty minutes ago.”

“Herr De Voss? Arie De Voss, the composer from Delft?”

“Frau Heidel, artists and their eccentricities baffle me. You know that.” He glanced at his wife. “Press Ingrid for details. After all, she invited him.”

Open-jawed, Mathilda turned to her friend. “What have you done?”

“His recital will surely add to our event,” said Ingrid with an airy smile.

Mathilda closed her eyes as melody and memory danced in her brain. Arie De Voss. Music devotees across the continent heralded him as a prodigy—a pianist, composer and conductor to rival the best in Europe. His name intertwined with music itself, echoing in a foolish place in her heart. An incantation. A fixture in her life despite years spent actively denying that part of her.

“Frau Heidel, are you well?”

Venner’s concern dragged her away from musical enchantment. She pointed an impatient glare at Ingrid. “And you did not think to tell me?”

“You should become indignant more often, Tilda. You look positively fetching.”

“I don’t want to look fetching. I want to know why Arie De Voss is here, attending your ball, without my having been informed.”

“He’s a known recluse,” Ingrid said, unlinking her arm from Venner’s. “Although he replied in the affirmative, I could not be sure of his attendance. I didn’t want to mention it until I knew for certain. And, well, I wanted to surprise you.”

“You succeeded.”

Ingrid’s pale brows dipped together. “I know what an admirer you are of the maestro’s work. I thought you would be pleased.”

Venner watched her intently as well. The curious surprise she read on their expressions checked her temper. They would never understand what De Voss and his music meant to her. Even she could not make sense of her feelings, a fascination taunting her like a guilty secret. The arrival of an illicit lover to the ball would have embarrassed her less, had she kept such a man. At least the process of taking a lover involved actual contact, not meager daydreams.

An ordinary woman would not obsess about a man she had never met, nor scorn everyday happiness in favor of fantasy. No, an ordinary woman would simply be pleased.

“I apologize, dearest. Thank you for thinking of me.” She carefully cleared her throat. “I am quite…pleased.”

“Good,” Venner said. “I shall find De Voss and make introductions.” Having apparently exhausted his interest in the subject, he departed in search of the musician.

A silent conversation passed between Mathilda and her dearest friend, until Ingrid relented. She banished her quizzical expression and offered an ardent hug. “You get to listen to him play again!”

“I cannot believe he’s here. How did you convince Venner to invite him? I would’ve thought his political connections too delicate to withstand a performance from De Voss.”

Ingrid raised her eyebrows in lieu of a smile. “Oliver is acting as his special attendant.”

“Ah.”

Sleek, educated Oliver Doerger was Venner’s most loyal employee, some combination of manservant and bodyguard brought from their homeland in Anhalt. Ingrid’s new husband left very little to chance, especially the potential ill behavior of guests with questionable reputations.

Admiration flicked a quick smile to Mathilda’s lips. Ingrid understood domestic tact as capably as Venner knew city politics.

“Well played, Ingrid.”

“A masterstroke, actually. Come now, cheerful face.”

Mathilda smiled softly, but every piece of her rational personality—the details of which she had hammered and forged into a quiet existence—argued against giving De Voss a moment of her consideration. Why must the idea of being in the same, albeit giant, room with him steal her breath?

A musical chord burst into her brain. Then another. Another.

His symphony.

Love and Freedom.

Desire and curiosity rendered her well-reasoned intentions a cramped, lightless prison. What harm could come of seeing him? Or hearing his performance? After all, she was not about to pick up the violin again. Music had been her mother’s downfall, her temptation and weakness. And Mathilda did not intend to follow her maternal shadow to an early demise.

Rationalizations in place, she curbed her restlessness and awaited Venner’s return, searching the scene with practiced skill. Full of warmth and humanity, the cavernous ballroom snubbed winter’s chill and the uncertainties of stalled warfare, holding those worries at bay for an evening. Candles cast golden beams across the dance floor from six massive chandeliers, swathing the assembly in gauzy softness. Innumerable jewels refracted and decorated the gossamer light with color.

Ingrid gripped her hand and nodded toward the grand staircase. “There, Christoph found him.”

The party fell away in a nauseating rush.

While Venner talked to him, Arie De Voss bowed his head as if deep in thought. Blatant and unreserved, Mathilda devoured every detail. He kept his sandy-colored hair short and a little too wild. Clad in austere black formalwear, he radiated lean arrogance, even as his pensive pose whispered of a vulnerable inner world. He had matured—handsomely so.

Admiration crowded the air from Mathilda’s lungs. She may as well have been sixteen again, an innocent with no experience and no past. How could six years vanish so easily?

She willed him to look up, to look her way. To see her.

At last, the maestro lifted his eyes. Mathilda’s heart pin-wheeled in her chest, breaking and whirling and beating yet again.

CHAPTER TWO

The primped and lovely faces melted into a chattering mass, and sounds faded into a muddled blur. Arie’s mind wandered like that of a daydreaming schoolboy.

He heard words. He said words in return. But he mulled the same tedious question that returned whenever he attended some ghastly social engagement: Why am I here?

The music. Always, the music.

The purity of his latest composition, the first movement of a symphony, drowned the considerable din of the ballroom and the buzz of too many drinks. Disorientation quickened his breath. Secret music swirled through his senses, a potent opiate. The melody pulsed with longing, promise and tantalizing mysteries, unlike any he had ever composed.

But another three movements of the infuriating puzzle remained trapped within his brain. Mad from the need to put the symphony to paper, Arie worked toward the satisfaction of hearing it performed. Maybe then he could rest easy with the praise ringing hollow in his ears and tying his conscience with guilty tethers.

He needed to impress the Venners, his new patrons. He needed students and more than a few odd commissions. To complete the work that would satisfy his muse and ease his paralyzing remorse, Arie needed money.

His desire to perform and compose kept him from fleeing, both from the Venners’ ballroom and from the maddening uncertainty of his career. Without that need to play, he would have allowed his temper and shallow confidence to dominate the rest of his days. Willingly.

Despite sound intentions and failed attempts to mingle, he remained alone in a room bursting with revelers. He hid by the staircase. Another irritating performance by the gala’s double quartet throbbed in his head like a wound. A third—or fourth?—glass of sherry filled his hand. Cowardice infected him with a black mood.

No guest spoke to him. No curious admirers sought his company. Only Lord Venner approached, retrieving him from the stupor of another drink. Youthful and self-assured, the man’s hawkish nose and thin lips lent his face an aura of predatory strength.

“De Voss, I shall introduce you to my wife.”

And who was Arie to refuse?

He dutifully followed his patron through the crowd, watching the nobleman’s polished shoes glance across the crisscrossed parquet.

Venner’s wife proved to be a very young and attractive woman. Tall and slim, her creamy skin graced elegant cheekbones. Pale freckles scattered across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

Arie bowed, but that sudden dip and rise tilted the room. He fought drunken instability, holding on to a few more moments of composure. “I am honored, Lady Venner. Your patronage is most welcome, I assure you.”

“I’m simply pleased you could attend our festivities,” she said, her voice warm but poised.

Venner turned to the other woman. “And this is Frau Heidel.”

Arie repeated his dizzying pleasantries. And he waited. Venner offered no explanation regarding the woman’s position or status. Although her timid curtsy and lowered gaze made her seem no older than a maturing girl, she stood swathed in black silk. Like a beacon, white lace trim and silver jewelry contrasted with the mourning garb.

The exchange hung awkwardly between them. And then she looked up. Wide, unflinching hazel eyes drew Arie nearer, as would the welcoming fires of a homecoming. The woman regarded him with an unbalancing esteem—esteem at odds with his mood, merits and state of inebriation.

Like an angel taking pity on a hapless mortal, Lady Venner spoke. “My parents served as Frau Heidel’s guardians. We grew up together.”

The note of affection in the noblewoman’s voice registered even in Arie’s mottled brain. Sobriety would have prevented him from eying his new patron’s friend, but a droning swirl of alcohol eclipsed good sense. His mouth pulled into an inappropriate smile. He submitted to temptation and leered at the enticing woman in black, charting her pale flesh with his stare.

Elegant lips and sharp cheekbones, along with those adoring eyes, created a striking female face. She looked at once hearty and vulnerable, with nondescript brown hair piled in an unpretentious coiffure. Nearly as tall as Arie, her height did not detract from alluring curves—curves that bluntly reminded him of his barren studio and habitually empty bed.

She returned his stare without hesitation. Like a challenge.

Air thickened in his lungs. A hard pulse of desire thumped through his veins and coiled in his gut, in his groin.

But whom did she mourn? A parent? A husband?

In many Catholic regions such as Salzburg, priests determined mourning periods on an individual basis. While awaiting a blessing to begin new lives, loneliness and curiosity occasionally drew those women to Arie. He would forgive the evening’s tedium entirely if Frau Heidel proved such a widow.

Temptation trumped caution. Alcohol diluted good judgment. He had to know. “And is your husband in attendance?”

She blinked. Her expression went cold. “He died.”

Embarrassment laid waste to a decade spent studying the German language. “Are you to thank with the Lord Venner for extending me invitations? Maybe I owe you a gratitude.”

Frau Heidel shook her head, banishing a scowl. Shivers of movement trailed through the twin curls trailing along her cheeks. “You owe me no thanks, sir. I only learned of your attendance a few minutes ago.”

Arie cursed the unexpected lust that had possessed his idiotic tongue. He sank under a flood of familiar insecurities and guilt, as well as a sharp regret that the eye-catching widow would not be the sexual prospect he gladly imagined.

Lady Venner appeared highly amused as she asked, “Do you only accept aristocratic students, Herr De Voss?”

He laughed harshly, too abruptly. “I would never eat. Until I live on commissions, I cannot afford to be particular.”

“I only ask because Frau Heidel studied violin before her marriage. Perhaps…”

“This is not the time, Ingrid.”

The widow’s hard tone sparked a silent altercation between the women. Arie could not interpret their wordless expressions, nor could he imagine speaking to an aristocrat with such censure and familiarity. A thousand questions begged for answers.

Lord Venner appeared equally baffled, but he at least retained authority enough to influence their unspoken contest. “Let us hear the maestro’s recital and release him from his obligation, meine Liebe.”

Whether a pointed barb at his unsteady poise, Arie could not know. But the prospect of making his escape from that uncomfortable scene, especially to the safety of a piano bench, lifted his spirits like a pardon for a condemned prisoner.

His hostess flicked green eyes between her companions before a neutral smile smoothed across her face. Arie would have given his sanity for a fraction of her poise. “My husband is right,” Lady Venner said. “Will you perform for us?”

Nodding, hoping his half-drunk conduct had not already spoiled his patrons’ support, he was pleased to learn that they expected so little spectacle. Perhaps his skill at the pianoforte might compensate for reticence and poor manners.

“At your pleasure,” he said.

The mysterious Frau Heidel smiled without joy. “And what will you play, sir?”

Whether intentional or otherwise, her question salvaged Arie’s floundering composure. Negotiating the niceties of society still had the power to mystify him, no matter his experience, but he discussed music with the easy reflex of respiration.

“I wrote a sonata in dedication to Rudolf, the youngest brother of your new Duke Ferdinand, when he required a music instructor. I thought the piece might recommend me to the post.”

“Did it?”

“No,” Arie said on an exhale. “Now Beethoven instructs Rudolf. But the sonata is good. I never played it in public.”

Frau Heidel pensively explored his face and fingered a pendant of amber and silver. Cool reserve had entirely replaced her admiration—or had that been the mad fantasy of a lonely man? A pounding pain scrambled around his skull.

“I await your performance, sir,” she said simply.

With that, the widow slipped from their small set. Arie watched the crowd swallow her black dress. He nearly indulged an irrational urge to follow her, even as the Venners departed for the elevated musicians’ platform.

Beside her keen-eyed husband, Lady Venner raised graceful arms to gather attention toward the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to take a moment from your conversations and a respite from your dances to recognize one of our esteemed guests.”

Arie forced air in and out of his lungs, calming his nerves. He lived for these moments. This would be the balm for a grievous evening.

“Honoring us with his presence is a man most worthy of the praise he receives from all corners of Europe.” Only a flattering blush indicated the young noblewoman’s subtle unease before so many guests. She possessed a sweet, resonant voice filled with drama. Partygoers hung on each syllable. Arie admired her showmanship as much as Lord Venner’s stoic candor. “Please join me in welcoming the famed Dutch composer, a current resident of our dear Salzburg, Maestro Arie De Voss.”

Immediate applause filled the ballroom. Men standing nearby offered handshakes and bows. Women curtsied and tendered alluring smiles. Arie spun between emotional extremes, hastily making the transition from scornful recluse and hypocrite to humble, grateful luminary.

In that moment, finally, years of life in the public eye activated valuable reflexes. His answering smile appeared without struggle. This was his privilege, after all, as well as his obligation. Curiosity and stares at the mere mention of his name distressed him more than being honored for any genuine talent.

The Venners beckoned and the applause receded. He bowed deeply. “You do me a great honor.” His accent thickened before the many watchful faces. “I thank our hosts for a wonderful evening.”

He lied, of course. The hours since leaving his studio had been tedious and terrible.

Except for her.

At Lady Venner’s command, six footmen cautiously rolled a low wheeled trolley into the ballroom. Several more servants ushered guests aside to make way for the Broadwood.

Arie sat before the magnificent instrument, unhurried and temporarily free from a plague of inadequacies. He stroked the contrasting ivory, admiring a beauty so unlike his own battered pianoforte—the best he had been able to afford upon arriving in Salzburg.

A clutch of envy threatened to steal his joy. But since childhood, since his father’s hanging, he had learned that playing the piano erased the world. When performing, he became the person no one else knew, the person most like himself.

Thought fled. Drunkenness abated. And for the first time that evening, his breathing came naturally. He began.

Mathilda could not stop trembling. Shivers stamped goose bumps on the skin where his gaze had wandered.

She—or the willfulness that controlled her actions, if not her thoughts—forced reckless emotions to submit to good sense. She pushed a hand against her breastbone and swallowed the lump of awe stuck behind her larynx. Grasping at her bearings, she demanded a levelheaded evaluation of her stilted introduction to Arie De Voss.

His stare, his stance, the curve of his mouth…he was drunk.

Alcohol doused the excitement she had once seen roused by his obsession—his music. Without that inner fire, he seemed a shadow of the greatness she remembered. Truth had leered at her with cobalt eyes. Arie De Voss was not a god or some otherworldly creature. He wrote music. Nothing more. He was just a person, a man she had exaggerated with useless daydreams. The bubble of fascination swelling within her had simply burst.

Mathilda climbed the stairs to the gallery lining either side of the ballroom. Just as she reached that high vantage, he started to play.

And her hero returned.

Caressing his sonata into being, De Voss began the performance modestly. All sound in the ballroom died away, respecting his creation.

The first theme, just his right hand lazily bringing each tone to life, moved to a second, more insistent idea. Limping and skittering, the work swelled into an ethereal blend of passion and gloom. The deceptively plain themes intermingled in a place of longing until they resembled heartbeats, footsteps, the wind and rain—any elemental facet of life.

Mathilda wore mourning black, but she had never experienced the depths of helpless sorrow flowing from De Voss’s hands. He hypnotized her. She trembled with the unreal thrill of his serenade, seduced by a fantasy in which he performed for her alone. The fantasy urged her to forget the leer he had skimmed along her body—or, worse yet, to savor that forbidden memory.

But the whole of Europe enjoyed his music. She held no special claim. And the drunken Dutchman had unceremoniously blighted years of idyllic fancies.

Echoes of the final chord fell silent. The Venners’ guests showered De Voss with earnest applause, cheering wildly. Men and women who had taken seats during the musical interlude leapt up, tossing restraint aside in favor of robust appreciation. Mathilda applauded, but her wonder faded with the music.

She turned from the gallery railing, pressed by a restlessness she could neither explain nor deny. At her waist, as if roaming the tight confines of a violin’s fingerboard, her left hand danced. She squeezed the agitated limb into a fist. When the impulse refused to abate, she pulled the Fraiskette from her bodice and stroked its warm amber cabochon in a panicky rhythm.

Even Ingrid’s unwavering friendship could not comfort her now. She needed air. Peace. Solitude.

After retrieving her pelisse, Mathilda wound down the servants’ staircase and past the kitchen. She stepped outside, emerging from beneath the covered porticos that lined the second-floor arcade at the rear of the mansion. The unusually mild Alpine chill stirred her to wakefulness, a welcome contrast to the stifling turbulence of the ballroom.

Leaning forward, she pressed her waist to the frozen wrought-iron handrail. In the garden below, mounds of scant snow encased dormant rosebushes as well as herb pots, conical shrubs and fallow seedbeds. Breathing deeply, her nostrils tensing against the freezing air, she let her anxieties drain away. But her loneliness remained.

“You will catch your death, Frau Heidel.”

She turned, grabbing hold of the frigid metal rail to steady her precarious equilibrium, both mental and physical. Surprise muffled her voice and swirled hasty thoughts into chaos. Fate, it seemed, was not ready to end her evening with De Voss.

The impeccably dressed musician had vanished, replaced by a ruffian wearing neither coat nor cravat. He drank deeply from a glass of strong spirits. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he matched sloppy movements to his disheveled appearance.

Since first witnessing De Voss in concert at the age of sixteen, Mathilda had craved familiarity. She wished to stand apart from the nameless admirers. His state of undress afforded that intimacy in spades, doing nothing to check her coarse compulsion to stare.

Cold radiated up her fingers, hands and arms. She focused on the unpleasant tingle, fighting a persuasive urge to flee—and an even greater, mortifying urge to fawn. Gawking would only make her appear a simpleton. She refused to forget her manners again.

That thought helped locate her tongue. Words came easily, as did an unexpectedly assured demeanor. “Herr De Voss.” She knelt in a deep curtsy, drawing from every etiquette lesson she had shared with Ingrid. “You surprised me, sir.”

A slight shrug rippled across his taut shoulders. “I saw when you leave the ballroom. I wish you found a warmer place to seek your peace.”

An angular nose and cheekbones revealed his Dutch lineage, and the gentlest cleft marked his chin below full, stern lips. Twin furrows textured the skin between his brows, while a pair of faint lines scored either side of his mouth.

Nervous butterflies awakened in her stomach when she realized the extent of their isolation. He followed me.

“You didn’t stay in the ballroom to receive your due honors? Surely you must enjoy the applause you earn.”

“No need for such fusses.” His accent inspired her heart to keep a brutal rhythm. “I did what our hosts invited me to do—I performed. People in fine clothes gave to me their cards, and I will inquire about students next week. Now, I will go home.”

“You make the tasks of your profession sound rather perfunctory,” she said. “I assume, then, that you’ve not enjoyed the gala.”

“I endure tedious functions to attract patrons and students.”

Irritation crept up her backbone. “I wonder how much money you would think fair payment for attending our tedious function.”

De Voss blanched and shook his head. “I find every such engagement tiresome, this no more than others.”

“I see.”

Was that an apology? Was he fidgeting? And was she really standing in the cold talking to Arie De Voss? Her awestruck wonder glossed over his slight.

“You have done the Venners a great service in attending our celebration. Whether or not you enjoyed the experience, I thank you on their behalf.”

“Lord Venner admits no appreciation for music.”

“He does rather brag about that, doesn’t he?” Fondness and gratitude inspired her smile. “As does any well-meaning philistine, he holds only two things in esteem for a quality gala—plentiful drink and the right guests.”

His lips twitched in a sardonic little sneer. “No music?”

“No music. He believes that once the liquor begins to flow, no one notices much else.”

De Voss saluted her with his glass. “You make me curious about the applause I received. You will have me doubt the sincerity of these guests.”

Before Mathilda could restrain her eagerness, it slipped into the air like a bird. “Your performance was splendid, sir, no matter their opinion. Simply breathtaking. I have not heard its like in Salzburg, not since you debuted Love and Freedom.”

At De Voss’s bewildered expression, she clamped her lips. The words sounded trivial compared to his music—music obviously capable of rendering her dumb—but she wanted to preserve some shred of decorum. The raw air helped, cooling her skin. She hoped the subtle torchlight would disguise the blush burning bright on her cheeks.

“Thank you, Frau Heidel.”

He spoke sincerely. He did not condescend. That much reassured her, at least. But in a restless gesture, he raked lean fingers through his hair. He looked at the ground, a torch, the night sky. Never her eyes.

Moments stretched between them. She clutched her pelisse to keep from squirming. De Voss moved to take another drink but paused, assessed its contents and lowered the glass with a look of defeat. He sighed and veered to leave. Her opportunity—their stilted, bizarre conversation—had been far too brief.

Greed erased her hesitation. She wanted more.

“Sir, do you have an opening for a new student? Perhaps for the violin?”

Astonished by her own boldness, Mathilda saw her surprise reflected in his expression. His gaze brushed over her face before dipping to find her bosom, her belly. A disorienting rush of awareness climbed the backs of her thighs.

“You?”

Pride refused to acknowledge his doubt. Just as in the ballroom, hearing his music, her fingers itched with the need to play. How long had it been?

On a pained exhale, she knew the answer only too well: four years. She had not held a violin in more than four long years. Instead, craving a commonplace life, she had held a broom, dishes, other women’s infants, bandages, endless yards of laundered clothes, bottles of tonic and even carriage reins. In the dark of night, she had held Jürgen with a feeling just short of contentment. Since his murder, her restless fingers worked to rub a hole in the Fraiskette he had bestowed. Without exception, all of it, even her husband, had been a substitute for the violin.

Gripping fistfuls of wool, defending against the cold and her nerves, she pulled the pelisse more snugly around her body. But she could not defend against the obvious proposition in his hard assessment.

“Lady Venner began to make the suggestion, but if you have no time—”

“I have the time.” De Voss walked closer, his body warming hers. He raised his free hand to touch a scant inch of black silk at her bust, the only part of her bodice left uncovered by her wrap. “Are you permitted?”

At his evocative reminder of her mourning, Mathilda stilled. Violin lessons? What am I doing?

Before she could retract her request, the maestro made his decision. “You will arrive at my studio on Wednesday. At two in the afternoon.”

She shivered, captivated by the way he phrased his thoughts. You will arrive. Was that a grammatical mistake or a command? She wished for clearer light to read his eyes.

He removed a card from his waistcoat and handed it to her without touching the leather of her gloves. In contrast with the lenience of his appearance, he offered a perfect bow. All emotion had vanished. “Good evening, Frau Heidel.”

“Good evening, Herr De Voss.”

Bewildered, as hopelessly fascinated as ever, she watched the Dutchman gulp the remainder of his drink and walk away. He shook his head, as if to awaken from a dream.

CHAPTER THREE

At the sound of a polite knock at her door, Mathilda emerged from dreamless sleep. The young, rather inexperienced lady’s maid, Klara, helped complete her brief morning toilette.

Ingrid arrived minutes later, stepping into Mathilda’s narrow room on the top floor of the mansion. She dismissed the maid and whirled on her friend. “You volunteered for violin lessons with Arie De Voss?”

At the dressing table, Mathilda stilled. “How did you know?”

Blithely, she waved her hands. “Christoph. Probably through Oliver. You know how they are, playing at espionage.” She pulled Mathilda to her feet. “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“I’m proud of you for taking such a chance!”

“Don’t remind me,” Mathilda said. “I shock myself.”

“But why? It was a marvelous idea.” She peered at Mathilda with a disturbing sense of clarity, her green eyes intent. “What was he like? Privately?”

A hundred attempts had failed to make sense of Mathilda’s half-formed impressions. No key existed to decipher whether she should think upon their conversation with fondness or trepidation. Too many dark corners remained, dominating her thoughts and corrupting her enjoyment of those new memories.

“He was withdrawn and awkward, hardly polite enough to maintain a conversation,” Mathilda said softly. “He’s a marvelous composer, but little else recommends him to society.”

“You managed nicely.”

“I had little choice. He followed me to the arcade after his performance.”

Ingrid beamed. “You make it sound like a tedious experience, Tilda, when I know otherwise. But explain it to me. At the start of the night, you were opposed to playing the violin again.”

“Yes.”

The word affirmed a return to good sense. Mathilda found her mental footing for the first time since Lord Venner had first mentioned the Dutchman. She agreed with the wise woman she had once been, the woman who kept in perspective thoughts of violins and maestros and compositions.

But De Voss’s sonata looped like a restless echo through the channels of her ear. Brought to life by his swift and accurate fingers, each note had wiggled into the place where she imagined her soul was lodged. She wanted that…him…something with a strong determination.

Mathilda owed much to the Venners—this woman who was like a sister and her noble husband. Their camaraderie had bolstered her flagging spirits when melancholy loomed like a dark shadow. She had worked to make their Carnival ball a success, but not just to demonstrate her gratitude. She had done so as a distraction from an unexpectedly aimless life.

Those responsibilities had helped her endure months of shock and abrupt change. Charging at her duties like a child running downhill, she had worked herself into such a state of exhaustion that sleep always beckoned come nightfall. The bliss of swift unconsciousness defended against the chance of lying alone in the dark, beset by the past.

“Yes,” she repeated. Said a second time, the word became an overture to protest. “But now that the gala is concluded, I’ll miss having a pursuit to call my own.”

Unease and emotion stopped her words. Unable to say more, she only hoped her young friend might glean a measure of understanding from the explanation. She simply could not renounce her newfound purpose.

Ingrid took her hand. “You dwell on the uncertainties when you shouldn’t. You’ll have your lessons—but we know the man cannot teach you anything about the violin you don’t already know. And then you will be happy. I know it.”

On the Wednesday of her lesson, after the midday meal, Mathilda stood in her room and stared at her violin—in truth, the violin she’d permanently borrowed from Ingrid. To carry the instrument through town seemed an impossibly conspicuous burden. She would just have to take the chance that De Voss kept one for his students.

When she could think of no other reason to delay, she bundled into her woolen winter pelisse, shawl and bonnet. She declined the offer of a carriage, needing to walk away her nerves, but Ingrid would not permit her to journey alone. With Oliver as her companion, she set off for De Voss’s studio in the Feierviertel—the Festival Quarter.

Strengthening winds descended from the mountain peaks. Mild winter temperatures had been a mere reprieve, and the glittering daylight did little to abate the return of an intense cold. Pale winter sunshine coated the yellow-and-pink stuccoed façade and petite spire of Michaelskirche. The six-story Glockenspiel, the bell tower looming over the massive royal guest residences, formed the southern border of the wide, airy square.

Cutting across Waagplatz, they walked through the neighborhood that had been an enclave for Jews before their expulsion from the city hundreds of years before. Melancholy threatened Mathilda’s apprehensive excitement. She shivered in the cold while her mind conjured images from infamous histories: tearful families evacuated, a synagogue burned to the ground, businesses looted and a Christian populace eager to secure vacated accommodations.

She wondered when her father’s people had found the courage to return to Salzburg, braving the ghosts and the condemnation once official edicts lost their potency.

At the top of Judengasse, she glanced to the right and caught sight of the river. She had not crossed the Salzach since retreating to the security of the Venners’ manor a year earlier. She disliked its lazy northward current and ghastly color, sheeted in thin ice and tinted green by minerals from the Kitzbühler Alps. The scenic river revived only morbid memories. Jürgen’s body had been discovered along the Salzach’s north bank. And her mother had chosen to step off its southern shore when she took her own life. Those unhappy histories kept Mathilda in the Altstadt—the Old Town—pressed close to the stately shelter of Mönchsberg.

Disturbing thoughts had haunted every step of her brief journey, and she needed no great insight to understand the flow of her thoughts. She wanted to play the violin again. In doing so, she would deny any lesson offered by her parents’ deaths and invalidate three years of marriage.

I should have walked another way.

She hurried on before losing her nerve. With Oliver keeping pace, she passed the golden-beige town hall known as the Rathaus. A bell in its square belfry rang to mark the hour. She pulled De Voss’s card from her reticule, although she had memorized the address: Third Floor, Getreidegasse 26.

Upon entering the building’s pedestrian door, they climbed two creaking wooden flights. A frosty wind swirled up the staircase. She hoped De Voss kept a fire burning, for she wondered at her ability to perform if her fingers shook from the cold.

Not only should she have taken a different route through the city, she should have made use of the Venners’ carriage after all.

Hands shaking, Mathilda knocked at the door.

De Voss answered at once and offered a stiff bow. “Come in.”

She walked through the portal and twisted the ribbons of her bonnet. When Oliver followed her inside, De Voss frowned and shut the door.

Again lacking a cravat and coat, his smart oxblood waistcoat did little to drag his manner of dress back toward propriety. He eyed Oliver with a look as chilling as the swirling winds. “The kitchen is warm,” he said.

Oliver pulled a slim leather-bound book from his coat and offered Mathilda the barest smile. “The kitchen it is, then.”

De Voss turned to face a wide, well-used table hewn from some nondescript hardwood. Dozens of composition sheets covered with indecipherable scratches of ink lay scattered over its surface. Disregarding both guests, he sat and took pen in hand.

Oliver assisted Mathilda with her outerwear before removing his own winter garments. Free of the livery wig worn for special functions, his dark brown curls accentuated a boyish handsomeness. His equally dark eyes, however, were mature and wary.

He glanced at De Voss. His stern expression belied his usual relaxed detachment. “Will you be all right?”

“I will.”

Oliver hesitated before nodding and retiring to the kitchen. Mathilda surreptitiously arranged her hair and sat on a squat wooden stool.

Minutes passed. She waited.

De Voss’s pen flew over a page, a merciless grating of quill along parchment. Mathilda smiled at the irritating noise, knowing each new scrape served to reveal his next masterpiece. She longed to listen to the magic he heard at that moment, but she had to settle for what she could imagine. As usual.

Her eyes wandered. Other than the table, a garishly painted freestanding cupboard was the only piece of furniture in the room. Four shoulder-height iron candlesticks loomed behind De Voss. The tools of his trade—several music stands, a cello, two violin cases—lay strewn around like toys in a nursery. A Viennese pianoforte dominated the far corner.

She had imaged a much different residence for her favorite composer: a cozy, dark space replete with thick carpets from exotic lands, candles, a roaring fire. And De Voss hunched over his latest composition. That part, at least, she had pictured correctly. Work absorbed him. He set about rolling the sleeves of his white shirt, then spiked the light brown mess of hair along his temples.

Mathilda could not recall a man more indifferent to his physical appearance, especially in the presence of a guest. Perhaps Oliver had been correct in his caution. She could not decide whether to be offended, repulsed or intrigued.

Her patience neared its limit until, at last, De Voss set aside his quill. He stood without haste and sat across from her on the other wooden stool. “What history with music have you?”

The abrupt shift surprised her. One minute, he could have been alone in the studio for how little mind he paid Mathilda. The next, he stared at her with such intensity as to blow her thoughts like leaves from a tree.

“I received voice lessons for just over a year when I was twelve.”

“Why did you stop?”

Although she shrugged, her heart was galloping. “I cannot sing.”

“A frank admission. I admire it.”

“I didn’t say it to impress you. I cannot carry a tune.”

“Charming.” De Voss leaned forward, boldly roaming an assessing glance over her body. His cobalt-blue eyes darkened. He regarded her with the disconcerting physical interest he had revealed at the Venners’ ball. “Why are you here, really? Do you wish some intimacy with me?”

His startling words exploded in her brain like the delayed concussion of cannon fire. Provoked and offended in equal measure, her blood burned. He did not believe she had come for a music lesson, but for a romp—even though Venner’s servant sat silently in the kitchen. No wonder he had eyed Oliver unkindly. Had he expected her to follow him into the bedroom?

Where is the bedroom?

A heated blush flared along her bare neck. Speech stuck in her throat for brief, embarrassing seconds until indignation loosened her tongue. “I imagine you receive the attention of a number of women awed by your talent.”

She expected a cocky smile or boastful affirmation. Instead, De Voss’s gaze slumped to the floor. “On occasion.”

His uneasiness puzzled her.

“Herr De Voss, I assure you—I arrived with music in mind.”

Your music.

“I seem to make mistakes with you, Frau Heidel. More than usual.” A semblance of cordial neutrality returned to his features, as if he had extinguished the blaze of his interest. “Pray continue.”

Mathilda, however, could not abandon his inquiry like some bad idea. She tugged at the restraints of an unnamed tension. The chilly little room grew warmer and unbearably cramped. When had she thought it cold?

Reeling in the wake of the maestro’s frank regard, her tongue and brain reluctantly cooperated to produce speech. “I proved much better suited to the violin.”

“But again you stopped?”

“Well, after…” Mathilda shifted on the hard stool.

“Go on.”

“After the death of Frau Seitz—Lady Venner’s mother—I couldn’t continue. She adored music, and I found it impossible to continue my studies without her encouragement.”

“No one else supported your studies?”

Mathilda shook her head faintly. “Without Frau Seitz to manage the household duties, Ingrid and her father relied on me.”

“Why seek lessons now?”

His plain, logical questions picked at her motives. But she fought him. She fought reason. She fought the commonplace existence she endured for years—the one threatening to drown her.

Her answer was simple and selfish. Liberating. “Because I want to.”

The little tufts standing out at his temples threatened to drive her mad with the need to smooth his hair. At last he said, “I want you to play for me. Anything. Play what you remember from other instruction. I wish to be familiar with your aptitude.”

Mathilda’s stomach heaved in an attack of nerves. Talking was one thing, but the act of playing the violin for De Voss—what had she been thinking? Under his attentive stare, when she doubted even her ability to breathe, how could she make her fingers perform their delicate tasks? And which piece to choose?

De Voss reached between them to retrieve a leather violin case from the floor. As he pulled the case to rest on his lap, his bare forearm brushed the black silk of her skirts. She pretended not to notice, despite the snap of heat sizzling beneath her skin. He produced a remarkable violin with a lustrous patina. A tiny tremor claimed her hands when she reached to receive the beautiful instrument.

“No need to be nervous,” he said, watching her unsteady fingers. “This is only the beginning.”

Mathilda inhaled those words, finding inspiration in a deeper meaning she could hardly trust. She stood, ready to begin.

CHAPTER FOUR

Arie scrutinized his newest student.

Frau Heidel was not a typical bored widow, it seemed—a disappointment he refused to examine. But if she did not seek his company for reasons of pleasure, why had she come? With the cynicism of a man used to unpleasant surprises, he watched her bring the violin to her shoulder.

A startled shriek issue forth from the beautiful instrument. Arie flinched. The young widow dropped the bow with a sound of surprise and frustration.

“Sorry.” As if haste might erase her mistake, she knelt and retrieved the bow.

A bemused smirk spread across his mouth. “Do not worry. You are nervous.”

“And cold.”

Arie raised an eyebrow. Most students shrank from his condescension, but irritation, embarrassment or both revealed a snappish side to her nature. Even if she did not want him for sex, she made for the most diverting student he had known in years.

Diverting and persistent. She tucked the violin under her chin with a determined huff…and played.

Breathless moments passed before Arie fully understood what he heard.

Gently, and rendered with as much skill and passion as he had ever encountered, Frau Heidel played Love and Freedom. She produced the right degree of vibrato, innately aware of how her dynamic fingers conjured magic from four strings. Tones shimmered and wept. Upon reaching the movement’s stark adagio, she slowed and swayed. Her intensity never wavered.

Arie’s astonishment swelled to doubt. Spellbound, he leaned forward. Her performance surrounded him. He strained his ears, the muscles in his neck, and the very limits of his musical faculties to identify any poorly executed note. But her intonation remained flawless. In her hands, the symphony sounded divine. Effortless.

And she was lovely to watch. Only a little crease at her brow indicated her deep level of concentration. As if listening to someone else’s recital, she moved willowy limbs and her long, curved body in time with the music.

His brain demanded an answer to the question she had yet to satisfy. Who are you?

But a flood of liberated memories shoved his curiosity aside. He recalled the exotic sparkle of the Danube, the wild sound of the Magyar language in open summer markets, and the thump and thrill of ivory beneath his fingers. Love and Freedom had emerged during those months. Companionship and tutelage had given way to illness and fear—Maestro Bolyai’s illness and Arie’s fear. The shame of its conclusion cast a pall over an otherwise wonderful year.

Without flourish or fanfare, mere minutes and a lifetime later, Frau Heidel concluded the first of the symphony’s four movements. Her hands shook when she lowered the violin. Wide, searching and unsure, the widow’s eyes were a deep, shadowed green mingled with fiery sparkles of gold. Abandon had left her face damp and pink. Her radiant expression stopped his lungs short of their appointed task.

Lost, a sense of déjà vu washed over him like ice water. Although Arie was the one left speechless before her unearthly talent, she stared at him with the same adoring, awed look she had initially offered at the Venner gala. That night, he had done his loutish best to drive adoration from her face, but her humbling gaze reappeared in the wake of her performance.

Arie felt at once heroic and utterly fraudulent. Apparently in doubt of her gift, she stood awaiting his evaluation—and in profound amazement of him.

Because of that infernal symphony? Damnation.

How would you look at me if you knew?

In an effort to regain a little perspective, Arie vigorously rubbed his face. He arose from the stool and released a confined breath, uncertain as to how he should proceed. What would she expect him to say? What could he say? He had not been prepared for such a shocking performance or for the emotions Love and Freedom inevitably roused.

“Frau Heidel.”

“Yes?”

Arie tried to disregard the breathy expectation in her voice, but he could not. His opinion meant a great deal to her. Still, he did not like surprises. And he did not enjoy being made a fool.

“For how long did you have lessons for the violin?”

“Not much more than a year,” she said.

“And since, you have had no instruction?”

“Correct.”

He turned on her, angered by whatever combination of talent and deception she had conjured. “And what will you say when I do not believe you?”

Her eyes widened, distorting the attractive proportions of her face. “I—I cannot say.”

“Well, I do not believe you.” He pointed to the violin, her accomplice in his confusion. “You did not learn to play that piece with a single year of instruction.”

She flinched. She held fast. “Herr De Voss, I speak the truth.”

She has a beautiful mouth.

Arie shook his head. Annoyance and a distracting awareness of her body jumbled his mind. “I played seven instruments when I had ten years, but at that age, I cannot perform such a work without extensive study.”

“Which instruments?”

“What?”

“Which instruments could you play?” She tilted her head as if prompting a suitor in the midst of a drawing room conversation. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“What has that to do with anything, girl?”

The widow glanced at her black gown. A rueful sadness chased across her face. “I am no girl, sir, and I ask because I’m curious.”

“You play games.” With what he hoped was an intimidating scowl, he braved the moss-gold of her eyes to discover the truth. “Tell me honestly. Where did you learn to play? Who was your teacher? And when you say you learned in your attic, teaching yourself, I will toss you to the street.”

The Frau smiled unexpectedly, a brilliant, dazzling expression without an ounce of pretense. She nearly giggled. “No wonder you have such difficulty retaining students.”

He stopped short. “How do you mean?”

“The gossips said you were a wretch.”

“Of course they do.” He hated the worried sound of his voice. “Will you tell people I lose my temper?”

“That depends on whether you answer my question.”

Behind her sparkling expression—an expression that had grown steadily bolder since her performance—Frau Heidel maintained a steadfast gravity he could not risk. Arie sighed in an exasperated moment of defeat.

“You want to know what instruments I can play as a child?”

She nodded.

Beste God, but he could feel the corner of his lips tugging upward, the beginning of a reluctant smile. Her odd playfulness infected him with an uninvited levity.

“Pianoforte, harpsichord, violin, violoncello, oboe and flute.”

She counted on her fingers. “Only six.”

“Wench.”

“Bully.”

“Spanish guitar!”

“Quite impressive,” she said, gracing him with a slight smile. She tucked a curl behind her left ear in an elegant move. “And your favorite?”

“To play, compose or hear?”

“All three.”

He took a moment to consider his answer. When he composed, he became a parent striving to give equal time to his musical children. Maestro Bolyai had taught him that great music required balance and structure. All of the instruments needed a proper place and deserved moments to shine. Arie, however, retained distinct favorites. He had ever since he was a boy.

“Piano to play, cello to compose and violin to hear.”

“Why?”

“Verdomme, woman!”

“I am a woman now?” Frau Heidel grinned, arranging her skirts. “I should be offended by your irritability, but I promised to say nothing if you answered my question.”

“You make my head hurt.”

“On that score, I wager you have much in common with Lord Venner.”

Arie growled in the back of his throat. Even though he had not asked for a talented, unpredictable widow for a student, he could not afford to refuse her money—risking an insult to the Venners. His great, maddening symphony would be the piece to ensure his financial freedom, possibly securing a position within Duke Ferdinand’s new court. And he might finally rest without the melody of Love and Freedom, that ghostly fraud, picking away at his tenuous confidence.

In the meantime, he knew all too well that unfinished works earned nothing. Frau Heidel wanted to pay for his time, even though he could not find his way out of this particular lesson with a torch and a guide.

Stewing, he hardly noticed his newest student raise the violin again. The exasperating woman interrupted his gloom with the sound of his own sonata, the one he had debuted on the Venners’ English pianoforte. His unpublished sonata. For the piano.

Arie possessed the sole written copy of this particular piece, yet his new student was recreating the sonata on a different instrument. Any doubts about the true extent of her talent evaporated. She had absorbed the notes from the air.

She played. And he listened. Really listened.

Upon the completion of any piece of music, Arie felt as if he had satisfied his muse. Then, blissfully free of those impatient demands, he concentrated on promoting the work or conducting it for an audience. In that barren studio, however, Frau Heidel gave him an unexpected gift. Performed on the violin, the sonata entwined in his ears with a freshness he never would have thought possible. For the first time, he garnered a twinkle of enjoyment from his own composition. Criticism receded. He simply listened, amazed at what he had created—and what she created on his behalf.

The music faded to silence.

“Now,” he said, “tell the truth.”

“I did.” Her gentle words reached for him, as if sharing an extraordinary secret. “I studied violin for about a year, before Frau Seitz died.”

“Who was your teacher?”

“Frau Seitz hired two tutors. I don’t recall their names. But I never needed them. I could listen to music and just…play.”

“Show me again.”

Arie removed the cello from its stand and positioned it between his knees. He dragged the lengthy bow across the instrument’s thick strings, producing a detailed, severe melody from an incomplete concerto. He ended the display with a flourish of his wrist, but not before Frau Heidel was off, duplicating the melody on the violin. She finished with a sweet imitation of his flourish.

He produced more difficult and meticulous tunes on his cello, only to hear her unerringly copy his displays—except at the last. She surprised them both when, instead of duplicating his melody, she seized it and added a unique variation and harmony. The spontaneous composition showed remarkable ingenuity and sparkle.

And it was more than Arie could stand. His anger dissipated. She had not lied about her talent. There was nothing left to do but recognize her gift and praise its miraculous nature.

“Frau Heidel, I have heard of such wonders. Kapellmeister Haydn’s late friend, a prodigy from this city named Mozart—he played like you do.” He set the cello aside. “Haydn says the man heard music and knew the notes like breathing. I paid his stories little mind until now.”

“I don’t wish to insult you when I ask…you cannot do this?”

Astonishment had long since stolen his pride, prompting Arie’s honesty. “I can play every instrument for which I compose, and I perform my own pieces from memory. I can do what you just did, but only after decades of study and practice.”

“You believe me now?”

“Yes. I believe you.” Contrary to his better financial judgment, he said, “But I do not know what to do with you. You will waste money. You require no instruction from me.”

The woman did not seem to want his objections. A sad tenacity hardened her features. She worked at tugging black gloves over the pale flesh of her hands and forearms. “Only Lady Venner knows what I can do. No one expects me to be a…a…”

“A virtuoso?”

Her expression softened, leaving only a sad sort of fatigue. “I’ve caused you distress, sir. That was not my intention. But please let me continue. Otherwise, I will need to muffle the strings of my violin.”

In Arie’s soul—the deep, inspired place from which his music emerged—flashed an unexpected sympathy. To ignore her genius was an impossible cruelty. “Is that how you play?”

“If I played. Until today, I hadn’t held a violin in four years.” She looked at her fingers where they intertwined across her stomach. “I don’t believe I can set it aside again.” Before Arie could object, the young woman called her chaperone and donned her winter garments. “Let me know your decision, Maestro.” She looked him up and down. Disapproval swept across her face. “But please attire yourself properly, should we meet again.”

She closed the heavy door behind her. Arie wanted to call her back into the shelter of his studio. As at the Venners’ gala, the urge to give chase startled him anew.

What is her given name?

He found himself standing in the middle of the room. When had he risen from the cellist stool? Had he stood to follow her? The kitchen fire burned low and his fingers tingled with cold. Time meant nothing. He was alone.

That last thought stunned him. He embraced the quiet seclusion of his profession. His studio reflected as much, independent of the creature comforts some worked tirelessly to secure. He needed money, patrons and students to support his work. Only justifying himself to the private crime of his past mattered. Why would one woman evoke in him an inexplicable need for something else, something more?

The question would have terrified him, had he any intention of dwelling on an emotion so maudlin. After stopping at the cupboard for a drink, Arie stalked back to his desk. The whole encounter had distracted him from his work. Unforgivable.

Scratching a pen against parchment, he filled his studio with the sounds of a man wrenching music from his soul. His mind drifted along a melody to relive the fleeting moments of Frau Heidel’s lesson. She had been the teacher, if it had been a lesson at all.

Verdomme, she was a talent. And a menace to his mental well-being. Arie had hoped for an amusing afternoon of pleasure with a bored, curious young widow. Instead, he was burdened by countless questions and distracting passions.

Two fruitless hours and several drinks later, Arie had completed nothing. Every note sounded sour, refusing to flow with the possessed ease he had known at daybreak. He blamed Frau Heidel. She had utterly shattered his concentration.

Angrily, he tossed a pair of scribbled and maimed sheets into the kitchen fire. The delicate papers withered to black ash. Never had he done such a thing. Ever practical, he understood his mortal lack of inspiration and saved even the most embarrassing attempts. Portions, at least, grew more acceptable in time. Revisions and new material helped salvage much of the work he initially thought to discard.

But this…

The last of the parchment crinkled into dust. He could never salvage those efforts.

“Foolish man.”

Muttering to himself in Dutch, Arie turned away from his reckless decision and caught sight of the violin Frau Heidel had used. Its glossy surface glimmered in candlelight, beckoning to him. He stalked to the silent instrument, intending to play something angry and spiteful. He tucked the violin under his chin—and inspiration dawned.

Wayward to start, and then more distinctly, a melody emerged from the strings, leading him down a path of creation he had not thought to travel. Tense, heartrending echoes of buried feelings poured forth, transporting him to the puzzling place where art is born.

Moments later, he sat furiously writing at his worktable. He had stopped playing the violin, yes, but the music resonated in his mind and in his solitary heart, as if the instrument was still casting its spell. His quill flew over countless sheets.

When is her next lesson? Next week.

Just before dawn, Arie collapsed into an exhausted sleep over the completed second movement of his newest symphony. His muse, when he caught sight of her through the lassitude of dream, watched him with wide, adoring hazel eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

A spirit of revelry burgeoned throughout Salzburg, but the prospect of Carnival could not rouse Mathilda. Neither would a speech by Grand Duke Ferdinand entice her. An exhausting agitation pressed her mind. Wanting nothing more than to wile away the remaining years of her life playing the violin, she could not shake its renewed hold on her imagination. Everything else was just noise. Especially Carnival.

“Tilda, you are impossible,” Ingrid said. “This is the Octave of the Epiphany! The duke will be there!” She slumped onto the mattress, her shift twisting around bare legs. Klara stood before a wardrobe arranging frocks and waited for her mistress to stand still long enough to dress.

Mathilda could not help but smile at her friend’s theatrics, which was, of course, her intention. “But there will be a dozen more occasions for revelry between now and Lent.”

“And if you planned to attend any of them, I might consider relenting,” Ingrid said. “As a member of the Council of State, Christoph must attend. And he wants us to be there too.”

“You, perhaps.”

Ingrid sat up, shoving unbound chestnut hair out of her eyes. “All right, I’ll tempt you with court secrets.”

“I am not Oliver. Court secrets don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, hush,” Ingrid said, poking her lower lip into a pout. “When Ferdinand became grand duke last year, he was upset to have arrived in April. Our renowned festivities are that disappointing to miss. Tonight, he intends to make up for the lost opportunity. Except for Fasnacht, there will be no grander celebration this year. The whole city will take to the streets.”

“Because tremendous gatherings suit me well.”

Ingrid jabbed a finger. “You complain when gatherings are too small, when people scrutinize and whisper. Tonight, they will scrutinize and whisper about the duke. They won’t pay you a whit of mind.”

Rocking once on bare heels, Mathilda eyed the cream plaster ceiling. “You’ll be happy to know I find a certain logic in that.”

Giggling, Ingrid finally stood and submitted to Klara’s attentions. “Christoph says that about me all the time, that I am eminently logical.”

Klara snorted. At her embarrassed flush, the three women dissolved into hysterics.

Ingrid wasted no time in turning the lighthearted moment to her advantage. She campaigned using round, pleading eyes. “Please, dearest. Don’t stay here by yourself.”

“All right. You win.” Mathilda flicked the ends of her heavy woolen shawl. “What do you think? Black for tonight?”

“Oh, Tilda!” Ingrid launched into her arms, her green velvet dress gaping open at the back. Klara huffed a silent protest. “Your timely decision will save your pride, too.”

“How so?”

“Well, when I mention that Herr De Voss will be there tonight—conducting some ode or another for the duke—you’ll not have to embarrass yourself by suddenly agreeing to attend.”

An hour later, with the Venners and their retinue of guests and servants, Mathilda walked east along Herrengasse. Although snow clung to roofs and window mantels, boots and hooves had thoroughly trodden the gray cobblestones. Hardy a flake remained on the ground.

In the irregularly shaped Kapitelplatz, a thousand torches glowed as brightly as midday. The light banished winter shadows and anointed every face with a peaceful glow. Elbow to elbow, citizens milled in all three of the Altstadt’s central squares, eagerly arriving to rejoice with their new leader. Those gathered bodies dispersed the chill of evening.

Despite her pique, Mathilda could not ignore the scene. Giant fire-filled cauldrons further illuminated the square and transformed familiar structures into mystic curiosities. The Dom, the towering two-hundred-year-old cathedral at the city center, had been constructed from off-white marble mined from the nearby mountain of Untersberg. Flames bathed those pale walls in illusory shades of gold and amber. Deep shadows accentuated the architectural flourishes of its soaring matched towers and elegant copper cupolas.

Ingrid squealed and clung to Mathilda’s arm. “Look!”

At baiting pens, eager men placed wagers and shouted redundant encouragements to the confined hares, badgers and foxes. Fighting to the death, the animals endured an accelerated masque of their daily struggle for survival. Mathilda grimaced but could not look away.

Past the pens, a septet of foreign youths in colorful exotic costumes performed an elaborate routine of swordplay. The smallest of the seven acrobats, a slight girl of no more than ten or twelve years, balanced a rapier along the bridge of her nose with practiced ease. Mathilda and Ingrid applauded the group’s skill.

Venner approached when the performance reached its fantastic conclusion. “Meine Liebe, we must continue now.”

The party walked through the Dombogen, the two-story marble archways connecting Kapitelplatz to the wide square in front of the Dom. The massive arches loomed above a row of carriages. After a fond goodbye, Ingrid and her husband moved to join other political dignitaries. Oliver and two footmen stood near Mathilda and the Venners’ guests, all facing the Dom.

Dwarfed by the Dombogen, lost in the crowds, and humbled by the awe-inspiring architecture, a curious sense of peace absorbed her. If she could compose music, she would select that particular feeling of happy insignificance for her theme.

She smiled without reserve and gazed skyward. The impressive statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a lofty pedestal. Angels lingered at her feet, ready to adorn her with a crown. Mathilda stretched her thoughts toward Mary’s serene face, and that same tingling impression of smallness returned, infusing her imagination and heightening her senses.

She dragged her stare from the heavens. Arie De Voss stood not ten feet away.

No hint of emotion registered on his jagged features as they caught sight of one another, but a sizzle of lightning flashed between them, arching around and over the people barring the path to his side.

Mathilda’s pulse rushed, beating hard against her ribs. Impatient breaths fought for passage in and out of her lungs. She was unnerved by her body’s reaction to the sight of him, an uncommon man standing isolated among thousands of reveling citizens.

A sudden apprehension skittered across her heart. She hoped he would refrain from dragging down her high opinion of him any further. Monotony beckoned, and she could not endure a future of ennui without retaining a little piece of fantasy.

That pathetic thought finally pulled her out of a stunned trance. Disgusted, she wondered when she had become unable to live outside of two equally hopeless worlds. Everyday tasks and obligations comprised her colorless widowhood, while unattainable fantasies painted wild dreams of make-believe. She had flitted from one to another for a year, trying to sew together a little happiness. But neither satisfied her.

“I shall speak to Herr De Voss,” she said to Oliver.

“Ja, Frau Heidel.” Disapproval flickered in his dark eyes. “Shall I accompany you?”

She smiled at his protective air. He took the task of guarding her seriously—or, likely, Venner had charged him to do so. “No need, Oliver. I won’t leave your sight.”

Walking away was like stepping off a rocky cliff atop Mönchsberg. But memories of their dueling game of follow-the-leader—De Voss on cello and Mathilda on violin—thrummed through her blood. She yearned to return to his studio, to play the violin unfettered by her persistent dread of attention.

Refusing to be ruffled again, she reassured herself that his brusqueness could no longer shock her. He drew his powers of intimidation from two sources: an ill-mannered disposition and incredible talent. She could counter both. After all, the city’s finest etiquette tutors had provided her with the ability to behave decorously, even in the face of indecorous conduct. And her violin performance had humbled him.

Like a knight preparing for a joust, she drew faith from her strengths and made them a part of her being, like breathing—a task the maestro made maddeningly difficult.

Dressed in the same slightly worn but well-tailored suit he had worn at the ball, he looked dreadfully elegant. Missing was the half-wild artiste she had chastised. In his place awaited a black-clad gentleman of refinement, bearing and neatly combed hair.

Perhaps they would be able to conduct an ordinary conversation in keeping with their manner of acquaintance. She wanted to know if he would agree to more lessons, as well as the behavior she might reasonably expect should she return.

Assuming a cheerful demeanor, she said, “Herr De Voss, how good to see you again.”

“That makes a change, Frau Heidel. The last I recall of you is a remark on my wardrobe and a fussy departure.”

Mathilda clenched her back teeth. Her hope for a simple, cordial conversation dissipated. More disappointed than angry, her hopes sank into the ground. Social interaction ill suited him, and she did not possess the patience to be civil to a man who held no appreciation of common courtesy. Any further conversation with the man would only spoil what happy memories of him she yet retained.

“You are a tyrant, sir. Good night.”

She turned, but he caught her arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. Her instincts demanded a struggle, but her reluctance to cause a scene stilled her haste. Heat from his hand seeped through her clothes and awoke a startling awareness of flesh, his and hers. Mathilda shook her brain away from that hungry thought.

Determined, she confronted her tormentor and discovered an altered version of the maestro. He had fixed his features into the most becoming, benign expression of politeness. No vestige of his irascible greeting remained—except for his hand.

She flicked her eyes to where their bodies connected. He released her.

“And you, Frau Heidel, how lovely to see you again. You are well, I trust?” He used formal German, carefully articulating each syllable. His face insisted that her addled mind had created those unpleasant opening seconds of their encounter.

“Tolerably,” she said, mimicking his charade of calm. “And yourself?”

“I am quite recovered from our last meeting.” Now smooth and warm, his voice promised safety, blunting her wits.

“Ingrid—Lady Venner, I mean—said you would conduct tonight. Is that true?”

“I arrived in hope of seeing you.”

She blinked. “You do me compliment, sir.”

De Voss grinned as if to acknowledge her quiet mockery. He tilted his head slightly, freeing a lock of hair to dangle across his forehead. “If I apologize, Frau Heidel, my pride will never recover.”

A smile nearly loosened the grim set of her mouth, but she refused to free the gentling expression. “But if you do not, I’ll be forced to hasten another fussy departure.”

“Forgive me.”

“Not yet.”

“Suit yourself.” He straightened, ignoring her attempt at stern censure. “Yes, I will conduct after the duke’s speech. And I admit to curiosities about this bizarre ordeal. Perhaps you will explain for me.”

Reluctantly, Mathilda sympathized with his confusion. She could not imagine enduring the strange customs of another culture, so far from home. “Which aspect? Fasching in general or the duke’s address in particular?”

“Both, if you please.” He looked at the Dom. The light and shadow haloed his features in profile. She traced the line of his nose with her gaze.

“I suppose you don’t celebrate Carnival in your homeland,” she said softly.

De Voss shook his head. “The Catholic minority hides the practice or ignores it altogether. I hardly took Mass in my youth for fear of hounding, let alone participating in an open papist festival.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “You are Catholic, sir?”

“Yes,” he said in a hush. “The Papenhoek of Delft harbors no small population of faithful.”

“What is that word?”

“Papenhoek? It means Papist’s Corner. I was born there.”

“I hadn’t realized. Well, here in Salzburg, we don’t limit Carnival to the week before Lent. Perhaps you will enjoy our festivities.”

Briefly, she forgot his personality—so thoroughly had he seduced her with easy manners and amiable conversation. His cynical smirk, however, called attention to her error. She could not imagine De Voss enjoying anything but his work, and a word as meek as enjoy fell short of describing his passion.

She expected a snide remark or baiting insult, but De Voss surprised her. “Your politeness flatters me and does credit to your upbringing. I deserve none of it.”

An apology. Almost. But because contrition threatened to soften her toward him, she ignored the comment.

“As for our interest in the duke,” she said, “he is brother to the Holy Roman Emperor. And after centuries of Church leadership, he is novel. His administration promises a brief sanguinity, at least, no matter the sort of leader he proves.”

He raised an eyebrow. The left one. “Sanguinity?”

Mathilda almost laughed. Just in time, she trapped the sound bubbling behind her sternum. “Of course you are unfamiliar with the word, Herr de Voss. It means cheerfulness.”

The composer smiled—a wide and expressive gesture to acknowledge both his amusement and her victory. Night shadows accentuated the lines around his mouth and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. The flickering torches at once illuminated and obscured every sharp feature, but his smile lent an unexpected friendliness…friendliness like an invitation.

Blood ran to her face. Compulsively, she tried to find another object to divert her attention. But no, she could not look away from his smile. It transformed his austere face into a handsome masterpiece. Each trait entrusted a deeper, more genuine part of him to her keeping.

Those little wrinkles at the corners of eyes shadowed black in the torchlight? Yes.

The line on his right cheek that was almost a dimple? Ruthless.

The persistent twin furrows between his brows? In remission.

And Mathilda’s errant heart beating well above a healthful speed? As better judgment dwindled to naught, she would have been surprised to find it otherwise.

Eager and full of spirited energy, the boisterous crowd continued to jam into Domplatz. A father ambled in front of Arie, trailing a small army of children. Wrapped in layers of winter wear, the toddler he toted on his shoulders was devoid of any discernable gender. An elderly woman carrying a petite dog elicited shrieks of delight from the little ones.

And Arie wanted to flee the unruly scene. His sole question was whether he wished to flee with or from the captivating Frau Heidel.

With.

To catch another glimpse of the divine, Arie wanted her to return to his studio. He had not lied; he arrived on the off chance of seeing her again. But in a city of thousands, his hopes resembled a useless daydream strolling across his wakeful mind. Instead, he had expected Carnival distractions to banish endless thoughts of their encounters.

He had been entranced by the marvelous statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that would have been banned in the Netherlands, when her voice reached him. A light in the darkness.

And he had welcomed her with less affection than a bitter enemy could expect.

Arie had always been able to rely on his aptitude for the piano, even when the guilt of his deception threatened to cripple him. But his aptitude for social graces remained a work in progress. Frau Heidel’s innate skill underscored his inadequacies. Some resentful part of him had lashed out, venting his shortfalls at her expense.

That he needed her back rankled his pride and threatened the safety of his isolation.

Since the widow’s departure from his studio, Arie’s muse had remained as silent as the marble Virgin. A cold shiver of lonely dread racked his shoulders when he recalled the ridiculous scribbles and half-finished ideas littering the floor of his studio. The ridiculous ease of composition in those hours following her lesson existed as some fever dream. Each occasion of pen to parchment produced horrifying results. Gaudy, lifeless, overreaching—he had thrown more sheets into the fire than he cared to recall.

He craved her nearness, her capacity to reawaken his creativity. But how did a man address a respectable woman and persuade her to his aim? Arie wished he could draw on a past success for inspiration. His smile seemed to have had a positive effect, prompting her blush. But he only smiled with ample cause, and such occasions rarely arose.

He glanced at Frau Heidel and abruptly broke their awkward silence. “Do you know of families in need of a music tutor?” he asked.

Having already accepted two additional pupils, he deemed his appearance at the Venners’ gala a successful one. He had few hours in the day to accommodate many more, but a conversation about students sounded harmless enough. Arie no longer trusted his tongue.

“Does the family need to be of any particular rank?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her expression direct. “Some musicians might be reluctant to accept students who are not members of the nobility, perhaps to create an exclusive clientele.”

Arie groped for his understanding of her language. Her explanation seemed to hold another, deeper meaning. Did she think him shallow? Contempt shrouded her words, but not for him. She had proven adept at revealing his shortcomings and had yet to veil criticism aimed in his direction.

So why the artifice?

She picked at the amulet dangling from her neck. In an instant of clarity, he understood. She was nervous.

Let me know your decision, Maestro.

Arie craved her return beyond good sense, but his silence left her hesitant. He had wondered how to persuade the obscenely talented woman to come back.

Asking…that was a start.

“Frau Heidel, if I held reservations about the class of students I teach, I would not continue our association.”

“I left that to your discretion.”

Tremulous, like a harmony, the note of resignation in her voice told Arie he had guessed correctly. Of all people, she was nervous—she, a woman in possession of a heavenly gift.

“I have no such scruples, Frau Heidel.” He tossed in a half-hearted grin for good measure. “I will tutor hounds to play pianoforte if their masters rewarded me for the effort.”

The widow giggled and clapped gloved hands across her sweet, expressive mouth. Amusing Arie to no end, she struggled to compose her features. He smiled wider when she refused to do so.

“Sir, I would pay to see such an exhibition,” she said.

“Performing for wealthy patrons feels little different.”

He winced at the bitterness that smothered his brief levity. In haste, he swallowed the sentiment, but not before the perceptive young woman asked a silent question with her expression. Tension hovered in the winter air.

“You should inquire with the Schindlers,” she said. “Markus Schindler has two school-aged sons and has been seeking a tutor. He’s well regarded and earns a good living.”

“They live in the city?”

“During the winter months, yes,” she said. “They keep a town house on Steingasse, across the Salzach.”

Arie nodded to receive the information, hoarding those details with attentive concentration. Nothing exacerbated his awkwardness more than asking the locals to repeat unusual phrases and place names. Frau Heidel might not mind the inconvenience but, to his aggravation, he wanted to appear especially competent for her.

“I thank you. You know much about the city, I gather. Were you born here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you travel far beyond?”

The widow raised her chin in a defiant challenge, accelerating his heartbeat. “Not at all. I have never left the city.” She paused and looked down. “You ask too many questions, sir.”

Arie clenched his hands. Cold invaded his fingertips with obstinate persistence, even through the warmth of his fur-lined gloves. A sane composer would be in his studio, huddling over the stove and plotting the structure of his symphony’s third movement. But he could name only two rational composers, both of whom shared the surname of Haydn. Most were mad as bats, nurturing more eccentricities than ideas. As for Arie, rationality escaped him, especially when he imagined Frau Heidel’s warm flesh draped across his chilled skin.

“I must ask questions of you,” he said. “People refuse to share information about you. They only say what a fine woman you are, what a fine wife you were to your husband.”

The delicate bloom of color on her cheeks drained away. “You’ve been asking about me?”

The winter air was nothing to her chill timbre. But what did she have to hide? He had only asked whether she traveled beyond the city.

He grinned despite her unspoken warnings, endeavoring to lose his most vital student only moments after seeking her return. A deep, intimidated part of him wanted to even the score, so thoroughly did she trouble him.

“Of course you intrigue me,” he said. “My inquiries are for naught, though—not useful in the least. Please tell me you are not as good as your reputation. I cannot bear such piety.”

Her quick exhale created little puffs of frozen moisture. “And I cannot tell you otherwise.”

“Perhaps.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Arie leaned closer, feeling the heat of her breath against the exposed skin of his face. “Perhaps opinions of you would be more accurate if anyone knew of your talent.”

Her nostrils flared. “You speak inappropriately, sir. Others believe you do so because you are foreign. I think you know exactly what you say. I have seen you behave with decorum, but you ignore such niceties in my presence.”

Stubbornly ignoring the criticism, he took her hand—the hand she clenched around the silver amulet. “What is this you play with?”

“Release it, bitte.”

“Tell me.”

Frau Heidel yanked free of his grasp, glancing at the pendant. “My Fraiskette. It is to protect against cramps and wasting diseases.”

He eyed the charm suspiciously. “Is it pagan?”

“I know not,” she said, frowning as if she had never considered the idea. “The sisters at Nonnberg wear theirs openly. The custom is centuries old. I have not been sick since donning it.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“You and your questions, sir.” Arie held his breath, awaiting a caustic remark, but her irritation receded. Softness infused her voice. “My husband gave it to me. It is my Morgengabe.”

Arie winced. Since his crass drunkenness at the Venner ball, he had been reluctant to revisit the topic of her late spouse. “Will you make me ask the meaning of yet another word?”

“No.” A faint smile curved her lips. “You must ask someone else, because I won’t explain it.”

The woman. Her mysteries. Those infernal glimpses she provided into her genuine character. Arie hoarded them all.

“Then who shall I ask?”

A wave of raucous applause arose as Duke Ferdinand’s musical heralds lined the platform at the base of the Dom’s front steps. With coronets and trumpets, the uniformed men blasted a rousing welcome to Salzburg’s newest leader. Their shrill introduction seized the attention of the entire assembly.

Heads bobbed to catch a glimpse of the new monarch. A couple dressed in fur and brocade craned their necks for a better view alongside a humble family of laborers standing on tiptoe. A throb of human excitement filled Domplatz and echoed off the walls and arches, penetrating Arie’s brain like a spike of ice.

Frau Heidel leaned close enough to make her words heard. “You seem a resourceful enough man. You’ll think of something.”

He resisted the urge to seize the back of her neck and draw her closer still. He wanted only to succumb to a combination of desperation and intolerable lust, both of which frightened him for their startling hold over his imagination. She stood nearly at eye level, watching him. Reading him. Only a slight flare of her nostrils, as if catching the scent of his manic fantasies, indicated her response.

Then she straightened—unsmiling, retreating. “If I recall another family where your services will be appreciated, I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t want a lack of patronage to limit your stay in Salzburg. Good evening, sir.”

Despite mostly frustrating results, Arie’s careful inquiries had revealed one valuable, enchanting fact about the new widow: her given name.

“Mathilda?”

She would not hear his voice over the trumpets and cheers, surely. She would keep walking.

But she stopped. And turned.

Motion, sound and time stilled, breathing between them in a shared moment. A panicky flare of questions brightened her eyes, but she did not blush. Already, he enjoyed her most when she forgot to be bashful.

“Yes, Maestro?”

“I await the chance to continue your instruction. Please come to your lesson on Wednesday.”

Gentle snowflakes fell from the dark winter sky, dusting the top of her sturdy bonnet and melting as they landed on her cheeks. The air in Arie’s lungs burned as he anticipated her reply.

“Yes,” she said.

His knees wobbled with relief even as he slung a hundred chastisements at his foolishness. He wanted to say her name again, to see her acknowledge his familiarity. But as the duke took to the stage, the woman called Mathilda Heidel slipped away.

Once, he had mistakenly believed her a bored, amorous widow. Now, Arie’s fascination extended beyond a physical attraction—even as that attraction goaded him with wild urges.

Beauty. Talent. Muse. He wanted all of her.

Was she the most important thing to happen to him in years, or the most devastating? The possibilities stood side by side, waiting.

On the platform below the Dom, His Imperial and Royal Highness Ferdinando III Giuseppe Giovanni Baptista, the Duke of Salzburg, waited with his dignitaries. Three dozen mounted harquebusiers surrounded the assemblage, sporting ceremonial metal body armor and holding antiquated muskets.

But with his hair in wild clumps, poised to lead the court orchestra, Arie De Voss was the man who held the entire city’s attention. He led the musicians with calm, authoritative focus. Into the yawning, impossibly large space of Domplatz, his inspired music offered the voice of the divine. While more conservative than most of his works, relying on familiar harmonics, his cantata for Duke Ferdinand proved down-to-earth, boisterous and unexpectedly celebratory.

From her vantage, Mathilda fought the wrenching sensation of being pulled by his magnetism. She reminded herself that the bigger-than-life conductor held little in common with the awkward, bullying musician she knew him to be.

Yet she watched, hypnotized. Every movement of his slim baton, actions at once frenetic and precise, expunged her unique knowledge. She forgot his abrasive manners. She ignored his awkward hesitations. And she disregarded his peculiar inability to settle on the right tone in any conversation.

A single face among thousands, she watched and listened and yearned.

Wednesday. She would see him again on Wednesday.

CHAPTER SIX

The winds of a harsh Alpine storm screamed down from Mönchsberg and assailed the city with a ghastly blizzard. Winter threatened to punish all who refused to heed its flamboyant warnings. Rescue parties formed at once to search for unlucky citizens trapped by the sudden onslaught.

Lord Venner was among the missing.

A bluster of chaos and worry filled the grand townhouse when he failed to return from a journey to Hallein. Runners to countless business establishments and private homes revealed no news of him within the city. Beside herself with worry, Ingrid proved nearly useless as Mathilda hastily organized a house in confusion and disarray.

And what ridiculous thought nagged her overoccupied mind? It was Wednesday. She would miss her lesson.

Guilt over her selfishness, even if in thought alone, made Mathilda work harder. The pattern proved familiar, reminding her of time spent working alongside Jürgen.

“How goes the repair, Herr Bruegel?” she asked.

The beefy, genial man in charge of maintaining the town home spoke past the tiny wooden pegs clenched in his teeth. “Shortly, Frau Heidel. Nailing the casement will make it sound again.”

Through the window, broad streaks of angry snow clouds painted every inch of blanched sky. She offered Bruegel her brisk approval. “Cook insists that something is blocking proper airflow in the kitchen chimney. Can you see to it when you finish here?”

At the servant’s answering nod, Mathilda left him to continue the hasty repairs and climbed to the second-floor kitchen. The wind shrieked, echoing up the stairwell as if no protective walls separated frail human bodies from the storm. She lifted a hasty prayer for Venner’s safe return. After talking to the cook, she went to find Ingrid.

Another flight up, in the ballroom, half a dozen men from the Venners’ retinue surrounded Oliver. They were busily outfitting themselves with enough supplies to search for their missing master. Torches, ropes, heavy outerwear, and wooden whistles would help protect the volunteers from becoming lost or stranded themselves. The swarming tempest of snow and ice obscured everything outside, and the search would be dangerous.

The alternative, however—leaving Venner to the mercy of the blizzard—was beyond contemplation.

The men dispersed, but Mathilda stalled Oliver’s departure. “Still no word?”

Shaking his head in silent dejection, he cast a glance at the marvelous grandfather clock at the far end of the ballroom. “He was supposed to return this morning.”

“He might not have reached the city boundary yet.”

Oliver yanked a solid knot into a guideline. Dark curls covered the tops of his ears and shook across his forehead. “I should’ve been with him.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “The trip is simple, one night gone and back again. He asked you to stay, to look after the household.”

“Ja, because he believes he is invincible.”

Mathilda drew back. She had never seen Oliver angered. That he spoke about Venner with such harsh censure surprised her to silence.

“My apologies, Frau Heidel. My frustrations—”

She shook her head, interrupting an explanation that would only embarrass him later. “Where is Lady Venner?”

“I haven’t seen her on this level.”

“Good luck to you, Oliver. And be careful.”

Mathilda tackled two more flights and worked to dispel her fruitless anxieties. She quietly knocked at her friend’s door.

Ingrid reclined on a mountain of pillows, her eyes closed. She had drawn the drapes against the winds and rattling windowpanes. Several candles decorated the room with flickers of gold.

Sitting gingerly on the bed, Mathilda took cold hands into hers. Emotion roughened her voice. “What can I do?”

Ingrid opened luminous green eyes and offered a wan smile. “You’ll miss your lesson, dearest. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing could be farther from my mind at this moment.” She happily realized that she spoke the truth. Finally. Ingrid’s distress over her husband’s safety overwhelmed every other consideration. “Moments ago, Oliver led a search party into the streets.”

“You must think me a silly goose,” she said. “Everyone else bands together while I sit here moping and fretting.”

“But you mope and fret very artfully. Talk to me, if it helps.”

“You are needed downstairs, no?”

“Venner would be most displeased if I attended to the house and your highly capable staff before comforting you.”

Ingrid placed trembling hands on either side of her gown and hoisted herself into a sitting position. “I grew into adulthood knowing Father would help choose a husband on my behalf. A beneficial marriage was my privilege as much as my obligation. But I worried about my future. Do you remember those months?”

“I remember.”

“I wondered what would I feel or do when I finally met him, whoever he was.” She sighed. “When Father introduced me to Christoph, he solved my mystery. I had a face and a name and a voice to complete the picture of my future.”

Smiling, Mathilda clung to the chance to relive happier moments. In the midst of searching for a mere entrée into the highest classes of European society, Ingrid had found Venner. Formal, unblinking and considered far too proper for the likes of an unequal marriage, he had been more intimidating than the fight to win society’s approval. For all of his political talent and good standing, however, Venner had proven a lonely and kindhearted gentleman. Ingrid’s entrée into good society had stolen her heart.

“But now…” Her voice trailed away, somber and terrified. “How did you cope when Jürgen was killed?”

A twist of sympathy loosened Mathilda’s tongue. “Although you didn’t agree with my choice, I married him with an open heart. When I learned of his death, I found myself bereft of more than just a husband. An entire way of living was stolen from me.”

Ingrid leaned closer, her expression intent. “For you, Tilda—is your life better or worse now?”

Like a skittish foal, she shied from Ingrid’s startlingly perceptive eyes and probing question. The answer should have been simple. After all, she was a widow one year removed from her husband’s murder. Almost every aspect of her existence had changed in the span of a single day. Jürgen Heidel had died. She was alone. Her protection from the world—from scandal and the history of her parents’ love affair—had vanished.

She should have been able to answer Ingrid with any number of harsh replies.

Of course, my life is worse today.

How dare you ask such a question of me?

My life ended with his death.

Any would have sufficed, but her tongue refused to form those lies. They stuck in her throat like carriage wheels lodged in the mud of a rutted springtime road.

To answer Ingrid’s question honestly would profane her husband’s death and the life Mathilda had tried to make with him. But neither could she deny the truth of her actions. Mere days after Jürgen’s funeral, she abandoned the home she had tended for three years. The idea of spending another day, another night—taking another breath—within those stultifying rooms had threatened her sanity. A quiet, long-suffering voice demanded she escape.

That same voice would have remained bound and silenced for the breadth of her life had Jürgen lived, had Mathilda continued building a partnership with him. She might have been able to keep her hands busy, attending the chores of a doctor’s wife and studiously disregarding her soul’s occasional yelp of protest.

Instead, and at the first opportunity to escape her fate, she had solicited Ingrid and her father, ostensibly seeking refuge from her grief by helping to prepare for Ingrid’s nuptials. The truth, that the unexpected freedom of her widowhood liberated her with an almost painful, directionless freedom, was too selfish to admit. Dangerous paths she had intentionally barricaded became clear to traverse, and Mathilda feared losing her way without the familiar, imprisoning safety of those obstructions. Guilt and an ingrained fear of whispered rumors had driven her blind with the need for protection.

“Life isn’t better or worse,” she said at last. Even that grudging degree of honesty sickened her like the iron aftertaste of blood. “It is merely…different, and must be endured.”

“You have your music now.”

Mathilda smiled at her friend’s attempt to offer consolation in the midst of her own anxiety. “Yes.”

But at what cost?

With Ingrid dozing sporadically, Mathilda sat beside her friend and tossed around useless questions. Evening darkened the room as her thoughts transformed, becoming melodies. She lost track of the long hours creeping by, following music through tunnels and mysteries, diligently ignoring the shadowed corners of mind.

Shouts and the raucous barking of dogs echoed from the street and throughout the lower levels of the house. An anonymous male voice announced the news. “The search party located Lord Venner!”

Ingrid jerked upright on the bed, but Mathilda was already at the bedchamber door. “Is he well?” she called.

Oliver’s hard command climbed the vast stairwells. “Bring Ingrid and your medical bag!”

“I’ll be right there.” She turned and smashed into Ingrid. Feminine skulls bounced off one another, sending them both reeling. Starry lights danced behind Mathilda’s clenched eyes. She rubbed the lump forming on her forehead. “Did you hear?”

Ingrid’s hands splayed across the pad of skin encasing her right cheekbone. “I heard.”

“Are you all right?”

“I will be.” The younger woman staggered to the stairs.

Mathilda retrieved the bag from under her bed, its heavy weight quickly washing her with memories. Each evening she had taken the bag from Jürgen’s hands upon his homecoming. As an apt and curious student, she had learned many uses for its contents. Eventually, even her husband admitted that she was an astute and clever physician’s assistant.

Since taking residence with the Venners, she was the one to tend members of their household. Anyone who made mention of the heavy leather case referred to it as “Frau Heidel’s bag.” Its contents and a tiny fraction of Jürgen’s medical knowledge constituted her marital inheritance.

Both hands clasping the carved wooden handles, she followed Ingrid to the fourth-floor guest suite, a room that doubled as a makeshift sick room. Bundled and frosty servants climbed from below, gingerly hauling the prostrate body of Lord Venner between them. Ingrid led the procession, her face ashen, and Oliver took up the rear with a candelabra raised high. Those wavering flames tossed disconcerting shadows along the damasked walls of the stairwell.

The four servants deposited the unconscious nobleman onto a wide bed before hastening from the room. Oliver stood at Mathilda’s side. “Tell us what to do,” he said.

“Klara, fetch boiling water—a great deal. Have Cook help you.” She stepped around the bed, angling the candelabra to better see her patient. Venner’s waxy skin looked as Jürgen’s had on that long night spent preparing his body for burial.

“Tilda?”

Ingrid’s plea yanked her from the past. “Get these wet clothes off.”

The pair complied, removing layer upon frigid layer of sopping wool. Snow-encrusted garments littered the floor, slicking the hardwoods with burgeoning puddles. Ingrid covered her husband’s nude body in blankets as Mathilda checked his weak but steady pulse. His torso was warm, almost hot, while his extremities were icy. She detected no overt signs of frostbite. Upon twisting a toe with a sharp tug, his jerking response lifted her hopes higher.

Klara and the cook arrived, their hands wrapped in towels and each carrying a vat of water just off the boil.

“Sponge his limbs with the water,” Mathilda said. “We must get him warm. Cook, if you could—soup, broth. Anything.” She administered a small dose of a pungent restorative tonic by dribbling tiny drops of the liquid along his motionless lips. “Oliver, what happened?”

Sight turned inward, he did not look at Mathilda. “The cobblestones are like wet glass. His mare broke her leg on the road to Nonnberg. She must’ve slipped. We found him in the snow, just short of the convent.”

Ingrid paused in her duties, a wet cloth poised above Venner’s exposed arm. She whispered his name. A look of nausea twisted her mouth. “Oliver, I cannot thank you—”

Her voice cracked. She sagged. Oliver moved to catch her but she did not fall. Ingrid righted her trembling body without his aid, holding him at bay with a wobbly hand. She hunched her back, inhaled and lifted a young face flooded with determination.

She cleared her throat. “Oliver, I cannot thank you enough. You have done Venner a tremendous service.”

Mathilda flashed a quizzical glance to Oliver, but he appeared equally taken aback by Ingrid’s hard-fought resolve.

When the clock tolled eleven times, Venner briefly regained consciousness, groggy and sore from the damage winter had wrought on his body. Through the night, his fever flared and then broke. He even managed reassuring mumbles of protest as Ingrid spoon-fed him broth.

Mathilda peeked into the guest room. On top of the bureau, a half-consumed bowl of soup awaited its return to the kitchen. Pale candlelight suffused the scene with hues of gold, obscuring the edges of the room and bringing focus to its paired occupants. Ingrid was reading aloud from The Divine Comedy. Venner’s slack eyelids suggested that he had drifted back to the realm of slumber, floating on the cadence of his wife’s singsong Italian.

Ingrid looked up, finding Mathilda in the doorway. “Please, dearest. Sit with me.”

By habit, Mathilda checked Venner’s forehead and wrist. Normal temperature. Steady pulse. She pulled a chair nearer to Ingrid. “How are you faring?”

“Will he be all right now?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“If Oliver hadn’t led the search, he would’ve died only a few hundred yards from his home. No.” Ingrid shook her head sharply. “Oliver did search. I will not think of that other.” A bruise discolored the crest of her right cheek, angry and deepening purple. Her gaze sharpened, finding a home in Mathilda. “Dearest, I want you to tell me all that you know about the contents of your medical bag.”

“Pardon?”

“When Mother died, and then again when you married Jürgen—twice now I’ve had to endure the upheaval of losing the head of my household. Father was a mess both times, remember?”

“Yes,” Mathilda said, confused.

“Oh, but you were across the Salzach with Jürgen when he promoted Frau Genzinger to head housekeeper.” She giggled, a sound tinged with fatigue and the gentlest hysteria. “She stole money from him. Did I tell you? He was so embarrassed by his mistake in judgment—you know how much stock he puts in his ability to read people—that he simply dismissed her. Never brought charges.”

Mathilda chewed her bottom lip. “Ingrid, what is this about?”

“One day, you’ll leave me again.” She raised a hand against Mathilda’s reflexive dispute. “Wait. Hear me, please. No matter your protests, you’ll have your own house, your own life again. And when that time comes, I wish to be prepared. I want to be mistress of this house.”

“But you are.”

She smiled, wincing and touching the bruise. “With considerable assistance, Tilda. But because you are determined that I shall have plenty of time, I will make use of it. Show me your medical bag. Show me all of the things you do that I never see.”

Her calm and tenacity still impressed Mathilda. Whereas some young women might have inadvertently made the misfortune more trying by fainting or intruding with questions best saved for calmer moments, Ingrid had provided quiet, dependable help when Venner needed her. That ever-increasing maturity swelled Mathilda’s heart with pride, even as she recognized a flare of unexpected jealousy.

Uncomplicated, Ingrid’s response to her husband’s safety had been right. She had been so very joyous and relieved. Now, the younger woman gladly basked in the contentment of their good fortune. Mathilda could not deny the envy twisting inside when she thought of Ingrid’s peaceful existence, the love that gave her such joy.

But another instinct fought for attention: fear.

They had been as close as sisters throughout their lives. She never meant to weigh on the newlyweds’ happiness, but the confusion and sudden freedom of widowhood had made her desperate for her friend’s calm buoyancy. And Ingrid, two years her junior, still depended on Mathilda’s guidance. But not for much longer.

She sighed, hoping to dispel the sudden clutch of greedy dread. She would have gladly forestalled any more changes to her previously tidy life. But she would because Ingrid had asked.

No—by the look in her eye, she insisted.

“Would you like to start tonight?”

Smiling, Ingrid took her husband’s slack hand. “No, not tonight.”

“Until tomorrow, then.”

On quiet slippered feet, Mathilda returned to her room. Her rumbling stomach reminded her that the hour for supper had passed, but she had no craving for seared veal, the thick smell of which still wafted from kitchen.

With her back pressed against the inside of her bedroom door, she surveyed the small space and her only possessions.

Is your life better or worse now?

Although the hazardous blizzard had imperiled Venner, the necessity of focusing on someone else’s emergency had provided Mathilda a welcome relief. As night fell, her isolation returned—as did thoughts of De Voss.

Once, three sentinels had held her firm. Jürgen and her parents had been stalwart boundaries. The mere thought of those ghosts had been enough to subdue her, instilling the need to be docile, still, unobtrusive. She had focused her restless energy on assisting Jürgen’s practice, tending their home and making him happy. Winter, especially, revived memories of her late husband, of a warm fire and companionship, even if one unpleasant truth spoiled those memories. She had submerged most of her dreams to make those years possible.

Despite mourning restrictions, without a husband, children or chastity to consider, her freedom exceeded that of most women. Instead she waited for a future she was not strong enough to imagine, let alone seek.

Fleeting encounters with De Voss only intensified her unease. His music had reawakened a love she had denied for too long. Only with music did she find a soothing balm for her impatience. Melodies drowned the confusion. In seeking that pleasure, she rushed past signs of danger, disregarding her parents’ examples and enjoying the freedom of her solitary widowhood.

No, that was a lie. She did not enjoy solitude or, necessarily, her life without Jürgen. But she did relish every moment she spent with the Dutchman. Despite her intention to disregard the composer—that surly wretch who stood at odds with her heroic image of Arie De Voss—she longed to see him. Her fascination increased, expanding and exploding at a frantic pace.

Staring vacantly at her empty suite, finding no resolution to the labyrinth of her imagination, she floated on a familiar melody. She recognized the piece as De Voss’s composition for the duke. She found Ingrid’s long-abandoned violin, the instrument Mathilda had once used to practice. Only by tucking the lacquered wood beneath her chin did she find peace.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“You returned, Frau Heidel.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Enter, alstublieft. Please.”

Mathilda walked into the studio and noticed a change in the maestro almost at once. Although his distracting intensity remained, De Voss seemed like a young boy eager to share a secret. He wore a cravat and waistcoat, both smartly fashioned.

So, the infuriating man could be swayed. She rejoiced at her victory.

After poking his head out to the landing, he closed the door. “No bodyguard today?”

“He had an errand and will return in an hour.”

Oliver had surprised her when, after delivering her to De Voss’s building, he departed. She would need to talk to Ingrid about her servant’s negligence, or else thank her for being so considerate.

De Voss began to free her limbs from an encumbering winter pelisse. Mathilda stood in mute, still fascination. Surprise leapt in her chest. Snow fell in little clumps around her feet. She focused on the scuffed plank floor, anything but the nearness of his body and the awkward play of his hands on her clothes.

Silence blanketed the room. An exotic force borne of sensation claimed the right to govern her will. Instinct? Intuition? Certainly not thought, because thought—rational, calm, self-preserving logic—had abandoned her.

“I apologize, sir, for missing our lesson last week. The blizzard…”

“Frau Heidel, I wish to explain something to you, if you humor me.”

Rediscovering her mental balance, she swallowed. “Of course.”

“If you would?”

He motioned for her to resume her place on the cellist stool she had used previously. The violin waited in its open case. Its shining marbled surface enticed her with the need to play.

However, De Voss’s strange behavior competed for her attention and won. She eyed him cautiously, waiting for him to speak, to reveal a trick or snide comment. Her regard for his music—and the years she had invested in fantasies about his personality and character—left her vulnerable to disappointment.

He sat across from her and rested his forearms on his thighs. He remained quiet and focused on her eyes. When he spoke, he did so with surprising directness.

“I instruct two classes of students. Young or old, some arrive under impressions they should learn music. Perhaps they want to please others.” He jerked a wrist dismissively, like brushing away a spider. “No matter. Their motivation is external and fleeting, and I cannot develop their talent—if they possess any at all. Pulling them through lessons is like dragging a carriage up Mönchsberg.”

Although confused by the direction of his monologue, Mathilda savored his sibilant accent. And they had yet to exchange a foul word. Encouraging.

“And the second class?” she asked.

“The others are musicians who wish to develop their craft. Some search for employment with an orchestra or ensemble, perhaps with a patron. They approach lessons as a part of their chores.” He grinned. “Or worse, they try to gather information about my next composition.”

“Truly?” Belatedly, she wondered if her surprise sounded naïve.

De Voss shrugged, but she noticed an unfamiliar tightness in his shoulders. “I hide my sheaves from many pupils.”

She recalled the scattered pages of music on his scarred worktable. “Not from me.”

“I underestimated you last week.”

Unflinching, he dared her to search the studio for signs of his work. When she accepted his challenge and recognized sprawling sheets of parchment littering his desk, Mathilda did not know what to assume. Did he think so little of her abilities? Did he trust her with the secrets of his work? Which answer would be more frightening?

She could not depend on the steadiness of her voice. “Why?”

“You are not comfortable performing. Why, I cannot say.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted, ducking his eyes like a guilty child. “You have not the confidence to pass one of my compositions as your own.”

“All of this sounds tedious.”

“Quite.”

“No wonder you’re surly.”

“Indeed.”

His scrutiny unnerved Mathilda, leaving her vastly ill at ease. She remembered their conversation in the arcade above the Venners’ garden, when he had been incapable of maintaining eye contact. Now his command of German was much improved and he behaved more aggressively. Within the walls of his refuge, he seemed different, more adept, like a man who had come to an important decision. The contrast both exasperated and captivated her.

“Why do you teach, then?”

“Money.” He ran a hand through his hair with telltale nervousness. Mathilda smiled at the small, reassuring nod to his frailties. “I told you in the square. I instruct students, but I seek more. Compositions are for renown. They recommend musicians for tenured positions, but they pay nothing at the outset.”

De Voss stood and relit a candle. Beneath conservative garments, the muscle and bone of his back flowed with supple movements. He could almost pass for a proper gentleman.

“In which category of student do I belong?”

“You may require a third way,” he said, facing her. “You have yet to be what I expect.”

“I know what you expected, sir.” She recalled his darkened eyes on her skin and shivered with an unnamable emotion. “I was quite happy to discomfit you.”

“When you say such things, Frau Heidel, you make me want to retaliate.” He returned to her stool and knelt, balancing on the balls of his feet. He took her Fraiskette between the thumb and forefinger, grinning. Heat built between them like flames spreading across dry kindling. Mathilda tensed, awaiting his words like the prospect of bad news. “Your Morgengabe. A strange word.”

“You asked about it?”

He nodded. “A gift from your husband because you were an innocent on your wedding night.”

Her lungs shunned breath. “Yes.”

“A pity,” he whispered. “I should have liked to give it to you instead.”

She slapped his hand. The reflexive motion toppled his balance, landing De Voss on his back. The fine chain snapped. Her pendant rolled across the floor, coming to a stop under the composer’s worktable. Mathilda stepped around the sprawled maestro and retrieved the bit of amber and silver.

Standing with her back turned, she struggled to recover her composure. The shock of his suggestion settled between her legs. As if she had never worked toward control and good sense, she wanted to do more than slap the man—she wanted to agree with him. On that panicky night, in the dark of their wedding bed, Jürgen’s hands had explored her. His body had initiated hers.

And all the while, she had imagined Arie De Voss.

Shame and arousal crashed through her body in nauseating waves. Joints stiff with tension and embarrassment ached, at her knees, hips, vertebrae.

The Dutchman draped his hands over his knees, sitting on the floor as if he had chosen that spot purposefully. Idly, he picked at a fingernail. “You told me to ask about the word. I did. In the future, you will not challenge me unless you recognize the consequences.”

“You’re a beast.”

“Is that an improvement from bully or tyrant?” He smirked, evidently satisfied with his ability to raise her ire. “I said you are different from my other students, and I meant it. I appreciate your capacity for diversion.”

Mathilda returned to the stool. A flush of embarrassed heat invaded every inch of her skin. She had sought tutelage from the composer whose music inspired her soul with passion and enchantment, and he had accepted her request for lessons. But he possessed no interest in refining her talent. He played games at her expense, making sexual innuendoes for the sport of seeing her squirm under his uncomfortable attention.

A sick sort of sadness welled in her throat. “I amuse you?”

“Yes.”

A rush of blood engulfed her hearing, drowning all sensation and thought save one. Despite her fantasies to the contrary, he was hardly better than the casually destructive teachers Johanna Seitz had hired. Rude and condescending, Arie De Voss held no regard for her abilities. Where she had assumed admiration, or at least a grudging interest, he offered scorn.

Perhaps he envied her, as had her first instructor. Or maybe, like her second tutor, he pitied her, believing her gifts freakish and inappropriate for a young lady.

No matter. Mockery from her musical idol slammed Mathilda with the profound force of disillusionment.

And her own hypocrisy outstripped all. She wanted him to consider her talented, even special, but temptation ridiculed her aspirations. That she desired De Voss despite his mockery—wishing, too, that he had been the man to share her wedding night—only amplified a feeling akin to grief, the strongest she had ever known.

Arie’s self-satisfied smirk died on his lips. She looked ready to cry. At the sight of the tears she struggled to hide, his buoyant mood borne of good-natured rivalry and frank sexual interest faded.

He was an ass. A blundering, thoughtless ass.

His only real talent, other than taking credit for music he had not composed, was forcing this amazing woman to despise him. In teasing about the necklace, he spoiled the intimate gift her late husband had bestowed to honor their union and to protect her from harm. She relied upon the pendant when her restless, gifted fingers sought refuge from fretfulness. And he had barged between Mathilda and the significance of her charm, wanting only to ingratiate himself in that special realm.

To mean something to her. To anyone.

Arie wanted irrational privileges. He wanted to share his wonder of music, the maddening pursuit he had yet to master. He wanted to touch her, to feel the weight of her mesmerizing curves across his body, without the barriers of clothing and hostility between them. Most of all, he wanted to be someone other than the lonely, crass fiend he had permitted himself to become.

Yet the beautiful widow grieved for the man she lost. Arie could offer nothing worthwhile in the late doctor’s stead. Her husband’s passing wounded her still. If anything, she might crave the sweet, smooth words of a practiced lover to make her forget her sorrow, not the barbs and base sexual overtures of an unpracticed recluse.

Ashamed of his inability to live up to the heroic status she so obviously wanted to afford him, so too did he resent the hideous fall from that unrealistic height. He never asked to be her hero, but neither did he need to conjure another woe for her to endure.

“When I have nerves, my German is not as good as I like.” He gauged Mathilda’s reaction to his words with a hesitant glance. Staring into the middle distance, she sat clenching the unbound pendant in her fist. “Sometimes I speak in error. However, I talked of your necklace knowing well what I said—an unkind jest to your memories of marriage.”

She declined to use his pause as an opportunity to talk or look up. He cleared his throat quietly. Shifting his weight where he sat on the unyielding floor, he did not want to stand for fear she might vanish.

But she stayed. It was a start.

“Mathilda?”

She raised her head with a sharp jerk, sending disarranged curls across her brow. She scowled at him with mute frustration and confusion.

“You amuse me,” he said, “but I mean no ridicule in saying so. You are unique in ways you cannot know, especially when you hold a violin.” He smiled tightly, a reproachful gesture aimed at his thick tongue and addled brain. “I would sooner envy you than mock your gifts.”

“Envy?” She pushed a quick exhale through her nose. “Pity, more like. No wonder you goad me.”

Arie shook his head to protest the wounded cynicism shading her voice. “I said nothing of pity.”

“You would not be unique if you had.”

“I have behaved reproachfully,” he said, his spine pulling taut. “But I do not deserve to be accused of words I did not say and do not think.”

“You’re like the others.” She continued to hide her eyes from his. The unaccustomed echo of defeat in her voice made him cringe.

“Other instructors?”

She nodded.

“I am a vast and uncharted idiot,” he muttered. “Woman, I do not pity you. I said I envy you. Believe me, my self-respect does not make such an admission lightly.”

“You have self-respect?”

“In adequate amounts.” He shrugged, trying without success to ignore the barb. She found his vulnerabilities with a steady, calm aim. Intuition? Spite? After a parade of years spent successfully pretending, he did not think of himself as transparent. Her accuracy unnerved him.

“I admire your talent, but I am jealous of your newness. You are on the brink of knowing music, really knowing it from the inside.” The flustered truth of his declaration quickened his breath. “I abuse music, take it for granted. I try to earn money selling it. You play because you want to. I envy that.”

Mathilda brushed away tears. “Then why? Why did you say I amuse you? Is this still about…do you still think I am here to become another conquest?”

He laughed, dispelling the tension coiling in his chest with that sharp noise. “Because I have many conquests to my name.”

“You have a certain reputation, sir.”

Deceit made her wary. Even the humor aimed directly at his own failings set her on edge. Arie wondered if his memory would record enough of his mistakes to learn from them in the future. Probably not. Instead, he would flail himself with shortcomings, especially once Mathilda decided she never cared to see him again.

But later. He would not give up just yet.

“Are we honest, Mathilda?”

“Certainly, Arie.”

“I am a recluse because I cannot stand crowds. Strangers agitate me. I make no attempt to begin conversations, even when I am, on rare occasions, in the company of friends.” He found a pale scuff on the bare wooden floor, outlining its boundaries with his gaze. “And my conquests, as you call them, are regrettably few.”

“Why?”

“Why am I peculiar? Why does meeting new people send me to panics?” Fluency became a slippery fish. “I tell you about my students to draw a picture of my life. They grind my appreciation of music. Once or twice a month, I am allowed privileges to conduct. Maybe I complete a composition or perform. Those are the successes that power my life.”

Godallemachtig, what a wretch he had become.

“You have no friends in Salzburg?” she asked. “No family in the Netherlands?”

Now who pities whom?

Arie shook his head. “I have spoken to you more in the last weeks than to anyone else in the city, save Kapellmeister Haydn. I am lonely and bored, and I become unmannered in my isolation. I meet a young woman who diverts me, and yet I offend her.”

He stood, shaking the numbness out of his thighs, and bent to retrieve the ruined silver chain. Two links, once joined, had severed.

“A vast and uncharted idiot.” She shrugged, casually accepting his failings. “It fits.”

“I will have this repaired,” he said quietly.

She made no false protestations, nor did she deem his offer unnecessary. He tucked the fragile silver strand in a waistcoat pocket.

“I only wanted the chance to play.” Her words resonated in the room, increasing his awareness of her. Fear marred her features, fear and some other opaque emotion. “I hoped I wouldn’t find jealousy and scorn.”

“Or pity. You will find nothing of the kind here. But why did you think I was different, at the ball? I was…was—”

“Drunk. And uncivil.”

Her expression loosened faintly. Her lips did not smile and her eyes did not soften. But like the gentle shift of clouds signaling an anticipated break in a storm, Arie emerged from the danger of her certain departure. A reprieve, if not a full pardon.

She regarded him with hard, unnerving candor. “That night, you gave no impression of demeaning yourself by accepting me as your student.”

“You will endure incivility as long as you are respected?”

“I’m still here, Maestro.”

Yes, she was. Giddiness like champagne bubbles sped through his veins.

But sobriety returned, smothering his cheerfulness. Even if she remained his student, she would do so under false pretenses. His reputation, his name—he had not earned success through hard work alone. He flicked a look at the painted cupboard where the score to Love and Freedom hid, taunting him like a tattletale.

“You would be wise to knock me over again, Mathilda. Save the trouble of discovering my real faults.”

She craned her neck to see the tiny mantel clock atop the piano. “We still have some time left, do we not?”

He cringed and rejoiced, both, at her refusal to heed his warning.

“Very well.” With an efficiency borne of seven years of studious and repetitive practice, Arie shoved his misgivings into a dark mental corner. “In these walls, we will play music. And I will not tease so much.”

The left side of her mouth tugged upward. “Not so much? You cannot promise to banish the taunts completely?”

“I am weak. And you are fun to provoke.” He glanced at the hands Mathilda still clenched around her pendant. “But I will choose my jests more responsibly in the future.”

“You’re proposing that we simply…enjoy these afternoons?” She raised her eyebrows, an expression like an elegant companion to her questions. “Just playing music?”

He nodded. “You are different, and I will be different for you. I have much to teach you, even if you perform like an angel.” The snake of jealousy returned, spitting a venomous doubt, but Arie did not envy her situation. Her gift was miraculous enough to produce a twinge of resentment in even the most satisfied of hearts—a satisfaction he did not possess. “But on occasion, I will need to correct you or offer advice. I will do so constructively and prudently. I am your teacher, after all.”

Mathilda cocked her head to the side, as if testing his sincerity. “Fair enough.”

“And you will not muffle your strings here,” he said too loudly, invigorated by a boisterous spirit. “Play forcefully enough to annoy my hideous neighbors.”

“Hideous?”

“You may be right.” He settled beside her on his stool, closer than before. She did not shy. “Perhaps I have no patience for them. Perhaps I am hideous.”

She squeezed the base of her neck, dispelling the last physical trace of her anger. “I’ve no desire to indulge your contempt, even when you deserve a reprimand. You belittle yourself, sometimes unfairly. I won’t be party to it.”

Arie reached between their bodies, deliberately opening her fingers to reveal the Fraiskette. Amber and silver radiated warmth. The heady fragrance of snowflakes and skin and musk swirled his senses into a messy knot. Her mouth opened slightly, near enough to kiss.

“Does this pendant give you magic powers?”

She pulled away. “Of course not.”

“But you read me too well.” Gravely clearing his throat, he retreated as well. He glanced at the violin case at their feet. “What will you play?”

“Is that my choice?” She tucked the pendant in a pocket. Picking up the violin, she instinctively checked the strings for proper tune. “You are the maestro, after all.”

Arie produced two sheets and placed them on the music stands. The pages fluttered in his fingers. One woman made him tremble more than conducting before thousands. “Try this.”

“I cannot.”

“It is not to your standards? Not to your taste, perhaps?” He flinched at the persistent mockery in his voice.

“No.” She cradled the violin tenderly, almost protectively in her arms. Arie could not ignore the innocence and charm of her unintentionally sweet pose. “I cannot. I wasn’t trained to read music.”

“What kind of misdirected education did you have, woman?”

In rearranging her skirts, she wiggled in a way that threatened Arie’s concentration. “I have a name, sir, which you seem willing to use with such familiarity. And I never needed to learn to read music, not when I could already play by ear.”

“Arrogant…”

She braced her spine. “What?”

“Did you refuse to learn to read because you already knew how to speak?” He shook his head. “No, it will not do. Without sheet music, you are limited to playing the pieces you hear. Your capacity is stunted.”

“Perhaps.”

Less defensive. A little contrite. Still as frustrating.

But her tiny admission warmed him with a rush of satisfaction. Although Arie was the teacher, she had turned the tables. He wanted to reestablish their initial dynamic, to stand before this woman and provide her with unique skills—the falsehoods of his past be damned. Being of use to the prodigy equaled his need to hear her play or see the bloom of color on her cheeks.

So he closed the lid on every inappropriate comment he had yet to utter. Mangled attempts at sexual innuendo had proven his lack of romantic sensibilities, and the art of seduction escaped him entirely. He abandoned the efforts altogether.

Instead, he would be her teacher and maybe even the musical genius she imagined of him, because he wanted to impress her nearly as much as he wanted to kiss her.

He exhaled and pointed to the topmost stave. “Perhaps we have something constructive to do with our time after all.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Weeks after receiving Lord Venner’s introduction to his widowed houseguest, Arie walked to meet Michael Haydn for their monthly dinner appointment.

He strode past the Dom. The immense square appeared quite different, devoid of the Carnival throng. The plaza was nearly deserted save a few idle Fiakers—open carriages for hire—as well as a small group of burghers in conversation and the statue of the ever-watchful Virgin. On that breezy, clear day in early February, most Salzburg residents thought to seek the warmth of indoor spaces.

Arie’s thoughts remained with Mathilda.

She was a lovely woman. She inspired him. She put him at ease, helping him understand the value she placed on his compositions. And he liked her.

Never before had he understood what his music could mean to an individual, an anonymous listener. From his perspective, contact with those faceless crowds ended when the applause stopped. She demonstrated how the notes he strung along a staff survived well after each performance, shaping ideas and lifting hearts. Not every listener fawned with false pretences. She existed as the proof. Her example provided him a new and more generous perspective, dragging him away from jaded opinions.

Arie had taken her censure to heart. Although his emotions and thoughts centered on a particular young widow, he molded himself into a gentleman fit for the company of any respectable woman. He attired himself appropriately, especially to receive students such as his newest pupils, the Schindlers’ sons. In the wake of his successes, a new cantata for Mass had flowed from his quill like water in a spring stream—his first completed composition of any kind in months.

That his new demeanor enhanced his career should have been enough to gratify him. But he also hoped Mathilda would appreciate the differences.

Change made social interactions no less difficult, but he worked past the anxiety with energy and dedication. While conducting, he willfully kept from regarding his audience as adversaries. He played piano for more than his own enjoyment. What if Mathilda listened to his performance? Would his effort be worthy of her admiration?

In that moment, liberated from the heavy weight of chronic cynicism, Arie was free.

Yet his lie remained. As well as the unfinished symphony.

He had not written a note for his grand composition since the evening hours following Mathilda’s initial lesson. Whereas he used to imagine a faceless, helpful muse, the captivating widow arrived in his dreams instead. He awoke gasping and breathless, the fantasy of her teeth on his skin hammering through his body.

His dreams began to influence their lessons, or at least his reaction to her within the private confines of his studio. Deep inhales pushed her breasts against the restraints of her taunting black gown, threatening to throw him to his knees. An elegant twist of her waist was enough to tighten his groin. In her presence, the din of sexual awareness distracted him. Alone, it obliterated his creative impulse.

He deliberately distracted himself from the grinding frustration of lust, continuing through the Dombogen arches to Kapitelplatz and walking to the southwest corner of the square. He turned left onto Festungsgasse and arrived at Haydn’s residence. Sankpetrischen Haus, one of several private flats the Benedictine monks let to various persons of note, had sheltered the aging Kapellmeister longer than some of the brothers had been alive.

Shuddering in the cold, Arie rapped on the heavy oaken door. A pianoforte within those walls abruptly halted. A stout elderly man in a simple gray wig and dark suit appeared at the arched portal.

“Guten Tag, sir.”

“De Voss, how good to see you again,” replied the younger of the two famous Haydn brothers. He and Arie offered each other cordial bows. “Come into the parlor. This is a devil of an afternoon to be out.”

“Fiakers cost too much,” Arie said gruffly. But economy was not his only motivation. The cab he had taken to the Venners’ ball allowed too much idle time to ponder the event he had dreaded. Walking in the cold offered a necessary diversion, especially in light of his increasingly erotic thoughts about Mathilda.

“Come warm yourself.” The Kapellmeister guided Arie to a modest fire. “Although I must say we will be out in the cold again shortly. My cook is ill and the brothers have invited me to take meals in the Kloster until she recovers. Will you join me? Their interest in our occupation is keen.”

The prospect of dining with monks seemed harmless enough, hardly aggravating Arie’s otherwise finicky tolerance for large gatherings. He nodded.

“Gut, gut.” Haydn gestured to the pianoforte dominating the parlor. “I was just playing a piece my brother sent from Vienna.”

“How is his health?”

“Not well,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Years now and no improvement. He composes constantly, but he must dictate music to a student. He finds the process wearisome.”

Thoughts of Joseph Haydn, bedridden and forced to rely so thoroughly on others, inspired a deep sympathy within Arie. For a man’s ideas to demand expression while his body refused—that dire thought intimidated him far more than did the prospect of lacking inspiration altogether.

His mind flew across the eastern valleys to the little house he had shared with his own maestro, furiously scratching the composer’s ideas on sheaf after sheaf. The sweet stink of infection and the endless hours cramped in those rooms had choked him, all the while knowing his obligations held not a candle to his master’s endless anguish.

With every rattling breath, Sándor Bolyai’s body had frustrated his vibrant musical mind. Even as his sickly condition had grown worse, his creative impulse remained stout and rich. Those last weeks had been an indescribable torture, but Bolyai persisted, perhaps prolonging his final days through a steadfast determination to see one last fateful piece completed.

Arie shuddered and blinked, returning from those heartbreaking days along the Danube.

“Your brother has my sympathies, sir.” Suddenly weary, he took the chair Haydn offered. “And you? Are you well?”

“Physically, ja.” The older man smiled in that funny way of his. The lines between his eyes and at the sides of his mouth made him look like he wrinkled his nose against a foul odor. “Except I wrote to Joseph this morning that I should have accepted Emperor Franz’s offer of the second Kapellmeister position in Vienna.”

“You would leave Salzburg? You have been here for such a long time. You are respected and well-liked.”

“I have been Kapellmeister for forty-two years, but I would leave now if given the opportunity. Nothing has been right since that butcher charged through my city.” Anger flared the nostrils of his prominent nose and flattened his thin lips.

Michael Haydn upheld a reputation for geniality. He did not drink or gamble. His moderation extended to speaking, thinking and even judging other composers’ musical works. Citizens from nobles to commoners respected his opinion.

But those same citizens also knew Haydn’s intense hatred for Napoleon Bonaparte. Four years earlier, during the French general’s two-month siege of Salzburg, troops had ransacked the aged Kapellmeister’s personal property, confiscating an entire month’s salary. Rumors suggested that the composer had relied on funds donated by his ailing brother in order to survive the chaotic aftermath of the brief invasion.

The tale reminded Arie of the tenuous nature of success in their frivolous business. Decades of service, always prolific and inspired, had done little to guarantee the man a comfortable living.

“But that opportunity is past,” Haydn said. Like a flash of light in the sky, his vivid, unexpected anger dissipated. “I stayed here in the hopes that conditions might recover.”

“The wheels of change are slow.”

“Indeed.” Amusement enveloped his mood once again. “And what did you think of our new and esteemed leader?”

“He is nearly as timid before crowds as I am.”

Haydn laughed with gusto, slapping his knee. “My boy, many people are much worse.”

“Yes, but they do not stand in front of crowds as part of their profession.”

“Speaking of which, I heard your cantata at the Octave.” His dark eyes journeyed to Arie’s face, regarding him with a paternal sort of scrutiny. “I have never been so impressed with a composition of yours, nor with your skills as a conductor. I want you to understand how highly I hold your progress these last few months.”

Arie swallowed hard, his barbed conscience struggling to accept legitimate praise. But the work had been his, for good or ill. He deserved the praise. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome. I believe my decision to invite you to Salzburg has proven a solid one.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Gut. Let us walk to the Kloster.”

After donning his cloak, hat and gloves again, Arie followed the Kapellmeister back down Festungsgasse. The pair passed through the iron gates of the Benedictine abbey.

“How goes your work?”

Arie marveled at the composer’s subtle, adept manners. Experience and leadership had taught him how to negotiate any number of personalities, even a jumbled recluse like him. “I am nearly finished with a second cantata,” he said. “I began a Mass for the Franziskanerkirche. And I have three new students.”

He wondered at the simplicity of including Mathilda in that number, so inconsequential. For all of her sudden impact on his life, she was only a student. For now.

“And the symphony?”

Arie winced, almost regretting his decision to reveal his grandest ambition. He did not like reminders about his stalled progress, nagged well enough by his own tick-tock impatience. But if one individual was most like a friend to him, Michael Haydn was that man. When the compulsion to write a symphony finally overcame his hesitations, he had needed to tell someone.

“I am through the second movement. Otherwise nothing.”

“Ah, it will come,” Haydn said. “The good ones take some time. Not to say your sacred compositions are lacking.”

“I know the difference you mean, sir.”

The men walked past the frozen stream at the abbey’s private mill and entered the silent, open-air Petersfriedhof, the ancient Christian burial ground. Snow and ice covered the raised graves and wrought-iron crosses, but the grounds were far from mournful. Monks tended the graveyard with meticulous care. Fresh fir boughs and candles adorned dozens of the small memorials and larger generational vaults.

Lining the sacred space, baroque arcades shielded chapels for the city’s oldest patrician families. More wrought iron in the form of elegant grilles enclosed the cemetery on three sides, and the petite spire of tiny ancient Margarethenkapelle poked from its center. High to their left, the steep rock face of Mönchsberg—where the region’s earliest Christians had carved catacombs and rock chapels—soared overhead.

Arie marveled at the passing of the centuries and the differences he could see with a simple sweep of his eyes. To the south, the still and silent Katakomben existed as reminders of a time when Christians had hidden within the belly of the mountain, surviving on the strength of their faith. To the north, the towering hulk of the Dom boasted opulence and majesty. Within those perilously high walls and arches, Arie had conducted his first Mass. Ten thousand worshipful parishioners and a few of the world’s wealthiest, most influential citizens had prayed together. They had offered glory and song to God without a hint of their forebears’ fear or stealth, without the oppression Arie and his family had known in Delft.

Into the silence, Haydn clapped his hands once. Woolen gloves muffled the sound. “Now, tell me about these new students. Any glimmers? Are they talented?”

“One in particular.”

“Who is he?”

“He is a she, to start.”

A gentle look of surprise transformed the Kapellmeister’s face. Dark eyes beneath heavy graying brows missed nothing. “Do I know her?”

“She is the widow of a doctor named Heidel. He died last year.”

“The doctor who was murdered?”

“Murdered?”

“I believe so. She wears white on her mourning gown, ja?”

Arie nodded. The calm gesture contradicted the escalating tension roiling his gut. Mathilda hid her talent from the world, muffling the strings of her violin and refusing to perform outside his studio. Did the repercussions of her husband’s murder inhibit her?

“I thought the lace unusual,” he said.

“Here, white adornments on mourning garb symbolize an unjust death.” Haydn frowned. “And she’s a student of yours?”

“Yes. She approached me for lessons. Sir, I wish you would meet her.”

Polite surprise registered on Haydn’s face for a second time. “Why? Do you expect to marry her?”

Arie nearly hiccupped. Spoken aloud, the idea of marrying Mathilda thrilled him with the shock of an unreal future. Impossible.

“Sir…she is a genius. A violin virtuoso. I never heard her like before. Her talent reminds me of your stories about Herr Mozart.”

“Really?” Haydn rubbed his chin and continued walking. The fatiguing cold robbed the cemetery of the delight it had afforded only moments before. “And she’s no charlatan?”

“I want you to meet her.” Although Mathilda had convinced him of her authenticity, he also knew that a less talented, more desperate soul—Arie de Voss—had fooled astute music aficionados since he was nineteen. “For four weeks now, I am trying every method I can devise. She astounds me. I am convinced her talent is a miraculous gift.”

Haydn nodded in silence. They crossed the worn cobblestones of the wide church courtyard, within which stood bare chestnut trees and a statue of St. Peter. Graying skies and a pale blanket of snow bleached the color from the cathedral’s green copper dome and the red-and-white Romanesque blocks of its façade.

The Kapellmeister stopped at the private entrance to the Kloster. “I’m curious, De Voss. Arrange an introduction at your next convenience. I will hear this widowed marvel for myself.”

“Maestro, I’m surprised to see you.”

Mathilda had yet to recover from the news. After sharing a quiet meal with Ingrid, and merely a day past her most recent lesson, she had not expected to spend time with Arie De Voss. Thinking of him, yes, and waiting for their next meeting—but not sitting with him in the parlor, each on opposing fawn-colored settees.

He absently picked at the upholstery. “How is Lord Venner?”

“He is well,” she said with a smile. Ingrid complained that he was a little too recovered, missing supper for a second night in order to tend Council business at the Residenz. “Quite well, actually.”

“Goed. I am glad to hear it.”

He glanced about the room, absorbing the details and resisting her unspoken questions. The mantel clock ticked a persistent reminder of the silence lengthening between them. Mathilda had thought them past this uncomfortable mess.

With a glad heart, she had noticed a change in him. Gradually, over a few weeks of measured but consistent time together, he had started to smile—sometimes without hesitation. He dressed neatly and kept the studio warm for her weekly arrivals. They said little to each other, as twirling melodies and her stilted attempts to sight-read filled uneventful lessons. But their companionship had started to ease and broaden.

Friendly formality took the place of exhausting banter. Sidelong glances replaced overt appraisals. And a very polite gentleman, one who closely resembled the chivalrous idol she had imagined, masked the real man.

By repressing his surly arrogance, De Voss had transformed into a living version of her most intimate, embarrassing fantasies. Mathilda had yearned for his respect, and he offered it freely. But she had also wanted him to see her as an individual, not an anonymous admirer. She wanted to know him in return. His new graciousness smacked of something…ordinary.

Now he paid her a visit, apparently content to sit in a foul humor and unravel his genial progress.

Her patience wasted, and thinned, and finally snapped. “Maestro, why are you here? I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“No, no. You are right. I am here unannounced. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I…you seem distressed.”

He inhaled. “I dined with Kapellmeister Haydn this evening. When he asked about my new students, I did tell him about you.”

Surprise tickled beneath her ribs, a fluttering sensation of importance that startled and excited her. “You mentioned me to the Kapellmeister?”

“I did.” A grin briefly escaped the dark confines of his mood, only to fall again. His blue eyes finally found hers. “And he recognized your husband’s name.”

Ice formed over her heart. “Oh?”

“Mathilda, was he killed?”

“He was.” Anger and fear overwhelmed her manners after only two syllables. She wanted to flee, but pacing proved the best compromise. She took to her feet and began marking anxious patterns across the carpeting. “Are you curious? Intent on prying? Would you have come here unannounced had you learned he died of a fever? Or a fall from his horse?”

He frowned. “Yes. To hear it from you. At Carnival, you were upset when I inquired to others about you.”

“And you want details.”

“If you wish.”

“And if I do not?”

His calm met her agitation, swirling the atmosphere in the room. Three unhurried steps brought him to her side. He took her hands, the only physical contact they had shared in weeks. “Then I will not trouble you further.”

Whether with his touch or his words, or perhaps by some combination, De Voss eased the turbulence. He was a mystery to her, but he was no stranger, no curiosity seeker. Her mind settled. And her knees began to shake.

He guided her. “Come. Sit.”

They settled onto a settee. He freed her hands before she was ready to let go.

Greedy to stare if she could not touch, Mathilda studied his wrists where they poked from the cuffs of his coat. Despite long, graceful fingers, his wrists appeared powerful. Sturdy. Masculine. Tendons, bones and muscle. Sandy hair fanned over his skin like wheat in a field.

And the words came.

“A blacksmith’s son discovered his remains along the north bank of the Salzach. He was stabbed in the chest during a brawl in an alehouse along Linzergasse. Witnesses said he’d been attempting to administer aid. He was left for dead for his trouble. Two men were hanged for the crime last summer.”

His voice rumbled like a muted peal of thunder. “How did you learn of it?”

“I was putting the wash up to dry,” she said. “Guardsmen and a colleague of Jürgen’s walked through the common courtyard. Their faces, their whispers—everything tilted to an odd angle. I knew something terrible had happened.”

Moments that had passed companionably within the walls of his studio stretched tense there in the parlor, weaving a steady pulse into Mathilda’s ears.

“I will go,” he said.

She jerked her head up. “You come here and ask questions, only to leave? What is this about?”

Roughly, with a return to old habits, he raked unsteady hands through his hair. “Do you want more of my bad humor that upsets you? More of my teasing? I cannot offer condolences for fear of making more mistakes. I do not know what to say to you, Mathilda.”

Arie intended to leave. The steps practically walked themselves, like the simplest of dances. Go to the door. Open it. Walk through.

Leaving was easier than doing battle against the helplessness he felt. He could offer no sweet words, and he certainly could not stand to the challenge of making right the wrong she had suffered. As a boy, he had endured a similar injustice, and no one’s words, no matter how wise or kind, had ever healed his pain.

But he did not leave, did not even move to stand. He leaned nearer.

Need and compassion blended, pulling him to her heat. Closer now. His hands and hers, together again. Two people sharing a capacity to injure, even with the best of intentions.

He had no reason to look at her for a few added heartbeats. He had no reason to notice the gentle disarray of her hair, where frazzled curls tangled around an earlobe. And he had no idea why that teasing glimpse of flesh snared him. To deny the need to taste was to deny air to a suffocating man.

He was suffocating.

During the frantic seconds when he thought to take her earlobe into his mouth, a hard stab of desire shot from his brain to his groin. A catalog of temptations teased him with possibility. Yes, the earlobe—to start. Then the hollow behind it. And her neck. Her mouth. At the touch of his lips to her flesh, she would greet him and share the impulsive taste of a first kiss.

Mathilda.

She should not have seemed willing, but she did. She breathed deeply through her nose, inhaling the tension flickering between their skins. The air vibrated. Eyes of dark moss and gold watched him—encouraging, rejecting—until a glint of adoration returned. Welcoming. Her soft expression turned hungry with shared need. Her mouth opened in a silent invitation.

Did she expect him to abuse her trust, her grieving vulnerability? Was she waiting for the moment he would cross an invisible barrier and disappoint her again?

Unbidden questions doused his passion. Certainty folded into hesitation. He pulled away, retreating from the scant inches separating his face from hers. Force of will did not compel him to release her hands; fear did. And greed.

A weak creature, he had no qualms with pushing his luck to the point of disaster. But he was selfish, too, and he wanted to see her again. He wanted more of the quiet companionship of their lessons—week after week, every week, until she could no longer bear the idea of being separated from him. Every week, until mere Wednesday afternoons became a terrible confinement from which togetherness would set them free.

Arie De Voss no longer wanted to be alone.

He gave up one kiss for the chance at future kisses. In the hopes of satisfying his passion more thoroughly, more completely, he relinquished a sweltering moment of lust.

She asked questions too. He had moved to kiss her and he had not, in fact, kissed her. Confusion, a provoking blend of relief and frustration, deepened the hue of her eyes.

But she banked her questions and pulled away. Arie felt a shift in the room as they each retreated to safe emotional corners. “You’re right,” she whispered. “You should go.”

Blood fizzed in his ears and thudded along his rigid shaft. He shifted subtly on the settee and forced calm through his demanding body. His brain had made a decision, but his body still wanted release. He wanted Mathilda.

And he felt the bizarre need to apologize. He longed to reveal his thoughts and explain his strange behavior, to ask her forgiveness, but he had called that evening to talk about her husband. Even Arie would not be so crass as to further despoil the memory of her marriage. He had done damage enough.

Instead, he would wait. He needed time. And he would give her time.

With as much steadiness as he could summon, he said, “The Kapellmeister would like to meet you. Shall I arrange for our next lesson?”

She swallowed, her eyes turned aside. “Of course. But next week is Ash Wednesday.”

Verdomme.

He had forgotten about the impending holy day. He would have to forego seeing her for nearly two weeks. While their shared hours passed like the flash of a spark, menacing weeks of separation spoke of his increasing dependence on her company.

“He also invited me to play in a piano competition,” Arie said. “Will you come?” She looked ready to refuse, but he persisted. “I will very much like knowing you are there.”

She bit at a cuticle before tucking both hands into her lap. “I cannot attend by myself. If the Venners are willing to accompany me…then, yes. I will attend.”

CHAPTER NINE

Arie crossed the Altstadt through snow-encased streets to reach Waagplatz. On occasion Haydn, who enjoyed waxing nostalgic about his native city, had described the modest square as the center of medieval town life. Open-air justice courts and pillories had competed with a giant peddler’s scale for the interest of the Volk. In recent times, justice chambers on the square had been converted into the popular Stadttrinkstube, the City Drinking Rooms.

Inside the boisterous establishment, the press of bodies and a roaring fire made a hazy memory of the biting cold. Arie’s senses tottered under the rush of impressions. Candles and waxed-covered chandeliers cast a bright, inviting light over men playing cards, tables surrounded by feasting patrons, and an ensemble of wind musicians. Smoke created a wispy haze just below the ceiling.

A piano competition. What was he thinking?

Foremost, he was thinking of the four students he stood to lose in five months’ time, upon their graduation from the university. No matter his remaining pupils, he would run out of funds in short order. Hours spent battering and blasting new compositions into life consumed valuable hours—hours he should have been using to seek tutoring opportunities. And the Venners’ monthly stipend only reached so far.

Haydn’s fortuitous mention of a public piano competition thrilled Arie with the possibility of a financial reprieve. The promised purse might be enough to see him through Easter, especially if he behaved on fasting days. Summer would bring outdoor concerts and new commissions, but on that wintry eve, summer seemed a distant land.

On the second floor, glasses clinked and patrons negotiated wagers over a din of laughter and talk. He pushed past dozens of milling drinkers and wondered if it was too much to hope that Mathilda might attend. She had offered her assurances, but he did not trust her sense of obligation. When Arie had departed the Venners’ manor, she had still worn a dazed expression like a soldier recovering from the crash of cannon fire.

Her absence might be for the best, though, because he needed every shred of concentration to win the contest. She would distract him, and unwanted memories played cruel enough games within his brain.

He had not needed the ready cash of a piano competition since leaving Budapest. Since stealing Love and Freedom.

Anxiety flashed down his muscles. His fingers tingled as if recovering from exposure to the cold. But he was a master pianist—and had been even before deceiving his way to fame. Tetchy nerves and the sharp edge of doubt could not overwhelm that plain knowledge.

The reward purse was already in his possession. He knew.

He found the tight clump of musicians awaiting the contest’s commencement. Most of the contenders were nameless newcomers, but Arie identified Joseph Wölfl, a native Salzburger and pianist he had defeated during a competition in Nice.

The competition would not be as simple as he had imagined.

“Wölfl.”

“De Voss.”

“I thought you lived in Paris,” Arie said.

“I thought you were too accomplished for such a spectacle.”

Arie regarded his adversary, whose impressive height and enormous finger span served to intimidate his rivals. But for once, nothing would rumple his confidence. “The money is mine before we begin,” Arie said. “I see no reason not to claim what belongs to me.”

Wölfl laughed and slapped him on the back with more force than was amiable. “De Voss, I forgot how damned arrogant you are.”

Grinning through his dislike, Arie remembered Wölfl as a reckless, vain man with few markers of true musical genius. Although he had studied under Leopold Mozart and Kapellmeister Haydn in his youth, Wölfl never managed to play above the caliber of a stiff mechanicus. Akin to the best-trained animals in a Carnival exhibition, he lacked soul and originality.

In short, the man reflected everything Arie feared about his own deficiencies.

A fleshy barmaid passed him. She held two massive steins of strong ale in one sturdy hand and a platter of steaming Knödeln in the other. Although her arms strained and dampness stained her garments, she offered Arie a fresh, inviting smile. Neither the dumplings nor the overworked maid appealed to him, but the ale might calm his clammy nerves. He had not had a drink in almost three weeks.

He arranged his face into a mask of professional detachment. “And how is Paris?”

“Terrible.” Gripping the handle of his own stein with easy assurance, Wölfl downed a gulp of ale. “We must buy water because filth still clogs the Seine. Buildings collapse almost daily, like reminders of the Terror. And Bonaparte continues to close theaters. The bored merveilleuses can only sustain so many artists. The rest starve or flee.”

“I can see why your birthplace might hold a renewed appeal.”

“I never wanted to return to this backwater,” Wölfl said with a snort. “But such is life. Maybe I’ll try London…after I claim your winnings.”

Arie and his chief rival listened and waited for their turn at the instrument. Six other musicians competed by process of elimination. Playing for a handful of minutes, each man expanded on a ten-note motif that Hans Stüderl, the court’s Konzertmeister and first violinist, had jotted on a slip of paper. At the end of each piece, the crowd’s rowdy shouts determined whether the performer would remain in contention.

Second only to Arie as the most famous of the evening’s competitors, Wölfl took a turn before the keyboard and produced no small murmur of talk from the audience. Arie concentrated on his performance because success depended on finding the giant Salzburger’s weakness.

Wölfl opened with the same ten-note theme each performer used, and from that uniform beginning, he produced a quick counterpoint below the original melody. The composition sounded intensely Viennese, piercing and oddly nasal, as his powerful hands roamed the keyboard with light, rapid touches. His long limbs worked the keys and pedals in an overwrought display of technical skill. A sheen of sweat formed on his brow.

The crowd loved him. Applause thundered through the building upon Wölfl’s conclusion, thrusting him to the forefront of the competitors.

Unimpressed, Arie found a renewed wellspring of confidence in the man’s excess. Agitated scales deserved no place in music of quality. Whereas Wölfl had not progressed since the last time they dueled, Arie had grown, accomplishing much since those days as a desperate, hungry, glory-bound lad. Although still desperate and occasionally hungry, he knew his craft.

Wölfl flashed prominent teeth, daring his Dutch rival to top the grandiose, crowd-winning display. He pantomimed dusting the piano bench, apparently confident of his triumph.

Arie strode to the top of the tiny stage, a raised platform just wide enough to support the petite pianoforte. The last of his debilitating nerves ebbed. Old memories vanished. He settled gingerly on the bench. Every thought and barrier fell away, leaving only the unpolluted joy of performance in their wake.

He knew.

He reached for the penciled jot of music and turned it upside down.

Four days on from another blizzard, with the restrictions of Lent in sight, Ingrid had insisted on jovial socializing. The piano competition proved the perfect event, and Mathilda became a willing participant in her friend’s happy scheme to entice Venner from his work.

Because Arie would be there.

He had almost kissed her. Not her lips, but perhaps her throat or earlobe. And she had wanted him to. The possibility terrified her, naturally, but only because she would have been obliged to reject him. Recollections of the half breath between their lips struck Mathilda with a powerful longing and a confusion she dared not contemplate.

She sought her Fraiskette, but the comforting weight of amber and silver did not hang from her neck. Sifting through the folds of her gown, she located a concealed pocket and the pendant. The panicky sensation of falling from a towering precipice receded, if only momentarily.

Her Morgengabe. The present Jürgen bestowed on their wedding night in honor of her virginity.

I should have liked to give it to you.

She clutched the charm and found no solace in the swirls of silver filigree worn smooth by troubled fingers, nor in the firm oval of the amber cabochon. De Voss had so altered the significance of the simple piece of jewelry that it no longer eased her anxieties.

At least she did not feel conspicuous in the Stadttrinkstube. The impressive multi-story building positively teemed with people of all ages, incomes and states of romantic attachment. One of the only social establishments in the city to welcome even an eligible Fräulein, the alehouse was a respectable place where men and women mingled freely, widows included.

Venner angled for a table, claiming seats for their party before signaling a serving girl for ale. Pressed to the back of the overcrowded second floor, Mathilda strained to see the stage.

“Is he here?” Ingrid’s voice teased, both playful and knowing.

Mathilda frowned at her friend’s conspiratorial tone. How transparent had she become? Of late, Ingrid had been reading her moods and silences like words on a page. She could not decide if she had changed, or if Ingrid was simply maturing.

“By the stage. I saw him when we arrived.”

Ingrid stood on tiptoe. She gripped the back of her chair for balance in order to see De Voss and the other musicians. “Tilda, dearest, is he equally hard-faced in private too?”

Standing next to her friend, across an interminable distance, Mathilda caught sight of him again. A yawning valley of people separated them, preventing her from admiring the details of his face. “I admit, he is a grim character.”

Ingrid observed him with a more critical, detached eye. A scowl creased her forehead. “I would never look twice at him,” she said with a hint of apology. “He always manages to appear a fright. His hair, that frown. But when he plays—Tilda, I can understand your attraction.”

“He’s my music teacher.”

“I know.” Her smile was angelic. Her green eyes laughed and laughed.

She would have enjoyed playing Ingrid’s happy game, finding romantic intrigue within every stray glance, but Mathilda did not have the heart. She was not asking to love the maestro; she simply wanted to believe in him. And he made that task maddeningly difficult.

A maid arrived with ale. Venner and Ingrid took their seats and chatted. Despite her attempts to follow their conversation, Mathilda could not look away from the stage. She watched De Voss talk with another, taller musician and read tension in her maestro’s posture, in the angle of his neck. And Ingrid was right—goodness, his hair. Did the man even own a mirror? Although impeccably dressed in that same black suit, his hair remained a tousled fright of nervous energy.

The taller musician took his vigorous, furious turn at the piano. Hypnotized patrons swelled in number, jamming into the corners of the massive room. Several women and even a few men stood on chairs to secure a better view. Mathilda and Ingrid joined them, balancing and straining to see over hundreds of heads.

The man named Wölfl concluded his performance with a repulsively ornate flourish of scales and superfluous ornamentation, winning the affection of the crowd despite his lack of finesse. De Voss remained poised at the edge of the stage, his face an impassive mask of concentration. Absentmindedly, he picked at the fine lace trim poking out of a coat sleeve, his cerulean gaze turned inward. Mathilda could almost see his mind working, dissecting his rival’s uninspired improvisation. Although motionless and unassuming, he was hard at work.

Ingrid caught her eye. “Do we have our winner?”

Mathilda could not answer. If he proved the musician—the man—she had believed him to be, she would gladly foretell his triumph like an oracle. But certainty escaped her.

“Wait and see,” she whispered.

With the gravity of a condemned man to the scaffolds, he took the stage and settled on the bench. Then he turned the scrap of paper upside down.

“What’s he doing?” Ingrid voiced the question shooting through countless minds.

Into the hushed anticipation, Mathilda answered with an inarticulate, gleeful sound. She understood his intention immediately. Her solitary laugh drew stares from faces near and far.

Arie’s included.

Across the expanse of humanity separating their bodies, he grinned. She became his conspirator.

Upside-down, that scribbled motif stood backward and flipped on its staff, with soprano notes sinking down and the low notes rising high. He intended to violate the spirit of the competition’s rules but not the letter. As had every other competitor, he would base his improvisation on the same basic string of tones, transforming the motif into a radical mirror of a now-tired theme.

They regarded each other in a wordless exchange. Yearning and admiration seared Mathilda’s lungs, as if she were breathing in the midst of a bonfire. She wanted to hold fast to time and freeze that instant of understanding and terror, of resignation and joy. The moment she devoted herself to him. The moment she knew him.

Half of the continent believed him a smug, haughty fool, while the other half thought him disagreeable and ill-humored. A recluse. An uncivil renegade. Mathilda knew differently. He was a lonesome and unfathomably apprehensive man with a sense of humor so well hidden that it was as good as invisible. She laughed because she understood the playful, subtle boastfulness of his game. He smiled in recognition of the one soul who saw him—insecurities, temper, disheveled hair and all.

She blinked.

And he began.

Using those black and white keys and his devilish vision, Arie slowly coaxed his mirrored theme into life. A parade of ten individual tones resonated through the wide, crowded, expectant alehouse. He repeated those notes once and again before inducing a flood of variations in tempo rubato, a rhythmic configuration where the tones of the melody fell offbeat to the underlying bass line he created spontaneously.

Still gentle and without the hurried, flaunting displays of speed upon which other musicians relied, Arie pulled from that tinny, abused pianoforte a sonorous, almost percussive sound of deep, primal impulses. His harmonies threatened the limits of the tonal system, challenging his listeners to dare with him, to claim a world scarcely beyond their sight.

Not even their weeks together had prepared Mathilda for what he played. She could not believe the music emanating from his hands, so different from his previous compositions. Celebratory cantatas, sacred Masses, and the courtly, romantic themes of Love and Freedom all scattered. Forgotten. He twisted wicked need into melody. Bare footfalls on hard-packed ground. Supernatural ceremonies. Life and death, bittersweet, all under a wide and watchful sky.

He invited her into a heathenish place she had not the vocabulary to describe. Hot color flowered across her skin. Her balance tilted as she strained to comprehend and keep hold of every note.

Somewhere along the wide and fathomless river of sensation, Ingrid took her hand. Mathilda clasped those grounding fingers, pulled to earth after a wondrous flight across imagination. Arie concluded his performance with a clap of melodic thunder followed by the gentlest repetition of his mirrored theme, just ten little notes filing one by one into silence.

An awed hush erupted into the dissonant cry of a thousand hands wildly applauding their victor. Shouts. Whistles. The room went mad for him. Mathilda’s own hands throbbed from the exertion of her manic applause, a release to the tense fire he had built to such heights.

Hans Stüderl raised his hands to catch the attention of the crowd. He cried into the din. “May I present your victor, Arie De Voss!”

Past upraised arms and bobbing heads, Mathilda caught sight of Arie. He stood and bowed in humble gratitude.

As the applause subsided to a manageable noise, Joseph Wölfl protested Arie’s trick. His frustrated plea sounded across the room. Some booed. Stüderl intervened with a stifled half grin. “Stand down, Wölfl. He only played what was on the paper, and he certainly outplayed you.”

Wölfl stormed off the stage, brooding, but Arie stayed his flight.

“My colleague is right in his anger,” he said. Confused whispers roamed across the audience. “I will not take the prize unless I prove the best musician here. I do not believe I am.”

His unyielding gaze snared Mathilda, appealing to her across the multitude. “Frau Heidel, Konzertmeister Stüderl brought his violin.”

“But you won, De Voss,” Stüderl said. “The money is yours.”

Arie ignored the man and spoke directly to Mathilda. “I will give the prize to Wölfl unless you accept my challenge.”

She froze, violently shaken by his words. The luxury of a simple breath became a hazy memory. The world tilted and swam. Colorful shots of light crossed her field of vision, blinding her to countless questioning stares. A rush of sound, her own blood pooling and pulsing in her ears, drowned the noise of disbelieving murmurs.

But she could hear Arie just fine. “Come and play,” he said.

Ingrid pinched her upper arm until Mathilda jerked from her stupor. She caught her friend’s wide, disbelieving eyes. Within the disbelief, she found an audacious excitement.

Mouthing the word go, Ingrid urged her on.

To step off the sheer precipice of her chair was Mathilda’s first challenge. Numb with the effort of keeping her balance, her legs refused to support her weight. Touching her feet to the sticky wooden floor, she stumbled. Nearby patrons steadied her before shuffling aside. Bodies receded to create a serpentine path between tables and chairs and people.

Mathilda floated to the stage, to Arie’s side.

Arie watched his brilliant, unexpected student emerge from the crowd like a queen among peasants. She wore mourning black trimmed with drapes of pearl gray silk. A wide ribbon banded her body below the gown’s square neckline, accenting both her bust and the regal tilt of her neck. Piled in artless curls atop her head, her hair tinted red in the flash and dance of candlelight.

And her expression…Mathilda’s face appeared a curious blank.

Only when she reached his side, joining him on stage, did Arie understand the emotions she struggled to curb. He wanted to step back, to flee from the fury he had sparked within her, but he held fast. Beneath her obstinate resolve to hide her gift, Mathilda needed to perform. Arie knew it. She merely required an indelicate push to reveal that gift to the world.

In front of innumerable onlookers, they sparred in a private skirmish. Her furious whisper hissed the opening volley. “Why do this?”

Arie drew strength from the playfulness they had shared only minutes ago, in those moments before his solo. He grinned. “Tonight is a night as good as any for your debut.”

“I hate what you’ve done to me.”

“Take your revenge, then. Humiliate me.”

“I should, by walking off this stage. That man can have your money!”

“You cannot. The violin is already in your hand.” He leaned nearer, ensuring that even Stüderl would not hear. “And you are having too much fun.”

Before Mathilda had the opportunity to act on her volatile mood, Arie retreated to the safety of his piano bench. Instead of a tirade or physical violence, his prodigy attacked him with a violin interpretation of the same improvisation he had just produced. She twisted and swayed, imitating the initial parade of notes from the mirrored motif. The melody and counterpoint in tempo rubato followed, as well as the percussive assault on the harmonics of music.

Beyond the technical accomplishment of her performance, reconstructing a singular instance of music that no one should have heard again, her passion stirred Arie to an intense alertness. During any improvisation, while the mechanisms of his brain worked toward sudden invention, he sensed the rightness of his work, but he was never able to indulge in listening to the whole of his accomplishment.

As Mathilda revisited his improvisation, returning that musical gift to him, Arie heard darkness and imagination. He heard radiance and brilliance. In his music.

Unbelievable.

Before Mathilda concluded that miraculous echo, Arie joined her. At the pianoforte, he added color and depth to her instrument’s high soprano, accompanying her to the delicious world of discovery and trust he had conjured for them alone. Darkness and light battled. An armada of fears threatened to overwhelm any brightness or hope they fashioned. He declared his intentions and opened his heart through music, fearing the worst but yearning unconditionally.

Perhaps she heard his declaration and became frightened. Maybe she reached the limit of her expertise or stamina. Whatever the reason, Mathilda dragged her bow across the strings and produced an unruly screech, stopping her performance cold. Arie, not missing a beat, concluded the recital with a silly little parody of “La Marseillaise,” the French anthem.

Their audience, silenced and amazed, erupted into laughter and a riot of unrestrained applause. Mathilda bowed graciously before stepping aside and presenting Arie as their champion.

He accepted the praise hurled at him from all corners of the room, just as he halfheartedly accepted Mathilda’s admission of defeat. He would not ask whether her dissonant screech had been intentional. For the moment, she had acquiesced.

She moved to descend from the stage but stopped and turned. How differently she regarded him now. Her expression sparked with a luminous combination of wonder and heady excitement, robbing Arie of any awareness other than her.

Alone, he would have pushed impatient fingers into the pile of curls, dragging her flush against his body and kissing her with all the senseless passion she provoked. He would have enticed and cajoled with his lips, his teeth, begging her to join him at the brink of desperate madness—the very place she seemed willing to abandon him, still wanting.

But in that teeming, smoky public house, he could only devour her with his eyes, seeking to unravel the mystery of his fascination. He did not fight the impulses but reveled in those sensations, so new and thrilling to his forlorn soul. Whether she read the radical tumult of his emotions, he could not know. She merely returned his wide-eyed expression with a calmness he envied. And feared.

Perhaps he was alone after all, alone in a one-sided attraction.

“You earned your money, Maestro,” she said. Arie could barely hear her over continued applause and happy, drunken conversations. “But you can owe me a complimentary lesson.”

He grinned. Sudden relief forced a pent-up breath to tear from his lungs.

Dreaded memories, the strain of his financial difficulties, and the pressures of competition collapsed. The thrill of a capital performance overran every malicious thought. The mischievous curve of her lips withered his worries to nothingness.

“Tuesday afternoon, then,” he said.

A plea and a command, both.

CHAPTER TEN

Like enduring the bright dawn sunshine after a night spent imbibing strong spirits, Mathilda awoke to the terrible aftermath of her performance. Klara transformed into an awed simpleton, staring and then fleeing at the conclusion of her duties. Oliver offered a rigid bow when she passed him in the hallway. His formality muddled what had been a comfortable, uncomplicated relationship. Herr Bruegel, the cook, and a dozen other servants refused simple conversation.

When Mathilda entered the dining room to break her fast, Ingrid and Venner’s hushed words ceased. Two serving girls tittered and fled down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Guten Morgen,” Ingrid said too brightly.

Venner regarded her curiously, candidly. “Your performance was a surprise, Frau Heidel.”

This from a man determined to let all of Salzburg know of his disinterest in the arts. She nodded, dumbfounded by his stiff, formal declaration and altered demeanor. That he seemed to dismiss the topic altogether, spreading preserves on a slice of bread, comforted her only a little.

Ingrid watched her with worshipful eyes. “Did you sleep well, dearest?”

“Fine.”

In truth, she had endured wretched nightmares borne of fearful scenarios and doubts. Haunted by the snippets of talk, she dreamed a deluge of repetitive questions and mean-spirited accusations. Either she aspired to more than she was born to be, or she perpetrated an elaborate hoax. That terrifying world dubbed her a pretender and a fraud.

In dreams, she could not escape the budding paranoia stalking her through the Venner residence, in the market and along the streets of her birthplace. Like the discussion she had just interrupted between Ingrid and her husband, conversations ended when Mathilda entered a room. Stares pinned to her. She became the subject of unchecked gossip. Word of her debut produced a sudden musical celebrity where a quiet, respected widow had once breathed.

She awoke to find her nightmares fully realized. No one and nothing remained the same. Her anger with Arie swelled over the following days, becoming a single-minded purpose.

On Fasnacht, the Tuesday of her lesson and the day before Lent, she resolved to avoid those compact rooms on Getreidegasse. She would not obey his pleading command. She wanted to reverse the endless stream of time and undo the damage her performance had wrought on an otherwise orderly life. She preferred the previous year of restlessness, boredom and regrets to her new status as an oddity.

Yet her surging disgust and a deeper, more frightening magnetism propelled her to his residence.

Arie answered his door nonchalantly, and his casual disregard nearly snapped Mathilda’s control in half. She wanted to slap him. She wished desperately to hate him, but fury and memories stole her capacity for thought or action. The sight of his face and his distressed hair cleared a new avenue of resentment for her to travel, because no matter the repercussions, she had loved every second of her performance.

When she recalled those transcendent moments—those few minutes when she had stood with her splendid idol before hundreds of expectant people—her body had tingled with a riotous energy. Although every face had fallen away the moment she raised the bow, leaving only the sound of her music and Arie’s manipulation of that sad old pianoforte, she had been deeply aware of performing for their eager audience. Being subjected to their scrutiny and expectation had heightened the thrill and the need to perform to the very limit of her abilities. She should have been intimidated, but the rightness of her place on stage stole her breath.

Memories of those precious instants briefly assuaged her grief. But that magic belonged to the past. Mathilda was a pariah, and her gentlemanly idol was a mere man—a smirking, infuriating man.

Sitting beside Arie on her customary stool, she held the bow like a saw, clumsy and destructive. Every pull of that tool across the violin’s strings loosed a dissonant pain.

“You seem distracted,” he said blandly.

She could have spit in his face. Frustrated with his apparent amnesia or intentional disregard, Mathilda wanted to hurl the bow and unleash the crazy, terrorizing panic to mark the end of her old life.

Yet he remained calm. No apology. No explanation.

While Ingrid, Venner, Oliver and every other soul in the city seemed to treat her differently, deferentially, Arie held fast to the professional demeanor he had adopted weeks before. The intimacy they shared across the expanse of the alehouse, however tacitly and swiftly, had burned away, exhausting the enchantment and power of their performance. He sat casually on his stool, waiting for her to continue the sight-reading exercise.

“I wonder if your admirers would be quite as appreciative, Maestro, if they knew how frightened you are of them.”

He stiffened, registering a trace of surprised pain. “We promised to dispense with insults.”

“I lied.” Her taunt, attacking the anxiety he barely masked, produced more shame than satisfaction. Vengeful tears threatened. “You deserve all I can throw after what you did to me.”

“But you returned.”

Mathilda shot to her feet and thrust the violin at his face. “To rail at you, not for more practice!”

“Then rail.” He freed her hands of the instrument and returned it to its case. “I am waiting.”

“Stop being calm!”

“Why?” Arie rose to meet her. A mere breath whispered between them. “I am not the angered one. Your hands can no longer torture the violin, so be cross with me.”

Blood raced circuits through her body and burned the skin at her temples. Tears spilled without inhibition. The arrogant tilt of his smile and the shield of his sarcasm faded, replaced by a kindred sympathy, catching her unaware. That unsettling sensation of knowing him, of seeing the real man, returned.

Mathilda slumped onto her stool, defenseless and defeated. Because Arie De Voss represented every forbidden impulse and secret dream she had ever possessed, the capacity to hate him was as foreign to her as his native tongue. To hate him was to hate herself.

Whispering, she asked, “Do you have any idea what I have endured? People I have known my entire life are like strangers. You had no right.”

Arie knelt and took her hands. She flinched. He held fast. The dull winter sunshine spreading through the western windows haloed his face.

“You enjoyed our show, I think.”

Mathilda shook her head, denying that kernel of truth. Her will to fight faded, but she needed him to understand the damage he had wrought. “You believe I enjoyed being hauled in front of hundreds of my countrymen to perform like an exhibition freak?”

“You are not a freak. You are…are—”

“What?”

“Miraculous,” he breathed.

“People have a history of misinterpreting miracles. Women have been burned as witches for less than I did Friday.”

Confusion marred the composer’s sharp brow. “But you were wonderful.”

“No, don’t distract me.” She snapped her hands out of his grasp. “I’ve never behaved in a manner that solicits idle talk. After Jürgen was killed, well-wishers besieged me with curious glances. They pitied me. They asked endless questions and offered well-intentioned help. I grew sick and weary of the attention. The talk subsided eventually, but now…”

She stopped short of revealing the deep roots of her desire for an inconspicuous life. The extraordinary circumstances of her parents’ marriage ensured that she had been, since the hour of her birth, the subject of scandal. No one privy to the tale of her parents’ sad romance or the grim details of her mother’s suicide believed Mathilda’s destiny would be anything less than tragic.

Her decision to marry the respected Dr. Heidel had been the solution to a childhood lived within a haze of scrutiny. At Jürgen’s side, she had garnered a measure of the respectability and acceptance that hard work and unadventurous living had failed to secure. She had craved an ordinary life, and in a handful of winter weeks, culminating in her impromptu violin debut, she shattered any such illusion.

And she had brought it on herself.

Arie walked the few steps to his kitchen and returned with a tumbler of sherry. He pressed the glass into her numb fingers and she glanced at the alcohol. He remained standing, his hands empty. She had not seen him take a drink in weeks.

“People will always watch and talk,” he said.

Mathilda sniffed her glass. The hairs inside her nose stood on end. The tender flesh within the walls of her lungs burned when she inhaled those stabbing fumes. She grimaced. And she drank. The burning rush of liquid offered a distraction from the hurt encasing her heart.

She cleared her throat, refusing to cough. “You can be blasé because you are famous.”

He chuckled, his deep blue eyes overflowing with a resigned belief in his shortcomings. “And I handle fame very well, you think?”

“No, you’re miserable. Why am I even trying to make you understand this?”

“Because I know what you are disliking.” He moved away and sat at his small pianoforte. Above it a pair of six-pane leaded windows overlooked Getreidegasse and welcomed what little sunshine the day offered. Languid fingers pressed a few ivory keys, but Arie’s gaze remained trained on her. “The curious glances on you when you walk. The whispers. The doubts. I know these things.”

“I hardly mind the talk if I’m well regarded. I do mind feeling they’re wide of the mark.”

“Tell me.”

The melody beneath his fingers defined and sharpened. In her mind, Mathilda unconsciously played with his array of notes, just as she had once toyed with her Fraiskette. She found herself guessing the next chord, the next harmony, anticipating his lazy handiwork in advance of its creation. She felt him plucking secrets from her brain and holding them to the light, forcing her to share. He became her hypnotist.

“I fear that if they look too closely, people will see my flaws.” She took the last gulp of sherry into her mouth. The acidic burn flowed into her blood. “But if they don’t see the flaws, they won’t know who I am.”

He arched his left eyebrow. “Shall we compare flaws, Mathilda?”

“No. I want to forget the entire ordeal.”

“As you wish. But nothing has changed. Within these walls, we write our rules.”

On the heels of his promise, Arie hunched over the keyboard and pounded a radical, mischievous scherzo into being.

Mathilda shivered. An odd sense of unease crawled along her skin. His music echoed the wild bacchanalia of sound he had created at the alehouse competition. The music hardly resembled any of his early works, and its experimental power urged her to take up the violin. She responded to his unspoken invitation.

They played. They dueled. They fought.

And Arie yielded.

With a sudden thud of his fists against the keys, he raised his head and tossed Mathilda a bright, careless smile. Her bow screeched across the violin strings again, not out of frustration but in surprised wonder. He became an entirely different man when he smiled, still taking her by breathless surprise.

“See? Our own rules.”

She exhaled. “Good.”

His smile died, transforming his expression into a picture of befuddled curiosity. “Except I want to know why. Why did you let me win on Friday?”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Mathilda shrugged, lowering the violin from her chin. The intensity of his regard affected her like the touch of skin to skin.

How could she explain those last, sweet, dangerous moments of their impromptu duet? On stage, standing with her back turned to the piano, she had not seen his face. Yet his music had teased her with relentless invitations, asking her to join him where speech and thought were clumsy, even useless. She had acquiesced to their intimate connection.

Excitement warred with guilt. Need and shame had dueled. And a profound sense of inadequacy had inundated her. What if she had turned to see his face? What if the intimacy she heard in his composition proved the desolate fantasy of a lonely, confused woman?

Rather than finding the strength to turn and learn the truth, she had retreated.

And in his studio, beneath his eyes, she retreated again. “You won,” she said. “Our performance was merely an encore gone on too long.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A tense, suspended calm stretched between them.

Arie watched Mathilda, wanting to deny the creeping finality in her simple declaration. For reasons at which he could only guess, she fled whenever possible, denying and hiding from what he plainly understood. Her talent. His attraction.

Having given up the chance to kiss her, he would suffer for his ambition.

And he was bored. He had behaved himself for weeks, confronting daily the anxieties keeping him prisoner. His newest students would not recognize the Dutchman who had arrived in Salzburg the previous summer. But reforming a half-decade’s worth of bad habits took time. The effort to remain starched and mannered was exhausting.

In the push to smooth his rough edges, Arie had learned that his most taxing chore centered on Mathilda. He had contented himself with retaining her as a pupil, seeing her each Wednesday afternoon, but her brave, phenomenal performance on Friday evening heightened his unfamiliar hunger.

He could control his thoughts. The bare nape of her neck, however, teased him to lustful distraction. Frustration milled his nerves to powder.

Arie was no saint, no bastion of patience. His symphony had stalled, a half-formed catastrophe. He wanted a woman who, until a few minutes ago, stood prepared to assault him. And no matter the transformations he forced on his unruly character, he remained unworthy of her misplaced regard. In the weeks to come, he would finish his symphony, perhaps attaining a measure of the forgiveness and genuine, hard-earned recognition he craved. In the meantime, he remained a discouraged fraud.

His struggles erupted. “This is Vasteloavend. What do you call it?”

“Call what?”

“Vasteloavend. This night before Lent.”

“Fasnacht.”

“Fasnacht.” He shuffled sideways from behind the piano bench. “Tomorrow we will be good parishioners and make sacrifices. But we should celebrate tonight, not sit here to argue.”

Mathilda visibly shrank from his suggestion, shaking her head before he even finished speaking. Wariness eclipsed her irises, darkening her hazel eyes with clouds of fear. “I cannot.”

“Come now, put away the violin.”

“Why?”

“You are suspicious of me.” Sensing a flourish of possibilities opening before them, he staunched his excitement to keep from overwhelming her. “I have honest intents, Mathilda.”

Grounded fast like the stump of a tree, she would not budge from her stool. Her expression lobbed hostile accusations about the night at the Stadttrinkstube, condemning him with a silent language more eloquent than speech. She did not trust him. She had not forgiven him.

Arie stalked the room, a hunter seeking his quarry, but he was a tentative warrior. Before meeting Mathilda, engaging in conversation with a woman he found attractive would have been even more difficult than negotiating crowds and speaking to strangers. Limiting his amorous encounters to female admirers who aggressively sought his attentions, he had never pursued a woman. He restricted his use of sexual play to situations in which his partner had already decided the outcome.

Now, when his fascination approached a dire crest, an absolute lack of meaningful experiences left him inept and stranded in dark ignorance. He longed for any meager flame to guide his way.

“Are you afraid of me, Arie?” The clouds of her fear had dispelled. She assessed him, clear and smiling. Her slight laughter somehow denigrated herself at the same time.

Arie could not understand a whit of her humor. Afraid of a woman? What sort of man would he be if he admitted such a thing?

He cringed when he considered the answer, knowing by the desperate, eager thump of his heart that she terrified him. She ushered a crack of light into his darkness, and he would be a fool to blot out that glow. He was a careless idiot and a miserable Lothario, but he was no fool.

“Why do you laugh?” he asked.

Another unruly giggle pushed into the air. “Look at you!”

Worried his attire disappointed her again, he flashed a glance down to his shoes. “What?”

“You’re Arie De Voss!” She stared hard as if willing him to understand. “You are afraid of me?”

“Yes, yes, I am the famous man and you are the plain, dull Frau. You are in awe of me, is that it? I am not allowed to feel the same?”

Her eyes skittered away. Fear, humor, playfulness and even the anger she had displayed with such merciless intensity disappeared. Assuming a rigid posture, she stood and regarded him with a look that flattened his pride and ambition. “I should go.”

Arie watched her retrieve the pelisse. She was pulling away again, and he had grown tired of trying to comprehend why. Devoid of reason, besieged by emotion, he knew she readied to leave for good. In the wake of the damage they carelessly inflicted on each other, a single certainty remained. He needed to take a chance.

“I understand the phrase now,” he said quietly.

Mathilda stopped, turned. “What?”

“Falling.” Desperation shaped his words and made them honest. “Falling in love. I have stepped off a ledge. And yes, I am afraid.”

Her hands froze in the task of donning her outerwear. Her eyebrows shot up, providing Arie with a glimmer of hope. She felt something. She must.

“You aren’t in earnest.”

“I am,” he said. “Why otherwise will I say something so ridiculous?”

“You negate your fine sentiment by deriding it.”

“But it is ridiculous.” He laughed at their shared idiocy. “I do not enjoy the experience.”

Exhaustion pressed behind his eyes. He clenched his molars at the insistent knowledge that she would leave at the first opportunity, at his first ill-chosen word. So much depended on a mere handful of minutes. And he only wanted to kiss her.

“You speak as if this is all new to you.” Curiosity peeked through her attempt to remain rigid and impassive. Again, hope flared within him.

“Of course,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘of course’?”

Arie walked to her, confident for once in his own honesty. “If I were in love before, I would not marvel at our attraction. I would be with that woman, whoever she might be.” Closer, he took her pelisse and returned it to the hook. They held hands. “But there is no one else. And I am with you.”

“You’re not with me,” Mathilda sputtered. She backed against the wall, inadvertently pulling him with her. “You speak nonsense. An impossibility.”

“Not so.”

“Go to the devil!”

“This is my house. If you are angry, you go.”

He assumed a nonchalant posture at odds with the urgency building within his body. Could she feel the truth of that tension through the hands she held?

“But I do not think you will,” he said. “You want to be here because you are safe with me. I am not those people, those gossips, nor do I need to learn every flaw. I know you.”

“You know no such thing!”

“I know you cannot leave.”

“I can.”

So near, the conflict between their bodies radiated like dancing air currents above a torch. Arie’s line of sight narrowed. His attention centered on a single being, memorizing her every feature. With an unsteady forefinger, he traced the angular slope of a cheekbone. Her respiration accelerated, and the metronomic pulse of blood under the pale skin of her neck hypnotized him. He smelled the gentle echo of sherry on her silent exhale. Dizziness mingled with passion. Intoxicating.

How could they continue this wanting and not having? This restless, destructive combination of desire and denial?

“I have never been in love because my ambition overshadowed all.” He released her hands in favor of the softness of her hair, without another thought about how reckless he had become. He swept soft, loosened tendrils away from her face. “With you, Tilda, I had no choice.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She struggled to break free of his hands, his words, but Arie tightened his hold. “Do you understand? I could fall in love or go mad from wanting you.”

He kissed her then, their searching mouths melting together. She relaxed into the wall and he eased deeper into the shelter of her body. She tasted of sherry and heat. Nothing existed between them but luminous impulse. A kiss. A masterpiece. Bliss.

Embracing, pulling, Arie lost the capacity to gauge time. With his breath burning in his chest, he relished the mingled sensation of pain and wild pleasure. His hands, so perceptive and skilled on the keys of a piano, became numb and clumsy. Her delicate textures escaped him. Her passion, her devastating reaction to his hands, stole reason. The language they invented had no words, no music—only touch, rhythm and an implacable need Arie could not ease, no matter the secrets he discovered with his lips and tongue.

He pulled his mouth from her sweetness with the reluctance of a man returning to the frigid isolation of winter. She nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck while her fingers wound into the disarray of his hair.

A past steeped in unfulfilled daydreams merged with the present, forging a moment where Arie made her fantasies real. Thought, doubt, rationality—Mathilda held them at bay, barely, by focusing on the spicy scent of his skin. His pulse beat rapidly, throbbing against the press of her cheek. His persistent embrace forced her to an undeniable awareness of every shared breath. She was thankful for the sweet confinement of his limbs lest she drop to the floor, a victim of too many sensations.

Tentatively, hardly daring to move for fear of breaking the spell, Mathilda tilted her head to read his expression. She had to know what those blue depths contained. Maybe regret? Happiness? She feared the discovery of a thoughtless lust that would belie his unfathomable declarations—declarations she dared not trust.

With the barest distance between their faces, she found the familiar web of tiny lines at the corners of his eyes—eyes filled with a wary, intense longing. Even now, he remained afraid of her, terrified she would disappear despite the clench of his arms. But he didn’t retreat. He held her close, still waiting. That he could seem so defenseless and yet so determined made clear the depth of his regard.

Arie De Voss. Her idol. Her maestro.

Out of the thousands who experienced the power of his music, he wanted her. That heady knowledge tossed Mathilda in exhilarating flight.

She pulled tingling hands from his scalp and touched delicate fingertips to his cheeks, his lips. His hair stood in wild thatches, pulling a wobbly giggle from her chest.

His breath rasped. “You tell me to comport myself, Tilda, but then you tangle my hair. I cannot win.”

His elusive sense of humor signaled her undoing.

His smile. She wanted to taste his smile.

Mathilda kissed her maestro with the unrestrained passion of a woman who held nothing in reserve. Her mouth became a partner to his and toiled at the happy task of learning him. Thoughts of retreat vanished. Impatience demanded more. The connection she had sensed on stage proved a mere prelude to this, a more staggering intimacy. Words, melodies—those powerful means of communication became ungainly barriers.

But rhythm…she understood rhythm. In the midst of their kiss, she wanted to melt into the man who held her enthralled. The steady push and withdraw of their tongues became her native language. It beat in her blood, a rising tide of delight surging beneath her skin.

Arie acknowledged her body’s request for more. He trailed a parade of kisses along the ridge of her jaw. He captured one earlobe between his lips, his teeth, and Mathilda recalled the moment, weeks earlier, when she had waited in expectation of just that touch. Now he advanced. Each deliberate taste aroused new, reckless sensations. She gasped at the tickle of his tongue. Her lungs stretched against her stays, frantic for breath enough to sustain her yearning.

Drowning, feeling her waking mind dip below the surface of the visible world, Mathilda experienced desire’s sharp onslaught. A rush of warmth unfurled in the pit of her stomach, sliding through her muscles in an exotic dance of need. She knew what that warmth meant.

After all, she was no innocent.

She was selfish. Decadent. Hungry. Alive.

Arie pressed lower, suckling the tender stretch of her neck and nipping at the upper swell of her bosom. He ran his tongue along the lace edging her bodice, wetting the delicate trim and pressing it along her tender flesh. A surge of expectant moisture pooled between her legs. She grasped his head and dragged his mouth closer. He complied with her gasping, wordless command, plundering the sloping valley between her breasts while his hands gripped her backside.

Mathilda angled to straddle one of his solid thighs, pushing her body to his in a willful pursuit of release. Too many layers of bombazine thwarted her quest. She moaned against the top of his head and yanked at her skirts. Arie gathered the fabric of her gown and captured those folds in a hand at her back. He pressed the rigid heat of his arousal toward her pelvis, reinvigorating their hypnotic rhythm before taking her mouth once again.

The pull and clench of desire ripped through her. Chilled air flashed along her bare legs. She foresaw the next steps in their dance. He would enter her. She would experience a blaze of need. He would thrust and find his blind satisfaction, leaving her wanting.

Throughout her marriage, she had learned to accommodate that makeshift pattern with Jürgen. But the idea of standing against the wall of Arie’s studio, shaking and unsatisfied in light of his climax, proved enough to make her weep. Humiliation would place a distant second to frustration. She wanted that as much as she wanted him.

“Wait.” She fought, pushing at his chest and the arms encircling her waist.

Heedless, he kissed her again. She struggled. Panic tarnished her delight. She only wanted to end their prelude to disappointment, but Arie dropped to his knees.

For the duration of a breath, she stood motionless with uncertainty and shock. He remained poised before her, still pinning the folds of her dress behind her back. Then his mouth was on her, sucking the tender span of her inner thighs. First one leg, then the other, Arie pulled at her curved flesh with the firm, insistent caress of his lips.

Mathilda writhed beneath his exploration, marveling at her quick return to a pinnacle of need. He tormented her, delaying any chance of satisfaction until she opened to him, helpless and desperate. Harsh sounds of passion echoed across the tiny room: her moaning pleas and the erotic resonance of his deep, sucking kisses along her thighs.

Melting into a puddle of yearning and anticipation, she became a greedy, wicked creature. He kissed and nipped her skin to the brink of insanity and still she craved more. She awaited the instant he would relent, when his tongue would part her wet folds. She wanted quick, searching strokes. Finding Arie’s scalp again, she threaded fingers into his hair and squeezed, pulling at the source of her torture.

“More.”

The single word hovered between them, a dictate, until Arie took her feminine center into his mouth. He pinned her between the hard, unyielding wall and the delicious suffering of that most intimate kiss. He licked. He sucked. He caught her ever so gently in his teeth.

A remarkable peace settled over her as he manipulated her body. She savored the moment when her satisfaction became a promise. Behind closed eyes, she could all but see her pleasure emerging like the sun from behind a billow of white. She relaxed against the wall, giving herself to his tongue and the strength of his restless, pulsing hands until, with a shudder and a groan, she liquefied.

At last.

PART TWO

Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be,
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

William Shakespeare, “Sonnet No. 105”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Arie exchanged his mouth for the heel of his hand, pressing Mathilda’s intimate triangle of curls. She prolonged her pleasure against the heavy push of his palm. For a few aching, timeless breaths, he shared the ripples of her orgasm, that tight spasm of release.

When his lovely prodigy’s knees shook with a trembling borne of sated exhaustion, Arie drew her to the floor. He wrapped her body within the snare of his limbs, sliding along her supple length, returning eagerly to the mystery of her concealed bosom. His lips caressed the treasure of those upthrust curves while he cradled her head in his hand. He unfastened his breeches and hooked his other arm under one of her knees, drawing her leg toward the slim curve of her waist. Wet and contented, her flesh yielded sweetly, willingly, to his rigid phallus.

He groaned into the hollow of her neck, and he bowed his head to the stabbing ecstasy radiating to the furthest reaches of his mind. Mathilda gasped and whispered his name at his temple, urging him with the welcoming thrust of her hips. He understood nothing more than a driving need, accelerating the quick pulse of his thrusts.

The final jolt of his climax woke Arie from a fitful sleep.

Beset by irrepressible erotic images, he met the mid-March sunshine with a curse. Rolling his eyes in opposition to the day, he wanted a return to paradise. His dreams, no matter how arousing, held not a candle to the pleasure they echoed—the satisfaction he had found with Mathilda on that gratifying afternoon more than two weeks ago.

The blanket covering his body was damp with sweat and the sticky consequences of his tormenting dream. He sank, spent, into the softness of his bed, although his unconscious climax had done little to assuage the sad mental ache that battered him upon each daily return to wakefulness.

He yearned to remain in the realm of nighttime fantasies, a perfect place in which he did not have to watch—prostrate, from the floor—as Mathilda stood and fled. Only the hasty arrangement of her skirts and a brief struggle into her pelisse had slowed her frantic flight. Whereas Arie had wanted to snuggle into the relative comfort of his narrow bed, loving leisurely and happily through the night, she had run from the embrace of his satisfied body.

He blamed himself. After all, he had only wanted one kiss.

He had not thought to expect more. To do so would be to live as a prisoner of unceasing desires. But at the touch of her lips to his, bludgeoned by a turbulent hunger, he had understood that their kiss merely prefaced a greater search.

And his memories helped decipher none of it. The impatient exploration of a young man’s first kiss, the casual acceptance of a lover’s tongue, the forceful drumming of angry passion—all proved useless. Mathilda was his muse. Unlike his creative drive, an impulse he purged through bouts of dedicated struggle, his obsession with her refused to be satisfied. Even naked and limp, lying on the floor in the confused, embarrassing aftermath of their passion, he had known she would torture him as long as he drew breath.

And how had he behaved?

He had pleasured her, he knew, while his lust had still cooperated with his mind. Following her final, exultant groan, however, Arie had coveted that same obliterating sensation. He had transformed into a senseless animal, pushing her against the unyielding plank floor and rutting without thought to her comfort—except a casual hand to protect her skull from the thump of his assault.

But how he wanted her still. One harsh, sweet coupling only teased him with the beauty of their connection.

She had wanted him, too. Her desire had been obvious in every touch, every sound, until the moment she simply left.

Arie’s confusion became an eternal spiral. He moaned, protesting the uncomfortably familiar pattern of his mornings. The dreams. The messy conclusion. Upon waking, memories of the horrified expression on her sweat-dampened face. A bittersweet melody of loss. Then came questions, recriminations, and the inevitable need to have her again.

Wait—a melody?

He sat up and tossed aside his soiled blanket on the wings of another disgusted curse. Crossing the meager span of his rooms, he flashed a quill across the nearest spread of lined parchment. He shivered in his nightshirt and covered the paper with huge, scrawling splatters that he alone could understand. Only when the bare skeleton of his melody sat safely within its staff did he turn away from the table. With an efficiency borne of practice and fueled by impatience, he lit a fire, washed, dressed and brewed coffee.

Seven and a quarter hours later, his right hand ink-stained and cramping, Arie finished his symphony’s third movement.

He enjoyed thinking of Mathilda as his muse because he was a lonely man who found amusement in idealizing the technical aspects of his profession. Even after years of experience, he still had no notion as to how he composed. As such, he might as well embody inspiration in a pleasing female form. His adorable minx of a student had invaded the deepest realm of his fantasies. Sifting through recollections of pleasure and the disappointing confusion of Mathilda’s departure, his brain had been hard at work, writing the music to accompany their sad, comic, unexpected intimacy.

Opening the movement, he heard echoes of the heavy, trouncing scherzo they pounded into life on that same afternoon. A submerged, unforgettable current of playfulness—the teasing banter threading through even their most heated debates—outshined the darkness, dragging the melody into the light. The dreamed motif foretold passion and abandonment. The thundering rhythm of wild sexual fervor concluded with Arie’s renewed sense of isolation, feeling more alone than he had in those waning hours of Fasnacht.

Upon scratching the final note into place, his foremost thought frustrated him, but it did not surprise him. What will she make of it? Would Mathilda hear the parallels to their brief hours together? He longed to know how his composition would sound emerging from her tender manipulation of a violin.

Frankly, he longed to know any blasted thing about her.

Social functions and random walks to the Alter Markt, the Old Market, at all hours produced not a single glimpse of her face. On Ash Wednesday, he had seen her not at all—not at any of the six churches he visited on that restless day of reflection and too much walking. He had since conducted and played organ at various houses of worship, assuming a few of the Kapellmeister’s many responsibilities in the hopes of seeing her somewhere among the faithful. He recalled the chance meetings peppering the initial weeks of their acquaintance. She must be working hard to avoid him.

But Arie would not believe their story had concluded, so suddenly and with countless questions darkening their fine time. Her wordless rejection twisted him in a coil of disappointment and useless frustration, bruising his ego. What kind of woman was she, truly, if she could inflict such torture?

Verdomme, but he was tired of being caged, dwelling on a moment of pleasure made sour by the sordid finale. Even the encouraging surprise of finishing this, the third of his symphony’s four movements, taunted him with a hollow victory. Never had he worried less about success for the mere sake of success.

Arie was greedy for her nearness. He wanted to hear the melody of her voice, so different from the Dutch intonations of his youth. He wanted to spar with her, to watch her defensive temper rise and then to soothe it into nothingness. He wanted to learn her body rather than settle for the rough, primitive way he had taken her.

Most of all, Arie wanted time—time to create more than one glaring memory.

Doubt had stayed his hand for weeks. He deserved her scorn, he knew, even if her reasons remained opaque and his crime stayed concealed. But his declaration threatened to become reality. I could fall in love or go mad from wanting you.

He tossed a pinch of drying powder across the wet ink and arranged the completed composition into a tidy stack. He scribbled a brief message on a sheet of writing paper and ventured into the fading light of a beautiful early spring evening. On his way to see Haydn, he posted the letter.

Mathilda awoke from sensuous dreams that ended too soon.

As Klara helped her dress, she mused aimlessly. Should she die that morning, she would welcome the respite from the constant affliction of her memories—if only she made confession first. She had yet to utter a word of her misdeeds to a priest. Guilt smothered her at the thought of giving voice to what had taken place in Arie’s studio.

Upon his satisfied collapse on top of her, Mathilda had kissed his hair with a remarkable feeling of contentment. She had looked down the length of their bodies, marveling at the extraordinary pleasure of their tryst, when the stark, unforgiving black of her gown shocked her to the point of nausea.

She had not spoken to him since. She had not touched him, despite the ache of longing that flared in her blood every time she recalled the wanton, delicious way he had loved her. But she had seen his face. She had listened to his music, both in her mind and in concerts throughout the city, every time trying to believe that the music alone called to her.

Yet the sight of his face in deep, commanding concentration struck her anew every time. Melancholy encased her in a tight blanket. If joy had been a corporal being tugging at her arm, she would not have felt its touch.

Hours after waking, she stared at a book without comprehension. Ingrid sat beside her, casually gazing at a magazine Christoph had brought from his recent travels in the north. For weeks, Mathilda had behaved like the worst sort of confidant, denying a lifetime of friendship by keeping her secrets close. She refused to provide Ingrid an explanation as to her sudden decision not to attend additional music lessons, and she recognized her friend’s quiet hurt. Wednesdays came and went, yet Mathilda did not leave the manor. The unspoken argument rested heavily between them.

A footman knocked and presented Mathilda with an envelope. She accepted the letter, immediately recognizing the hand that had scrawled her name.

“From Herr De Voss?”

Ingrid’s happy enthusiasm broke her heart. She wanted to scream and rail, to make her understand that her optimism had no place.

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

“No.”

“Oh do, Tilda. I know you want to.” She flipped another page. With an insincere lightness she said, “I promise not to watch your face for clues.”

Despite her crippling curiosity, Mathilda resisted the temptation. He had said he loved her. She had left without a word. What possible topic would compel him to write after weeks of silence?

“No, I shall wait. The maestro has nothing of importance to say to me.”

She cringed at the bitter sound of her lie. Most likely, he had a great deal to say, none of which would be complimentary.

“He probably wanted to remind you that today is Wednesday.” When Mathilda said nothing, Ingrid muttered, “Spite yourself.”

“What was that?”

“Suit yourself, dearest. Now, come have a look at this gown.”

In the afternoon quiet of her room, Mathilda opened the letter at last. Her imagination authored no small number of themes, from passionate declarations of longing to bitter, resentful diatribes against her callousness. After hours of speculation, two lines surprised her with their stark simplicity.

Come to the orchestra balcony of the Dom after Mass next Sunday. Kapellmeister Haydn wishes to meet you.

A blot of ink trailed the last sentence—a thought he had penned before attempting to obscure it. She shifted the paper into an angle of sunlight to examine the scribble more carefully.

Please.

He had written please before thinking better of the word.

Across the span of their acquaintance, a measure of months that had seen them progress from strangers to lovers and back, she had come to understand many of his traits. He was impetuous, diffident, inspired, passionate and even amusing. Now she could add proud to her mental catalog.

He refused to beg for her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“De Voss, the Venners’ party has arrived.”

Arie turned toward Stüderl’s private announcement and nodded absently. His heart rate accelerated while he concluded preparations for the Mass. The agonizing wait for Sunday had exacted a heavy toll on his health. He had neither eaten nor slept, anxious to see Mathilda and plagued by the grisly notion that she would refuse his entreaty. What would he do if she refused? Barge into the Venner town home and plead? Shake her witless?

By the time his musicians assumed their places in the orchestra balcony, Arie had but a few moments to inspect the gathering below.

Salzburg’s most influential citizens and leaders packed the cathedral for the weekly ritual that served as backdrop to an opportunity to socialize. Duke Ferdinand and his myriad retainers, members of the Council of State, outlying nobles who spent their winter within the safe confines of the city, and every manner of parishioner down to the lowest maid—all gathered to sing and pray, to see and be seen.

He looked to no avail among the lace head coverings worn by every woman to Mass. He searched mourning gowns but, during that respite from war, black garments crowded the cathedral. Finally he found the woman he loved. She sat on a pew halfway back from the breathtaking gold-and-black altarpiece, behaving with less spirit and animation than a marble statue.

She saw him.

She looked away.

And Arie had work to do.

Interminable hours later, Haydn approached him in the deserted musicians’ balcony. The parishioners had long since returned to quiet Sunday homes, and the musicians had hurried to their next performances at any of Salzburg’s many houses of worship. Save Haydn, who had played organ, Arie was alone.

“Did she attend?” Sympathy laced Haydn’s voice.

Unnaturally intent on the sheet music he arranged at the lectern, Arie nodded.

“Will you give her up?”

“I cannot say.”

Haydn sighed and settled onto a nearby chair. “De Voss, since that night at the Stadttrinkstube, I remembered something to add light to your situation. May I?”

Arie turned his attention to the aging composer, curious despite his gathering despair. “Alstublieft. Please.”

“Her father was a cellist named Klaus Fuhrman Roth, and her mother was the youngest daughter of Oskar, Marques of Linschoten.”

“Roth?”

“Ja, a Jew,” Haydn said. “He was the first chair court cellist under Colloredo for, oh, nearly ten years. Everyone found him immensely likeable. He was popular and handsome. Of course, I was Kapellmeister even then, but I recalled his name only recently.”

Arie sat beside Haydn. “Go on.”

“When on tour in Brunswick, Roth married Elisabet Linschoten against the wishes of her parents. He brought her to his home in Salzburg amidst quite a scandal, if you can imagine.” Wearisome memories creased his face in an introspective frown. “Frau Heidel was born in their first year of marriage. Roth died of pneumonia when she was but a babe. Marques Linschoten refused Frau Roth permission to return to her family estate in Brunswick, and she committed suicide shortly thereafter.”

Arie swallowed hard, clenching his hands into a tight ball of sick frustration. An ache of affinity bloomed in his chest. He empathized with the trials she must have endured, abandoned and outcast by her only remaining family.

Tilda.

At the Kapellmeister’s revelations, his impression of the past realigned. While Arie dreaded crowds and strangers, Mathilda was tormented by gossip. She had not been upset because he compelled her to perform, but because of the talk her debut produced. Even he had heard the whispers and speculation. As the half-Jewish daughter of a suicide, scandal and rumors must have marred even her earliest childhood memories.

“And Herr Seitz raised her? Why?”

“I know not.” Sadness tightened the lines around his mouth. “I was a much younger man, I’m afraid, and in my obligations…I maintained little contact with Frau Roth after Klaus passed. Nor did I follow the fate of the babe she left behind.” He shook his head. “Klaus Roth was a marvelous cellist, truly gifted. She must take after him a great deal.”

The unexceptional sound of an opening door interrupted Arie’s heartsick reflections. Mathilda entered.

Relief and surprise made his skin prickle. He absorbed every detail: the stab of her angular cheekbones, the full curve of her lips, and those unforgettable, fatigued hazel eyes—all surrounded by a crown of nondescript brown hair. She had worn the same black gown trimmed in silvery gray on the evening of their duet at the Stadttrinkstube. Mere weeks ago. A lifetime ago.

On that remarkable night, he had not yet kissed her. Now he recalled her warm feminine taste, wanting her all over again. Arie vowed that the next time he made love to Frau Heidel, he would have her nude, eager and content to remain in his arms forever.

Both men bowed and Arie stepped forward to make the introductions. “Kapellmeister, this is Frau Heidel. My student.”

“Guten Tag,” Haydn said. “Herr De Voss has told me much about you.”

Mathilda kept that bewitching gaze averted, shyly greeting the man. “Guten Tag, Kapellmeister. I am honored to meet you, sir.”

“Don’t hold me too highly, my dear,” Haydn said. “I’m an old man who struggles to keep up with young stallions such as our friend here. I would need a third ear to fully appreciate some of the beautiful harmonics he unleashes on the world.”

Arie smiled, embarrassed by the pleasure of the composer’s praise. He dared not look at Mathilda for fear of reading less complimentary sentiments on her face. “You flatter me, sir.”

“Certainly, for you deserve it.” The elderly man turned his sharp assessment to Mathilda. “And you, my dear. I witnessed your performance at the Stadttrinkstube. Remarkable, truly.”

“Danke, sir,” Mathilda said. “I didn’t know you were in attendance.”

Haydn nodded his affirmation. “I watch Stüderl manage those affairs because he enjoys the spectacle. After too many years of performance, I prefer to remain in the audience. You both made for a most entertaining evening.” He regarded Mathilda with gentleness and affectionately patted her on the shoulder. “I hope you’ll join us in this world of music. The city needs fresh, eager performers to take the place of dotty old codgers like myself.”

She smiled, seemingly reluctant to accept his goodwill.

“I must be off. I play organ at Peterskirche this afternoon.” Haydn bowed his adieu. “When you are ready, Frau Heidel, we will find a place for you.”

Arie and Mathilda stood alone in the musicians’ balcony. Far, far below the vaulted arches of the frescoed ceiling, altar boys swept between the pews. They worked steadily and proficiently, but an occasional giggling whisper drifted nearer the vaulted ceiling. Dust motes floated along the colorful sunbeams flooding through stained glass.

“Kapellmeister Haydn knew your father,” Arie said carefully. “He told me of your childhood, what he remembered. I did not intend prying.” He took a step toward her, close enough to take her hands. But he did not. “Mathilda, I am sorry. If I knew—”

“You would have treated me differently.”

“You cannot know that.”

He released a shaky breath and ran a daft hand through his hair. She watched the gesture with an expression akin to pain, though he could not understand why. The shadows and sunlight chasing across the balcony accentuated the contrast between her wan skin and the oppressive black of her mourning gown. She said nothing, raising the level of Arie’s desperation.

“Why did you go? Is this about your husband?”

“He is not your concern,” she said, her voice calm.

“I am a lover to you, but no, it is not my concern.”

He wanted to riot against her unexplained detachment, but weeks of rejection stole his will to fight. The fatigue of trying to understand her wore too many holes in his determination and pride.

He lowered heavy lids to expunge the world, motionless and awaiting the bleak finality of her escape. Any moment, he would hear the sound of that same unexceptional door closing on his happiness—a happiness he did not deserve.

Mathilda opened the door from the orchestra alcove to the Dom’s arcade and there she waited. Arie remained motionless, his head bowed. Anguish stretched taut every angle of his body.

What manner of man stood resigned to defeat? And what kind of monster deliberately hurt the man who had declared his love? Even her fierce if erratic need to protect herself would not allow her to abandon him a second time without explanation.

“I will say nothing here,” she heard herself say. Although loath to return to his studio, it would provide the privacy they needed. Then she could be done with this anguish.

The March sky loomed misty and pale, but the city bustled and moved, its populace emerging from the rigorous isolation of winter. Mathilda noticed little of their journey across the Altstadt other than Arie’s presence at her side.

They climbed the steps to his rooms in wordless expectation. He lit a fire, but the squat stone kitchen stove did little to disperse the slinking chill—or the cold desolation in his eyes.

Their last moments in that enclosed space flooded Mathilda’s senses, tangling into the rhythm of her pulse. She steeled herself against the trauma of explaining her rejection, all the while defying the desire to touch him after their long separation.

Arie spoke before she could find any traction among her snarled emotions. “Did you choose him?”

Her throat seized. “Herr Seitz, Ingrid’s father—he secured our match. We each benefited from the arrangement.”

“You had no obligation to marry?”

“No.”

His blue eyes flared at each revelation as a barrier solidified between them. He stood in the middle of the room, but he may as well have been miles distant. “How did you benefit by marrying a man you did not love?”

Mathilda’s heart leaped with a painful start at the mention of love. Nothing could erase from her mind the devastating avowal Arie had made, nor could she permit any return to the madness of that fervent, dreamlike afternoon. “Jürgen was a good man.”

“You did not answer my question.”

His voice, toneless and merciless, harkened to their first lesson when they had been strangers, even adversaries. Until that moment, she had not fully understood how expressive he had become during their time together. Upon the return of the chilly demeanor he reserved for others, he revoked the unique gift of his trust and regard.

“He took care of me.” She recited the list she had memorized across the days and nights of restless discontent. “I was in charge of my own household. He was respected—a good doctor with no higher aspirations.”

“He was safe.”

She pulled her arms into a protective shield around her body. Words became pained squeaks. “And you’ve never made a decision out of the innate need for safety?”

His sneer remained despite a telltale flinch. “You were a coward, Tilda.”

She hugged herself tighter, a shiver racing along bare forearms at the sound of her endearing nickname. I cannot win, Tilda. He had said that only moments before her descent into the pleasure and pain of their shattering kiss, the kiss that did not conclude until they sprawled panting on the floor.

“You have no right to call me that,” she whispered.

Arie cursed in Dutch, something sharp like a bee sting. “And you are a coward now.”

“No wonder people speak ill of your personality. Your music is angelic, but you are a brute, a boor and a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite? I never hid in fear of my talent.”

She was trying to defend herself, to explain the truth of her actions, but he insisted on bringing up her infernal gift. Again. Her every instinct waged a war, urging flight—or demanding the taste of his mouth. “Is that what this is about? My music?”

“Or lack thereof,” he said. “Did you ever tell Jürgen you can play the violin?”

“No.”

“Did he know at all that you could play?”

“No.”

Arie gave a little snort of disgust. “You give me no surprises there. I wonder what you did reveal to him. Anything?”

“He—”

“That you are a good cook? Keep his home tidy? Stay faithful?”

“Yes!”

He appraised her, his stare barren of sympathy and understanding. “And that was the wife you became for him? Someone predictable and safe?”

“I was his partner!”

“You offered him an ordinary woman. You lied to him. You lied to yourself.” His accusations accelerated, relentless now. He stepped closer, intimidating her all the more because of the command and authority radiating from his body. “For shame, Tilda. Did you think you will be happy in such a prison?”

“My marriage was no prison.” Habit and loyalty demanded that she defend her late husband and the marriage they had shared, no matter its deficiencies. But the words—even spoken aloud—could not transform a lie into truth. Her head throbbed.

Arie took another step closer. She retreated. “You did not love him.”

“I never said that I did.”

“Then my opinion stands.” He shrugged, arrogantly marking an end to the matter. “You hid your talent like a bad secret because you do not like chances. People might criticize you.”

“I knew exactly what I did,” she said. “I may have hidden the truth from Jürgen, but you’re wrong to think I lied to myself.”

That stopped him. His all-knowing smirk melted. “Then…why?”

“No.” She protested his look of vulnerability. “You want to judge. You stand ready to pounce on anything I say in my defense. You! You flit around Europe at your own behest, the artist who need never account to anyone.”

“You are mad to think I live so freely. I bow and scrape to every burgher and prince, all for hopes of the smallest assignment.”

“Yet the choice to become a musician, a composer—that was yours. You feel no obligation toward civility or propriety. You simply cater to your muse and the rest of the world be damned.” Her shouted words scattered across the studio. “The Kapellmeister told you about my parents. I married Jürgen to let them rest in peace, so that I could live without being judged by their mistakes.”

“They fell in love.”

From his mouth, with his delectable accent, the possibility seemed effortless.

“No, they were impetuous and selfish.” She fought to deny the ease with which she might succumb to his eyes. Despite his accusations—accusations she had only ever heard within the confines of her mind—Arie remained watchful and attentive. She suspected he would take her into his arms without question or recrimination. If she relented.

But she could not.

“For as long as I can remember, the specter of my parents’ marriage and their demise clung to me. I was that girl. The talk died down with time, especially when I insisted on proving how calm and reliable I am—or was. I would not be like them.”

She paused. A rush of recollections, coupled with the heady scent of Arie standing close enough to touch, threatened to engulf her. “When I discovered my skill for the violin,” she said, “I was twelve years old. I refused to touch the thing for years. I wouldn’t become a spectacle.”

“But you played again. After attending my concert.”

“Yes, for about a year,” she said. “Frau Seitz encouraged me. But after her death, I pushed everything away. I had no champion, no one to fend off the criticism and society’s long memories.”

“And thus you made your reputation as a fine, upstanding woman by marriage with a fine, upstanding doctor.” He took her by the shoulders.

“Let go of me.”

“And you will run again?” Arie smiled coldly, reading her as easily as the sheaves of his compositions. “No, not this time. You cannot leave again. We are drawn together.”

“To your music. Not you.”

“Am I a channel? A vessel for God?”

“You might as well be. You’re nothing like your compositions!”

“No?”

“You’re a heartless brute, intentionally misunderstanding everything I say.”

“Heartless? I say I love you, but you ran from here.” His fingers tightened into the flesh of her arms.

“You’re hurting me!”

He brought his face lower, his questions and nearness becoming a rapid assault against good judgment. “You want rather that I give in to you? Expect nothing of you? Maybe that was your husband, but not me.”

As Arie slashed and ripped the cloak of her defenses, panic climbed into her throat. “You would speak so callously of the dead?”

“I did not know the man. I owe him nothing.” He shoved her shoulders, stepping away with a look of disgust. “You knew him. You were the one who married him. You—his wife—”

“I know!”

Her screech cleaved the room. She shrank to the floor, her heart punching her ribs. She pushed hard palms against her eyes, gouging her scalp with clenched fingers. Truth and shame and spite pressed back, forcing her words. But she would not look at Arie.

“I was a fraud! I didn’t know you, but I thought of you constantly. Fantasies. Fictions. And when I dreamed…when I dreamed, I heard your music.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Arie slumped onto a stool.

He watched, numb and shaking, as Mathilda drew away. She pressed her lower back against the solid mass of the pianoforte and gripped one lacquered wood leg. Her fingers turned white and bloodless under that cruel pressure. Her beautiful eyes had transformed into a study of agony and shame.

“Jürgen was exactly the sort of man I told Herr Seitz I wanted.” In a punishing, precise monotone, she revealed her long-repressed truth. Arie could merely listen. “He was dependable, logical, kind and very well regarded. But when he left the house to work…every day, I was thankful. I could breathe. I tried to tell myself the feelings would ease over time, but even three years did nothing to bend my will. Part of me wouldn’t relent to that life.”

Arie ached to take her into his embrace, to help erase the guilt that plagued her and kept her from him. Yet he feared even the necessity of breath, lest she shatter or wither or run.

“You fight yourself now,” he said. “Why?”

“I may as well have taken a hundred lovers for how truthful I was to Jürgen. And then he was killed.” She shook her head slowly. “The man deserved nothing but kindness and devotion, and he received a fraudulent marriage and an early grave. So why am I allowed to play music? To love you after fantasizing for so long? I’ve been behaving as irrationally as my parents ever did, and yet I’m rewarded with joy. How is that fair, to profit from my husband’s murder?”

Surprise rendered him speechless. Even had Arie been able to utter a thing—had his words been an eloquent balm to dissipate the last stains of remorse from her soul—she appeared beyond hearing. With an overcast stare turned inward, she continued.

“The women in my neighborhood believed me strong. I cried for him, but I wasn’t distraught. I cried out of guilt. God help me, part of me was relieved, as if I had received a pardon after a mistake I couldn’t even admit to myself.”

She huddled into herself as tears traced along her cheeks. The words came from her mouth, but her warbling voice sounded very different in defeat. “Even after he was buried and gone, I wouldn’t touch a violin. I knew he would be looking down at me, asking why I’d deceived him. These weeks have been idyllic for me, but I cannot imagine what he would think of how I’ve behaved.”

Silence carved an aching canyon through which Arie’s confusion flowed like a river. He swam amongst theories, images and the enlightenment of her explanation. Greedy, he clung to the buoyant words she had uttered. Idyllic. Joy. Fantasy.

Love.

He cleared his throat, trying to remain attentive to Mathilda and her need for absolution. Only then might he take her by the hand and revisit the emotions he hoped would survive their ordeal.

No, he could not wait. The need to touch her, to reassure them both with the simple, forgiving clinch of fingers, drove him to her side. She did not withdraw. The wrenching force of her admission had beaten her into stillness. He savored the feel of her skin, the delicate bend of each knuckle. For weeks, he had wanted nothing more than to speak with her again, perhaps to understand the reason for her distance. He stood poised on the verge of that understanding, and already his irresponsible body and his shameless mind wanted the tedious scene over and done—so that he might rediscover her.

Vast uncharted idiot. He knew better now.

“Despite what he did not know, did Jürgen have reason to complain about your marriage? You took care of him, yes?”

Mathilda nodded and dipped her chin to the floor. She sniffed.

“You hid your needs and tended to him?”

Again, she acquiesced.

“He was a content man?”

Another sniffle. “Yes, I believe so.”

“You gave three happy, peaceful years to him, I think.”

“No, you’re rationalizing on my behalf.” Beneath her weak protest, she did not appear to notice how the fingers of her left hand wiggled impatiently, purposefully. Arie wondered what melody she played within her unconscious mind, even in the midst of her grief.

“I tell you the truth, Tilda. Do you know what heaven I would have for that much of your attention?” His honest, raw need left him unable to check his own confession. “Even if you hid another hundred guilty secrets, I would want you. I am greedy for whatever you give. I cannot believe Jürgen thought differently.”

“He wasn’t the same sort of man you are.”

“No, but what man does not have a heart to mend or guilt to ease? What man does not seek a remedy to loneliness? He married you, and he must have had his own reasons.”

“His reasons were very practical,” she said.

“Reasons he gave to you?”

“Yes.”

“But what did you know of him, truly? If you held your passions so deeply buried, what could you know about his inner mind?” He rubbed an agitated hand across his mouth. “You hide behind your guilt, Tilda. You found safety with him, a way to hide from scandal. Now you find safety in his death. In your widow’s gown, you hide from chances…and from me.”

At last, she met his eyes, but Arie could find none of the sparkle and vigor he had come to love. She remained defeated, and he despaired of ever being able to bring his lovely muse into the light. “You ask too much of me. I’m not strong enough.”

“You are. You must be.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Tilda,” he said gently, “let him go.”

The clouds of her sorrow had been building for weeks—for months—and at his gentle, forgiving command, Mathilda’s grief opened wide. As a torrent of anguished tears fell toward the wood floor, she sagged into Arie’s welcoming arms. Her body shook against his in great, wrenching sobs, but he held her tightly. The strength of her despair and the intensity of her sad release touched him in a place without words or thought.

His momentary flash of selfish desire had vanished. Even within Mathilda’s vulnerable embrace, with her arms clutching helplessly at his shoulders and her chest crushing into his, he indulged only in the need to comfort and protect her from her own terrible will. Whereas another woman might have grown bitter and withdrawn following a childhood bathed in salacious talk, Mathilda had worked to become respected. Another woman, upon discovering such prodigious talents, would have sought fame or retribution against her tormentors. Moreover, any other woman—liberated by the whim of a higher power, provided with the opportunity to thrust a mistake into the past—would have run willingly into the world, seeking long-denied pleasure.

Yet Mathilda, driven by her honor and an orphan’s intangible fears, had proved an uncommon woman.

The tremors of her despair began to subside. She stayed in his supportive embrace, which eased the tension in Arie’s chest. Although she remained still, her irrepressible fingers tapped and pressed along the ridge of his shoulder blade.

“Verdomme, Tilda,” he murmured again her hairline. “How did you think you will give this up?”

She stiffened a little. “Give up what?”

He smiled, pressing his lips to the silken skin of her cheek. “Not me, although I wonder on that too. Your music, mijn liefde.” Pulling away and bringing her face into focus, he tapped both of her temples with his forefingers. “What do you hear in your head now? What melody?”

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “I haven’t heard it before.”

He drew her hands from around his body and kissed her fingers, one by one. “Play it for me?”

Arie planted her on a stool, paying no heed to her tired, indistinct sounds of opposition. Even if her mind objected, she took the violin and bow he offered. A melody followed quickly thereafter. Sad and defiant, awed and frightened, her sudden composition became an elegant, moving encore to the storm of emotions she had survived.

He should have expected as much, but surprise shivered along his backbone all the same. A lifetime of experience suggested she would merely hack at the strings in a performance akin to her artless sobs. But Mathilda remained a special case. More than a study in the physical process of overcoming grief, her composition painted a graceful portrait of turbulent intelligence and deeply rooted insecurities. The spontaneous piece left Arie joyful, alive with awe, and a shade of envious green.

Hastily, he wet a quill with ink and sat behind his worktable. He became her scribe, receiving the notes like a parade of gifts and accounting for each along successive staves. His right hand flew in a reckless attempt to keep pace with her manic creation, succeeding in capturing its bare essence. The muscles of his shoulders and upper back burned, but the discomfort did not deter his attempt to record her song.

Dispensing with his selfish compulsions proved more difficult. Experience had long taught him to grab inspiration from dreams, streets, storms and his deep, limitless memories—anywhere. Defensive instincts, cloaked in a miserly selfishness, hungered for her genius. He wanted to take it and bend it and use it to end the torture of completing his symphony. The temptation itched like a half-healed burn.

Minutes later, the outburst of her composition ended without warning. He watched Mathilda, gray-faced and listing, carefully lower the instrument to its case.

Then she fainted.

Mathilda awoke in shadows. Wind lashed at milky window glass, rattling and threatening with the force of an approaching rainstorm. Deliciously contented and refreshed, she hardly dared believe in the renewed sense of possibility. Yet a hopefulness blossomed that she could not recall ever having heard. She twisted languorously at the waist, pointing her toes.

She stilled. She did not hear hopefulness, but a pianoforte—its tones blurred by the closed door.

Arie.

Confused by the slanting light of late afternoon, she quickly assessed her surroundings. Furnished with a washstand and the narrow bed Mathilda occupied, the room’s bare wooden floors and faded walls created an uninviting feel. She was in his bedroom?

Panic surged. She remembered their argument, her tears. But the panicked feeling receded as the gentle peace of forgiveness followed. She had confessed—to Arie at least.

Now he played a most exquisite serenade, a song meant for her alone. The intimacy of his private performance resonated within her as no music ever had.

She sat upright on the bed and gingerly unwound the tangled folds of her gown. An aching tension had woven into her muscles, a physical reminder of her anguish. She approached the door and held fast to its frame, basking in Arie’s music. Gently drawn by the irresistible need to be near him again, she peered into the studio.

Illuminated by fading sunshine, Arie sat tall on the piano bench. His wild thatch of sand-colored hair stood in a most endearing disarray, accentuating the firm angles of his cheekbones and jaw. Eyes closed, he wore an expression forged of equal parts peace, desperation and longing. His features shifted in concert with the music he created. Like a man stroking a lover—at once haunted and relieved by his place in her life—he caressed the black and white keys.

On silent feet, Mathilda stepped into the web of his magic, picking up the violin as she crossed the room. His untroubled face registered no surprise when she joined his performance, but neither did he open his eyes. Instead, at the sound of her shy introduction, he eased his performance into an accompanying role. Hesitantly at first, she joined him along a wave of harmony and melody. Out of a gentle adagio, they moved with rhythmic purpose and built the performance in a crescendo. Echoes coiled around the studio, off its windows and walls, adding depth to their instruments.

At last, Arie opened his eyes to tackle the finale. Mathilda swayed and pulsed with every sweeping movement of her bow. Their gracious awareness of one another fashioned a forceful poem of sound. The duet grew louder than the spring rains and powerful enough to bring renewed tears, when she had thought herself incapable of crying ever again.

When the last note became another marker in their shared history, she finally acknowledged the sense of self she had long denied. So near Arie, holding her violin, she belonged wholly in the present. To deny either longing was to deny the truth of her identity and her most intimate, powerful desires. A lash of wind and their exhausted breathing resonated through the studio.

Unable to place the familiar origins of their shared serenade, she dared to break the spell. “What did we play?”

Arie answered with a frown. “Tilda, it is yours.”

Her body leaned closer, like iron to a magnet. Breathing him in, reveling in their connection, she grew drunk on his nearness. “I’m flattered, Arie. Thank you.”

“No, no, you misunderstand.” He stood and walked to within inches, intensifying the drunken play of her senses. “You wrote that.”

Now the frown was Mathilda’s to wear. “When?”

“An hour ago, before you fainted.” He touched the back of his hand to her forehead, like a parent checking for a fever. “Are you well? Do you recall playing violin after you cried?”

“I hadn’t thought, really. I was…mourning.”

Arie shuffled her to the chair behind his worktable, the only padded seat in his studio. At the top of a broad parchment sheet, he had written “Mathilda’s Movement.” And underlined it. Indecipherable symbols littered the paper, barely contained by the staves, but she could not understand what she saw. Sight-reading remained a challenge for her, and the dense fog of his handwriting made the task impossible.

“This…this is yours,” he said. “I wrote while you performed.”

“Wrote? Maybe scribbled?”

He shook his head with an impatient huff. Humming the melody line beneath his breath, he traced a finger along the top stave. “Do you hear it? What came from you?”

Mathilda smiled at his toneless attempt to jog her memory. “You cannot sing, either.”

Absentmindedly, she kissed his firm, warm shoulder through his shirt. When Arie inhaled with a jagged start, an unadulterated feeling of entitlement flooded her brain, amplifying her desire. Was she free to want this man? To have him now?

Even though he remained intent on the topic of her composition, her maestro sounded pained. “Tell me, how did you do this?”

She might tell him more easily how her heart continued beating through the recess of sleep. She understood music, its countless complexities and endless variations, but her knowledge was as ungovernable as the movements of the sun and moon.

With new tenderness and confidence, Mathilda rested her burdensome skull on the hard muscle of his upper arm, relying on his solid presence. “Do you remember the Octave of the Epiphany? That night in Domplatz?”

Arie mumbled an affirmative, his stare fastened to the scribbled sheet music.

“Before I saw you, I looked up at the stars and the snowflakes dancing together. I saw a beautiful night sky above a crowd of happy bundled heads, and I experienced such a feeling of…smallness.” She straightened and met indigo eyes darkened by shadows. “When I played earlier, I felt small. I imagined that night.”

“I am…” He shook his head and stood away. “Words are lacking. Even in Dutch, I cannot explain you, mijn liefde.”

She tipped her head, experiencing a curious distress at his withdrawal. What must he have endured these weeks, understanding none of her motives? “You said that before, ‘mijn liefde.’ What does it mean?”

He grinned through his blush. “It means ‘my love’ in Dutch.”

“Oh.” Breath and blood conspired against thought. His stare tested her determination. She repeated his words, experimenting with their power. “Mijn liefde.”

The tiny wrinkles radiating to his temples tightened. “Do not say what you do not feel.”

But she did feel, more than she ever believed she had a right to. “Mijn liefde,” she repeated.

He was kissing her before she had formed the final syllable, a passionate welcome. Hands, mouths, sighs and moans mingled into an embrace of energy and renewal.

Since that haunting afternoon, Mathilda had dreamed of him, consistently and at such length, but the renewed feel of his mouth left her dazed. No fantasy, no matter how detailed, could contend with the wonder of returning to his body: the texture of his hair beneath her fingertips, the scent of his skin, the press and pull of his endless kiss. The rightness of them.

“How I missed you,” he whispered against her lips. “You cannot know.”

“Forgive me.”

Arie stiffened faintly. A shadow slid across his expression. “I would forgive you anything, Tilda.”

His sudden, serious manner gave her pause, but Mathilda set aside her reservations. Denying her need for him had proven exhausting. She grew tired of the senseless battle, seeking only to be happy. She wanted to hold him without the guilt that had plagued her.

Tell me, Arie.

But she did nothing to push those words into being. No, she simply kissed him again.

The snow stopped an hour later.

Mathilda sat on the floor, tucked in the crook of Arie’s arm and breathing against his shirt. They held one another, stalled between the barriers of the past and a boundless future she had never permitted herself to anticipate.

“I need to go,” she said.

“If you think you can leave—”

“It will be dusk soon.” And, still recovering from the constant companions of grief and guilt, she was not prepared to stay with him. Time…just a little time. “The Venners will worry—or Ingrid will, at least.” She sighed heavily. “And…”

He shifted, looking wary of whatever excuse she prepared to give. “What?”

“Don’t laugh.” She ducked her head, feeling foolish. “I want to talk to Jürgen.”

He did not laugh. Instead, he nodded with a solemnity that eased the tension in her heart. “Where is his grave?”

“Sebastiankirche, across the river.”

“I will accompany you.” She began to protest but his warning look brooked no argument. He turned and took her hands, sitting cross-legged before her. “Tilda, listen. You are right. Dusk is upon us. Do not ask to walk by yourself at night. I want to go with you, but you will have privacy. I swear.”

She swallowed, looking away from his earnest consideration. Habitual sorrows clawed at her lungs, battling her pride and threatening her hope.

“I am terrified of the river.” Her voice sounded like that of a scared girl. She cringed at the pathetic proof of her fear. “My mother—did the Kapellmeister tell you? She drowned herself in the Salzach. Jürgen’s body was found on its banks. I haven’t crossed the river since leaving our house on Steingasse last year.”

Arie offered a slight smile. “Then I will hold your hand.”

After donning their outerwear, they emerged from his studio and walked alongside one another. East on Getreidegasse. Left past the Rathaus. Mathilda focused on the thick, muted sound of their feet striking snowy cobblestones. Had her stomach not been tense with fear and apprehension, she would have enjoyed the least demanding silence of their acquaintance. Arie had been her idol, her instructor, her lover. Now he had transformed into an advocate when she needed his strength. The calm resilience and support of his affection eased her fraying nerves.

She paused at the foot of Staatsbrücke, the bridge connecting the city to the world beyond its watery border. The wind whipped across the half-frozen river and pressed her gown against her legs. Mathilda searched to find the building she and Jürgen had occupied. Perched on the opposite shore, its flinty color blended into low clouds on the horizon. She had called those rooms on the fourth floor home, but the sight of it was unfamiliar now, even dreamlike. The moniker had been an exaggeration because—at the very least—no home of her choosing would ever boast such a breathtaking view of the Salzach. She had avoided the west-facing windows, refusing to acknowledge the river’s taunting calm.

Arie offered his hand. “Come.”

The stormy early evening sky darkened his face with shadows. She wanted to caress him, to kiss him, with emotions borne of thanks and a deeper eagerness.

She took his hand.

Her legs ached from the effort of keeping them steady. She crossed the bridge with stiff steps, clenching the marble balustrade and Arie’s entwined fingers. Her breath came fast and hard, but on she walked. The steady rhythm of her pounding heart contradicted her sloppy steps. Dizziness bullied her knees toward collapse.

At last they reached the north bank, but the terror of the wide river proved long to recede. Flickering blisters of light cluttered her vision.

Bravely ascending Linzergasse, the street on which Jürgen had been murdered, Mathilda and her silent Dutch escort arrived at the fifty-year-old Sebastiankirche.

She had not attended Mass at the small Baroque cathedral since Jürgen’s death. Those days seemed impossibly distant, and she looked upon the church’s ornate door and sculpted surroundings with a new appreciation. They crossed the passage leading to the cemetery, past the Chapel of St. Philip Neri and the imposing mausoleum of the most powerful prince-archbishop in Salzburg’s history, Wolf Dietrich Raitenau. The marble chamber shone pale and ghostly beneath the faint glow of lanterns burning within the church’s single tower.

“Have you been here before?”

“No.” He perused the courtyard, examining the architecture with keen, roving eyes.

“Two centuries ago a fire destroyed the central cathedral,” she said, recalling stories Ingrid’s father had told—and postponing her purpose. “Archbishop Dietrich ordered the construction of the Dom atop the ruins, at the expense of the city cemetery. They razed graves and turned the rubble into the earth.”

Arie glowered in the dusk. “The citizens allowed this?”

“They were outraged.” She smiled slightly. “He fled to the Festung, the fortress atop Mönchsberg, and lived there in exile until his death. A few caskets were saved and transported here, long before anyone thought to build the church.”

Her maestro released her hand and nodded to the awaiting cemetery. “Go now. I will walk you to the Venners’ house when you are ready.”

Stepping gingerly through sopping, neatly tended rows, Mathilda brushed chilled fingertips along the carved marble statuary and headstones. Having already faced more potent fears, the play of gathering shadows across the snowy graves held no power to frighten her.

Tradition dictated, out of consideration to delicate constitutions, that new widows remain at home in the company of other women during burial rites. Mathilda had not attended the ceremony to commit her husband to the earth, but she knew this place. She had walked its grassy rows, finding his headstone, intending to say goodbye. Yet the words had stuck fast in her mouth. Soon after, she had fled to the Altstadt, cloistering herself within those tight urban streets, lest she go mad from the guilt and loneliness.

At last, she came to the cross marking Jürgen’s final resting place.

Mathilda dropped to the ground, her knees sinking into the topmost layer of fresh snow. The rough edges of marble lightly scored the pads of her fingers as she traced his name. She had imagined remorseful tears flowing freely, but none came.

She had not loved Jürgen Heidel, but she had respected him and cared for him. He had been a studious man, the flexible counter to her stubborn will. And though driven by the demands of his profession, he had been gentle and humorous as well.

As Mathilda exhausted her scant knowledge of Jürgen’s character, Arie’s words in the studio prompted new questions. What had her husband hidden from her? What world, what impulses, had he felt unable to share? She had assumed that he would have no appreciation for the private passions driving her wild with discontent, but she had not dared to find out.

She whispered to him, then, speaking from her heart. “Have I misjudged you? Had I been brave, would you have understood me?” Her words gained strength in the near darkness. “Maybe you tried, but I refused to hear. I should have trusted you. And myself. Because I would like to have known you, without the silences. The chance to share with you—I will always regret losing that. Because I’m different now, mein Lieber. I’m brave now.” Her voice broke. “Please understand me, Jürgen. Please, if you can, forgive me.”

As the snow slunk through her skirts, Mathilda covered her face with her hands and cried.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Frau Heidel?”

Mathilda turned away from her tiny desk and bid Klara enter. Bright early-afternoon sunshine—a light that finally offered proof of spring’s imminent return—suffused the small bedchamber. She smiled at the maid. “Yes?”

“Lady Venner requests that you accompany me to…to…” Klara pinched her lips together and rocked back on her heels, an unconscionable degree of restlessness for a maid. But her youth and inexperience accounted for her behavior, in part. Ingrid, surely, accounted for the rest.

“Go on, Klara.”

“Well, you’re to come…near the parlor.”

“Near?” Mathilda raised her eyebrows, both perplexed and amused. And she had every right to be amused, her heart light.

Mijn liefde.

“Ja, Frau Heidel. Near.”

Pulling free of Arie’s hypnotic love words, Mathilda decided to put poor Klara out of whatever fickle misery Ingrid had inflicted. “I know this is not your doing, my dear. What has Lady Venner planned?”

“Frau Kleinmayrn is in the parlor.” Her soft brown eyes flicked to the window, to the quill dangling from the edge of the desk. “I believe Lady Venner wants you to…eavesdrop.”

Mathilda stifled a giggle. But for propriety’s sake, if such a thing yet existed in her life, she smoothed her features and tried to appear temperate. “Thank you, Klara. I can accommodate her request.”

The maid fled to find other tasks. Mathilda made her way to the parlor where someone, most likely a young noblewoman with chestnut hair, had left the parlor door ajar.

Inside, Frau Kleinmayrn sat opposite Ingrid.

Septuagenarian lawyer Johann Franz Thaddäus Kleinmayrn served as president of Salzburg’s highest law office, thereby ensuring his wife a place as one of the most prominent of the city’s busy social hierarchy. She had voiced strong disapproval upon Venner’s decision to marry the only child of a self-made salt trader. Only the combined might of his influence and Ingrid’s fortune had silenced the old gossip.

Mathilda could not guess at the origin of their conversation, but she willingly accepted Ingrid’s invitation to bear clandestine witness.

“But I see nothing wrong with their actions,” Ingrid said. “Not as you’ve reported them, at any rate.”

The elderly woman with papery, blue-threaded skin sat with a stiff back. Indignation flowed from her petite body in surges and ripples. “Perhaps not with any good Salzburger, but you forget this…Holländer. His reputation.”

Mathilda pushed two fingers against her lips, leaning closer to the conversation.

“That Holländer,” Ingrid replied, “is in my husband’s good graces. We’ve become his patrons, as you likely know.”

“Although why you would support him I cannot understand.”

Ingrid smiled, a sweet expression just short of disdain. She sipped her coffee without haste or agitation. “Venner enjoys his music.”

“Nonsense. Everyone in Salzburg knows he makes no decisions regarding your artistic patronage.”

“Do you presume to interpret the workings of my household? Or my marriage?” Ingrid shook her head, slowly, as if pitying the woman. “However you’ve come to know these things, Frau Kleinmayrn, revealing them shows poor manners.”

“That man performs like a monkey thumping at a pianoforte.” The aging matron wrinkled her nose, accentuating the map of creases defining her face. “I cannot abide your impulse to invite such a creature to perform—”

“In January?”

“Yes, in January.”

“Three months ago?”

“Yes…but to permit him to accompany a widow under your husband’s charge?”

Ingrid sat forward and placed her demitasse on a low table. The delicate porcelain clattered together, the only indication of her gathering displeasure. “Frau Heidel is not my husband’s charge. She lives in our house, but she is her own person. And she certainly doesn’t answer to indictments that she simply walked through the city.”

Mathilda thrilled at Ingrid’s defiant words, even as the ominous threat of Frau Kleinmayrn’s accusations set a chill to her earlier happiness.

“You’re making a mistake to condone this, Lady Venner.” The acerbic matron stood and awaited the return of her outerwear. “Good day.”

Fleeing to an adjacent room along the corridor, Mathilda watched with a relieved sigh as Frau Kleinmayrn descended the stairs and departed. Ingrid emerged moments later.

“Tilda? Are you there?”

Mathilda stepped back into the hallway and followed Ingrid into the deserted parlor. “Must you involve servants in your intrigues?”

Ingrid set coffee cups on a tray. “And why not? Christoph uses Oliver for his special assignments.”

“Yes, but Oliver enjoys it. Klara looked as if you’d asked her to swallow a bug.”

“Killjoy.” She patted the cushions. “Come sit. Did you hear any of Frau Kleinmayrn’s sour drivel?”

“I did.” Mathilda crossed her ankles and pushed tense shoulders into the settee’s overstuffed softness. “She saw me with Arie? Walking?”

“On the Staatsbrücke,” she said, frowning. “I thought you were afraid of the river.”

“I was—am. But I wanted to visit Sebastiankirche.”

A sparkle of understanding and relief crossed Ingrid’s fragile features. “Jürgen?”

Mathilda nodded.

“I am glad for you, dearest.”

Her friend’s powers of perception had multiplied, but with regard to this topic, Mathilda was thankful. She did not want to explain that tumultuous night.

As if fighting for breath within an eclipsing wave of water, she lifted her face toward the ceiling. “But what do I do now? If Frau Kleinmayrn talks about us, she’ll make our names a scandal—no matter the truth.”

Unhurried, Ingrid arose and crossed to a table. From an etched silver card tray she picked up an envelope. “Especially when Herr De Voss keeps writing to you.”

Taking the letter, Mathilda opened the paper and discovered dear, familiar scrawls. She glanced over the contents. Breathlessly, she said, “He has invited me to join him for a concert at the Residenz.”

“How wonderful!”

She exhaled heavily. “No. If Frau Kleinmayrn is concerned about a little walk…”

Ingrid knelt, setting the letter aside and claiming her full attention. “Is that all?”

“I cannot attend, surely—not an event that public.”

“Will you still see him? In secret?”

When she could not lock distress and raw feelings away, Mathilda grasped at that possibility. “If I must.”

“Tell me what troubles you, dearest,” Ingrid said, her face a picture of sympathetic hurt. “Tell someone before you melt from the inside out.”

A shift had taken place in Mathilda’s heart. Thundering eagerness replaced sound warnings. When had she completely lowered her guard, opening her arms to the violence of a storm instead of making her way safely home? Perhaps she had been running toward these tumultuous days since the night she watched Arie summon magic from dozens of strings and reeds, interlacing their music to form the path to his side.

She would run to Arie until all means of reaching him were barred forever.

“I love him.”

The words hovered between the women, shining with promise and fluid tension. No matter the certainty of her feelings, Mathilda heard a question masked beneath her bold declaration. So much remained in doubt.

Standing, Ingrid wore a sad expression. She crossed the parlor, back to the card tray. Slender fingers tapped the lacquered surface of the table, impatient and terse. “Tilda, I’m afraid you cannot accept his invitation.”

Although Mathilda had said as much, accepting the social necessity of restraint and modesty, her spirits withered. The happy energy she had enjoyed only an hour before soured like old milk. She glared at the black gown she wore, at the white lace cuffs.

Exhaling, she pushed the air and her resignation into the parlor. “You’re right. Mourning will last another few weeks. Months, at most. We can wait.”

“Or you can be our guest.” Ingrid picked up another envelope and twirled her skirts, a girlish and impromptu gesture. The royal seal marked the folded parchment. “Duke Ferdinand invited Christoph and me to the same concert. You can accompany us and meet Herr De Voss at the Residenz.”

Mathilda blinked, speechless and in awe of her friend’s endless surprises. But sheer frustration—a building panic of wanting Arie, wanting a life with him, and fearing the end to her dreams—gave her voice teeth. “And you’ve teased me this whole time?”

Ingrid raised a placating hand. “Only just now, since you read the invitation. I did not open your mail, Tilda.”

“How mean!”

That sweet smile had returned, but instead of condescension, Mathilda recognized traces of sly humor. “No, the proper reply is ‘Thank you, Ingrid.’”

“Thank you, Ingrid,” Mathilda replied in a childish mimic.

“I cannot help it. You’re proving such fun sport.” She stepped closer and squeezed their hands together, a tight knot of keen, animated fingers. “I’m so happy for you, as is Christoph.”

“Christoph merely wants me out of the house.”

“Of course, but in the nicest way. To see you settled and happy.”

“Certainly.”

Ingrid stuck her tongue out. “Now, what will you wear?”

Mathilda tilted her head, the gesture a question in itself. “Why do you ask? I have my mourning gowns.”

“You went to Sebastiankirche to visit Jürgen, ja? We both know your mourning is done, dearest, and has been for some time.” She gave Mathilda’s fingers a final squeeze. “Christoph has requested an audience with Father Holtz to request a formal end to your mourning. You will not go to the Residenz wearing black.”

After a deceptively quiet supper, during which no one mentioned invitations, priests or busybodies, Mathilda climbed to her bedchamber. Heavy carpets silenced steps already made light by her buoyant mood, and she fought the urge to hum. Soon enough, she would be alone in her room, where her violin awaited.

She loved Arie—not a musical genius, not a figment, not an idol. She loved the man.

And she wanted to express her emotions in the way that had come to dominate her life. Through music. Words and thoughts failed to fly, falling short of the miraculous language she had discovered. Passive listening, no matter how engaged she became in hearing a composition, only made her yearn for that spark of creation. Arie had taken her heart and put in its place an unending need to perform.

With the door closed behind her, Mathilda glanced across her room. She had left Jürgen’s medical bag at the foot of her bed, and its familiar black leather shape reached her like a touch. But the touch was gentle, tolerant of her frailties. She smiled, surprised but gratified by her placid reaction to his memory.

Leaving the bag where it sat, she found the violin case and opened the latches. The cloth she used to muffle the strings draped across the instrument. She tossed it to the floor. Nothing would silence her this evening, not doubt or gossip or manners. She wanted her violin to announce what her heart sang and sang, an endless chorus.

Tuning the instrument, finding her stance, Mathilda inhaled.

Beginning with the sonata Arie had played at the Venners’ ball, she gave voice to all she imagined, sought, desired. Another piece followed without pause, then another. Arie’s improvisation at the piano competition. The cantata for Duke Ferdinand. The movement she had helped compose. And finally, Love and Freedom.

A frivolous grin spread her mouth wide as she revisited that landmark symphony for the first time since their inaugural lesson. Even alone, there in her room, she could not hide the flush of embarrassment as she recalled the girlish fantasies she had fostered about her maestro. Never had a woman known less about a very complicated man.

But joy banished her embarrassment. She performed Love and Freedom with happy gusto, glorying in the wonder. She followed the notes, chasing a musical bird across the aching blue of a bright summer sky, swooping and twirling with the force of a steady wind on her face. Restive fingers quieted the noise in her head and in her heart…until she heard something altogether different.

She played it again. And again. She studied and parsed and dissected. And somewhere in the third movement, she heard the truth.

Arie did not write this.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dressed in a new gown of pale lavender silks and a midnight blue pelisse, Mathilda trailed the Venners through the busy streets of the Altstadt. She pushed into the spaces between bodies and animals while citizens concluded their business in the waning hours of the evening. Above the city, the golden brightness of a beautiful April day would dim within the hour.

She had not seen Arie since they walked home from Sebastiankirche.

She had not seen him since making her discovery.

Mere days had passed, but her anxiety at the thought of seeing him again, especially in a public setting, stirred Mathilda’s stomach to a restless nausea.

Upon arriving at Residenzplatz, they strolled to the main entrance of the duke’s palace. The grand bulk of the Dom and its high towers faded into shadow, while the lofty Glockenspiel loomed behind them, tolling the early evening hour. The palace’s wide double doors opened opposite the Hofbrunnen, a fifty-foot fountain featuring carved horses emerging from a diamond-shaped pool. Water would not shoot from those motionless mouths for another few weeks, when the threat of freezing temperatures had safely passed.

Two ornately uniformed footmen bowed in precise unison. “Welcome, Lord Venner,” said one man. “The Konzertmeister is expecting you. This way, please.”

Stüderl appeared within moments, dressed in the resplendent formal costume of his courtly station. The midnight blue frock coat with red piping bore Salzburg’s black eagle coat of arms, the garish colors of which made him appear wan and aged.

“Lord Venner!” Emerging from such a distinguished face, his incompatible high-pitched voice distracted Mathilda. He inclined his wigged head. “So glad you could attend tonight, my lord.”

“Lady Venner informed me that I could not refuse.”

Stüderl bowed to Ingrid. “Good evening, Lady Venner. And Frau Heidel, how wonderful! I’m pleased to see you again, of course. Willkommen!”

The Konzertmeister ushered them deeper into the palace, through the marble portal bearing the coats of arms from four ancient prince-archbishops. Up the stairs and through a long arcaded hall on the second floor, Mathilda indulged in the breathtaking splendor of the Residenz. Massive scarlet draperies and Venetian mirrors lined one wall. Above their heads, illuminated by substantial crystal chandeliers, frescoes depicted the history of Alexander the Great.

“This is Carabinierisaal,” Stüderl said over a shoulder. He waved a hand at the cavernous length they traversed.

Mathilda pulled her gaze from the ceiling. “What does that name mean, sir?”

“‘Carabineer’ was the name of the personal cadre of bodyguards Wolf Dietrich imported from Italy. This was their hall for lodging and meals,” Stüderl said. “Herr De Voss will perform his new symphony here in May.”

They continued until they reached the entrance to another grandiose hall, also devoid of people. Ingrid gently shoved her toward the doorway before whispering, “The concert will begin at nine. I’ll come for you before then.”

Mathilda frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’m leaving you here.”

“By myself?”

“Good evening, Frau Heidel.” As handsome as a daydream, Arie appeared.

Ingrid turned away with a grin and continued on with Venner and Stüderl. So that had been her game. Mathilda knew she should thank her friend for arranging this private interlude, but the surprise of her Dutch maestro’s entrance diminished every thought but one. Oh, Arie, why did you do it?

He offered his arm like an invitation, the gesture momentarily brushing aside her question. She simply luxuriated in the way his gaze flowed over her face, her body…her lilac dress. His expression turned comical.

“You…you—” He pinched his eyes closed with a sound of impatience. When he opened them again, he stared with a staggering expression of need and nameless hunger. Quietly, solemnly, he said, “This is not a mourning gown.”

“Colorful, isn’t it?” She offered a small smile, almost embarrassed by his riveting scrutiny. “Venner discussed my circumstances with Father Holtz.”

His eyebrows lifted. “And?”

“He released me from my mourning.”

Arie drew closer, cupping a free hand at the back of her neck. He gently kissed her cheek, his breath feathering across her skin. “No, Tilda, you did that already.”

An unexpected shyness overcame her. No longer as beholden to the past, she remained daunted by the emotions she wished to express more fully. The freedom to love him intimidated her still, even as questions—terrible doubts—threatened to steal that opportunity. She wanted nothing other than to sink into his arms, but she stood quietly by, connected to him through interwoven fingers.

Arie urged her through the doorway and she stopped short. They stood in Rittersaal—Knight’s Hall—where, six years earlier, she had seen him conduct Love and Freedom.

His performance had transformed her. Marvels of art, fashion and architecture that should have proven fascinating became mere distractions. The span of her attention had been for Arie alone. Every aching note had amplified her attraction, thrilling her with one person’s capacity to capture the restless need in her soul. That such beauty existed in the world had been frightening and liberating.

Even at that moment, standing alone with him in Rittersaal, Mathilda could not say which had affected her more, the man or his music. The combination had ignited an embarrassing passion that strayed toward irrationality. She could not forget his composition, nor images of the maestro coaxing his magic to life.

But what if he had deceived everyone?

She floated into the vacant room, her eyes running to find every secret. Rittersaal contained two hundred gilded chairs lined in tidy rows. The rich golden parquetry stretched between snow-white walls in a diagonal pattern that amplified the hall’s open, airy feel. More gilding decorated the borders of the ceiling frescoes and chandeliers. A modest elevated stage sat at the base of a half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking one of the Residenz’s three courtyards.

Opulence. Luxury. Dreamland.

Tallying the room’s magnificent features against her own attributes, she suffered the spiraling return of her former hesitance. Despite the excitement that heightened her senses, a chill of the unfamiliar urged her to flee. Anyone would recognize her as a pretender, a woman reaching beyond her station toward a distant, exclusive perch that only the most privileged ever graced. The Residenz was no place for Mathilda Heidel, no matter her natural abilities.

She should have told Arie no somewhere, sometime along their foolhardy path. She should have stopped herself.

His arms surrounded her. Mathilda flinched. Although alone, the public setting of his unexpected embrace yanked her back into the world. Fear left her lightheaded. No longer an anonymous widow, neither did she belong in that place. And her buoy, her maestro, could not be trusted.

He looked the same, felt the same, but Mathilda’s infatuation wavered after six unshakable years. She had labored for days to find fault with her suspicions and rationalize her discovery. But the possibility that he had defrauded the world, abusing her misplaced esteem, pressed and goaded. Solid ground beneath her feet was threatening to dissolve.

She whispered against his neck. “What are we doing here?”

“A concert.”

“But who is performing? Why here?”

“You do not know?”

“No,” she said. “Because you revealed nothing about the concert in your invitation, Ingrid decided to keep it a secret.”

He drew back to look at her face, grinning like a good-natured maniac. “I like that. I will follow her example.”

“Arie!”

He offered a quick squeeze and freed her. “In time, Mathilda. You will not be disappointed.”

She looked at him sideways, crossing gloved arms across her middle. “I’m unconcerned with disappointments, but I would like a little more forewarning than you permitted at the Stadttrinkstube.”

“You wound me with your suspicions, mijn schatje.”

My treasure.

“In German, it is mein Schatz. Quite similar.”

He grinned. “My treasure teases me.”

A familiar surge of heady joy flared at his possessive intimacy. He certainly knew how to reach her. She returned his smile, but questions sat on her tongue. She was not a suspicious person by nature. That Arie gave her cause to doubt made her wary and frustrated.

“I read your mind, Tilda.” His low murmur caressed her. “You do belong here.”

What had she told Jürgen? That she was brave now? She dipped her head, angry at her cowardice and concealing the true direction of her thoughts. For now.

“I do not,” she said.

“Not among princes and bishops, granted. But certainly on stage.”

“The Stadttrinkstube is one matter, but this…”

“This is merely a different stage.” Arie abandoned her to her amorphous fears, seeking the conductor’s platform. His sonorous voice carried across the distance like the bass notes of a piano, resonating beneath her breastbone. “Give me tonight, Tilda. I will show you that.”

Seemingly struck by a sudden impulse, Mathilda hastened to a seat in the second row, just right of the stage. She laughed.

Arie turned on the conductor’s platform and looked at her, a tiny figure in the vacant concert hall. “What is this?” he asked.

She shone like a lantern at midnight, lit from within by the thrill of a secret game. “I sat in this spot for your Salzburg debut, here in Rittersaal. You conducted Love and Freedom.”

“Six years ago.”

“I was sixteen. It was my first experience with concert music outside church.” She smiled softly, laughed a little. Her expression revealed much of what she had experienced that evening. “You wrote every note in my memory. I was unconscious of the process, but I memorized the entire score. I had only wanted to take in as much of the experience as I could, not realizing the extent to which I was successful.”

“And like that? You took it home with you?”

“I played into the night, alone in the attic.”

The weight of her words burdened Arie with too much meaning. Even months on from their introduction, the extent of Mathilda’s capabilities shocked him into awed contemplation. However, more than the familiar tug of envy and disbelief that often accompanied his realizations, he could hardly believe his long-past performance echoed into the present.

Through Mathilda.

He turned to face the musicians’ empty chairs and glanced to the right, catching sight of her out of the corner of his eye. A single face in the crowd. She had sat in that chair, developing her marvelous gifts. He imagined how she must have appeared, eager and watching him like a worshiper before her most treasured idol, because she looked at him that way now.

With a renewed, distracted energy, he wished Love and Freedom had been his creation—not for the fame or renown, and not even to salve the stab of his conscience. He yearned for that fruitless wish in order to deserve Mathilda’s humbling regard.

“Play something,” she said. The acoustics of the hall carried her words to him. “I will be your audience.”

Arie smiled at the intimacy of her demand, the sound of which shattered his hopeless wish. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not reshape the past. But perhaps he had acquired skills enough to earn her esteem. Properly, this time.

“What shall I play?”

“Love and Freedom.”

Struck in the gut, he tensed. He could almost see the cogs of her mind working, poking at his refusal. Arie fought the impulse to look away. “No. Another choice.”

Her shoulders tense, she crossed one hand over the other. “Then the fourth movement of your new symphony.”

“Mathilda, I have no fourth movement.”

“You do. We played it together on Sunday afternoon.”

“You wrote the motif.”

“I did, but you built it into a movement. Without you, it would have remained some wild rant.” She paused. “Besides, Herr Stüderl mentioned something about preparing to perform your symphony. You know it’s ready.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Give me tonight,” she said, echoing his earlier request. “I will convince you that your symphony is complete.”

Arie shook his head against the temptation to accept her offer, dreading its cycling return. The first movement described a lost man. The second told the story of that same man discovering his muse. A particular, unforgettable afternoon in February had inspired the rampant sexuality of the rhythms in the third movement. What could be more fitting than concluding his tale with a creation they had forged together?

Writing the blasted thing myself.

Stüderl had reserved Carabinierisaal on Arie’s behalf for a May debut. He had mere weeks to complete the work, but he would not accept Mathilda’s assistance.

“The second movement,” he said. “I will play that for you.”

He settled atop the bench and limbered his fingers, unable to recall a more conspicuous moment in front of a piano. In the studio, with Mathilda his only companion, she had held an instrument as well. Now he would perform in honor of his most important admirer, for her alone, and Arie wanted to offer nothing but his most sincere effort.

Playing, he delivered every note with the intense yearning and care it deserved. He reserved none of his passion or mastery of the medium, yet he did not rush. He allowed his mind to become utterly absorbed.

Until—

He stopped mid-bar.

As if she had been holding her breath throughout his performance, Mathilda gasped into the yawning silence. Her sound of surprise replaced the piano’s exquisite tones.

Arie did not enjoy petty infighting between musicians or the nervous anxieties that beset him, without fail, among wealthy patrons. More often than not, his students drove him mad with repetition and tedium. He barely trusted his own worth. But at least he understood the small universe of the piano, its rewards and toils.

Now doubt invaded the hall. Not even in those early months, barely nineteen and conducting another man’s symphony for the first time, had he felt this disoriented, this nervous. Vertigo rolled him from floor to ceiling. No longer limited to the realm of composition, his weaknesses threatened to consume the gift he had always trusted: his skill at the piano. Never had he experienced such defeat.

But the solution revealed itself, both wonderful and obvious. Dangerous.

“I cannot continue.” He made room for her on the piano bench and turned to meet her bewildered stare. “Will you come here? Alstublieft?”

Since Mathilda’s arrival into his life—or he into hers, for he could not determine whose influence had been stronger—nothing worthwhile existed without her. She set his good sense alight, leaving ash in its place and allowing the phoenix of his music to rise high.

Her expression still revealed her uncertainty, but she walked toward the pianoforte in a shimmering cloud of watercolor-purple silk. He wanted to pet the curving slope of her nape, to feel the wisps of fine hair there, but he settled for skimming its length with his gaze.

“I cannot do this without you,” he said huskily.

Her brow furrowed and hazel eyes searched for any hint of his intent. He did not object to her fearless appraisal because he wanted her to see how desperate he had become.

“Arie, I don’t understand. Why did you stop playing?”

Her bravery promised to soothe his doubts. Would she refuse him anything? But her generosity frightened him because of his own history of taking more than he had a right to.

“I have a proposition,” he said. “Perform with the court orchestra for the debut of my symphony.”

Mathilda stared, her mouth agape. He watched his appeal reverberate inside her head as she weighed each word for candor and feasibility. Quick as ever, she replied without a hint of hesitation. “Impossible.”

But Arie had witnessed hope in her eyes, a hope begging him to prove her wrong. He obliged. Taking her soft, clever hands in his own, he loosed his acid thoughts and asinine hopes.

“You are the most infuriating, enjoyable part of my life. For months that has not changed.” He locked his gaze with hers in a war of wills, one they both seemed eager for Arie to win. “Your violin echoes in my mind long after you go.”

“I’m glad to be of assistance. You should know that.”

He spoke in a rush, fearing her rejection. “But here, just now, I realized how much I depend on your opinions and abilities. I cannot imagine debuting my symphony without you. I must have you with me on stage.”

“But I cannot.” She worked her lips, pressing them tight and chewed with fretful bites. “The nuns at Nonnberg perform in their symphony, sometimes even for the duke, but a woman performer? On her own? It would never be allowed.”

Arie grinned then, fully. The tight band of fear loosened around his heart. “Is that your sole reservation?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Then tonight will be as I hoped.” From a pocket in his waistcoat, he removed a tiny pouch of charcoal-colored velvet. “I brought this for you.”

That same unrelenting curiosity crumpled her brow. When Mathilda opened the little purse, a delicate silver chain fell into her hands. “My necklace?”

“I promised to fix it. Have you the pendant?”

She shook her head. “I have not needed it—not since…”

“Since when, Tilda?” A riotous blush stormed across the rounded tops of her cheeks. Her sudden awkwardness revealed everything to Arie. He prompted, feigning innocence. “Since our first kiss?”

Mathilda laughed in reply. The glorious sound of her embarrassed joy filled the expansive hall. “Yes,” she said, both beaming and blushing. “Since our first kiss.”

Her laugh invited revelry and peace. But Arie could not indulge her summons when the sparking memory of stage fright ripped through his skin.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Arie’s mood was so hard to discern that Mathilda was nearly glad when Ingrid returned at a quarter to nine, escorted by a footman. The foursome then proceeded to Kaisersaal, where the noise of dozens of mannered conversations raised goose bumps along Mathilda’s bare upper arms. She could no longer tell where excitement ended and fear began…but that had been the story of her past few months.

Just out of view of the gathered guests, Arie pulled her aside. “No need for nerves, Tilda.”

“There most certainly is.”

“They are curious of me. Maybe they will want your identity—nothing more.”

She shifted from one foot to the other. And back again. “How will that convince me to restrain my nerves?”

“Pretend. Pretend until it is real.”

“I cannot understand you tonight.”

He regarded her with a tender expression. “I am content now, no matter these fools.”

“What has changed?”

His smile flared with a sudden fervor bordering on mania, threatening to banish his unfamiliar nonchalance in favor of the unpredictable, passionate man she knew. He leaned closer, finding the privacy of her ears. “I feared your rejection earlier. But what I said of our secret kiss…and how it ended—you did not hit me.”

His whisper lit a fire along her skin. Mathilda almost giggled, restraining her giddy anticipation out of habit alone. He was making just the sort of private promises that she wanted desperately to hear.

But then his face was all business. He was the one to smooth his hair this time. After two quick tugs on his lapels, he picked a few last miniscule flecks of fluff from his coat sleeves. “Here we go.”

Arie stepped into the hall, and Mathilda followed.

A dozen various nobles and patrons gathered nearby, ignoring her as they jostled for a place at his side. She stepped back, listening in curious wonder as eager admirers inundated him with questions and introductions. They babbled in a frenetic excess, discussing particular compositions and performances.

Mathilda tried to content herself with absorbing the beauty of that splendid space. Bright colors and a mass of guests in fine costumes glared in contrast to Rittersaal’s quiet, gilded elegance. Orange, red and floral crown moldings adorned the white walls, and ornate frescoes with filigree edges covered the entire ceiling. Red-and-blue hangings bordered the arched windows. Chandeliers and mirrors created artificial depth, and brass chairs stretched by rows to the back of the space.

Not that she could see the rear of the hall. Body after ornamented body filled it entirely. Only at Arie’s Salzburg debut and the Venners’ wedding had she borne witness to such an elaborate, wealthy gathering.

Touching the unadorned chain of silver around her neck, she imagined every eye watching her impertinence. But the habit no longer relieved her anxieties. And no one was watching her.

Her attention strolled back to Arie. Twice before, she had witnessed his unrehearsed behavior among a mass of people: at the Venners’ ball and throughout the piano competition. His behavior at the ball had bordered on indecent, tainted by an excess of self-pity and drink. By contrast, he had proven respectable but introverted at the Stadttrinkstube.

Neither experience explained his unusually jaunty mood that evening, nor his apparent resolve to master his shyness. His flawless appearance and exquisite, authoritative manners left her speechless. Despite an underlying, sometimes debilitating reticence, he seemed capable of affecting a cool façade when the occasion demanded.

Mathilda’s head spun at the reminder of his public face. She had come to know him within the privacy of his tiny studio, at times wholly forgetting his renown. With no more knowledge of his character than a single performance, she had worshipped him ever since. That other admirers regarded him with a similar impersonal adoration set her on poor footing. In the midst of those excited, prying enthusiasts, her claim to his affection dissipated. Neither Arie’s wife nor his betrothed, she was merely a pupil.

Ingrid touched her arm. “You look like a girl who wants her doll back.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I must. This is dreadfully dull.” Looking impeccably fine in a empire waist gown of vibrant yellow silks, Ingrid’s gaze drifted across the assembly. “Why we arrive hours early to stand and talk I cannot understand.”

“But you love to talk, Ingrid.”

She grinned and added a silly flounce. “About myself, ja. And in my own home.”

“A pity to be an old woman at such a young age.” Mathilda glanced at the nobles and guests but recognized no one. “Where is Venner?”

“I know not,” she said, shrugging. “If Duke Ferdinand had not promised to attend, I would have said he returned home.”

“Is Frau Kleinmayrn here?”

“No, but her sister is.”

“Have these women nothing better to do?”

“No.”

Arie’s resonant laugh caught Mathilda’s attention once again. She admired the deep hollows of his cheeks, the stern angle of his nose, the chin thrusting defiantly away from the carved beauty of his mouth. His lone suit of black evening clothes and a midnight blue waistcoat concealed lean musculature. Sapphire eyes turned down, he appeared in deep concentration despite the excess of enthusiasts angling for his attention.

Handsome. Adored. Hers?

Hers.

She wanted to eat him alive. She wanted his mouth on her again in that same shocking, unforgettable, irredeemable way. But most of all, she wanted help to scale the wall separating them from the passion they had once indulged. Where, when, how to begin again?

While in awe of the opulent surroundings and curious about the concert to come, she wondered what he would say if she asked to return to his studio. No questions. No doubts. No more waiting.

Although the choice might prove foolhardy, Mathilda had grown tired of running from fears—fears that dictated the course of her life. Like a child willing to believe in a nursery tale, she pushed her suspicions and questions into a corner. Jürgen rested in peace within her mind and heart, and her unknown future beckoned. For one night, she would give herself to the excitement of her passion.

When morning came…

No, she wanted recklessness. Everything else would wait. She let the worry walk through her until only anticipation remained.

“You’ll give yourself away.”

She pulled her thoughts back to Ingrid. “Everyone else looks at him. Why can’t I?”

“The people in this room watch him with curiosity, or even disapproval.” Ingrid sipped from the wine glass she held at a delicate angle. “They desire an introduction, or they admire his music. Some young woman might even fancy herself in love without ever having met him.”

Mathilda squished her face. “Imagine that.”

“But you’re the only person who looks ready to devour him,” she whispered. “Be careful, dearest.” Ingrid kissed her cheek, then slipped into the crowd.

Mathilda briefly dropped her gaze to the cream-colored marble floor. Breathing deeply, she worked to clear her face of both distress and desire.

“Willkommen, good Frau Heidel.”

“Kapellmeister.” She greeted the older musician with a strained smile. “How are you tonight?”

“All the better for seeing you here,” Haydn said with jovial enthusiasm. The solemnity of his mood within the holy space of the Dom became a mere memory. After more than four decades as the city’s highest-ranking musician, he appeared infinitely comfortable within those lush environs. “Come, now, where is Herr De Voss?”

“We’re playing a game,” she said, threading an arm through his. “Dodge the gossips.”

An expression of merriment teased along his mouth. “Ah. May I play too?”

“Of course.”

“Then allow me to introduce you to a wonderful young composer by the name of Arie De Voss. He’s Dutch, you know.”

“I thank you, sir.”

He waved a hand, feigning to push the preening crowds away. “Do not, Frau Heidel. I’ve seen these same faces for decades. Any diversion save open violence is a welcome one.”

The pair reached Arie where he stood next to an elegant woman in her early forties. She wore an exquisite gown of ice-blue silk and ivory lace trim. Gray-streaked black hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure of spirals and curls accentuated the graceful lines of her neck and slender face. Magnetic black eyes shone from beneath heavy dark lashes. An oblong bruise along her left jaw marred her otherwise flawless olive skin.

Mathilda had never seen such an arresting woman.

“De Voss, there you are,” Haydn said.

“Gute Abend, Kapellmeister. And Frau Heidel. Lovely to see you.” Arie bowed deeply, his air bright and amused. He turned to present the elegant woman. “Allow me to present Frau Regina Schlick.”

“I am honored to meet you both,” the woman said. Her lilting Italian accent created melody out of plain speech. “Herr De Voss has told me you perform exquisitely.”

“Thank you.” She smiled broadly at the unexpected compliment. That he would speak of her in glowing terms to this exotic woman warmed Mathilda from top to toes. “The maestro flatters me.”

“Nonsense. He recognizes talent almost as well as he composes.” She turned and touched his arm. Mathilda fought an urge to slap her hand away. “Sir, your violin concerti remain among the most thrilling I know. I must have one of my own. You have promised for years.”

“Quality requires patience, my dear.” His smooth response convinced even Mathilda of his sincerity. He sounded perfectly gracious and even…charming?

Watching the exchange, her uncertainty increased. She never could have imitated the mysterious woman’s air of unquestioned authority, holding the rapt attention of every man within earshot. Arie smiled warmly and with an expression of genuine interest. Despondently, Mathilda wondered if he and the stylish woman had been intimate.

But no—he remained poised and cool, ignoring the fawning guests. Surely a public reunion with a former lover would throw her reticent Dutchman into bashful fits.

Before she could learn more about the beauty and her capacity to captivate everyone, matched trumpeters announced the arrival of Duke Ferdinand and his entourage. Heads turned and dropped in conspicuous bows before Salzburg’s monarch.

Through lowered lashes, she glimpsed the gaunt Florentine’s cleft chin, down-turned mouth and large eyes ringed by puffy lower lids. At only thirty-five years old, he had already suffered the loss of his noble inheritance—the Tuscan kingdom of his birth—as well as his wife and three of his six children. The sorrows of his life etched his handsome face, refusing to hide behind the majesty of his titles and possessions.

As everyone emerged from deep bows and curtsies, Haydn whisked the intriguing Frau Schlick to the front of Kaisersaal. Mathilda turned to her Dutch compass for direction. “Arie, who is she?”

“Patience.” With attention focused on the duke, Arie tugged her hand. “This way.”

They found seats almost halfway back from the tiny ensemble of musicians, away from Ingrid and Venner, away from the most prominent gossips. Mathilda settled skirts, the beautiful lavender of which still took her by surprise, and enjoyed the pleasant thrill of Arie’s thigh pressing against her own. She would not have retreated from his heat for all the world.

Duke Ferdinand took his seat in the center of the front row, while a handful of musicians assumed their appropriate places. Three violinists, two violists and two cellists briefly tuned their instruments in an incomplete double string quartet.

She leaned closer to Arie. “There are but seven musicians. Where is the other violinist?”

“Look.”

To Mathilda’s amazement, Frau Regina Schlick accepted her violin from an assistant and took her place at the head of the ensemble.

“You are a menace, sir!”

Mathilda’s words echoed across the open space of Residenzplatz, drawing stares from other patrons as they emerged into the Alpine night air.

Feeling unusually buoyant, Arie grabbed her hand as they rounded the corner onto Fürstgasse. “Mij?”

“Yes, you!” She shook free of his grip.

He recognized her indignation as a mix of true outrage and, thankfully, a little playful teasing. He humored the outrage, knowing he deserved some retribution for keeping her in the dark about Frau Schlick.

“To think of all the questions I prepared to ask her,” Mathilda said, “had her admirers given me a chance. ‘Oh, you are familiar with music?’ or ‘How do you know the Kapellmeister?’ I would have been mortified!”

“Luckily, the duke and all his crows saved you from social indiscretion.”

“Crows?”

“Crows. Those fiends all over me, asking me questions.”

He waved his arms, flapping like a bird. Mathilda laughed, a sprightly sound of surprise and restless energy. In the shadows beneath the Residenz, he fished for her hand and claimed it once again. She accepted his fingers’ embrace with a little squeeze.

They walked along the lane with their shoulders pressed close. Even in slippers she stood nearly as tall as Arie, bringing those lovely eyes to his. While his mind advised a gradual return to physical pleasure, his body pulsed with anticipation.

“Tell me, Tilda, did you enjoy the concert?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “You know I did.”

“A man can be greedy to hear what he already knows.”

“I enjoyed it. More than that—I was overjoyed.”

“I am glad.”

Although pleased, Arie was disappointed when she failed to catch the deeper meaning of his words. February taunted him like a cold, distant defeat, that moment when he had declared his love. He understood her emotions, yes—her worshipful regard for his music, the struggle she endured over her guilt. She had even called him “mijn liefde,” which always made him smile.

But she had yet to declare herself.

Arie was in a covetous mood. He wanted those words of commitment returned to him.

“Tell me about her,” Mathilda said. “She was phenomenal. You must know more.”

Breathy and excited, her voice excited Arie in turn. But the music came first. He bore the blame for introducing her to a performer against whom he had no chance of competing.

“She performed with Kapellmeister Haydn’s student and colleague, Herr Mozart.” He guided her north, through Altstadt and toward his studio. A waning sliver of moonlight shone high above the city. “Some years ago, he wrote a violin sonata expressly for her and played piano to accompany the debut for Emperor Joseph in Vienna.”

“She performed for the Holy Roman Emperor?”

Disbelief blighted her beautiful features and Arie wanted to wipe away her skepticism. Her doubts inhibited the performer she longed to become—deserved to become.

“A number of times,” Arie said. “She was a court favorite before she married. Now she lives in Gotha with her husband, the ducal Konzertmeister.”

“But how…where did she learn? Was she like me?”

“Her talent is not as innate as yours, but Haydn said she was a young virtuoso. She studied at Ospedale della Pietà in Venice, a school founded by a priest named Vivaldi to provide musical instruction to orphaned girls.” Mathilda stopped short, turning to see the truth of his words. Arie nodded. “Yes, Tilda. An orphan like you.”

Hope and confidence flared to life within her, the power of which shone across her entire face. “Amazing.”

When they reached Getreidegasse, Arie tugged her into the recess of a Durchgänge, a slim footpath connecting adjacent streets between tall, narrow buildings. An overhead pergola woven with vines of variegated ivy fostered a sense of seclusion. Shadows turned those leaves black and silver, rustled by the barest spring breeze.

“Now tell me truly,” he said. “You did not suspect she is a violinist? Not even with her bruise?”

“Is that what I saw?”

“My brilliant girl, you have one too.” Gently, he traced the left curve of her jaw and watched with masculine satisfaction when she shivered.

Her lips parted. “I…I never noticed.”

“My dear, vain Tilda. You must spend less time in front of a looking glass and more time practicing.”

“You are a menace,” she said, smiling. “Vast and uncharted.”

“But not an idiot? Goed.”

She looked away. “For a moment…”

“What?” He touched a finger to her chin. Her eyes widened in the near-darkness of their private retreat. Arie drew her nearer, pulling her skirts with impatient hands, feeling her heat along the length of his body. “Tell me.”

“For a moment, I thought she was a former lover of yours.”

He laughed. “I should be so lucky!”

“Arie!”

Belying his words, he took Mathilda in his arms and held her with the strength of a man long denied his most ardent obsession. Blood drummed a beat rhythm in his veins, absorbing his reason in a rush of need. His mouth found hers. Their kisses drove away every consideration save the impulse to taste and touch. To possess.

In those endless frustrating weeks of winter, Arie had prevented himself from craving more than a kiss. Why desire more, when even that singular beauty had seemed distant and unattainable? But the touch of her tongue ignited hot recollections: the welcoming rightness of her arms clasped around his back, the taste of her mouth and skin, the heady, mind-numbing satisfaction of releasing himself within her depths.

Flashes of eroticism melded into the sensation of kissing her. Driven by that combination of past and present, Arie surged ahead, seeking the promise of their union. This was no solitary kiss; it was the prelude to an unimaginable evening.

He pushed Mathilda against the night-damp wall of their concealed passageway. Pressed by the unyielding bricks, her soft curves molded and formed to his taut body. With impatient hands, he grasped the round fullness of her rear and pulled the cradle of her hips to his. She thrust to meet him, accepting his rough violence and demanding more.

Although Mathilda was trapped between Arie and the bricks at her back, her answering hunger enslaved him. Her kiss sanctioned no breath of air, no reasonable thought. Good sense diminished to a forgettable fiction while his deepest, most elemental instincts demanded that she yield to his rigid length—even there, forced against an alley wall.

A determined echo of sanity would not allow him to perpetrate another such travesty. The greatest regret he suffered from their hastily wrought intimacy in February was just that: his confounded haste. Keen on instant fulfillment, his body demanded a brutal orgasm. Arie, however, wanted to experience more than the rudimentary satisfaction of a quickly roused urge.

Mathilda seemed willing. Beste God, he hoped so. Only the few remaining steps to his studio stood between them and a long, slow night of exploration. He wanted to discover her, not shove and jostle until she felt obliged to ask him to stop.

With that most pleasurable goal at the front of his hazy consciousness, Arie began to slow the tugging rush of hands and lips and tongues. He said her name once, then again. He breathed deeply, her essence like warm mulled wine. The surprising male animal that had briefly taken control receded to a corner of his mind. The animal watched, waiting, but Arie successfully wrested control from the creature. For now.

“Mathilda.”

He buried his face at her neck. The smooth, warm skin evoked a profound sense of tenderness within him. He loved her. He needed her like his next breath—so much that a surge of fear clenched his heart and caused that dependable organ to thump painfully. Even as he restrained the lust driving him near to mindlessness, he labored to hold a wave of dread at bay.

“This is where you belong,” he rasped. “Never forget what I tell you.”

“Where, against a wall again?”

Her placid teasing leavened his anxieties. Arie smiled and nipped her top lip. “Minx.”

“Wretch.”

With trembling fingers, Arie traced the line of her nose. “Why aren’t you shaking?”

“Habit. I lived with wanting you, wanting and not having you. I had no choice.” She slid questing hands from his shoulders to his biceps and squeezed. “Take me home.”

Her request stung like the winter wind. “Really? To the Venner house?”

“No.” In her reticule, she searched for a single worn slip of heavy parchment. She kissed the little card before waving it playfully before his face. “To Getreidegasse 26.”

“You kept that?” He took the dog-eared card between two fingers. “Small wonder you have no need for your pendant. Look at this poor, worn thing.”

“I kept it as a souvenir. The prospect of that first lesson made me unbearably nervous. I had no idea what to expect.”

Arie clutched the flesh of her hips. “I had an idea then, but I was quite mistaken.”

“And what idea do you have tonight?”

“A very similar one. Tilda, please, tell me I am not wrong.”

Smiling, she reclaimed the worn address card and kissed it. “You’re not wrong.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“You’re nervous,” Mathilda said.

At her back, Arie worked to untangle the stays of her corset. He laughed softly, his lips grazing her nape. “And you sound glad of that.”

She smiled, willing her hesitation to abate. She wanted passion and oblivion and wildness. But fear persisted. The edginess shone through in her voice, but she couldn’t banish it. “I like to know I affect you.”

“You do,” he said. “More than is healthy. Anyway, how can you tell?”

“I’ve never seen your hands so unsteady.”

He yanked at the laces, mumbling Dutch curses under his breath. “As long as I can untie your stays, they are still useful.”

“You take much longer than my maid.”

“No, no. I do this purposefully.”

“Oh, really?”

Finally working through the labyrinth of her undergarments, he eased the corset and shift off her body. “I am taking my time,” he whispered. His warm breath and his feathery kisses covered her from one shoulder to the other. “Before…before we barely had time to breathe, let alone undress.”

Dizziness enveloped her, a blissful moment where thought dissolved into sensation. “Are you complaining?”

“No. I want more.” With those unsteady hands, he banished her remaining clothes to the floor. Smooth palms skimmed her skin, heating every place he touched. A greater heat built in the pit of her stomach and between her thighs. “Tonight,” he said, “I want to see you.”

Nude, bathed in the glow of two candles and Arie’s reverent gaze, Mathilda fought her inhibitions. Old disappointments threatened to smother the fires started by his every look, kiss, touch. Excited anticipation shimmered in her blood and prickled her skin. Her breath alternated between catching and rushing. The need to dig her nails into the resilient muscles of his chest, into the whole lean length of him, drove her to chant silent pleas for mercy.

Yet that bone-deep knowledge of inevitable, callous frustration robbed her of the joy she desired. She had learned to accept her failings with Jürgen—failings he shared, too. But she did not want to accept that same maddening result with her idol. Making love to him in actuality, for all of the pleasure his kisses promised, would mean ripping her most private fantasy to pieces.

Nibbling contentedly on her shoulder, Arie hesitated. The recognition of her sudden withdrawal crossed his face like a shadow, slowing the play of his lips across her skin.

When Mathilda could no longer meet his bold, appreciative eyes, he sat on the narrow bed and motioned her to join him. “What is it?”

Oh, what she wanted to say…everything she could never voice. Private embarrassment threatened to crush her. Crossing nude breasts with trembling arms, she sat and dragged her knees closer to her body. “I cannot discuss this.”

“I do not pull you here to the studio—at your request, mind you—and unlace that confounded corset to see you cover up and be silent.”

Arie’s tolerant smile eased the vigor of his tirade. He pulled the bedcovers away from the headboard and motioned her to climb into that warm seclusion. She gratefully acquiesced, only to watch him unceremoniously remove the remainder of his clothes and slide in beside her. She squirmed to one side of the narrow mattress, but he caught her around the waist. Under the blankets, the delicate hairs along his forearm tickled and aroused her bare belly. Her nipples hardened with every subtle brush of the bedding against her sensitive skin.

“Better,” he murmured at her temple. “I will be good, but you will talk.”

“You are terribly certain. Why?”

“Because you are a truthful woman.”

She exhaled, enjoying a measure of proud satisfaction at his assessment. Since revealing the truth about her marriage to Jürgen, she felt honest, relieved of those old burdens. But she was no closer to revealing her worries—not about this, not even naked and in his bed.

“Perhaps, but I am not indiscreet.”

Arie grinned. “Because you fear to damage my fragile esteem?”

“Regarding this topic, you seem quite assured.” She helplessly recalled how, weeks earlier, he had dropped to his knees and taken her into his mouth. A flash of heat released from deep inside her, wetting the folds between her thighs. She squirmed. Arie held fast, his fingers tightening along the flesh at her waist.

“You will be surprised, liefde. I fear your rejection here more than anywhere.” His teasing demeanor eased. “Is your worry to do with your husband?”

Emotion left Mathilda shaky. She nodded in the deep shadows of their retreat.

“Then you should speak—”

“Arie, you’re mad.”

“—because I imagine a difficult part of mourning is when everyone hides from the dead. They fear upsetting you. You cannot discuss memories—good, bad, ordinary, intimate.”

Tears stung behind her eyelids. She toyed aimlessly with his fingers at her hip. “I won’t discuss those intimacies with Jürgen’s successor in my bed.”

“The bed is mine,” he said, kissing her brow. “And with what other person will you have such a conversation?”

“No one. I shall keep my memories to myself.”

“As you wish.” He rolled gracelessly onto his back, leaving her to miss his possessive hold.

“You’re impossible.”

“Perhaps, but I want to understand.”

Mathilda closed her eyes. She stifled the mortification that promised to leave her mute and useless, trapped by fear. She wanted Arie to comprehend the dread keeping her paralyzed. Only she wished he could read her thoughts to accomplish that end, saving her the embarrassment of saying the words.

Ah, but she was a fool. Stripped bare in his bed, what additional damage could an honest conversation wreak?

After a deep, fortifying breath—all the better to spit out her thoughts in a single, long string—Mathilda spoke. “Imagine the sex act for you, for men. Aside from a few pleasant distractions when you remember to notice your partner, you begin at zero and continue confidently to number ten.”

Arie mumbled his agreement and faced her again, lazily tracing her nipples. When had the sheet slipped?

“I will not disagree with you.” His deep voice wound through her body, coiling between her legs. “You are a feast of distractions.”

“Well, no matter how pleasant, I freeze. At number eight.”

He burned her with a wicked, knowing grin. “You did not freeze before, under my mouth.”

A painful blush flared over her skin. The heat between her thighs intensified. “Jürgen never…did…” She sighed, giving up on trying to express what had transpired between them. “You took me by surprise.”

Arie waved at their strewn clothes. “And this? This was too much time to worry?”

“Maybe.” She giggled nervously. “Anticipation is supposed to be positive, yes?”

He trailed two fingers between her breasts, down to her navel. The sheet slipped again. “Perhaps. But women have unique shapes. Small wonder you have different needs for pleasure, different prompts.” Her maestro stopped. “I did not have as many women as you fear.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face, Tilda.” He kissed the bridge of her cheek, her nose, her upper lip. She inhaled his breath as his masculine warmth sank into every pore. “You wear an expression of curiosity and fear.”

Her stomach clenched at the truth of his words. His casual mention of other women, even within the context of trying to assuage her anxieties, froze her with cold dread.

“I wear nothing of the sort,” she said.

“You wear nothing, and I am a happy man.”

“Arie!”

He chuckled again, watching her with implacable eyes—eyes that refused to allow her to retreat again. All teasing vanished. “I am not a profligate,” he said steadily. “I had no more than one lover for each year since I turned nineteen.”

A mixed wave of relief and stupid, persistent curiosity thawed the ice freezing her heart. “Then you must refrain from revealing to me your age. Ever.”

“Perhaps I am twenty and you are my older woman.” He kissed her collarbone and the receptive notch at the base of her throat. Her pulse fluttered in response.

“On one hand, you try and reassure me,” she said, half-serious. “On the other hand, you mock my jealousy.”

“You said before…I have talented hands.”

“No, I mean you are honest and a tease, both. I cannot keep pace.”

Arie raised his head from her collarbone, just when she had been certain his mouth’s next destination was the tip of one impatient breast. “Tilda, I tease about trivia.”

She indulged in a sulk. “The number of lovers you have taken is hardly trivial.”

“It is when I have you.”

His lips silenced any further indignant protests, claiming her with a kiss that shattered her understanding of language and time. Only the delicious, warm pressure of his mouth existed. His tongue glided past her half-formed rebuttal. Mathilda’s body clambered nearer to the source of that heady seduction. Poised above and around, Arie answered with a rhythm she wanted to learn. Lust like pagan drums beat hard and staccato beneath her skin. Ligaments and muscles dissolved into molten pools.

A heartbeat later, Arie ended their intimate dance. He whispered against the responsive curves of her lips. “Now, where were we?”

“Good question.”

“Ah, yes. You have trouble…counting.” He wiggled his eyebrows like a ninny. Mathilda laughed. The tension he had created eased away from its precipice. It remained, yes, but quiet and waiting. “Do you think every man is aroused by the same sights? The same touches?”

She grinned and ran a hand across the solid curve of his shoulder. “My experience in comparing lovers is relatively new, you know.”

“Consider it.”

He petted the underside of her breasts, his fingers never stroking the peaks that begged for his touch. Mathilda inhaled deeply. Her expanding lungs lifted and displayed her nude bosom. With a rush of feminine awareness, she watched Arie’s eyes widen.

“Jürgen was not…talkative about these matters.”

“Let us overlook your departed for a moment.” He plucked a taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting and pulling with delicate precision. Mathilda gasped as a flood of pleasure thickened her blood. When Arie did not release her from that tender, decadent torture, she met his frank stare. “For example,” he said, “I like biting.”

She squeaked. “Biting? You or me?”

“You. On me. Do not draw blood, my dear—at least not where anyone will see.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he whispered. “I am hard just thinking about your teeth on me.”

He dragged her fingers to his groin before she could object. Reflexively, boldly, she clutched his rigid heat to test its firm resilience. Arie hissed. Now he was the captive.

“May I?” Her grin felt as wicked as any Arie might have conjured.

“Please,” he whispered.

He begged for her after all.

The urgent pulse of Arie’s blood surged beneath her hand. The surprising size of him, the vigor and hard potency, told of her inexperience. Despite the differences between her two lovers, Mathilda had not thought they would be so varied everywhere. Her innocence made her blush—an innocence she abandoned by squeezing him again, focusing on his straining pleasure. There, captured by her grip, she suspected that he would agree to anything she asked.

She wanted to eat him alive.

That agonizing thought had plagued her throughout the evening, every time she observed the square set of his shoulders, recognized the restless way his eyes hunted for hers, or acknowledged the magnetism of their attraction. She had imagined teeth on bare skin, and now, Arie begged for it.

Oblivious to the fears that had stolen her desire, Mathilda released his erection and smiled at the whimper of protest lodging in his throat. A rush of power assailed her unlike any she had ever experienced. No other thrill rivaled the adventure of arousing, teasing, unsettling this remarkable man.

Pushing his shoulders, urging him to lie flat on the mattress again, Mathilda became an explorer. Arie’s body became her wild territory—his neck, his chest, his taut stomach and its tempting streak of sand-colored hair. She reveled in the taste of his sinewy physique, using her tongue to discover the places that made him clench or laugh or sigh.

When the stubborn barrier of uncomfortable shyness receded, she replaced her tongue with her teeth. Tiny welts appeared where she bit and grazed and tortured. The barest sheen of sweat slicked his torso, urging her to taste yet again. Voracious for those biting caresses, Arie threaded fingers through the loose tendrils of her hair, pulling her closer still. His breath became an endless chorus of hisses and heavy exhales.

With a jagged curse, the meaning of which was plain despite the foreign syllables, Arie flung her back. Dazed, suddenly beneath him, she caught sight of his wide and wild eyes.

Breathing at an unhealthy pace, Arie said, “Stop now.”

“Too much?” She touched a crescent-shaped mark on his biceps.

“I have resolve, schatje. But unless you want that only I am pleasured, you must stop.”

With obvious relish, Arie pulled one hand and then another above her head, clasping both wrists and pinning her with the weight of his body. The flesh of her breasts stretched and flattened, but her nipples remained eager, reaching toward the source of her satisfaction.

She should have been scared. Maybe ashamed. Or reluctant. Instead, Mathilda passed the mere preliminaries of arousal. She grew desperate for the feel of him, especially within the hollow of her private, demanding core.

Arie was only her second lover, but already she recognized the effective simplicity of his technique. In February, he had kissed and sucked her thighs until every facet of her awareness focused on the place he had not yet claimed. Now, he seduced her in all but the same sequence. He played and delayed, driving her to the brink of sanity with his erotic, frank talk and idle touches—until Mathilda could think of nothing but what remained.

The act itself.

The anticipation that had doused her excitement was working strong magic, thrilling her with the possibility of completion.

“Now we know what the Hollander likes,” he said. “Your turn, Tilda.”

“I touch myself.”

She clamped her mouth shut, but the words had already flown free. Arie’s almost comical reaction was instantaneous. Despite her mortification, she smiled at his dilated stare, his flared nostrils and the involuntary flex of his pelvis. The hard rod of his erection pressed along the flesh of her belly. The hand holding her prisoner gripped a little tighter, as if his body unconsciously feared an inevitable retreat.

Maybe that knowledge had propelled Mathilda’s honest words past her embarrassment. She loved Arie De Voss, and this excruciating, renewed initiation to their lovemaking was very necessary. She voiced the forbidden because their intimate conversation urged her on. She was having fun. Watching him melt with a few choice words gave her such an unimaginable thrill. And if those awkward words helped prove her intention to stay, then all the better.

“I became discouraged, witnessing how satisfied Jürgen was when he…”

Arie cocked an eyebrow. “…reached number ten?”

“Exactly. One night after he fell asleep, I just…continued where he stopped.”

He groaned, a strangled sound. “Tilda, you will do me damage.”

“I knew I should not have said—”

“Oh, no. Do not stop. In fact, you may require this.”

He released her right hand. A tingle of blood returned to the freed limb, accentuating the unreal sensation of Arie’s fingers entwining with hers. Together they explored her damp core. Talking proved far more difficult than doing, she realized, as practiced reflex overcame her inhibitions. She cupped her mound. Her middle finger worked of its own accord, gathering a touch of aroused liquid before deftly manipulating her most sensitive nub.

Arie’s breath became tangled and harsh. He removed his hand and raised his hips slightly, allowing her room enough to touch and surge—and permitting him an unobstructed view. He took the tip of a breast into his mouth and, after a gratifying tremor, Mathilda timed the strokes of her fingers to match the sucking, pulsing cadence of his tongue.

He raised his head and watched the play of her fingers. Whispering against her areola, he said, “Beautiful.”

“Enjoying the show?”

“You hurt me, Tilda.”

She heard him, but his enthralled expression and the compulsive grind of his hips revealed the answer too. She never would have thought herself capable of staging such an unabashed display. But his steady, enthralled gaze drove her higher. She thrived on her need to perform for him.

“What did you think about on those nights, when you touched yourself?”

“You,” she whispered.

“No.”

“Of course, I did. I remembered you from the concert, how passionate you were for your music. I imagined that passion for me.”

“Godallemachtig, no wonder you were so skittish.” He turned his attention to her other breast. “Afraid I will not live up to your fantasies?”

“Silly, wasn’t I?”

“A little. Flattering. And intimidating.” His teeth grazed her nipple and then tugged. “How am I doing?”

Mathilda replied with a wordless moan. The pulse of her fingers increased.

“Goed. Now that we revealed the details of your extensive sexual history—”

“Arie!”

“—can we go back to the biting and touching?”

“I am touching.”

“I see that, clever girl,” he rasped.

Parting her legs with his knees, he levered himself between her thighs. Mathilda hardly noticed his new, more aggressive embrace. She focused on the gathering tension and trembling heat emanating from the steady, rhythmic circles she dashed over and over.

When Arie pressed just the tip of his swollen glans into her welcoming body, she knew how close they were to fulfillment. Both of them. Satisfaction beckoned. Her greedy bundle of engorged nerves jumped and pulsed, demanding more—harder pressure, faster strokes, a more vigorous tempo. She acquiesced mindlessly, reaching.

With his body braced on a forearm, Arie guided taut, measured thrusts with his other hand, gentling the tip of his shaft in and out. Mathilda craved the solid strength of his body against hers. She needed the full length of his erection, plunging and demanding. She wanted only what he intentionally withheld.

The maddening anticipation—waiting and wanting—became the key, opening her to the reckless release of a shuddering, gasping climax.

Arie snatched her hand from between their hips and replaced her palm with the hard power of his shaft. Moderation and restraint disappeared. The maddening bliss of Mathilda’s orgasm throbbed and raced along her nerves as he buried himself within her slick, clenching depths and rode her to a quick, breathless finish. She returned to an awareness beyond her own pleasure just when Arie collapsed on top of her, spent and smiling.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Arie awoke to a paradise resplendent enough for the likes of saints and angels. What was he doing in such a place?

Enjoying every instant.

He simply savored the warmth and solace of his lover’s careless, gratified hold. They had fallen asleep together, enclosed in a gentle parody of the last moments of their lovemaking. On his stomach, he stretched along Mathilda’s side with a thigh nestled between hers. She remained prostrate with one leg crooked around his lower back. Her heel nestled in the divot at the top of his buttocks. His left arm had fallen asleep beneath his torso; his right looped her waist. He assessed every limb and angle behind closed lids, marveling at the sensations of peace and softness enveloping him.

When Arie opened his eyes, darkness obscured their intimate scene. The candles had burned to waxy nubs. He wanted to look at Mathilda, to study her curves and the textures of her skin. He wished to watch her contented sleep. But because shadows refused to relinquish any hint of her appearance, he contented himself with the luscious feel of her.

Content. Did a more powerful word exist? Not in Dutch, in German or Italian, in French or Magyar, could Arie describe the sensation of awakening with Mathilda. He existed in a moment for which he had no vocabulary. Content would have to suffice, although the word sounded inconsequential when compared to his wonder.

Fear snaked quickly behind, poisoning his happiness. What right did he have to such bliss when he had achieved his ends through lies and theft? How could he enjoy such an evening and anticipate a lifetime of Mathilda’s love if he yet lived under the specter of his mistakes?

He needed to tell her the truth.

No, he needed to hide the truth, lest he watch his career and her regard crumble to naught.

Choices weighed on him, punishing him for a crime no one else knew he had committed.

Arie eased from atop Mathilda, pulling free of her unconscious embrace. In darkness, he awkwardly retrieved a nightshirt before exiting the bedroom. He lit a candle from embers in the woodstove and padded on bare feet to the window behind his pianoforte. On Getreidegasse below, no one stirred. An occasional nocturnal creature scurried from shadow to shadow, but otherwise the city slept in the cool comfort of a spring night.

Restless and far removed from the peace he had enjoyed only moments before, he paced the short breadth of the studio. Back and forth, the single candle flame cast distorted silhouettes of his agitation on the walls.

His muse, his lover—she had purged the terrors of her heart, freeing herself from the circumstances of her birth and mistakes inspired by fear. She slept satisfied and free of burdens. And although she had not said as much, he was certain of her love.

Arie could claim no easy certainty about his own feelings. He had fallen in love easily. No experience from his past warned him to proceed otherwise, to stand firm against her allure. She had broken through his reticence, pulling him into a place of sunshine with her music, her regard, her eyes. How could he have resisted that magic when loving her felt like breathing again? Why should he have resisted?

He understood now.

He caught sight of the parchment concealing the surface of his worktable, among which lay the composition they had created together. The motif she had dredged from her soul in those diminishing moments of grief remained at the movement’s heart. He had merely provided the structure and accompanying harmonies. The window-dressing, he thought.

They had engraved every facet of their fresh, untested love in the cryptic symbols of music, yet he could not accept her suggestion. He had worked for tedious months to prove his capacity to write his own symphony. Finally. A large portion of his character took no interest in its eventual reception or success, but he wanted to hear an orchestra perform the blasted thing. He yearned to offer a testament to the talent everyone believed he possessed.

Frustrated, as violence rose up through his limbs, Arie sagged at the piano bench. He wanted to pound and smash those taunting keys. He wanted a din to erase the melodies he had not created—and the ones for which he took credit. He wanted punishment for the lies echoing through his brain, stealing his happiness.

What would she think of him if he did not prove to be the composer she believed? What would he feel, seeing her happy confidence and unflagging admiration dim to nothingness? The sloppy, colorless decades he had lived without her stretched into an unimaginable life of regret and loneliness.

He fingered the keys in a silent performance of “Mathilda’s Movement.” He depressed each sliver of ivory to the point of feeling its hammer touch a corresponding string. No sound. No inspiration. Very little hope.

“Arie?”

Mathilda stood at his side, wrapped in the tangle of bedclothes. Candlelight burnished her bird’s nest of brown tangles. Wordlessly, he made room for her on the bench and, spineless coward that he was, he waited for her to make a move.

“I did not expect to wake up alone,” she said.

In a fair world, Mathilda Heidel would never wake up alone. She would begin each conscious moment wrapped in the loving arms of a man who deserved her.

“Come back to bed, mein Lieber.” She leaned closer, kissing him on the shoulder. “How you endured my abandonment through those weeks, I’ll never understand. But I love you, Arie. I promise you have nothing to fear from me anymore.”

If his heart could shatter in his chest, his would have broken upon hearing her aggrieved words. He had spent the last hour fretting about his deceptions and injustices, while her first thought upon awakening in an empty bed was to blame herself for his withdrawal.

I love you, Arie.

She had said the words. But he could not believe her.

The deepest center of his loathing had deserved the pain of her wordless rejection in February. Her desertion had been just. Appropriate. He had missed her with a vicious yearning, but never once had he blamed her for leaving. And he could not allow her to believe such a thing now. He would not have Mathilda slip into the realm of doubt that marred her past.

He took her icy hands and brought their foreheads together. To any observer, their silhouettes might have revealed two people in the midst of a furtive, tender conversation, their faces near enough to kiss.

“I cannot sleep. That is all.”

She traced her hands across his hair, a calming, civilizing gesture he had come to enjoy. “Something troubles you, I know.”

“My symphony,” he said dismissively. But he hated the rancid taste of that half-truth.

Shyly, yet with the determination he so admired, Mathilda smiled. “Then you will listen to my idea. Accept that your symphony is complete and come back to our bed.”

Our bed.

Paradise.

Arie was a weak man. He understood his weakness as thoroughly as he knew how to walk. When she grasped his hand and tugged, his worthless hesitations relented.

Pretend. Pretend until it is real.

Other than his months-old declaration of love, Arie had never said anything truer to Mathilda. He had been inventing and re-inventing his personality for more than a decade. The time required to walk from the piano bench to the bedroom proved more than adequate to remake himself once again.

For Mathilda, he was an idol. The maestro. Her lover. The truth would stay buried, no matter the cost to his peace of mind. A single night with her—and he did not trust any more than one moment at a time—would be worth the agony of his guilty conscience.

Next to his bed, their bed, he took her in his arms and eased the blankets from her shoulders. Fearful of revealing his turmoil, he kissed her. Repeatedly. Her warmth and passion soothed his wounds, and he drank in every sensation. He pressed his hard shaft along her stomach, kneading the rounded flesh of her rear, pulling her to his aching body.

Had he actually believed he possessed strength enough to deny such a wonder?

Tension stretched across Arie’s muscles. The urge to taste and take and demand useless promises increased his ardor. Control slipped beyond his reach. Each needy assault on her lips became more aggressive than the last. The driving need to erase his anxieties made him brutal, remaking him yet again—this time into a man of violence and desperation.

For a dozen thrilling breaths, Mathilda kept pace with his fervor. She kissed him as urgently. Her tongue and teeth endured his pitiless invasion and returned his passion in kind. Too soon, or perhaps just in time, her kiss faltered. She squirmed against the pull of his hands on her backside. Her hands formed fists on the wall of his chest, pushing him away.

She bit his lip—out of self-defense, maybe, but the severe, frantic act drove him to the brink of madness. His groin jerked against her hips, fueled by the erotic intensity of the pain and punishment he craved.

A distant, rational part of him recognized the injury he inflicted, both to Mathilda’s tender body and to her fragile trust. But wild thoughts pushed aside what remained of his honor. He wanted her beyond decency, beyond honor. She was so damned innocent, despite all she had endured. She would forgive him anything. To push her into the mattress and take his satisfaction would be easy.

Her dreadful whimper broke through the fog of need that strangled his conscience, leaving Arie mortified and ice cold within his own skin. He tasted blood in his mouth.

“Arie!”

That single cry revealed all. Her passion, her trust—her love?—had vanished.

And he realized the crime he had nearly perpetrated.

Nausea arose swift and terrible in his throat. He released Mathilda’s imprisoned arms. Faint bruises marred her skin. As quickly as she could, she struggled into the discarded blankets, her only place of refuge. Enveloped within those opaque layers, her eyes wide and horrified, she appeared much younger than her twenty-two years. Bile stained his mouth and his stomach clenched in fearful pain.

And why? Because he feared her low opinion. Because he was terrified she would leave him. His brutality brought his most appalling nightmares to life.

“What was that?” Her voice wrote a whispered poem of confusion. She eyed him as if he were a half-crazed bear in a baiting pen.

Arie stepped back to the far wall of the bedroom, away from the door. If she wanted to run…

“Forgive me.”

“No, no, I asked you a question.” She tugged the blankets more tightly around her body, a defensive gesture that belied the vigor of her inquest. “What was that? A belated punishment for my behavior this winter? Have you been waiting to subject me to this cruelty?”

“No.”

“This has to do with more than fretfulness about your symphony, yet you won’t tell me.” Her eyebrows bunched together as a sensible woman of feeling and intelligence attempted to make sense of chaos. “I have witnessed your doubt and triumph. I have seen you a cad, an outsider, a drunk. You’ve been my mentor and my…my lover. But never before have I been afraid of you.”

“Perhaps you should be,” he snapped, angry at her patience. The sooner she left, the sooner he could begin the unthinkable process of living without her. “You know little about me, but you come to me with your innocent dreams.”

“Innocent? Me?”

“Of course. Marriage to a nice doctor does not make you a woman of the world.”

Her posture stiffened at his condescension. “You think—”

“What proof have you that this was not some elaborate means of seducing you?”

Panic like that of a cornered fawn flashed in her hazel eyes. “Do you want me to doubt you, to rescind my love? Is that what you want?”

“No!” He jumped away from the wall. “I want down from this pedestal!”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am not an idol, Mathilda, your musical hero to worship from the second row.”

She flinched. Then she sneered. “Oh, that is rich, because neither am I your muse!”

“But…”

Arie faltered. She was his muse. She embodied his fondest ideas, at once selfish and noble. Her face, her music, her essence propelled him to the most potent creativity he had ever considered. Was that how she imagined him?

She interrupted the disarray of his thoughts. “I am a person, the same as you. I’m capable of cruelty and mistakes, of love. I pray I am beyond the former and that my future mistakes will be few.”

As Mathilda stood, his heart stopped with a disbelieving shudder. She walked to him, still hugging the bedcovers across her torso. Coldly, she stared into his soul, mocking his attempts to hide or rationalize or deceive. He looked away, ending her silent inquest for fear she would comprehend his every untruth.

But she did not stop. She eased closer, standing within arm’s reach of where he leaned into the wall. “If you’re asking me not to love you, I cannot. I tried.”

“Mathilda, please,” he whispered. Fatigued, baffled tears threatened to fall, an occasion he had not experienced since boyhood.

“Why are you trying to frighten me?”

If he had to be cruel again, if he intended to poison their affection before it had a chance to flourish, the moment was at hand. But Mathilda’s will remained far stronger than his. When good sense should have sent her fleeing into the early dawn with nothing but fear in her veins, she reached for him. She pulled him into the safety of her mercy and held his hand.

“I would forgive you almost anything, Arie.” She stroked his face with a touch like absolution. “Even whatever compelled you to claim Love and Freedom as your own.”

He flinched. He pressed his eyes closed. The hand intertwined with hers tightened. Mathilda waited, but he did not answer.

Waking up alone had not surprised her. Their new physical passion fascinated her, and she had sought Arie, ready to draw him back to their private sanctuary. The magic and power of their union—the sheer glorious fun of it—left her greedy for more. She had been eager to prove to her doubting, wakeful mind that they could revive and duplicate those sensations at will. She wanted to fly apart once again, to recreate every glittering touch.

Her brief search in the near-darkness had revealed Arie at his pianoforte. But compared to the partner who had made such exquisite love to her, the man she discovered was a stranger.

She shuddered to recall the force of his kiss, when his maudlin mood had transformed into violence. Expressing his fears with clenching hands, his aggression had assumed a frightening edge of urgency. She had felt fear in the arms of Arie De Voss, her lover and mentor—her most esteemed hero.

Now he stood before her, as puzzled and hurting as she had ever seen. Shame obscured everything, even his love for her. He hated himself for more than one reckless outburst, and at that moment, Mathilda could no more leave him than she could shed her own skin.

“How?” A single rasped word.

“How? No, I will ask the questions,” she said. “Who wrote Love and Freedom?”

He dropped her hand. “Sándor Bolyai. My former maestro.”

“And you held your abilities in so little respect as to need to claim his work?”

“Are you surprised? You of all people understand that doubts can take precedence over talent.” Despite every physical indication otherwise—the tension in his neck, the perspiration on his brow—he sounded calm. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “How do I understand all that I do with regard to music?”

“Then…when?”

“The other night, after receiving your invitation. I began to play whatever crossed my mind—the cantata you performed at the Dom, the sonata from the Venners’ ball. And Love and Freedom. I heard the differences.”

Arie frowned. “Tell me.”

“The tonal distance between the harmony and melody, the pattern of rests. Everything. I heard it as plainly as the difference between my voice and yours.”

“And you were angry.” His defeated statement broached no room for dissent.

“Angry? Perhaps. Disappointed, yes—curious. But I began to see events in a different light. You always became annoyed when I mentioned Love and Freedom, and you never select it for performances. Even last night, alone in Rittersaal, you refused to play it for me.”

“And now you know I am a fraud.”

“I know no such thing,” she snapped. “The improvisation at the Stadttrinkstube proved your talent, if nothing else.” Her anger flared like a bright flame. “Had you any intention of telling me?”

“The truth is complicated.”

“No, it’s not. You admit your mistake and stand ready for the consequences.”

Seconds piled on quiet seconds. Arie said nothing. Mathilda’s heart contracted with a disappointment far more painful than she had experienced upon learning of his deceit.

“When we met, your attention was a privilege.” Her unfaithful voice refused to remain strong. “Can you understand that? I held you in such awe…such awe. When you sought my company, the sun shone on me alone. But you didn’t intend to take me into your confidence, did you? I’m no more special than the public you deceive.”

His face flushed a sickened combination of white and splotchy pink. “I did not want to lose your regard. I knew how closely you relate that composition with me.”

Mathilda turned on him with the strength of her confusion. Her sense of rejection, of falling to earth after a wild surge skyward, tightened her throat. “You would rather lie to me, perhaps forever? Or all but assault me because you’re frightened and guilty?”

“And how different are you, really, from the people I trick?” He stooped to retrieve her discarded gown and forced her into the dress—a most spiteful and careless maid. “You should be outraged at my fraud, not follow me to bed. Yet you are hypnotized like any other eager widow.”

She slapped at stubborn, injured tears. “I want to think that this malice is your attempt to protect yourself. I did the same, staying away from you for all those weeks.”

“And if not?”

“Then I was deceived by more than a composition,” she said. “I had no notion your love was this small.”

He stood motionless and resolute. His gaze revealed nothing. Mathilda could find no hint of the man she had believed him to be.

She shook her head, staggered by the change in him. “How did we come to this?”

“Get your pelisse and get out.”

Mathilda stared, suddenly as angry as she had ever been. She ached with shame that the man she loved was sending her away, half-clad and humiliated. She drew herself up, all dignity and defiance.

“You’re a coward,” she said. Arie looked sideways at her, shaken from his smug footing. “Days ago you accused me of the same. You were right then, just as I am now. I’ve been trying to believe in you and your music, in us, but you make that impossible.”

From the dirt-smeared window behind his pianoforte, Arie saw Mathilda stride up Getreidegasse until the early dawn rendered her a distant silhouette. With a curse, he tore his coat from behind the door and dashed down dizzying flights. He had kissed her and held her in his arms. He had forced her to leave. But he would not let her walk home alone.

Following at a cautious distance, he allowed the numbing winds to obliterate his thoughts. If he thought, he might call out to her. If he called her, she would take him back—without ever asking him to prove his worth. He could never accept her generosity, not knowing if he even deserved her admiration. Her love.

At the Venners’ manor, Mathilda rounded to the rear servants’ door. A footman permitted her entry. Arie watched her disappear into the massive structure.

“Forgive me, Mathilda.” The wind swallowed his words.

He stumbled like a sleepwalker back to his studio and collapsed on the sagging single mattress. Driven mad by the smell of her skin on the sheets, the smell of their spent passion, he slumped into his studio chair instead. The battered, ink-stained worktable served as his pillow.

He neither ate nor drank. He accepted no callers and saw no students. Two days later, he packed his meager belongings, said goodbye to Kapellmeister Haydn and departed Salzburg.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Mathilda.”

I don’t want to wake up.

“Mathilda, dearest.”

“I don’t want to wake up.”

“Nonsense,” Ingrid said. “Get up, Tilda. This is my house, and I will have you forced from it bodily if I must.”

“Does Venner know you call it your house?”

“I chose the wallpaper. It’s mine.” She stepped away from the bed and opened the drapes, ushering midday sunshine into the dolor of Mathilda’s room. “Now get up before someone sees us. They’ll mistake me for your lady’s maid, and my place in society will be ruined.”

“Your place in society is likely tenuous enough because of me.” Struggling against the lull of comfortable bedding, she sat up and leaned on the pillows Ingrid propped along the headboard. The smell of strong dark coffee barely brightened her mood.

“Again, nonsense.” Ingrid placed a demitasse on the nightstand and sat nearby with her own cup. “Wealth counters scandal quite nicely, or I never would’ve been accepted as Christoph’s wife.”

Mathilda sipped the hot brew. “Well then, you can afford to take any occupation that pleases you, including lady’s maid.”

Ingrid conjured a face of disappointment. “I would, dearest, but we have company set to call in an hour. Alas, I must maintain my dreadful position as mistress of the house, at least for the afternoon.”

“Who will call?”

“Kapellmeister Haydn.” She offered a good-natured grin. “I’ve called Klara already. She’ll be along shortly to make you presentable, for I know he’s not calling to speak with me—or Christoph, saints save us. Can you imagine them talking about, what, land holdings?”

Mathilda eyed her friend as Ingrid prattled with uncommon brightness. “Perish the thought,” she said distractedly. “Did he mention his purpose for calling?”

“No, and neither did he mention Herr De Voss. But we both know he’ll be a topic of conversation, if not the only one.”

“I didn’t mention him.”

“No, I did, saving you the trouble.” She drained the remainder of her coffee in the quick, girlish way she reserved for moments alone in Mathilda’s company. “Now get up.”

Klara arrived fifteen minutes later, and thirty minutes after that, the maid had worked her ever-improving magic. Despite the fact she had been awake only long enough to become nervous, Mathilda deemed herself presentable, even becoming. Her brown locks carefully arranged, her corset snug, and a navy gown neatly pressed, fastened and flattering, she appeared ready to meet even the most discriminating caller.

“You’re worlds apart from the woman who arrived at our door that morning,” Ingrid whispered. “A lucky thing, too, lest anyone recognize you.”

Oliver, ever subtle and dependable, had informed his mistress of Mathilda’s indecorous dawn homecoming, but no one else. Not even Venner. Tears, a hot bath and a lengthy conversation had consumed, Mathilda knew, most of Ingrid’s patience and the majority of the Saturday that followed.

Two weeks had done little to temper her humiliation. Although she could hardly be cross with Ingrid, neither could she view those events with any degree of optimism. Her expectations had fallen low, while Ingrid teased because she had yet to awaken to a day without hope.

Twisting an unruly ringlet, Mathilda said, “So I might better prepare myself, for how long will you insist on raising that specter?”

“Until the baby comes. By that time, I shall be too distracted to tease you.”

Mathilda formed a reflexive O with her mouth. “A baby?”

Pressing her lips together, tears forming in her green eyes, Ingrid nodded. “I told Christoph this morning.”

“Oh, I’m happy for you, dearest!” She enveloped her friend in a fierce hug. “I thought you were enjoying your new role as nursemaid a little much.”

“Of late, you’ve been needy enough to prove good practice.” Ingrid sniffed and offered a wobbly grin.

“What is it?”

“I’m a dreadful coward, Tilda,” she said, drawing away. “In truth, I’d hoped you would travel this path before me—how it’s always been for us. I am…scared.”

On occasion, as Jürgen’s nurse or assistant, Mathilda had witnessed gruesome events, not the least of which was the deadly trial of childbirth. She knew the immense difficulties some women experienced when bringing life into the world. Even as she mistrusted her own ability to conceive after three fruitless years of marriage, she had wondered what fate labor would hold.

Ingrid would face such a trial before year’s end, an event that brought Mathilda equal portions of joy and fright. But she forced reassurances to take the place of unease.

“You shouldn’t worry,” she said. “Venner will ensure that you have the very best care.”

Another unaccustomed shade of darkness glanced across Ingrid’s face.

Mathilda frowned. “Dearest, what is it? Was Venner displeased?”

“No, no. He was joyful.”

“But?”

“But the moment I told him, he looked…tired. He spends countless hours at the Residenz, always with Oliver in tow. He works tirelessly for the city. I simply hope he takes a moment to breathe once the baby is born.”

“He loves you, Ingrid, and this baby will melt his heart just as you did.” Mathilda clasped their hands together. “We’ll simply add this to the list of things about which you are relentlessly optimistic.”

At the sound of a distant bell, the young mother-to-be delicately cocked her head. She glanced at a mantel clock. “Ah, that must be the Kapellmeister, and just in time. So pale, dearest.” She pinched Mathilda’s cheeks, attempting to heighten their color. “Do try not to look so fretful.”

“I cannot help it.”

“You can. You will.” Where Ingrid pushed her worries and doubts Mathilda had yet to discover, but her efficiency proved a marvel. “I’ll send Klara to fetch you after he and I have tired of small talk. Five minutes at the very most.”

When Ingrid closed the door, the room’s light and hopefulness vanished with her. Despite the Venners’ support of the city’s musical community, Kapellmeister Haydn had never called at their home. He piqued Mathilda’s curiosity. She could only make worthless guesses at the elderly gentleman’s intentions.

A sick shadow of grief resurfaced. Although revived by coffee, the strong beverage set her nerves on edge. She fidgeted with the silver chain around her neck. A dozen times a day she thought to remove that stubborn reminder, but a deep cavern in her heart refused to admit defeat. Taking the chain from her neck would mean acknowledging that the love she only just allowed to thrive had already exhausted its fire.

Klara’s gentle knock rescued her from that worry. “Kapellmeister Haydn wishes to see you, Frau Heidel.”

Down in the parlor, she greeted Haydn. Ingrid stood to leave, but Mathilda grabbed her hand, insisting with a wordless look that she remain. The trio exchanged brief pleasantries before the Kapellmeister turned the conversation with a pointed question.

“Frau Heidel, when did you last see Herr De Voss?”

“I’ve not seen him since the evening of Frau Schlick’s recital.”

“And how was his temperament?” His deeply set black eyes indicated the grave nature of his inquiry.

“How do you mean, sir?”

The Kapellmeister frowned. “My dear, I don’t wish to force an indiscretion, but I must be more specific. Did you quarrel?”

Quarrel. The word sounded banal. Mathilda wanted to scream the truth of that night, no matter who might hear, no matter the consequences. We loved. We fought.

He sent me away.

“We had…a disagreement. I’ve not seen him since.” As her stomach shrank into a sour ball, she wished she had not abandoned the dark safety of her bedroom. “Please, sir, has something happened?”

Painfully, Haydn’s expression reminded Mathilda of those few moments she had endured before learning of Jürgen’s murder. The room became tighter, warmer. She shook her head to clear the dizziness of memory.

“You look ill, dearest,” Ingrid whispered. “Do you need a glass of wine?”

Her fright amplified, holding Ingrid’s concern at bay. “Has something happened to Arie?”

“I know not,” Haydn replied. “He came to my house on the Monday morning following Frau Schlick’s concert. He gave me the key to his studio and a few florins, asking me to settle the rent at the end of the month—if he did not return to do so himself.”

“He’s gone? Where?” Her panic flowered full and bright. Dimly, she heard Ingrid ring the bell for refreshments.

“Again, I know not.” The Kapellmeister cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with his role as a messenger bearing bad news. “I made careful inquires to the usual sources and learned that he hasn’t asked for letters of reference or credit. If that bears out, then he won’t have the means to travel far.” He shrugged, a helpless and resigned gesture. “But when he failed to keep scheduled appointments at the university, I became concerned.”

“He’s gone,” she whispered to herself.

Ingrid pressed a wineglass into her hands. Dazed and lost, Mathilda drank indelicately. The crystal pulled at the tendons of her wrist. Her strength had fled with Arie.

“Sir, do you have an idea of where he may have gone?” Ingrid asked. “Friends, perhaps? Family?”

Haydn denied any such knowledge, and Mathilda shook her head. “He has no one,” she said.

Nobody but me.

He should be here.

A streak of fear crisscrossed her heart, flooding her with a dreaded sensation of loss. Mathilda’s mother, Elisabet Roth, had been despondent. Her family had turned her away. An infant girl depended on her, but not even the tender anchor of a child’s need had proven strong enough to help her mother navigate the sorrow. Could Arie be as lost and desperate?

“How did he look, sir?” she asked.

Haydn sighed, toying with a tail of his coat. “Not well. Thin, paler than ever I’ve seen him. I offered the services of my valet, but he refused.”

Mathilda stared into her empty wineglass. The alcohol did little to steady her nerves but lifted a searing acid into her throat. She raised her face to meet Ingrid’s calm, warm gaze. “Help me,” she said, almost mouthing the words rather than saying them aloud. “I am adrift.”

Ingrid returned the wineglasses to the silver beverage service. “You have been adrift for years. And your partner of choice maintains less of a footing in this world than you do.”

Terror nestled in her brain like a tick. “He will hurt himself.”

“Think logically, Tilda,” she said. “If he had a mind to do the worst, he would not pack his things and set out for parts unknown. Go to the studio. When you find it vacant, you’ll know he simply left Salzburg. We won’t know why, but we can find him.”

“But where to begin?”

“Luckily, you have me…and I have Christoph.” She rang the bell again, and Klara returned to the parlor. “Please find Oliver and ask him to bring Lord Venner. The matter is urgent.”

Despite Venner’s occupation as a man of politics, he defined himself through his loyalties. He adored his wife, and because his wife loved Mathilda, his hand in locating Arie De Voss was a foregone enterprise. He could not discuss the difference between a rondo and a minuet, but no one could dispute the influence engendered by his title and character.

Mathilda marveled at his success. Within an hour of Ingrid’s summons, he had tactfully identified the landlord of Arie’s studio, plying the unsuspecting businessman with florins enough to ensure both cooperation and silence. In that way, the Venners worked as a time-tested team despite their young marriage. He maneuvered, providing influence and contacts, while she provided money and a gently prodding will.

When Mathilda and the Kapellmeister arrived at Getreidegasse 26, Oliver waited for them at street level. He did not stand guard so much as…watch—intently, and at Venner’s insistence. Speculation could damage Arie’s career no matter his destination or his motives for leaving.

With shaking hands, Mathilda used the key that Arie had given the Kapellmeister. The door swung open on rusted hinges to reveal a barren, lifeless space. Haydn gently moved Mathilda to the side, leaving her immobile in the doorway as he searched the tiny rooms.

“No, he’s not here,” Haydn said, his voice shaded with relief. “And most of his possessions are gone.”

Mathilda shared his relief, granting permission for the balm to wash through her, easing the most immediate of her fears. Arie had left, but he had not abandoned her as thoroughly, as irrevocably, as had her mother.

But questions remained, crowding her brain with an insistent pressure. Her pulse rushed and leaped. Why? Why had he gone?

She shivered, searching for anything to reveal Arie’s whereabouts. Too many shadows teased her with the past. Silent and damp, the studio represented a pale reminder of emotion that had heated its small space. The pianoforte remained, as did the cello and the music stands. A faint layer of dust already coated those essential tools of his trade. But he had taken the violin and his meager collection of clothing. The dull surface of the worktable was bare.

Mathilda walked to the painted cupboard and opened doors left ajar. At the bottom of the hollow and otherwise empty cabinet, she found a portfolio half-stuffed with parchment sheets.

At her shoulder, Haydn asked, “Anything?”

“Papers. Compositions, I believe.”

“Perhaps I should go downstairs? Bring fire for a candle?”

“Never mind, sir.”

She pulled the portfolio from the cupboard and laid its contents atop the silent piano. By the window overlooking the narrow cobblestone lane, Mathilda used the last light of late afternoon to see which compositions Arie had abandoned.

Love and Freedom.

She examined the handwriting, noting the tight, clear script. Each note sported a flag standing perpendicular to its staff. Studiously neat, the writing belonged to an individual charged with the reverential care of another’s work. A careful copy. By contrast, Arie’s original creations always emerged in manic scribbles as his hand struggled to keep pace with inspiration.

Conscious of the Kapellmeister’s curious gaze, Mathilda shuffled the incriminating score to the bottom of the portfolio and searched for more. Her eyes caught on the sight of her own name. “Mathilda’s Movement.” Her heart jumped. A cry formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, choking on his rejection.

He had abandoned their composition, just as he had abandoned her.

“What do you see? I fear my eyes aren’t up to the task of reading in this light. The works are his?” Maybe Mathilda hesitated too long. Maybe Haydn had been waiting for the right opportunity to broach the subject. No matter the impetus, he nodded in the silence. “Love and Freedom, then?”

She jerked free of her name scrawled by Arie’s hand. Like trying to see through thick smoke, her eyes stung. Her voice emerged as a hoarse croak. “You knew?”

“Ja, and I’ve handled the whole situation none too well. It really does me no credit.” In vain, he searched the room as if for a comfortable seat before leaning heavily against the piano. “I did not invite De Voss to come to Salzburg because of that symphony. I prefer his sacred works, but such is my preference overall. And his skill at the piano is truly exceptional. I thought—ah, I thought to leave the past to the past. But that has proven easier said than done.”

“He…when I last saw him, his crime devastated him,” Mathilda said, briefly outlining the suitable details of their argument.

Haydn surprised her by laughing in disbelief. “And he understands so little of this business?”

“How do you mean?”

“My dear woman, your friend Lord Venner—would he care if De Voss or Beethoven or even one of the famous Haydn brothers had written Love and Freedom? Or some late unknown Hungarian, for that matter?”

Mathilda smiled. The thought of Venner noticing, let alone genuinely caring about such a matter, amused her despite the tension. “Of course not.”

“And neither would the majority of Europe. De Voss claimed the Hungarian’s work as his own, which was dishonest. But the music survived. That man’s last pupil and his final musical project, both have flourished.” He returned her smile, an expression mixed from equal parts sentimentality and cynicism. “I wouldn’t necessarily be displeased by such a circumstance, unless someone attributed my work to my brother by mistake.”

The venerated composer’s easy acceptance of Arie’s theft stunned her. “Is that what you would have told him?”

“Ja, and I should have.” He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, smoothing his spiky eyebrows when he finished. “My mother was a cook and my father was a wheelwright. Joseph, my brother—he sang as we imagine angels would sing. I don’t know what my musical career would have been without the luck of his early successes. Your Dutchman found a little luck, too.”

“The trouble will be convincing him.”

“If you cannot convince him, Frau Heidel, then I no longer want to know the man.” He turned back to the jumble of music sheets. “May I see the other piece?”

Mathilda silently relinquished the parchment clenched in her hands, her heart in shreds.

Haydn stared at the score, concentrating deeply. “Yours?”

“The motif, yes.”

“He held back to accommodate it,” he said with a fond smile. “I don’t think any of us knows what he’s truly capable of—least of all him.”

A knock at the door made both musicians jump. Oliver identified himself before opening the door. “Frau Heidel, Kapellmeister Haydn, the landlord stopped by to provide these letters. He had been holding them for Herr De Voss.”

Mathilda received the small bundle of correspondence with hands that refused to be steady. “Thank you, Oliver.” She opened the twine binding and spread a dozen notices atop the composition sheets. “Maas, Perger, Schrattenbach—do you recognize these names, sir?”

“Students of his, I believe.”

She read one. “Dear Sir, we desire to understand your absence from Anton’s lesson on Tuesday last.” And another. “Dear Herr De Voss, your failure to keep the appointment for our son’s piano instruction is highly irregular and requires explanation.”

The contents of each letter echoed similar sentiments. In the handful of days since leaving Salzburg, Arie had disappointed a great many families.

“But nothing from the Schindlers,” she said, sliding letter over letter in her search. “Sir, was he still teaching the Schindlers’ boys?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mathilda took breakfast with Ingrid and Venner. She nibbled at spring berries but sorely lacked an appetite. The basic task of eating had transformed into an odious chore. Sleeping, too, had become impossible. She dozed fitfully through each night, beset by too many dark thoughts.

Haydn had promised to write when he unearthed any details. Waiting wore her to a frazzle. Days lapsed, each pulling her nerves into thinner shreds and tossing her between sadness, concern and anger.

Why did he leave?

God, keep him safe.

Idiot man!

His rejection stung less and less with the passing of hours, or so she worked hard to believe. Arie De Voss could boast a long and storied history of his own idiocy, the capacity for which had long since outpaced her imagination. She would find the man. And then what, exactly?

Hit him.

That was first on her list. She would proceed to haranguing, berating, scolding and kissing, while the order for those tasks remained subject to circumstance. Beneath the dining table, Mathilda balled her hands into fists like rocks. Anger nourished her resolve and held other, more frightening emotions at bay.

Reluctantly she wondered how much inspiration he had drawn from her theatrics. Turnabout was fair play, after all. She had abandoned him for weeks without explanation. Granted, she had stayed in the city, but Arie must have experienced a similar sense of doubt and anxiety over her wordless refusal of his love. She would have to apologize again, to ask his forgiveness and understanding.

Sometime after the hitting and the kissing.

Ingrid buttered a piece of dark bread and regarded her with an almost maternal look of concern. “Tilda, you must eat.”

She smiled inwardly at how much Ingrid appeared to enjoy their apparent role reversal. Rarely had the younger woman found herself in the position to dote. Or maybe, while awaiting the birth of her own child, she wished to make the most of any opportunity to hone her skills.

But despite her friend’s best intentions, Mathilda no longer wanted sympathy. That she needed to request even more assistance from the Venners, no matter their willingness to help, galled her. She simply wanted to vent the mean temper building and pulsing within her. Ingrid’s well-meaning words of concern and her bright optimism only served to remind her that the situation might not end well. Klaus and Elisabet Roth had loved each other fiercely, but their love had not afforded a happy life.

Idiot man, she thought again. Be angry.

“Dearest?”

“If I were hungry, Ingrid, I would eat.”

Her wounded look made Mathilda reconsider. Be angry at Arie. “Forgive me,” she said softly.

“Of course.” But the luster of Ingrid’s cheerfulness had dimmed.

Venner sipped his coffee. “De Voss has demonstrated a capricious nature, as if he is merely playing the part of an artist. I wonder what sort of man he is in truth.”

He dropped his gaze, returning to his morning examination of trade ledgers and correspondences. Mathilda stared in surprise. Ingrid, regarding her husband as she would some rare species of insect, dissected his unexpected contribution with a tiny scowl.

“Christoph may be right,” she said with a dainty shrug. A hint of a smile tilted the corners of her lips, indicating a return to her good humor. “Once you get him back and curb this temperamental streak of his, he may be useless as a composer.”

A footman entered the dining room and bowed. “Frau Heidel, a correspondence for you.”

Mathilda fairly tore open the missive and read Haydn’s single sentence. “De Voss is with the Schindlers in Henndorf.”

An hour later, Mathilda departed Salzburg for the first time.

As Oliver navigated the smaller of the Venners’ two carriages through narrow streets, she sat beside him on the driver’s bench. When the matched team stepped onto the Staatsbrücke, she clenched her eyes tightly. Nothing escaped her nervous fingers, alternately gripping the handholds and fingering her silver chain.

“A lovely sight, Frau Heidel, is it not?”

At the sound of Oliver’s innocent, awed voice, she could not help but look. And she sat a little taller on the bench.

The Salzach flowed tranquilly below them. Barriers of marble and stone lined both of its rocky banks as citizens worked and walked along the waters, forging varied lives. Gentle mountains topped with grassy summits blended into the horizon, obscuring the green-hued river’s sharp northward bend. Beyond the horses’ ears, the sharp mount known as Kapuzinerberg bloomed with beech trees and bristled with remnants of crumbled centuries-old fortifications. The yellow-beige bricks of the Kapuzinerkloster, the Capuchin monastery, poked out from the lush canvass of foliage.

While her deep-seated distrust of the Salzach threatened to mar her enchantment, Mathilda had to agree with Oliver. The city was beautiful, nearly flawless. Without the binding shelter of endless stories-high buildings and the steep walls of Mönchsberg, she experienced a heady rush of openness and freedom.

Within minutes they neared Sebastiankirche, the sight of which fueled Mathilda’s determination. For all her girlish discontent, she was a stronger woman because of Jürgen’s steady presence and the affection and toil they had shared. Her late husband had lived a quiet life of good deeds, and she felt bound to honor his contribution to her character. She owed her husband that much.

Oliver directed the horses beyond all of Mathilda’s familiar markers. Short of the Linzer Tor, the ancient boundary marking the northernmost extent of the city, they stopped in front of the Blue Pike. Oliver stepped from the driver’s bench and entered the tavern without a word. He returned a few minutes later, accompanied by a stocky man of an indeterminate middle age.

“This is Herr Mullen,” Oliver said. “He’s agreed to guide us.”

Mathilda nodded a greeting. “How long will it take to reach Henndorf?” she asked.

Deep creases marked Mullen’s face around the mouth and eyes, and round ruddy cheeks indicated a fondness for strong drink. He dragged a hand through his sparse graying hair, a gesture that reminded her of Arie despite the physical differences characterizing each man.

He replied with a curiously nasal voice. “Just shy of twelve miles. Make the trip on horseback, mostly. By carriage we’ll arrive this evening, late.”

“Thank you.”

Mullen said nothing, but he smiled and rattled the little bag of florins Oliver must have used to secure his guidance.

Mathilda accepted Oliver’s assistance as she transferred to the open carriage’s rear seat, while Mullen climbed up to share the driver’s bench.

Despite a parasol angled to shade her face, Mathilda suffered under the bright sun. Beneath clinging silk, sweat dampened her underarms and back. Hair that Klara had carefully arranged only that morning frizzed into a brown mess. She dozed. She was certain to have freckled. And she practically ruined the hem of her gown’s decorative ribbon, worrying the frail fabric with her equally ragged fingernails.

Every time she considered what she would say to Arie, her heart rattled. She was going to find him. But what if he didn’t want to be found? Mathilda gripped the wooden handle of her parasol and watched mile after familiar mile slip past.

The trio stopped in Eugendorf to change horses and eat. As with her failed attempt at breakfast, Mathilda merely picked at her savory omelet. Although famished, she could not eat—not while bearing the twin burdens of travel and worry.

Darkness overtook them and a light rain began to fall. Oliver stopped the carriage to raise its cover, protecting Mathilda from the strengthening rains. Far below, in a secluded valley, the faint lights of Henndorf shone as their beacon. Two mountains and a lake called Wallersee delimited the village’s modest collection of houses and workshops.

The rain intensified. Oliver’s careful maneuvers could not prevent the wheels from skidding on water-washed patches of stone. As the vehicle descended the hillside, the horses fought for footing. Inside the closed carriage, Mathilda suffered a disconcerting fear. She stared uselessly into the dark and suffered every jolting, blinded bump. Although she clung to handholds, she could not adequately brace her body against the uneven descent.

Pitched without mercy, she experienced a brief flash of relief when the carriage finally stopped—stranded with a broken axle.

With the passing of every frigid, rain-soaked minute, Mathilda cursed Arie De Voss and the ridiculous music he had used to hypnotize her. The thrill of journeying beyond the limits of the Altstadt had melted with the rain—rain that matured into a downpour.

Oliver and Herr Mullen had tried without success to fix the axle, afterward deciding to leave the carriage tipped on its side to serve as a makeshift shelter. She pressed her back against the up-ended passenger bench and its soggy upholstery. A drenched horsehair blanket covered her body, and the ruined mass of silk that had once been her dress clung wet and useless to shivering limbs. Oliver, wearing a blanket over his coat and hat, stood guard along the dark trail.

Biding time before their rescue—an imminent rescue, she hoped—Mathilda dwelled on her anger. It obliterated every fragment of doubt, rejection and sadness. Only her latent, stubborn concern for Arie’s wellbeing held fast within the storm of her escalating wrath. She promised that when she found him safe, probably sleeping in some cozy village cabin, her fury could burst forth without hindrance.

Oliver returned to the shelter of the upturned carriage. His boots, she noticed, extended over his knees in the style of the military. He settled into the opposite corner and wordlessly uncocked a pistol. Although his preparedness should not have surprised her, Mathilda shivered at his cool competence. When had he turned into a soldier?

“Oliver?”

“Ja?”

“Why are you here?”

He stared with unwavering eyes, but he tipped his head to the left in a way that reminded Mathilda of a half-grown boy. “Lord Venner asked me to accompany you.”

“I knew as much.” Shifting in the mud, she grimaced as the clinging wetness invaded the last layer of silks. “Let me rephrase my question. Why are you so loyal to him?”

He grinned, looking very much like Venner when the nobleman teased Ingrid. “I’m a soulless mercenary who appreciates a generous employer.”

She giggled spontaneously, taken aback by his humor. Then she sneezed. The tension resting heavily on her breastbone began to ease. “Will you tell me?”

A darkness that had nothing to do with the evening gloom enshrouded his face. He shook his head. “Years ago, in Anhalt, Christoph performed a great kindness for a person very dear to me.”

“Wait, did you call him Christoph?”

Swift panic ruffled his features. He could have denied it, and Mathilda would have believed him—except for that look. “You refer to Lady Venner by her given name.”

“I do, but you know our history. We’re like sisters.”

“Yes. Siblings will do that.”

A yelp and scratch of a wild animal pulled Mathilda’s gaze to the fathomless black just beyond the shelter of the upended carriage. Oliver cocked his pistol again and needlessly ordered Mathilda to stay out of sight. He ducked from under the carriage, stepping into the brunt of the rain.

Arie’s eyes drifted shut.

Frau Schindler, a remarkable cook and gracious hostess, had noticed how his clothes hung in loose drapes on his thin frame, insisting that he stay for dinner after the music lesson he provided her children. She had refused to relent until he tried all of her culinary creations. He had nearly eaten more in a single evening than since arriving in Henndorf.

As a strengthening rainstorm pattered against the roof, Arie lounged in the fire-lit parlor of Schindler’s home. His stomach was full to bursting. Sleep beckoned. And most important, he had finished his symphony the night before—the last of an endless parade of sleepless nights he survived on the outskirts of the small village.

He should have been content. But his heart was gone. He had left Mathilda in Salzburg and rightfully, predictably even, he felt miserable.

Beset on all sides by the laughter and talk of a boisterous quartet of children, Arie made up his mind. He would return to Salzburg in the morning. He would beg Mathilda’s mercy and spend the rest of his life atoning for the madness that had driven him away. She would smile and offer her tireless forgiveness, wrapping him in the sanctuary of her supple arms. Bliss would replace misery.

As his drowsy, well-fed brain considered the details, the scenario seemed simple.

Her words, however, would not allow the rest he craved.

How did we come to this?

In the cold aftermath of his guilt-ridden resentment, he understood all too well the confusion she had expressed between sobs. In her embrace—both accepting and bestowing such sweet, heated kisses—he had discovered a perfection he would likely never find again. And he had sent her, barely dressed and hating him, into the fading blackness of dawn.

Frau Schindler’s food and the warmth of the quaint family scene softened his brain, but Arie knew the improbability of a glad reunion. He would need to convince Mathilda to speak to him again. Only then might he consider how to rekindle the fires of their affair, flames he had doused with insecurity and doubt.

The door to the neat, spacious burgher home burst open, admitting a gust of wind and a shower of raindrops. Markus Schindler entered amid a flurry of squeals and talk from his four children. He unfastened his cloak and doffed his hat in time to receive a fond kiss from his wife.

Arie sat up but averted his gaze. Envy clawed at him. Since he was old enough to talk, he had wanted to be a famous composer and a respected musician. But at that moment, he wanted nothing more, nothing less, than Mathilda. To be greeted by such warmth and happiness, such open adoration…

The dream twisted powerfully in his gut, taunting him with his mistakes and poor judgment.

Schindler spotted Arie. “What is this? I’m not enough for you, Magda, that you keep a foreign man on my couch?”

“He was not late for supper,” she teased in return. “You are. I like a man who appreciates me well enough to arrive on time.”

“Forgive me, woman.” Kneeling, Schindler took the two youngest children, both girls, into his arms. “I was merely solving the problems of our little corner of the world.”

Arie had learned that Henndorf once accommodated prisoners of war collected by Napoleon’s armies. The difficulties of boarding such an unexpected incursion had tested the small community’s leadership. Patient and fair, Markus Schindler had confronted the challenges, quickly advancing to the position of mayor. In the respect they engendered among their people, Schindler and Venner held much in common. Never having thought of himself as one in need of such examples, Arie held both politicians as models of worth he now wished to emulate.

A brusque knock sounded. Schindler opened the door to admit a soggy stocky man with wet hair plastered to his head. “Herr Schindler?”

“What news? Wait—Mullen? Is that you under so much rain?”

“Ja. Seeking your help, sir, with Venner’s man and the young Frau.”

Schindler shook his head in confusion, but Arie jumped up. Past the ice encasing his lungs, he asked, “Venner? Lord Venner of Salzburg?”

His words halting, Mullen related the day he spent traveling from the Blue Pike tavern.

Alarm gathered in Arie’s brain, demanding action. “And the girl? What is her name? How does she look?”

“Eh? Nice young Frau.”

“Frau Heidel?”

“Ja, that’s her.”

As if his fantasies had come true, only to dissolve into nightmare, Arie grabbed his overcoat and headed for the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Mathilda!”

Arie bellowed into the rain. He strained for any hint of human voices, but the downpour created a wall of unchanging noise. Holding tight to the reins, he steadied his balance and followed Schindler up the muddy slope. He could hardly remember the last time he had sat a horse. Every jerk and twitch of the animal’s hooves on the slippery ground seized Arie’s heart in panic. He was going to fall off the blasted thing.

No, he was going to find Mathilda.

The dinner that had so contented him only a few minutes before now tussled in his stomach. His muscles were leaden, weighed down by weeks of inactivity and very little sleep. Dizziness clouded his vision as effectively as did the slate curtain of rain. He shoved his hair back from his forehead and shouted for Mathilda once again.

He urged his stallion farther up the slope coated with silken mud. The animal’s foreleg slipped, tossing Arie forward. He grabbed thick fistfuls of mane and stayed there, hunched close to the horse’s strong neck, until his heart eased its frantic thump.

“Here!” came Schindler’s voice. Arie could just make out the bright white flanks of the man’s mount.

Arie straightened, his heart jumping for a very different reason. Mathilda. Was she hurt? Would they search the whole mountainside only to come away empty handed? The possibility raised a sickly bitterness in his throat. Too much remained unfinished between them. He needed her safe and whole and his.

Catching up with Schindler, he watched as a familiar shape emerged from out of the rain. “Oliver!” he called, relief giving him an excited strength. “Where’s Mathilda?”

“She’s here!”

After swinging down from the saddle, Arie slogged through inches of mud that sucked at his boots. The chilly rain shoved past the collar of his coat and seeped down his back.

Oliver met him halfway and clapped him on the shoulder. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Maestro.”

Arie managed a wan smile. “Barely. Where is she?”

“Here.”

Venner’s valet led him to the overturned carriage. The rear axle had snapped cleanly in half. Arie glanced down the hillside, which seemed to drop off as neatly as a cliff. The whole carriage could have slid right to the bottom. That no one had been killed seemed a miracle.

He knelt in the mud and peered inside. There, huddled in the oppressive shadows and wrapped in a horsehair blanket, was the woman he loved. “Beste God, Mathilda.”

Her eyes widened. “Arie?”

Before he could take another relieved breath, Arie lifted her out of the carriage and gathered her into his arms. She pressed her face against his bare neck as sobs hiccupped out of her slim torso. “Are you hurt? Mathilda?”

“No, I’m well.”

He could only say her name again and hold her closely. Blood kept a noisy tempo in his ears, but the hard edge of his worry began to ease.

Schindler had managed to light a torch. The sputtering flames cast an unsteady light over his face. “Ah, and so we find you well, Frau Heidel. Good thing, too. This Höllander would’ve worn himself ragged looking for you.”

“I believed someone would find us,” Mathilda said, touching his face, “but I never imagined it would be you.”

She spoke as if he were a knight coming to rescue a fairy-tale princess. Arie shook his head. “I will stick to composing, liefde. I sit a horse like a sack of turnips.”

Arie was nowhere to be found once Frau Schindler had helped Mathilda bathe and change clothes.

“Do not worry yourself,” said the cheerful woman. “A pair of Schindler’s clerks escorted him back to his cabin. He’s resting.”

Mathilda wanted to take Frau Schindler at her word, but she could not help her fretfulness.

Never had she expected Arie to ride to her rescue. He had charged into the night to find her, animated by the significance of his mission. She had been so cold, so stiff. It had been bliss to hold his body tightly as they rode carefully down the slope. He would never be the world’s foremost horseman, that was certain, but he had eased their mount through each harrowing step with a surprising amount of poise and patience. Only upon arriving at the Schindlers’ home did she realize how wan and thin he had become.

But civility and an overwhelming thankfulness kept her from charging out of the house to discover his whereabouts. The Schindlers had opened their home to her and had provided Arie with a place to stay. In gratitude, she endured an informal late supper as anxiety spoiled what food she managed to swallow.

Oliver, by contrast, ate heartily, as did Schindler. He regaled his brood with tales of courageous rescues, using the evening’s events as an opportunity to reminisce about the daring deeds of his youth. While the children tired, his stories grew more and more eccentric to hold their attention. Frau Schindler interjected now and then, correcting or flatly refuting her husband’s tall talk.

After an hour of such merrymaking, she put a stop to the stories and laughter. “’Tis well past bedtime for little ones.”

As the lady of the house worked her bustling magic once again, this time whisking her young quartet to their bedchambers, Schindler pulled a battered and well-used violin down from a parlor shelf.

He offered the instrument to Mathilda. “Give the children a treat.”

“How did you know I play?”

“Herr De Voss.”

Arie talked about her? She wondered what to make of the news. But the sight of Schindler’s violin pinched her stomach. Irritated nerves and fatigue promised a notably poor performance. “Please, Herr Schindler, not tonight.”

“Fine, fine. You can play for us tomorrow.” He tucked the violin beneath his bearded chin. “You’re welcome to stay in one of the guest cabins down by the lake. No one uses them until the summer season. Your man Oliver—I gave him directions. The lad’s done well getting you this far, so perhaps you’ll forgive me if I stay here and let him finish the job.”

Mathilda smiled with relief and gratitude. “Danke, Herr Schindler. For everything.”

Winking, he said, “Consider free music lessons as the most sincere expression of your thanks.”

Her host launched into a hearty, fast-paced jig. His expressivity and energy compensated for an informal technique. Moments later, his wife shushed him from a bedroom. He smiled conspiratorially at his guests before slowing the tempo and deepening the mood. His lullaby bid a tender musical adieu to a day that had been, for Mathilda, one of firsts and surprises.

“Shall we?” Ever courteous, Oliver offered her a blanket to wear in place of her wet, ruined pelisse.

The bright moon waned just past full, lessening the absolute darkness of night and illuminating the liquid surface of Wallersee. Three cabins, each spaced by several hundred yards of tall grasses, ringed the lake’s southern shore.

“This is Herr De Voss’s cabin,” Oliver said.

“And mine?”

He pointed to another single-room structure, dark and deserted. “There.”

Mathilda considered her options. Society said she had but a single path—the path leading to that distant cabin. She should simply continue walking and sleep by herself. When morning came, she would have opportunity enough to talk to Arie. But what her hosts never learned about which cabin she chose would not hurt them. Or her reputation.

“Can you keep a secret, Oliver?”

He did not move from that impassive pose, his arms loosely clasped behind his back like an officer at ease. “I’ve not said a word about the morning you came home at dawn.”

The blunt reminder of that night hitched her breath. “I forgot. My apologies, Oliver. I am in your debt already.”

“No matter,” he said casually. “But you wish to stay with Herr De Voss tonight? I assumed you would.”

“Please, don’t say anything.”

“On my honor,” he said.

“Danke, Oli—”

“But I ask that you do me the same courtesy. Please keep the secret I revealed by the carriage.”

Mathilda shook her head. Fatigue and worry dizzied her senses, leaving her unable to comprehend his request. “You revealed nothing material. I’m left with just enough to make poor conjectures. You seemed to imply that you and Venner are…”

“Brothers?”

He stared at Wallersee, moonlight and shadows accentuating the hawkish quality of his features. In that moment, he appeared older. More reserved. A tight grin, the kind Venner sidled to Ingrid when he thought nobody saw, picked up the corners of his mouth. “Half right, at least,” he said. “But I will appreciate your discretion. The truth is his to reveal, if he so chooses.” Oliver stepped back and bowed formally. “Gute Nacht, Frau Heidel.”

“Gute Nacht, Oliver.”

Bewildered, she watched Venner’s brother retrace his steps to the Schindlers’ house, his lantern held high. The flame progressed down a gentle slope, around a bend and into a copse. Behind those trees hid the sleeping hamlet of Henndorf. And standing by the lake, Mathilda could make no sense of their exchange.

If she didn’t have resources enough to understand Oliver, a man to whom she had no strong emotional connection, what chance did she have of understanding Arie? Or of standing up to him? She had envisioned sharp wits and a ready response to every possible argument, but weariness, shaky nerves and the wonder of his unexpected rescue blunted her indignation. Her anger, her accusations—all gone. She felt clumsy and tired. More than sleep, she simply craved the peace that her love for Arie had yet to afford.

She knocked quietly, and the thin plank board door rattled on its hinges. When Arie did not answer, Mathilda entered the cabin. The too-large boots she had borrowed from Frau Schindler clattered on the wood floor, echoing like beats on a timpani.

Her single candle cast wobbly shadows across every surface. For two weeks, he had lived like a musical hermit. A pianoforte haunted a dark corner. A washing stand and porcelain bowl huddled against a wall. And sprawled on his stomach across the room’s largest piece of furniture, the double bed, Arie De Voss lay fast asleep.

He wore a nightshirt, and a bare leg poked from beneath a quilt he had kicked into disarray. Even in the candlelight, his skin was a stark shade of white. The bones of his wrists, ankles and face stood in shadowed relief. His hair was a nightmare of sandy-brown tangles—the only detail of her maestro’s familiar physical presence to remain unchanged. He appeared a pale ghost of the intimidating man who had performed at the Venners’ ball.

She leaned nearer and brushed a wayward lock of damp hair from his forehead. His smooth skin was cool to the touch and smelled freshly washed.

Kneeling next to the bed, she eased unsteady fingers along the ridge of his brow, down his cheek, to his lips. The faintest smile played across his slack mouth.

“Arie?”

“Bent je daar, Tilda?”

She said his name again. “Can you hear me?”

A sound like a low, sleepy purr rattled from him. “Kom hier en slaap met mij.”

“Arie?”

“I said, come here and sleep with me.” He opened his eyes, cobalt blue, entirely lucid. “You need to learn Dutch, liefde. We can have a secret code.”

Without time for a breath, Arie dragged her across his chest and claimed her mouth with a hungry, restless kiss. Mathilda laced her fingers at the base of his head to imprison her errant lover, to assure herself that he was real, there, kissing her. She nuzzled the skin of his neck, inhaling his scent. Her buzzing brain swam in inebriated spirals, listing.

Anger sucked at her pleasure, but he worked to steal her wits. The stroke of his tongue, the grip of his hands on her thighs—she was losing her mind.

No, lost. A long time ago.

She returned to his mouth for another melting, intoxicating kiss and kneaded Arie’s biceps. As addled as she was, struggling to remember the reasons why she should be furious at the man she kissed with such abandon, his weight loss was alarming.

Mathilda pushed from his body, distancing herself from the maddening source of her every ill and happiness. She had traveled from Salzburg for the first time in twenty-two years of life, and for her troubles, she wanted more than oblivion. She wanted answers.

Drawing on the wrath coiling inside her, she sat upright and scowled. “How hard can I hit you without breaking you in half?”

“You want to hit me?” Breathing evenly through his nose, his apparent indifference infuriated Mathilda. Temptation urged her to reach between his legs and prove that he was not nearly as calm as he tried to appear.

“Of course I do, after what you made me endure.” Her fists clenched reflexively as frustration surged through her muscles and bones. “Take off your shirt.”

He arched his left eyebrow but said nothing. Sitting up, he shrugged out of his nightshirt. In the slanting light of Mathilda’s single candle, the stabbing planes and valleys of his body stood in relief despite his relaxed pose.

“I half believe you starved yourself so I might take pity on you.”

“Do you pity me?”

“No. I want to pummel you, but you refuse me even that satisfaction.”

Arie freed an impish smile. “Perhaps I can provide a different satisfaction?”

“Absolutely not.” She resisted the impulse to scramble away from his grin. That grin was dangerous. His smirking humor was dangerous. She would find no answers if she succumbed to his mirth. “I want words, De Voss. Explanations and apologies. Both.”

He watched her with the very confidence that slipped from Mathilda’s grasp. “And then the satisfaction?”

“Not unless your creative talents include poetry, Maestro.”

“No luck,” he said. “Even in Dutch, I have no talent for words. My mouth, however…”

“And even in German, you make jokes at my expense.”

“No, no, Tilda. For your benefit. I remember how you enjoy my mouth.”

He leaned forward and caught her hands, drawing her closer to the headboard. Searching through the layers of her borrowed gown, he found her bare legs. Mathilda straddled him, atop him. A rush of sexual power caught her unawares. Desire flared between her thighs. She shivered.

But her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Do you know what your leaving did to me?”

Arie stared, tracing the skin of her cheek. “I have an idea.”

Mathilda shuddered at his pointed reminder of the weeks he had spent waiting for her.

“Let me recall,” he said. “Doubt?”

“Yes.”

“Anxiety?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps, a sense of rejection?”

“All of that, yes. Add the fact I had no knowledge of your whereabouts.” A feeling of panic returned, recalling her heart-stopping climb to his studio—hoping to find it abandoned, fearing that he had taken his own life.

Arie stroked the pad of his thumb along a tear she unwittingly shed. “I had no thought of that, schatje. Truly, I did not.”

“Then why?” A sob broke loose from her tense lungs. “To remind me how abandonment feels? I need no reminders.”

“Tilda, that night…I hurt. I cannot—” He choked on his confession, every affectation melting away. “I did not think my leaving would matter after how I had treated you.”

“You were ready to let us go, just like that?”

“At first, no,” he said. “I intended to return to Salzburg and atone for my behavior. But I needed to prove myself, to show you my worth. I needed to do this on my own.”

“Do what?”

“Finish my symphony.”

She stilled. Her eyelids opened wide. Even now, even as angry and heart-sore as she was, Mathilda could not bank her passion for his music. Six years ago, he had hypnotized her from afar. At that moment, touching her legs with idle strokes, he still held her captured.

“You finished?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And what of ‘Mathilda’s Movement’?” Bitterness soured her voice.

“That is private,” he said tenderly. “Yours and mine, and maybe for Jürgen too.”

“But you left it behind.” She described her investigation of his studio with Kapellmeister Haydn. “Why?”

“I—” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. “I wanted to make sure I did not…borrow anything.”

“You would’ve done that? To me?”

The skin along his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose scorched in a hard blush. “I refused to, even after you offered it to me. That is why I left it behind, to avoid an easy means. Now, I know the symphony is…it is mine. That much I can say for certain, good or bad.”

“That’s all it needs to be.”

A curt nod. A quizzical expression. And then resignation. “You are right.”

“Did it help, coming here?” She fought the urge to fidget and twist under the sweet, rhythmic pressure of his hands on her legs.

“The symphony, yes. But wanting you…” He freed a ragged exhale.

Arie wrapped his arms around her, surprising her with the strength of his ardent embrace. Despite the neglect that rendered him thin and exhausted, he was still a man—a man capable of claiming by force all that he desired. Instead, his simple, exhausted sigh pleaded for her mercy. Mathilda stroked his jumbled curls and held him close, his head bowed to her bosom. Her hair fell around his body like a silken curtain. She kissed the top of his head, kissed him again.

“Tilda, I missed you. Forgive me, liefde.”

“Only if you give me your word,” she whispered. “No more of this, Arie. No more leaving.”

“No more leaving.” He nuzzled her throat with kisses of his own. His long, tapered fingers tangled in her hair. When he sighed her name, his breath tickled her neck. “You give me no peace.”

Mathilda caught his face in her hands, refusing to let him look away. “Peace? Is that like satisfaction?”

“Only if you stay.”

“I will if you do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mathilda grinned, a look of wonder and happiness to fill Arie with a warmth he still could not believe he deserved. For weeks and months, desiring and pursuing her had been uncomplicated. She fled from his arms, keeping his love safely one-sided. Now flight was the last thought in her expression. She had come to him, emerging from his delirious dreams as a woman wholly unwilling to relent or flee. And neither did he want her to. He craved her warmth and unfathomable acceptance.

“All I fear in the world is to hurt you.”

“Then love me,” she said. “You remember that? Loving me?”

Each erotic memory competed for his attention. Blood blazed in his groin, and he pressed his hips closer to the cradle of her pelvis. “Of course,” he rasped. “But I remember what I did to you, as well.”

“Leave that to the past, along with all of the rest. You accused me of using Jürgen’s death to hide from you. I will no longer allow you to hide from me.”

She kissed him and Arie succumbed. Her tongue pushed past his lips, thrilling him with dizzying possibilities. Weary of fighting himself, he needed Mathilda. Nothing more. As her warm mouth promised paradise, he relented willingly.

No longer at odds, their tongues collaborated to craft an exquisite kiss of intensity and sweet, beautiful anguish. Arie drowned in sensation. Every touch left him in a frenzy to keep pace with all she offered.

He sank deeper into the mattress, pulling Mathilda across his nakedness like a sensuous blanket. His head grew heavy and sluggish as he basked in her softness, sighs and private curls. She nipped his upper lip and sat up to straddle his torso. At the sight of that erotic goddess—all hidden places and silken tresses—Arie forgot to breathe. She tortured him without mercy.

Lightly, she scored her nails down the length of his chest. “You bony thing. Really, Arie, you must eat more.”

“Do not distract me with petty concerns. I am busy lying in awe of you.” She blushed and lowered thick lashes. “You look quite comfortable up there, liefde. Ever on top?”

“Never.” She leaned across his chest and licked the sensitive hollow behind his ear. “Teach me.”

“Ah, my eager pupil.” He grasped the nape of her neck and brought her mouth to meet his for another eager kiss. Her scent, her warmth, her taste…Mathilda permeated his every sense.

She squirmed and pressed her corseted bosom to his chest. He wanted to see her naked, astride him, but an edgy need denied him the patience to unlace ribbons. Only a tangle of skirts separated his rigid flesh from the welcoming, damp softness of hers. And he had wanted her too much, too long.

With impatient hands, Arie searched beneath her gown to find her bare backside. Ripe flesh tempted him, a wealth of secrets and undiscovered pleasures. Breathless for his lover, he grasped her buttocks and savored her resilient curves. He positioned her pelvis, nestling his aching phallus along her intimate folds. But he did not enter.

Mathilda groaned against his neck. She bucked her hips in an instinctive pattern, wantonly rocking along the length of his erection. Arie watched, transfixed, as she strove for her pleasure, eyes closed, panting. She grasped his shoulders, her head bowed. The maddening cadence of her intimate, demanding caress clawed at his ridiculous attempt to maintain control.

She arched and cried out. With her head thrown back in ecstasy, her unbound hair tickled the tops of Arie’s thighs. He gripped her hips, hard, and urged her to rise on her knees just enough to slide inside. In a harmony of homecoming, his inarticulate sound of building pleasure—the relief of finding himself buried within her once again—matched her long sigh of satisfaction. Hot and slick, she consumed the last of his rational thought. He reared against her tender flesh, senseless and intense, until the shivering burst of his climax jerked his body.

When the haze of pleasure lifted, he found Mathilda collapsed atop him. Her arms were wrapped around his neck. Her hands smelled of her feminine scent, and he turned his head to take two fingertips in his mouth. She gasped and giggled as he teased those sensitive pads with his tongue, tasting her intimate salts. Pulling free, she replaced her fingers with her mouth, lazily exploring him. Her curiosity and gentleness revived his very soul.

“In ordnung?”

“Very fine.” Her voice was gauzy with contentment.

“You are a wonder, liefde. And a quick study.”

Smiling almost shyly, Mathilda shifted to release him from her body and curled against him, in his arms. Minutes, maybe hours passed as their heartbeats returned to normal. Arie breathed. The dread tension of the past months lessened with each cleansing exhale. They dozed, limbs interwoven and enveloped by peace.

Arie eased from sleep. He tightened his arms, reassured by her warmth. She was still there with him.

The candle she brought from the Schindlers’ house had long since extinguished. Only moonlight invaded their sheltered darkness, illuminating the cabin with traces of silver.

He eased her off his chest. Fumbling among the moonbeams, he found a candle and lit it with banked embers in the fireplace. From atop the piano, he retrieved the basket of cheese and bread his hosts had provided for breakfast.

“Tilda?”

She pulled from a groggy sleep, her face slightly lined from the fabric of the pillows.

Arie snuggled behind her and began the patient task of unlacing her stays, freeing her from the prison of the gown. The fabric gaped and sagged in unexpected places. “This is not yours.”

“Rain soaked everything. Frau Schindler gave this to me.” Shrugging her shoulders, Mathilda sighed as he massaged each new revelation of bared skin. “She told me she has no need for it anymore.”

“She enjoys her own cooking too well?”

“I would, too, if I could cook as she does.”

She stood away from the bed. Arie watched, dry-mouthed and entranced, as she wiggled her hips. The dress fell into a heap at her naked feet. Her grin turned unquestionably shy and she dove beneath the covers. Arie joined her within the cocoon of the blanket, and together they made short work of the food.

She worried a piece of bread with her fingers, heedless of the crumbs sprinkling across the quilt. With a look both sharp and vulnerable, she studied his face. “Arie, why did you do it?”

He flinched, startled as if by a gunshot. Lovemaking had loosened the knot of anxiety in his gut, forestalling the inevitable, but he had known her need. “The symphony?”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, nodding. After setting the bread aside, she pulled a corner of the quilt around her nakedness. “The symphony. Everything. You. This is your chance. You know I want to think the best of you.”

His fear multiplied, building a palpable wall between them. “And if you cannot? If I tell you all I thought and felt and you cannot—”

“I need to know.” She touched his shoulder, a simple gesture offering sanctuary and faith—as long as he told the truth. “Try, Arie.”

Against his will, he traveled to a region of his memory he rarely confronted, yet one that continuously shaded his life. Guilt propelled his words, certainly, but as he began to speak, so too did he feel a sense of relief. The privilege of sharing his history was the gift only Mathilda could have provided.

“My father was a merchant’s son who fought against the English, and then with the Dutch patriots.”

Memories of his father burned brightly in his mind: a wide mustache, tight lines around eyes that were Arie’s same color of blue, a voice of surprising expressivity and melody, the scent of stagnant canals and cigars. A pang of sharp remorse and injustice still burned within him, nearly two decades later.

“The English and the Austrians supported the monarchs, and the attempted revolution only increased their vengefulness. My grandfather lost his business selling glazes to potters.” He paused, a shudder overtaking him. “Both he and my father were hanged for treason when I reached six years.”

“Arie,” Mathilda whispered, her face ashen. She tightened her arms around her waist, hugging the quilt close. “I’m so sorry.”

He inhaled, hoping to dispel the tension that always accompanied that image, both beloved men swaying from ropes beneath a hastily erected scaffold in the shadow of the Nieuwe Kerk. Only a breeze laden with the stink of the canals had lent motion to those inert forms, already stiffening in the moments after death.

“My three sisters died as young children. My mother and I traveled to Bruges in Catholic Flanders where she found work as a maidservant. When she died, I had no one.”

Mathilda quietly stroked the length of his forearm, staring as if at a distant landmark. She sat in silence, in contemplation, and forced Arie to fill the distraught void.

“I wanted to be successful, a man to rival the foreign nobles my father had detested…but not to avenge them, not to prove my own worth. No, I thought to escape from my birth and be better than my parents.” His head throbbed—heavy, fat and bursting with malice. “I was a wreck of a boy.”

“And you began to tour?”

“Tour. Drink. Nothing mattered.”

He snorted and shook his head, his hair dipping across his line of sight. He thrust it back. “I performed where I could, no matter the destination. After a year, maybe longer, I arrived in the city of Pest. I had no money, no possessions, just my education and a string of successes in alehouse contests. Maestro Bolyai attended a competition and proposed a partnership.”

“How so?”

“He took me in and he completed my education. About music, about the business of music. I learned how to audition musicians, hire halls and print leaflets. I had no idea what performance taxes were, let alone how to pay them.”

Arie regarded his partner and her engrossed air. He found only sympathy in her hazel depths, an expression that gave him strength. He wanted to push his nose into her hair, breathing, calming himself. But he held fast. He would not touch her yet.

“In return…I think he was lonely.” He laughed, a manic sound of fatigue and worry. “Imagine that, a lonely composer living on his own. I helped with whatever I could, running errands. And I…I worshiped him. He was father and grandfather and teacher. My friend.”

He hunched his chest across his knees and threaded both hands through the hair at his temples. “When he grew ill…”

Throat tight, he could not speak. Seconds passed with the thudding rhythm of heartbeats as Arie worked to regain his composure. When he could not, he spoke past the pain and the building tears. “When he grew ill, I hated him.”

“Hated him? Arie, why?”

“For leaving me alone. Again. I was terrified.” His chest ached with an unrelenting heaviness. “I sat with him in that stifling room for weeks, nursing him, taking dictation for Love and Freedom. He ranted like a madman, humming and conducting an invisible orchestra. He waved his hands and the ropes beneath his mattress shook. Near the end, he could no longer speak. I kept working, trusting that some part of him still knew what he wanted to create.”

Talking threatened to pull him back, back to that foul room. He had wondered which would find satisfaction first: death or his dying maestro’s muse. And he had waited in vain for temptation to pass. Instead, dread and ambition had mingled to form an acid strong enough to erode his principles.

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” Tears blurred his picture of Mathilda. “When he slept, I prayed. I cried. But nothing changed. By the time he died, I thought…I thought I deserved to take it.”

Whereas Arie tried to hide his tears, Mathilda wept openly. “And now?”

“I was right to take it—he would have wanted to share his music. But I was a fool to claim it as my own. An ungrateful, scared fool.”

Her world slipped and spun. Tears fell, wetting her bare forearms.

Arie. Arie. Arie.

Mathilda’s brain throbbed with him, absorbing his confession. She wanted to pull his hair as hard as he did, yanking him and demanding more. More contrition. More regret. She wanted to add to his hurt, to punish him for destroying her idol, smashing it beyond repair. She had believed him a hero, someone beyond the realm of human frailty. But no man had ever looked as piteous as Arie did, hunched and hating himself.

Yet memories remained. Arie at the piano in the Stadttrinkstube. Arie conducting at the Dom, his hands and hair flying. Arie at his studio, coaxing beautiful melodies to life. Beside her and above her and around her—she could not breathe for how she ached for him. For the frightened and lonely boy he had been. For the tormented and lonely man he had become.

Like Mathilda, he had been thrust into a life without security. But she had depended on Ingrid’s family and on Jürgen. She knew the comfort of their affection and care. She knew companionship and loyalty. Although an orphan, she had always had someone.

Sitting across from her on the bed, his chest arched over his knees, Arie was still alone. He believed himself beyond understanding. Even now he prepared for the worst, just as he expected the worst from his own musical efforts. Where she heard magic in his newest compositions, he heard only the failure of falling short of his mentor.

The story explained the curiosities of his character. His contempt for success had little to do with fame, fickle patrons or the difficulties of composition. Instead, guilt haunted him because his best-known work, no matter how many stunning pieces he produced in its wake, had been written by another man.

Renowned, famous, adored—idols needed no one. But Arie…he needed. He needed forgiveness. He needed to prove his worth.

He needed her.

Mathilda sniffed and pushed insistent tears from her cheeks. She reached between them, bridging the chasm with her arms, and patiently unwound his fingers from fistfuls of hair. She petted the distressed brown snarls back, touching, touching again. The quilt dropped from her breasts, but she made no move to replace it.

He turned to burrow his mouth into her palm, kissing her there. “Mathilda,” he rasped against her skin. “I swear, I will make amends.”

She caught his face in her hands and tugged against his lingering shame, forcing him to meet her eyes. “And when you do, I’ll be beside you.”

“I—”

“You don’t need to explain any more, Arie. Grief makes people act strangely. I know that.” Sitting up, she shook her head. “When Jürgen died, I followed the old customs. I washed his body. I rubbed ashes in my hair and slept in rags. At Sebastiankirche, Father Holtz offered his condolences. Neighbor women looked after me while the men buried him. But all the while, I kept waiting for a dark impulse to take hold of me.”

He watched her through a narrowed gaze. His knuckles, gripped in a fist in his lap, clenched to a sickly white. “What impulse?”

“The need to take my own life.”

“Mathilda!”

“I thought it would be inevitable, because I’m my mother’s daughter. Grief would overtake me and I would feel compelled to follow my husband into death.” The mattress wiggled as she shrugged. “Instead, I lived. I wanted to live, even when all I knew was guilt.”

“You cannot be like your mother, Tilda. You are stronger.”

“I don’t know that.”

“I do.” Pulling her arm, gently, he urged Mathilda into his embrace. A grim resolve covered his features, almost obscuring the fear that she would refuse him. But she went willingly, and he tightened his loving hold. “Why did you wait until now to ask? Why not after Frau Schlick’s concert, when you knew?”

Bunched muscles eased as she petted his forearms. “You want to know why I stayed with you that night, regardless of what I had learned?”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid, too.” Her breathing quickened even within the safety of his arms. Although the tension between them had somewhat dispelled, the pain and uncertainty of those days, those thoughts, threatened to resurface. “If I could no longer believe in you, what did I have left? I liked to think I could forgive anything, but it was safer not to ask at all.”

“You have done much of that, forgiving me.”

She pinched the back of his hand. “Don’t make a martyr of me. I did so out of necessity. To discover your flaws would’ve pulled down all of my fantasies. I would’ve lost the picture of you that had sustained me, needing to grieve all over again.”

“And now?”

“You’re a mess. And so am I. We are doomed, but we are together.”

She turned in his arms and traced the curve of Arie’s cheekbones, down to his mouth. His smile vanished, stealing her pulse.

“Arie, what is it?”

“I want to marry you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mathilda’s heart fluttered with a weightless zeal. She giggled, and she laughed all the harder when his face fell. “Wanting is not having, Maestro. Nor is it wooing.”

“I beg your pardon,” he replied theatrically. “I am a brutish lout.”

“Don’t be absurd. The more rudely you behave, the easier it might be to dismiss your genuine feeling should I reject you.”

The muscles of Arie’s torso and upper arms constricted. “Will you reject me?”

“I know not,” she said. “I won’t be able to show my face in society beside a man who sits a horse as poorly as you do.”

“You vex me.”

“Becoming your wife will not change that.” She pulled him close for a deep kiss, taking his lower lip in her teeth. He groaned and gripped her thighs. “Will you love me? Always?”

With a conquered sigh, he leaned back and dragged her across him. He smoothed long strands of hair away from her face. “I will love you always.”

Her heart thumped in a crazy rhythm at his words, his touch, his loving desperation. “Say it again.”

“Ik zal altijd van je blijven houden.”

“Yes.”

“To what?”

“Anything you ask.”

“You will marry me?”

She marveled at the near frantic tone of his rumbling voice. That he loved her so deeply, that he could still be so uncertain of her response, amazed her. Her single, breathless word was a vow. “Yes.”

“Goed.”

He arched her body and took a bare nipple into his mouth. She gasped. He groaned. With restless hands, she clenched the flesh of his buttocks, pulling his hips toward hers as they sank into the mattress. Arie hardened in moments, pressed against her thighs. He teased and suckled, and she squirmed against him in mindless response.

Opening her legs, letting him enter—nothing had ever been so effortless.

She lost herself in the drowsy rhythm of his thrusts. Feeling wanton and feline, secure, she sighed. Returning to each other, feeling cleansed of ghosts and pains, revealed a happiness she had never known. Their passion had been a torture of insecurities and hesitancy, but this…this was easy and deep. Unhurried.

Enchanted by the calm, resonant emotion intensifying her desire, she floated on gathering waves. She twisted toward the sources of her delicious torment: his lunging shaft and his mouth at her breast. He surrounded her, invaded her. His rumbling whispers danced in her ears. He nipped and tugged, his teeth at her nipple, until jagged sparks raced through her veins.

When Arie lifted his head, she groaned in frustration.

His knowing laugh mocked her need. “I am not the only one who likes biting.”

In retaliation, she bit down on his shoulder. He bucked into her, deeply, his breath a spiky exhale of rough pleasure. She bit again, and he pushed her into the pillow, imprisoning her with a harsh kiss. His hips accelerated, the edge of his desire becoming sharp and forceful.

She recognized the change in his tempo. His hips beat in a building, frantic rhythm. His hands became demanding, clutching, possessing. “Easy,” she whispered.

“God, Tilda, I love you.”

She laughed softly. “You still do not trust that I will stay. You cannot believe you are worth this. Being happy.”

“I will. Give me time.”

“My point exactly. We have time.”

She stroked his hips, his lower back. When he kissed her mouth, he tasted of the berries they had shared upon waking. She sighed and wondered at the seductress who sounded so much like Mathilda Heidel. “I do like the biting, I think. Makes me wonder if you like touching yourself.”

His hips stilled entirely. He collapsed against her on the mattress, his body shaking. He was laughing.

Mathilda transformed from a seductress into a silly innocent in the span of two sentences. She smacked him on the shoulder. “What?”

“How do you think I survived these months?” His wicked grin could have set the room alight. “Music can sustain me only so long.”

The heat of a vicious blush covered her face and bosom, but she refused to be intimidated. In fact, the idea of Arie touching himself sparked her imagination.

“Show me.”

The mirth drained from his face. His breathing roughened, quickened. Flexing within her, he said, “I have no thought to leave you right now.”

“You’ll be allowed to return.” She pushed harder against the lanky wall of his body. His expression remained dubious—intrigued, but dubious. “Do this for me.”

Arie pulled away. The depths he had filled with such magnificent completion were left hollow and wanting. But kneeling astride her, above her—blatant and immodest—he grinned. His mischievous, watchful eyes challenged her to break the hold of his gaze and feast, instead, on his brazen display.

Mathilda accepted his unspoken dare. She lowered her lids until every thought centered on his hand rubbing up and down the hard length of his arousal. Steam replaced blood in her veins. Hips thrust slightly forward, Arie’s stance was one of such intense male eroticism that a dizzy heat twirled through her body. He captivated her, tugging and clenching his rigid shaft, circling his palm over the head and tightening his buttocks in time with his strokes.

Arrogant. Hard. Shameless.

His lips turned up in an arrogant smirk. “Is this what you want to see?”

She mumbled something, its meaning inarticulate even to her own distracted mind. Yes…hypnotized.

“Now you,” Arie said. “Knees up.”

Complying, impatient to join him in their adventurous game, Mathilda bent her knees. She found her slippery apex and matched his tempo. With her free hand, she flicked and pulled her nipples, teasing them both until Arie relented first. He abandoned their torturous sport. With a guttural curse, he hooked her knee in the crook of his elbow and plunged. His thrusts neared cruelty, but he gave as much as he claimed.

And greedy, she wanted more. She was his. Her body became his domain. The pure, free delight of their union overwhelmed her doubts. She flew past the obstacles that had bound and frustrated her. No thought. No hesitation. When she came, the surprise and ruthless joy of her climax shuddered over and around her.

At Mathilda’s gasp, Arie surged and thumped, taking what he needed from her willing depths. A last, potent thrust coincided with a groan that broke in his throat. His body convulsed and sagged atop hers, limp and sated.

She shifted slightly, stretching her legs along either side of his as he withdrew. She hugged him fiercely, utterly overcome by the pleasure of her discovery. Disbelieving, she giggled. “Number ten.”

Propping on an elbow, only inches above her, he looked at her with an expression of happy awe. “You will get used to that.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Three nights later, Mathilda watched the sun sink below the horizon. Its rays painted red and gold across the tranquil waters of Wallersee at the northern edge of Henndorf. She stood transfixed, marveling at the sight. Village fishermen stowed their boats and nets for the night. Their rough laughter and the cadence of their speech blended with the sounds of the countryside to create a pastiche of a whole other sort of existence.

Through Mathilda’s entire life, dusk began when the sun dipped below the ever-watchful cliffs of Mönchsberg. Her sequestered existence within the Altstadt—at first accidental and then, following Jürgen’s death, voluntary—had pressed her against the heights of mountains and buildings. Her seclusion kept her from enjoying the simple beauty of a sunset.

Among other things.

Although her heart still ached at the memory of his flight to the country, Mathilda had to admit that Arie had inadvertently introduced her to the world beyond Salzburg. Only twelve tiny miles from her city, she acknowledged the extent of her immobilizing fears and how isolated she had been.

She glanced at where Arie drowsed, fully clothed, in the tall grasses surrounding their cabin. He needed rest after the sleepless, blissful nights they had shared. The deep gold of the sun’s diminishing power bronzed his skin. Gone was his sickly pallor, and after another few days of Frau Schindler’s meals, his unhealthy thinness would reverse as well.

Contentment swelled in her breast until she could hardly stand to look at his relaxed face. Unrivaled happiness empowered her with a sense of liberation and strength.

But Arie’s lax pose and his idle contentment concealed his remaining doubts.

From the lake, she crossed the wide pasture and knelt next to her fiancé. “Are you ready to walk down for supper?”

Arie opened his eyes. “I am full from lunch still.”

“And I’m indifferent to your excuses,” she said. “You’ll not be able to conduct if you are lightheaded from lack of sustenance.”

“I survived last night just fine, wielding a much larger baton.”

She shrieked, landing atop him in a fit of laughter. “Terrible!”

Arie kissed her soundly. “You will forgive me. I am the foreign man and know not the words to say.”

“Fiend! I’ll be appalled if your knowledge of my language expands to include bawdy puns.” She sat away from him and arranged her skirts over crossed knees. Arie tried to snake a hand beneath her gown, but she swatted him away. “And to think I was going to ask you loving questions of concern and offer my unwavering support.”

“And now?”

Mathilda sighed, regarding him thoughtfully. “Is it time to go home?”

He said nothing. A look of panic flashed across his sharp features.

“I know that expression, Maestro.”

“What?”

“Where you dwell on your inadequacies and think less of yourself.”

Arie laughed. He drew closer and stroked the necklace hanging from her neck. “Maybe your pendant does not give you magic, witch. It is this chain.”

“Don’t tease,” she said. “I still have much to confess without adding the charge of witchcraft to my sins.”

“Be content in the knowledge that, in saving your soul, you will also give some hapless priest a most memorable hour.”

“You are insolent, sir!”

Throughout the days and nights she had shared with Arie since her arrival, she learned to shake free of the reflexive embarrassment fostered by his suggestive teasing. They taught each other to be permissive and experimental, and she refused to relinquish that freedom and excitement. With Arie, together, she would never need to.

Yet, he still faltered.

She took his hands. “Let us rehearse the symphony tonight. Maybe it will ease your apprehension to have my support.”

“I thought your support was unwavering.”

“It was, until you started with the nasty puns. Come, Arie, you know I’m curious. Share it with me.” She scowled when he offered nothing but a grimace. “Oh, I know that look, too.”

“Now what?”

“You wear that same expression whenever you perform a new piece for me. You look…expectant, hesitant.” She pointed her forefinger and made little circles. “And a bit annoyed around the eyes because you dislike your uncertainty.”

“You know my face so well?”

“Of course. I know that look because I anticipated it every week. I felt important when you performed a new piece, a work no one else had heard. You needed me.”

“I do,” he said, reaching for her.

Mathilda shook her head in protest. “Our situations did not equate. You were my teacher. Any criticism or encouragement from you determined the rest of my week, ill or fine. More than just my music became yours to direct and shape.”

“Whereas I wrote my symphony because that was all I could manage. I sat in my frozen flat for months, burning alive for you. My symphony…I was biding time.”

“Nonsense.”

“I do not exaggerate,” he said. “I had nowhere to direct my frustrations. That is why you remain my muse.”

“Fine,” she said, smiling. “I will be your muse, and you will be my idol. If we can make room for two in that tiny bed of yours, surely we can share a pedestal.”

At the piano, he waited. The echoes of music faded. Anticipation ran excruciating circuits through his veins, hammering in his heart.

Mathilda’s eyes shone with formidable emotions. She humbled him with her admiration and pride.

She loves me.

And with a clearer certainty than any he had known, Arie believed. He believed that she returned his love with the same ardor and devotion. Not even their nights of passion and promises had convinced him so absolutely.

But still he waited. He wanted to hear the words that would sustain him through the ordeal he had yet to bear.

“Breathtaking, mijn liefde.”

Arie exhaled in abject relief. “Then, yes. It is time to go home.”

PART THREE

…Ah, it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt called upon me to produce, and so I endured this wretched existence…

Ludwig van Beethoven, “The Heiligenstadt Testament”
Written to his brothers, October 1802

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Arie shifted on the settee and fought the urge to yank free of his cravat. Across the room, Lady Ingrid Venner regarded him with as much affection as she would an ice storm. Unwavering, her gaze locked with his. The flowering young noblewoman he met in January had transformed into marble.

No, marble could not glare with such withering precision.

“Frau Heidel has related the details of your…excursion to Henndorf,” she said. “However, I understand that you would like to relate matters of concern to Lord Venner?”

Arie stifled an ungracious snort. Adjacent to the young woman, seated behind his massive oak desk, the esteemed Lord Venner perked briefly at the mention of his name. Then he returned to his papers. Known throughout Salzburg as a man of will and vision, Venner presented a different picture within the private walls of his town home. With regard to the arts in general, and Mathilda specifically, Lady Venner held absolute sway.

This is going to be excruciating.

But Mathilda sat beside him. Although he would not take her hand, her nearness bolstered him against her best friend’s protective wrath.

He cleared the rough scrape of tension from his throat. “Before gossip has a chance to make a case against me, I wish to speak with Lord Venner and offer the truth.”

Again, the nobleman lifted his head. “Can you stop, both of you? We all know Ingrid is responsible for matters of patronage.”

Lady Venner glanced at Mathilda with an amused smirk before returning her cool green eyes to Arie. “Continue, sir. Bitte.”

She had married into the aristocracy little more than a year before, but her ability to transform the word please into a command demonstrated titled perfection. Mathilda glared at their hostess.

“My lady, information regarding my early musical career will come to light before long.” Arie surveyed every word for grammatical accuracy, hoping to appear especially refined and capable. “Your family’s patronage is very important to me. My intention is to acquaint you with the details before they are known to the public.”

At this provocative introduction, even Venner cocked his head. Arie took another deep breath before relating, briefly, the history of his association with Sándor Bolyai.

Lady Venner’s eyes widened and sparked between him and Mathilda. “You did not compose Love and Freedom?”

He sighed, his chest tight. “I did not. However, as Frau Heidel and Kapellmeister Haydn can both attest, the remaining catalogue of my work is my own.”

“Is this correct, Frau Heidel?”

On Lady Venner’s face, beneath her words, he read another question. Why didn’t you tell me?

Mathilda’s answering expression was unflappable and serious, even if her exaggerated decorum was not. “Yes, Lady Venner. He tells the truth.”

“Oh stop it, Tilda.” She abruptly dropped her starched formality. “You…you’re reconciled to this?”

“Herr De Voss made a mistake in his youth for which he is willing to publicly atone. That is good enough for me.”

Lady Venner narrowed a sharp stare at both of them. “And despite your admission, sir, you wish to retain our patronage?”

“Yes, my lady,” Arie said. “I have much to prove. My symphony is ready to debut, and I will be grateful for your assistance.”

As Lady Venner considered the situation, a smothering stillness crept into the room. Arie waited. Mathilda nearly squirmed.

“Give him our assurances, Ingrid.”

All heads turned toward Lord Venner and his quiet command.

Arie shivered in recognition. In his dealings with the Venners, he had often seen the nobleman display impatience and a slight awkwardness. The topic of music did not suit him. But when their discussion of the arts transformed into a matter of business, Venner’s shrewdness reigned. His magnetism and soft-spoken power explained much of his success among the principality’s political elite.

Only a simpleton would mistake the chilling authority in his voice, and Lady Venner had always struck Arie as particularly clever.

“Of course, my lord.” The acquiescence, without sarcasm or teasing, sounded peculiar coming from such an assertive young woman.

“And you, De Voss,” the nobleman said, “you will not breathe a word of your secret outside this room.”

Puzzled glances mirrored across the room. A reflex of indignation surged in Arie’s chest. “My lord, with all respect—”

Venner ignored him, watching his wife. “You want to ask why, yes, Ingrid?”

She nodded.

“In my own home,” he muttered. “Explaining myself to women and to staff. What would my father make of this lack of authority?” Only Venner’s amused glance toward Mathilda eased the sting of his dour complaint. “Because speculation about his sudden flight from town will increase his prominence, no matter the quality of his latest work. And Mathilda’s debut will amplify that interest.” He assessed Arie, reducing the composer to the strength and assurance of a fatherless six-year-old lad. “Will you marry her, De Voss?”

Lady Venner’s unsophisticated expression of surprise was worth every uncomfortable moment. Arie could not suppress the little smile creeping along his lips. “I have asked Frau Heidel to marry me, and she has accepted. We have only to discuss the date with Father Holtz.”

His wife squeaked, but Venner only nodded. “Congratulations. And all the better to foster your reputation.”

“My lord, I take offense at the notion that I will marry to garner publicity.”

“Don’t mistake me, De Voss. I understand your motives perfectly. Frau Heidel is lovely, and I wish you both joy. But the fact remains that your union to a prodigy—a former student, as well—will be an object of gossip. A little scandal will not harm your career in the end, and interest in your symphony will increase accordingly.”

Arie’s face stiffened at the man’s clinical assessment. “And what of your request regarding Love and Freedom?”

“That was no request. That was a condition of employment.”

Mathilda watched him, he knew, but he would not look at her. Venner held his full attention, although due to the ire he inspired or because of the forbidden hope flaring at the man’s words, Arie could not say. “Explain yourself, please, my lord.”

“Ingrid and Mathilda, both, are convinced of your worth. We supported you accordingly. Your symphony is the product of our conviction. What will come of our investment if you cast doubt on your work?” He stood from his desk and sat on the arm of the chair Lady Venner occupied, a position that permitted him to look down at his companions—intentionally, no doubt. “Pay no mind,” he said. “That was rhetorical. Your career would be forfeit.”

Arie had never heard him speak at such length. Both women gaped, with matching expressions of bewildered surprise creasing their brows.

“If I studied music for a century,” Venner said, “I would remain unable to discern your compositions from those of the Kapellmeister. When I see a conductor standing before an orchestra, I assume the work is his. I don’t ask questions. But if you open this door of doubt to the public…”

Arie clung to his indignation, lest Venner’s cool authority excuse and extend his fraud. “You are asking me to continue lying?”

“De Voss, they will never regard you with integrity again. Your career will be ruined before it rightly begins.” He trained a sad smile on Mathilda. “Marriage will become a rather precarious enterprise without an income.”

Grinding his teeth, Arie sought his touchstone. Mathilda watched him with inquisitive patience, although her face obscured any opinion regarding Venner’s orders. Her hazel eyes offered nothing but an ambiguous confidence in his decision, one she refused to make on his behalf.

A desperate part of him wanted to accept the seductive entreaty, but…to continue the charade? He did not know if he could perpetrate the pretense he had lived for years, not after setting his mind toward honesty. How could he continue to benefit from Maestro Bolyai’s work, even when admitting to his crime entailed such ominous consequences?

“Consider your silence the extent of your earthly punishment,” Venner said, as if reading Arie’s thoughts. “And as for penance, you will find a way to make right your mistakes.”

Of the many aristocrats Arie had known, from patrons to the nobles who had brought about the destruction of his family, Venner alone demonstrated a singular candor. Arie had once believed the man’s candor to be the mechanizations of a highly skilled politician. But a longer acquaintance belied his initial suspicions. Venner’s strength stemmed from business, but his humanity stemmed from his family. Arie had hoped to keep from disappointing him, not necessarily because of his influence and wealth, but because Venner appealed to him as a true man of character.

But could the nobleman be right?

Three sets of eyes scrutinized him with varying degrees of concern. Resigned, he decided to accept Venner’s stipulations and hold his tongue, no matter how galling. But he would determine a way to atone for his mistake.

He struggled for the right posture of dignity and contrition. “Thank you, Lord Venner. I appreciate your support.”

“Good. I’ll be pleased when you take this lovely Frau off our hands,” he said, angling his head toward Mathilda. “Perhaps then I’ll regain a place as my wife’s favorite companion.”

“Hardly.” But the flirtatious tilt of Lady Venner’s lips belied her retort.

Even as he returned his wife’s ardent gaze, briefly opening a window to the contentment they shared, Venner returned his thoughts to business. “Enough. Out. All of you. I have less dramatic work to which I must attend, or else there will be no income for food—let alone patronage.”

Arie and Mathilda stood to leave. As Lady Venner escorted them to the parlor door, she said, “Herr De Voss, a last question.”

He raised his eyebrows, tense and wary.

“Lord Venner gave you the choice between complete honesty and your future in music. You made a practical decision.” Forearms crossed, she tapped her elbow with a pair of fingers. “But if he had the power to make you choose between Frau Heidel and your career, what would your answer be?”

Mathilda stiffened, her face a horror of indignation. “Ingrid! You have no right.”

“He wants our family’s money, Tilda. I have the right to ask questions.”

“But I would never ask or issue such an ultimatum,” Mathilda said. “And neither has Venner the power to do so.”

“You do not have to ask, dearest, when you have me.”

“Small favors.”

“Answer if you please, Herr De Voss.”

Despite Mathilda’s obvious irritation, Arie found no displeasure. Coping with the consequences of his mistakes, finding the humility to ask for patronage—those topics invaded his nightmares. Admitting to his love for Mathilda, however, was like breathing. Effortless.

“I will compose music for the rest of my life,” he said, “no matter the extent of my professional career. But my life without Mathilda will be short and miserable. I will accept no further questions on the subject, Lady Venner, not even from my patrons.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mathilda stood at the foot of the stairs leading to Carabinierisaal, where she would perform in less than ten days. Her heart knocked an uneven beat. Excitement and nauseated nerves alternated with a slow-burning dread, but at that moment, stubborn fear paralyzed her legs. Sweating palms slipped when she gripped the handle of the case containing Arie’s beautiful violin, his gift to her to mark her debut.

Up those stairs, more than two dozen musicians awaited the first rehearsal of her maestro’s new composition, and each of those musicians was a man. She questioned her aspirations because, staring at the mountain of stairs and contemplating the determination she required, the strain appeared too great.

“You’re deep in thought, Frau Heidel.”

Stüderl walked to her side with shuffling steps, divested of his formal wig. Sunlight through massive windowpanes glared off his bald head. He radiated an excitement Mathilda could not share.

“Guten Tag, Konzertmeister.”

He bowed and glanced up the stairs her legs refused to climb. “Considering a change of profession so soon?”

Mathilda smiled weakly. She liked Stüderl, valuing his long experience. “How do you remain calm?”

He beamed, his face crinkling into good-natured wrinkles. “My mentor once told me a secret. It’s only music.”

“I wish someone had told me before.”

“In the future, when you’re Konzertmeister for some fortunate establishment, remember that.”

She shook her head to dispute his prediction. “You do me compliment, sir.”

“Certainly.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Cavernous Carabinierisaal loomed at the top of the stairs, replete with the gilt trimmings and lavish décor Mathilda recalled from the night of Frau Schlick’s performance. Thick velvet hangings absorbed the sound of their feet striking the marble floor, a feature to limit distracting echoes during musical performances. Only musicians’ chairs and music stands bunched at the far end. She tried to imagine how the room would appear on the night of the concert, packed with row after row of seats, but the thought seized her throat.

Roughly twenty musicians milled around the sparse furnishings, every man as varied as the instruments he played. Old, young, thin, heavy…their compulsion to stare at Mathilda provided the diverse professionals with their single common trait.

The word only drummed at her temples. Only woman. Only newcomer. Only the composer’s lover. Her neck and ears grew hot. Having endeavored to make her life unremarkable, she now intended to stand among veteran performers, asking to belong. What had she been thinking, agreeing to Arie’s mad scheme?

Despite weeks of schooling her nerves to accept unfamiliar exposure and criticism, her lifetime of fears threatened to overwhelm any joy she might have found. None of her anxieties were mirrored in those assessing eyes, their expressions ranging from intrigued to disdainful. The musicians, secure in their place within the court orchestra, stood with surefooted arrogance, when she would turn and run at the first chance. Born of long association, their solidarity united them against her unexplained arrival.

But another only offered reprieve. It’s only music.

Glancing at Stüderl, she breathed easier.

And she took comfort in what she knew—the things they could not yet imagine. She knew Arie, and after a week of intense practice, she knew his symphony. Insistent repetition had filled her remarkable memory with countless melodies and audacious, untried harmonies. His composition tested boundaries and broke new ground. These men, for all their confidence and haughty unanimity, knew nothing of what he would require.

But where was he?

Arie, like a man beckoned by her flashes of dread, strode across the long expanse of marble. Another dozen men carrying assorted pieces of musical equipment followed him, the sight of which drew more questioning stares than had Mathilda’s unexpected arrival.

At least until after the concert, she and Arie had agreed to keep their engagement a secret. The sight of her maestro, however, captivated Mathilda. She made no effort to hide her admiration. There, inside the man who worshiped her, lived a self-possessed, almost haughty conductor. An exotic creature. Well-dressed and fanatically groomed, he radiated strength of purpose. He had banished familiar aspects of his personality—confusion, loneliness, mockery—to create a new male animal forged of equal parts determination and passion.

She had seen his passion. She had been tugged by its irresistible draw. But at that moment, Arie reserved his intensity for his newest creation, the task of bringing it into being. Far from jealous, Mathilda allowed the spell of his magnetism to envelop and fortify her. In the hall, in front of those musicians, he was a leader and an innovator. A man without equal. Without peer. And she could not deny the need to watch.

His heart-stopping blue eyes met hers. Paired with that teasing, arched eyebrow, the smallest possible smile invited her into his world. Irresistible melodies and frustrating doubts swirled to nothingness. He dared her to recall how they occupied the hours they did not devote to music. Kisses, touches, eager bodies—they had learned each other as thoroughly as she had learned his new composition. Together they had reveled in the steady, unshakable comfort of their love.

And in front of an audience of forty, she thought that keeping their secret might prove nearly as arousing as acting on their passion.

With what appeared to be the reluctance Mathilda shared, Arie emerged from their private realm. He stopped beside the conductor’s stand, and the other musicians fanned behind him.

“Guten Tag.” His distinctive accent pulsed through the hall. He gestured for the court musicians to take their seats, but another dozen chairs remained empty. “From your scores, you will see that this symphony requires more performers.”

Dozens of hands rifled through sheaves at their stands. Perplexed frowns repeated across every face. Inwardly, Mathilda smiled with no small satisfaction. If they were confused now…

Arie gestured to the men gathered behind him. “I hired these men to satisfy the remaining elements. Please make room and introduce yourselves.”

She had known that he intended to hire extra performers, but she knew nothing of where he had discovered them. Maybe university students? Church musicians? Filling the remaining seats, they appeared far less refined and proud than their courtly counterparts.

Mathilda surveyed the orchestra. To her left sat the violinists with eight musicians for each of the first and second parts. A pianoforte occupied the space to their rear. As Konzertmeister, Stüderl settled into the chair nearest the conductor’s stand. Four cellists and two bassists sat on the right, behind the six-man viola section. Woodwinds and brass comprised the center of the assembly where a pair of musicians represented each of six instruments. Because symphonies generally required only a single performer for those parts, the paired musicians eyed each other with thinly concealed suspicion. A single timpanist stood, surrounded by four drums, at the back of the ensemble.

A total of forty musicians.

At the conductor’s stand, Arie immersed himself in arranging his massive score. Mathilda waited, standing. When the musicians tired of staring at their conductor, they returned questioning stares to her. Next to Stüderl, only one chair remained empty.

“Herr De Voss?”

Pulled from his reverie, he offered his private smile again. Her breath labored and slowed. She wanted to ruffle the hair he had arranged to such meticulous neatness. “And me?” she asked.

“Ah, yes, Frau Heidel. What to do with you?”

He stepped from the platform and bowed. No trace of familiarity or intimacy colored his physical behavior, but his voice taunted her with unsaid promises and delicious threats. Arie turned to the orchestra and made a last introduction.

“This is Frau Heidel. We musicians like to talk, so doubtless you have heard rumors of her talent. Believe all of it.” His open praise shot a flame of pride down to Mathilda’s toes. “Herr Stüderl retains his place as Konzertmeister and first violin, but Frau Heidel will perform the cadenzas.”

Cadenzas served to display the improvisational talents of a virtuoso. Within the court musical establishment, only the first chair violinist filled those musical voids. Arie’s unusual announcement set off a flurry of whispered speculations. Knowing glances flew from Mathilda’s face to his.

Their intention to maintain a secret engagement might be for naught.

Perhaps to surprise the gossips, or perhaps because he could not stand at her side without indulging himself, Arie placed a possessive hand at Mathilda’s lower back. As a proper gentleman, he escorted her to the vacant chair beside Stüderl.

And then it was time to work.

Little by little, each musician acquainted himself with the score, learning his part and absorbing the scope of Arie’s creation. For her part, Mathilda worked to sight-read in reverse. She practiced matching the notes ringing in her head and radiating from her fingertips to the sheet music. The black mash of scrawls on parchment scorned her efforts, but the beauty she heard and created urged her to keep pace.

Grumbling at her flailing struggle, she became aware of a harrowing noise arising from her colleagues. Snatches of melody and familiar rhythms skittered through the hall. Dissonant, random crashes of sound mingled with the jabber of ideas and questions, frustration and laughter. They had not yet congealed into anything of substance or splendor, but the elements existed, waiting for Arie to pull them close. The process captivated her.

Mathilda had never seen Arie perform instruments other than the piano and cello. All morning he flitted between sections to demonstrate various passages. She watched without concealing her interest. Only at the timpani did he prove unskilled, articulating his intentions by pounding the drums with bare hands. His aptitude for oboe, flute and the brass impressed her, and even the experienced veterans wore expressions of grudging approval.

But more than his proficiency with each instrument, Arie impressed her with his leadership. Everything from his posture to the clear, authoritative sound of his voice indicated his utter control over the proceedings. The men did as he asked and more.

She smiled at the contrast between this commanding individual and the leering, drunken composer she had encountered in January. He would balk at her idolization, but there, in the world he fashioned out of resolve and talent, Arie De Voss was the hero she had imagined.

He arrived to instruct the violins. The sight of her instrument of choice in his hands charmed her. Although highly skilled with regard to technique, he played with a cursory lack of passion. She recognized little of the adoration and attention he dedicated to his piano performances.

Arie must have recognized her assessment. He returned the violin to her hands, tossing her an expression like a shrug. “Now you know why I play piano.”

Following those preliminary hours of practice and dissemination, the orchestra departed for a midday meal. Upon their return, Arie resumed his position on the conductor’s stand. He tapped his baton against the wooden lectern and nodded to the Konzertmeister.

Stüderl pulled his bow across the strings of his violin, sounding a long, steady A. The remaining string musicians tuned their instruments against that note. At the center rear of the semicircle of musicians, the first clarinetist did the same for the woodwinds and brass. That single note droned until the pitch became a consistent pulse across the entire orchestra, bringing them together.

Arie tapped his baton again and nodded to Mathilda.

The melody began as quietly as a spring rain, the sound of melting snow mingling with the dripping, pattering drops of an unpredictable sky. Crocuses in bloom. Early morning. Spring, when the possibilities of a new season rise like mist over a lake. Clean. Honest. Renewing.

But too soon, clouds pulled close and built into a storm.

Forty other instrumental voices joined Mathilda’s violin as Arie navigated the musicians through a furious eruption of sound. Notes amassed with the fury of a sudden tumult. As the creation descended into anger, confusion and doubt, Mathilda’s left hand flew across the fingerboard. Where there had been flowers and light, only sadness remained. Losing the impression of springtime made the ensuing despair intolerable.

Overwhelming minutes later, a glimmer of light returned. The hopeful melody repeated as a timid reflection of itself. The journey into night, into anguish, created indelible shadows of regret around what had been an optimistic beginning. Arie urged his ensemble to narrate the musical chronicle of innocence lost, betrayal and a hesitant reawakening. The melody revisited the light it had known but with trepidation and a reluctant spirit.

The first movement finished like a question.

The heady power of her experience beat through Mathilda, sensitizing the tips of her fingers and leaving her out of breath. All around, musicians smiled and chattered. Enthusiasm for the striving new music had replaced every look of doubt and confusion. Arie’s composition taxed their skills and challenged conventional techniques. No trite minuet or quiet concerto, his symphony would never serve as background music at a wealthy dinner party. He dared them to be bold.

At the conductor’s stand, Arie shared none of the musicians’ affable appreciation. He simply nodded his head. “And again.”

Late that night, Arie held her in the darkened intimacy of his bedroom. Mathilda clung to him, serene and drowsy in the aftermath of their passion.

Arie, however, could not rest.

The surprising success of rehearsals did little to quell the doubts abrading his peace. He feared that an audience would only hear a collection of attempts and insecurities—or worse yet, his abiding guilt.

“You’re not sleeping.” Mathilda’s lethargic voice rumbled in her throat like a purr. “I must have done something wrong. You should be as exhausted as I am.”

“You exhausted me greatly.”

But she was right, despite his protest. No matter the oblivion he sought in her arms, within the paradise of her body, his anxieties refused to dispel. The orchestra fared well with the first movement, and they would undertake the remaining three movements over the subsequent week. The concert loomed, a matter of mere days.

“I think I understand them now,” she said.

“Who?”

“My parents.”

Arie roused, wanting to see her. “You did not before?”

She shook her head softly. Her dark hair splayed along the pillow, contrasting with the white linens. “I had no means of empathizing because I hadn’t been in love. I was just a lonely girl.”

“What did you think of them?”

Her face lustrous and pale, she frowned. “Because I was not raised a Jew, I imagined the worst of my father. I thought he must have been some sort of villain, or that he kidnapped or seduced my mother.”

He laughed gently. “Probably the latter.”

She smiled against his chest before sobering again. “But no matter what I imagined, I couldn’t deny the outcome. My mother took her own life. She knew that no one remained to care for me. I had no guardians, no income. And yet she followed him in death—just as she had followed him from Brunswick.”

“How did you come to be with Lady Venner’s family?”

“Frau Seitz, Ingrid’s late mother, was born Johanna Hoyer. She’d been my mother’s personal maid when they lived in Helmstedt, and she accompanied my parents when they settled here.” Her expression drifted like an unmoored boat. “When my mother’s family refused me, Frau Seitz convinced her new husband to take me in. He was new to money and not pretentious in the least. I…Oh, God, I was lucky.”

“And Lady Venner was born later?” At Mathilda’s answering nod, he said, “I can understand your shared affection, then.” He kissed the arch along her slender, bare neck, but melancholy wedged between them. “Your mother…she loved your father.”

“Yes. She loved him enough to turn away from her family, enough to marry a man outside her religion and deny her inheritance. I thought maybe her life at home had been intolerable, or that she’d been mistreated.”

“No.”

“No. You’re right.” She exhaled with a laugh. “But I sympathize with the poor woman. I wonder how long she denied them both. How terrified she must have been!”

“Not just her, I think.” He pulled her flush to his body, kissing her nose and her cheeks. “He was a Jewish musician, yes? Pursuing a Catholic nobleman’s daughter? Reserve a little sympathy for your poor father.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he was an idiot who tortured her with his insecurities.”

“I am not insecure.”

She feigned a blameless look. “I said nothing of you.”

“You mean to imply my handling of our affair.”

“All I meant is that I understand the source of my limitless patience. Mother must have had an ample share.”

“Taunt me more, woman, and you’ll get no sleep tonight.” He dipped his head to kiss her again, then tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder. “You did well today, Tilda.”

“Playing with an ensemble is vastly different than a solo or duet,” she said. “I found it difficult to focus on my own work while listening to what we created.”

Arie shook his head against her hesitations. She had performed with aplomb and poise enough to amaze him yet again. And her steady presence had kept his wobbly courage from faltering. “I witnessed no such difficulties, Tilda. You were as proficient in your bearing as any of your peers.”

She smiled, idly petting his chest. “You witnessed me quite a bit. If you keep staring at me as you did, our engagement won’t be secret for much longer. We will have to reveal it or risk a scandal.”

“The way everyone stared at you by the end of the day, I have no more desire to conceal my claim.”

“How did you convince Stüderl to let me play the cadenzas? He is Konzertmeister and first violin—performing the cadenzas is his privilege.”

“We struck a bargain. In exchange for this favor, I will write for him a concerto.”

The smile she wore dropped at the corners. “You bought my seat?”

“No, no, of course not. You will not be seated for the performance.” He drew a square in the air. “I bought a little space for you to stand next to me.”

She mashed her lips together. “Arie, I know I’m inexperienced when playing with an ensemble. But next time, I should like to have a proper audition.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “You want to prove yourself just like every other musician.”

“Yes.”

“But this time…”

“Yes, this time is different.” She sagged into his arms, snuggling beneath the quilt. Arie tucked her head beneath his chin and relished the possessive way she slid a knee across his legs. Against his chest, she said, “All will be concluded soon enough, my maestro. Sleep now.”

Her breathing grew deep and even. Her body relaxed in perfect unconsciousness. Distracted, he stroked the length of her arm, the curve beneath her breast. And he made his decision.

Days before, in her attempt to discern Arie’s intentions and perhaps even his character, Lady Venner had asked the wrong question. The choice between Mathilda and his career was simple, for he would forever choose the woman he loved so dearly.

The choice between his fiancée and the truth—that was the test. Ironically, before falling in love with her, he would have found a way to shrug from under his crippling misgivings. He would have packed his guilt into an isolated corner of his mind, justifying his actions as he always did. Only the pure wonder of Mathilda’s regard had awakened his latent sense of justice, setting his future at odds with the lies upon which his career was based.

More than his next breath, he craved a life with Mathilda Heidel, but he wanted that life rinsed clean of his crime. As to the cost, she had said it plainly in April: You admit your mistake and stand ready for the consequences.

Arie embraced her more tightly, deflecting an unknown future in which she might not be his to hold.

All will be concluded soon enough.

Yes. All of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mathilda wiped her mouth with a cloth. The room tilted awkwardly. Her ears buzzed. She refused to retch again, no matter the nausea swelling within her stomach. Swallow. Breathe. Swallow again. She paced her respiration and willed her heart to slow, even as her knees trembled with the effort of standing. Hours separated her from the concert. Klara was to arrive in a half hour to help prepare her for the evening performance.

Ingrid knocked and entered.

Wanting privacy to conquer her nerves on her own, Mathilda knew her friend would permit her no such peace. She would insist on remaining supportive, sweet and oblivious. Her stomach roiled again.

Ingrid’s cool hand touched her cheek, then her forehead. “If you are with child, your career in music will be an interesting venture.”

“I am not pregnant. You are.” Mathilda walked away and slumped onto the bed.

Breathe. Swallow. Again.

Concern crisscrossed Ingrid’s face, followed quickly by an irrepressible curiosity. “But you and Herr De Voss have been…”

“Intimate?” Mathilda could not suppress the smile overtaking her dour expression. Nor did she try. She sighed at blissful memories, but her skin did not turn a telltale pink. She was well beyond the capacity for embarrassment, or else she would have collapsed in a mortified heap at some point during each of the nights she had taken Arie into her welcoming body.

No, if she were fated to die of shame, she would have been swept into the abyss during daylight hours. But those sun-drenched moments of trust and raw intimacy had not destroyed Mathilda. Instead, every impulse to hide from Arie and their mutual devotion had burned away.

Returning to Ingrid’s expectant expression, she smiled. “Yes.”

“Tilda, I have never seen you as smug.”

“I said nothing.” She struggled to maintain her look of innocence.

“Not with words, but I have half a mind to blush on your behalf!”

For an incandescent handful of moments, Mathilda forgot about her nausea, the concert, her worries. Once again, she and Ingrid became the adolescent girls they had once been, sharing secrets and private laughter.

With a touch of melancholy, she recognized that, in most regards, Arie had replaced her dear friend. Already she spent more time at his studio than under the Venners’ generous roof, returning before dawn each morning to sit patiently beneath Klara’s ministrations. Soon they would marry, and life would take Mathilda from the best friend she had ever known.

Ingrid sobered too, and persistently returned to her inquiry. “But you could be.”

“I’m not pregnant. Would you like me to be explicit?” Her menses had arrived without delay or doubt, just as it had every month since she turned thirteen. Its undaunted regularity raised old questions. “Besides, after having been married for so long, I wonder if I’m even able to have a child.”

Rarely discomfited, Ingrid’s embarrassment surprised them both. “Part of me assumed that…that with Jürgen, you took steps.”

“No, nothing so elaborate.” Sadness colored her voice. She inhaled and pressed the topic from her mind. “I am ill, dearest, because I’m six hours away from the performance.”

“And this is simply nerves?”

“Simply? This is unbearable!”

“Not so shrill, dearest.” Ingrid’s appropriately wounded expression chastised as much as her words. “How was I to know? You’ve said nothing about rehearsals this week. What are they like?”

“Difficult.” She wrung the damp cloth between her hands, the bite of cloth twisting into her skin. “I never realized the competition that thrives off stage. These musicians are like gladiators, how they fight. I wish I’d had more experience so that I might better interpret their little jealousies.”

She censored her description for her friend’s sake, not to mention for the sake of her own sanity. To dwell on the innuendoes and snubs aimed at her relationship with Arie would be to court madness.

“I try to stay out of the fray,” she said. “I just keep my head down and work.”

“Work? For you? Tilda, you are a natural—literally.”

“But playing on my own is a whole different consideration. I’m still untrained, for all intents. My solo performances lack regular meter. I have difficulty with the timing.”

“And the maestro?”

“He shouts in Dutch. Often.”

“At you too?”

She nodded, grinning. “Yesterday, I deciphered the Dutch equivalent of prima donna.”

Unlike the other musicians, she had noticed as Arie’s temper shortened. His manner assumed a harder edge with each passing day. She hoped the mounting pressure of the debut was to blame for his altered demeanor. To dwell on another, more worrisome possibility—that he simply could not endure the increasing demands of his obligation—only worsened her persistent nausea. The burden of lifting him from his debilitating ill humor each night proved exhausting.

Ingrid’s eyes filled with a confused sort of sympathy. “How do you tolerate it? Why?”

“For all the difficulties, I cannot return to how I lived. This new life, filled with trials and censure…it’s mine.” She shook her head, unbound clumps of ordinary brown hair spilling over her shoulders. “But the critiques are difficult to endure. You know I wasn’t born with a stomach for public criticism.”

“I would like to meet the person who was.”

“You’re no help.”

A calming touch eased past Mathilda’s unnerving fears. “Will he hold together?”

“He has no choice. This is his responsibility.”

“Well, we will be there,” Ingrid said. “I hope that will be some comfort to you, at least.”

“Yes.” The tears began to build again. In just under six hours, she was going to perform in a symphony conducted by Arie De Voss—in front of the duke, no less. “Unbelievable, is it not?”

Ingrid rose to answer Klara’s knock. “I’ve known you since my first day on this earth. ‘Unbelievable’ was the idea of you settling to a quiet life with dear Jürgen. All of this…this is providence.”

Arie paced the conductor’s antechamber and concentrated on the regular sound of his shoes hitting the polished floor. Outside the tiny room, forty-one musicians and a three-hundred-person audience awaited his appearance. The concert would begin whenever he decided, yet he made no move to emerge from his sequestered privacy. He fought to eliminate everything from his mind other than the rhythmic cadence of his steps, as if by doing so, he might conquer his doubts.

He knew what he had to do, but confronting that chore knotted his nerves and made thin, frayed tatters of his courage. A pit in his gut opened a gulping mouth and offered to swallow him whole, a temptation he welcomed.

The door to the stifling antechamber opened. Arie turned to see who dared invade his place of retreat.

A vision. An angel. His solace.

Mathilda regarded him with the same adoring hazel eyes that had bewitched him from the first. An airy silk gown of lavender trimmed with silver swathed her body—the body he was still learning. She appeared calm, but her bodice lifted and lowered in an erratic rhythm.

He took three quick strides and wrapped her in his arms, clinging to her. Head bowed, he choked on his confession. “I cannot do this, Tilda.”

She squeaked a sound of alarm and surprise. “The symphony?”

“I am terrified,” he said. To admit such a thing to anyone, even to Mathilda, would have been unthinkable a few weeks before. But the woman holding him, sharing her strength, had changed his life irrevocably. He needed to share his fears, lest he falter under their crushing weight.

Mathilda pulled back and took his face in her unnaturally warm hands. “But you’ve conducted before. Why this distress?”

“I cannot lie. No more. Not even Venner—” By her expression, he knew he made no sense. He shook his head and broke their embrace. “I simply…cannot.”

Realization swept over her features. Her mouth opened a little. “And you’ve been torturing yourself this whole time?”

“Torturing more than myself,” he said grimly. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” She stepped before him and ducked below his bowed head, forcing him to straighten and meet her gaze. “Have you insulted my honor of late? Or abandoned me? For what are you apologizing, exactly?”

“Venner was right. Marriage will be a precarious prospect when I have no career.”

“Being near you has been precarious of late, what with this dilemma consuming your thoughts.”

“I am in earnest, Tilda.”

“As am I. We will find a way.”

Arie rebelled against her attempt to ease his distress. He leaned on the far wall and slumped to the marble. Defeat struggled with fitful glints of hope that teased and beckoned, but he could not trust in something he wanted so badly.

Mathilda followed and sat beside him. The skirts of her gown draped around their legs. Her eyes shone with happy, sincere tears. As if performing a sacred rite, she took his hands. “Arie, we have yet to say the words before God and a priest, but I am yours. For better or worse. No matter what you must do, I will stand by you. Trust in that. You deserve my high regard and my love, even more so if you tell the truth.”

His lungs burned. “Tilda.”

“Of all the possible consequences this evening, losing me is not one of them.”

She pulled him into an embrace of such aching sweetness that Arie could not speak. He simply breathed the truth of her avowal as it strengthened him, made him whole and safe. He kissed her neck and her bare collarbone, not out of passion but with thanks and trust. If he endured the coming performance, he would do so because he needed to prove himself worthy.

She whispered against his hair, “I miss you.”

“I have been right here.”

“In a way.”

Arie stroked her arms, fascinated as goose bumps covered her bare skin. She shivered despite the warmth of the room and their embrace. “You are shaking.”

“Perpetually.” Her nervous laugh revealed an edge of terror. “For five days now, my nerves have been unbearable. I fear being able to steady my bow.”

“Mijn schatje, I have been a terrible partner to you.”

She traced a bold finger along the inseam of his trousers, causing his ticklish leg to jerk. “I wouldn’t say that. I simply want this done.”

“You and me both.”

She kissed his cheek with an unbearable tenderness. “What will you do?”

“I have not decided.”

“Ik ben hier,” she said. “Ik houd van je.”

Arie blinked. “When did you learn Dutch?”

“Not all of it, of course. Just the most important phrases. I thought ‘I love you’ was a good place to start.”

He pressed the back of her hand to his lips. His eyes burned. “Tilda, ik houd van je.”

But then he could delay no longer. He stood on trembling legs and pulled Mathilda to her feet. They regarded each other for one last moment, sharing that breathless expectation.

He touched her cheek, recalling with a twinge of guilt that the night marked her formal debut with an orchestra. To buffer her apprehension, he offered the only advice he knew to give. “Stay in the moment if you can. It can be glorious.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Mathilda opened the antechamber door and made her way to the front of Carabinierisaal. The crowd numbered fewer individuals than those countless faces at the Stadttrinkstube, but their affluence lent them power like earthly gods. She marveled, briefly, at how far she had come from the shrinking, intimidated woman she used to be. Before hundreds of the principality’s wealthiest and most influential citizens, even keen-eyed Duke Ferdinand and his entourage, she walked without hesitation.

Nerves, yes. And fear…but not for herself.

Arie had been hurting, suffering an ailment she had not been able to identify. Now she understood his dilemma, and his behavior over the previous weeks aligned, making sense. To him, the truth had become more important than any consideration of fame or his career. Her heart fluttered with equal parts pride and trepidation. For the sake of his confession, he stood to lose everything.

Everything except her.

She took her place between the Konzertmeister’s chair and the conductor’s platform, nodding to Stüderl. Arie was fine. She hoped.

Stüderl stood and bowed deeply to their awaiting prince. Graciously, he received the applause due his high rank within the court’s musical establishment.

“Thank you for attending tonight’s symphony by Arie De Voss, our resident maestro from Delft. This is De Voss’s Symphony No. 2 in A minor, Metamorphosis.”

Stüderl turned to indicate the orchestra as a whole, for which the audience demonstrated polite approval. When the applause dimmed, the Konzertmeister cleared his throat. “And making her debut tonight is a new talent among Salzburg’s finest musicians, Frau Mathilda Heidel.”

She curtsied deeply, amazed at her ability to stay standing, let alone greet the monarch of her birthplace. Surprising even herself, she presented the assemblage with a bright smile of gratification. Her anxieties ebbed. She belonged there, on stage, as surely as she belonged in Arie’s arms. The experience humbled her as happiness filled her heart.

She tossed her eyes skyward, her thoughts suddenly with Jürgen.

Thank you.

The antechamber door opened. Every head turned to watch the figure emerging from the shadows. Arie De Voss, the man who had won Mathilda’s heart long before they shared a single conversation, the man who had conquered her doubts and overcome each reason for hiding, walked with sure steps. He assumed that special place between the orchestra and the audience, apart from each yet holding the attention of every individual.

Mathilda met his eye and smiled. He would not—or could not—return her optimism, but he nodded. His face was pinched into a tight grimace. She searched his body for a sign of his intention. Vast bunches of worry changed the shape of his shoulders, and he had bothered his hair into its customary mess. Fitting. She would smooth it to rights when she held him again.

Arie turned from her and faced his public. He cast his voice to reach the very last row of gilded chairs. “You assemble here tonight under false pretenses. This is not my second symphony.” He paused. Exhaled. “It is my first.”

A wave of disbelieving whispers slipped through the crowd. Eagerness for the new symphony transformed into questions and suspicion. The sound of Mathilda’s heartbeat challenged her awareness of sound, even as her visual perception intensified. Her eyes accommodated ever more detail: the stiff muscles of Arie’s upper back, the relatively unaffected expression on Venner’s face and Ingrid’s calm patience beside him, the immense frescoes in which Alexander the Great conquered his every opponent.

Then she focused on a single man. Duke Ferdinand.

“Herr De Voss, what is this about?” With the rich timbre of a cello, the duke spoke as one born to authority, not necessarily through his royal birthright, but because of a natural penchant for leadership.

Much as he had with Venner, Arie returned the sovereign’s probing gaze with a mixture of dignity and deference. He exuded certainty, but without any offending arrogance. “Your Grace, I did not write the symphony entitled Love and Freedom.”

“Who did?”

“My mentor. He was a composer from Budapest named Sándor Bolyai. After he died, I claimed his unpublished work as my own.”

Duke Ferdinand appeared taken aback by Arie’s blunt words. The audience swirled in doubt. Even their monarch found no response to such an incriminating admission. Should he be allowed to proceed? Should they stand and leave him there, his symphony unheard? Should he be punished for…for something?

Mathilda watched the thoughts bounce from head to head, spinning Arie’s fate—the fate she would share—like a wheel of chance at Carnival. No one, not even the duke, offered the words that would break the insufferable tension.

Into the friction of that silence came an impatient shout. “God’s teeth, Holländer! Did you write this one?”

The man responsible stood. With a screech of metal against marble, he skidded his chair backward. A rumpled outdated coat fit him poorly. Grimy black hair covered his broad skull in an unkempt snarl. Above a broad nose and pockmarks visible even from Mathilda’s vantage, heavy brows hooded dark eyes. Short and slightly stooped, he stabbed at Arie with a fierce glare.

Mathilda did not recognize the heckler, but Arie seemed to. He bowed slightly. “I did, sir.”

“Then get on with it, man! None of us are here for confession.”

Whereas the impatient stranger surprised many with his scruffy insolence, Haydn epitomized refinement and grace. Next to Duke Ferdinand in the front row, he spoke in a theatric whisper to his sovereign. “Your Excellency, I agree with Herr Beethoven.”

At the mention of Ludwig van Beethoven’s name, the whispers and chatter amplified. Beethoven resumed his seat, fading into a crowd sparked to life by his outburst. Mathilda could have hugged him, churlish disposition and all. The composer’s eccentric presence and goading demands nearly eclipsed Arie’s disclosure.

When Duke Ferdinand spoke, the decision had already been made on his behalf. “Proceed, De Voss. Your audience awaits.”

Arie bowed to the duke and nodded meaningfully toward Beethoven. Turning with stiff movements on the conductor’s stand, he would not look at Mathilda. His restraint was for the best, really, because she would have shattered into a thousand pieces. She would have flown into his arms, kissing and smiling and finally breathing again.

He tapped his baton. She raised her bow. The orchestra, that collection of individuals made whole through his direction, inhaled.

Arie held his composure by long habit. He feared losing it altogether should he look at Mathilda. She fairly vibrated with giddy energy at his side. If he met her gaze, he would burst from the pressure of disbelief and happiness inflating his heart, demanding release. He would collapse into a slack pile, boneless and insensible.

And the symphony would go unperformed.

Respecting the chance he had been given, honoring the long days the musicians had dedicated to his creation, Arie could not allow that to happen.

And Mathilda. She had stood with him, sharing the alternating moments of terror and ecstasy. Her dedication healed him. Her presence reassured him, helping him tether his soaring emotions and concentrate on his task. His prize.

Clenching the baton with a numb hand, Arie called the orchestra to attention.

They began.

In her opening cadenza, Mathilda sang to him with her violin. She began the first movement and carried the orchestra through difficult paces, through the spring rain and the dark reawakening. Midway through the second movement, as Arie narrated the story of his muse and her crashing arrival into his life, sensation returned to his fingers. He regained confidence in his body’s ability to sustain him through the awaiting rigors, a prospect that had been in doubt when standing before the duke, awaiting his fate.

Only with the third movement did Arie sneak a glance at Mathilda. She stood mere feet from his elevation, swaying with the instrument that seemed a natural extension of her graceful limbs. He had composed the segment during the long, desolate aftermath of their startling winter afternoon. Now, he conducted in the Residenz. With Mathilda at his side, they pulled their tender, passionate episode out of the secluded candlelight of his studio and shared it with an audience of hundreds.

With the finale, the fourth movement, Arie turned his attention to the cellists. They fashioned a seemingly random introduction of dark sixteenth notes, flitting around in hesitant confusion, until the violins sprang forth to create a sparkling, playful theme. The bridge to a second motif, equally dainty and dancing, became a series of descending scales to mirror the celli’s floundering introduction. Bassoons and basses complemented the flirty motifs with sturdy arpeggios, while the brass section added spiky syncopations.

Arie remembered love. He remembered the exploratory and teasing moments he had shared with Mathilda in his bed. Their hesitation was the cello. Her joy was the violin—oh, the joy they gave each other—while the brass beat with shocks of pleasure.

But then he had abandoned her, fleeing to the countryside in a fit of uncertainty and doubt. The orchestra pulled him through those stark, lonely weeks. Vehement strings competed with a rumbling dissonance from the oboes and clarinets, until the entire symphony developed the theme in a series of massive, ascending scales.

Mathilda’s violin returned, assuring a life of love and fidelity. When Arie had penned the final moments of his symphony, their happy ending was a mere vision, a dream written out in inky scrawls. That vision had become a promise strong enough to echo across the Residenz.

Before him, forty-one dedicated musicians animated his dream. Through technical prowess, heart and an irresistible power, they pushed the symphony toward its close. Fanfares of chirping woodwinds echoed over a series of uplifting scales from the brass. The timpani thundered and the strings soared, building and ringing through the hall in an expressive ode to a love Arie had never believed until Mathilda.

With a grand flourish, the symphony concluded.

Applause followed immediately, rivaling the orchestra in its exuberance and volume. Across Carabinierisaal, people joined to celebrate Arie’s triumph. Turning on the platform, head bowed, his body shook from the exertion and release of his accomplishment. He wanted to fall to the ground. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted Mathilda in his arms, the hard pressure of her embrace making the tumultuous moment real.

Repentance. Vindication. Freedom.

Raising his head, Arie witnessed the crowd standing in a spontaneous ovation. He turned, bringing Stüderl forward for his well-earned regards. And then he took Mathilda’s hand. For the first time since assuming his place on the conductor’s platform, he met her eyes. The approval and pride he saw there was all he had hoped, all he had expected to find. He kissed the back of her hand and presented her to the cheering assembly.

For her alone he said, “I believe you have found your calling.”

“You too.”

After an endless balm of heady applause, the audience began to stand, mill and adjourn. Duke Ferdinand found the pair and offered his congratulations. From all sides, Arie received words of admiration and acclaim, all of which served to erase the anxiety and misery of too many long years. He had given Sándor Bolyai his due, while rightfully claiming his own place in the world of music.

The Venners approached. Lady Venner beamed and embraced them both.

Arie forced himself to look at the stern nobleman. “My lord, I apologize. I understand—”

“De Voss, we’ve already established that I know very little about your profession.” A disparaging grin swiped across his hard face. “Congratulations.”

Arie gladly shook his proffered hand, inordinately pleased. He had not realized how much the aristocrat’s hard-earned approval would mean to him.

Michael Haydn joined the group, affectionately clapping Arie on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy. Excellent work.”

The air in Arie’s lungs left in a quick rush. “Sir, what happened here? I feel as if Herr Beethoven pulled me from under a guillotine’s blade.”

The aged Kapellmeister smiled tightly and shook his head. “Not just Beethoven, my friend. Napoleon.”

Arie raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

“Bonaparte has declared himself Emperor of France. Our good prince fears the resumption of hostilities.”

Beside Arie, the women exchanged hasty looks before pinning Venner beneath the might of their combined stare. Lady Venner dragged her husband away, with Mathilda close behind.

Haydn nodded toward Duke Ferdinand where he milled with two other noblemen. “His interest in the workings of our profession is at a low ebb, which makes you a lucky man.”

A buzz of questions and fears swarmed in Arie’s brain, slowly circling, slowly quieting. His reprieve seemed a miracle, a dream—a dream he very much wanted to be true. “This is astonishing.”

“No, your symphony is astonishing.” He stepped back and bowed deeply. “I finally feel that I know something of who you are.”

“Thank you, sir. I cannot—”

“Enough now, Arie.”

The use of his given name stopped him.

“You have a second chance,” Haydn said. “Find Frau Heidel and make the most of these days.”

Eager for their turn at offering congratulations, an endless crush of well-wishers and admirers spun the pair apart. Arie remained gracious and calm, but he wanted nothing more than to have his fiancée beside him.

An exhausting half-hour later, he found his love. She stood outside the hall, pressing her back to the wall of an alcove. Holding the violin case in front of her with both hands, she appeared youthful and far too innocent. The look in her eyes, however, told tales of homecoming and anticipation. They embraced with the fierce happiness he had imagined only an hour earlier.

“Arie, I’m so proud of you.”

“And I of you, Tilda. You were—”

He sagged against her. His knees weakened as the rush of accomplishment dropped away. Once, he had believed being in love meant living in a state of turmoil, the very antithesis of calm. But in that alcove, together, he understood love to be a complex harmony of peace and need, growing together with such strength until he could not discern one element from the other.

“Very good, De Voss,” said a gruff voice.

Arie and Mathilda separated with less haste than they should have managed, but Beethoven did not seem to mind. He sneered in what appeared to be good-natured congratulations—about the symphony and their embrace.

“Thank you, sir.” Arie offered the composer a curt bow, but Beethoven did not return the gesture. “You did me a great service, and I am obliged.”

The strange, stout man grinned and spat toward Carabinierisaal. “They will have forgotten all of this in a week. They care not at all for the music—just the talk. We shut them up for a moment, though!”

“Yes, sir.”

Once, Arie would have agreed with Beethoven whole-heartedly, convinced that audiences filled with preening sycophants cared nothing for the music he adored. Mathilda had proven him wrong.

“And you, Frau Heidel, very impressive.” Beethoven’s dark glower flicked across her face. He leaned close. “If your maestro ever disappoints you, come find me.”

“Sir, if that is the requirement for our future acquaintance, I am afraid I’ll never see you again.”

Beethoven threw back his head and cackled. His robust laughter drew considerable stares from patrons exiting the music hall, but he would not abate. Mathilda and Arie glanced at each other, offering mirrored shrugs.

At last Beethoven calmed. “Vienna, then. I will premiere my new symphony. Consider yourselves invited.” He offered Arie’s most captivating student a last, assessing look. “And you should audition.”

HISTORICAL NOTE

Although Arie De Voss is fictional, his musical achievements are based on the innovations and style of Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). Beethoven, through his compositions, became an object of radical speculation during his lifetime. One of the first composers to work freelance, as opposed to earning a living through a permanent position, his music bridged the structured, regular musical patterns of the Classical Era and the deeply emotional, experimental forms of the Romantic Era. Already losing his hearing when this story is set, he would become completely deaf over the subsequent two decades.

Johann Michael Haydn (1737-1806) died in his residence, having served as Salzburg’s Kapellmeister for almost forty-four years. He produced over 360 compositions during his lifetime. Along with the body of Mozart’s sister, Nannerl, Haydn’s torso is interred in communal crypt LIV in the Cemetery of St. Peter, while the brothers of the Benedictine monastery retain his head in an urn within their cathedral. Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), sickly and bedridden for the last seven years of his life, outlived his younger brother.

Regina Schlick née Strinasacchi (1761-1829) was a renowned violin and guitar virtuoso and one of the first noted female soloists. In 1785, she married Johann Conrad Schlick, a cellist and Konzertmeister in the duchy of Gotha. She continued to tour Europe throughout her life, even after the birth of her children. She may have performed in Salzburg, but the concert detailed here is fictional.

Joseph Wölfl (1773-1812) was a moderately successful Salzburg pianist, composer and student of Michael Haydn. For this story, however, elements of his fictional personality were combined with those of another musician, Daniel Steibelt (1765-1823). Beethoven soundly defeated both men in piano duels during their careers, once by sight-reading his sheet music upside-down.

By an order deemed the senatus consultum, Napoleon declared himself emperor on May 18, 1804. Shortly thereafter, hostilities erupted between the French Empire and the Third Coalition nations.

Salzburg’s long history of independence ended on October 5, 1805, when French troops reoccupied the city. The following December, the Peace of Pressburg awarded the principality to Austria. Grand Duke Ferdinand III (1769-1824) and his surviving three children fled to Vienna, then to Florence. The 1809 Peace of Schönbrunn restored Ferdinand as the Grand Duke of Tuscany, where he ruled until his death. Those same accords ceded Salzburg to Bavaria. The territory finally became part of Austria in 1815 at the Congress of Vienna.

About the Author

Born in California, raised in the Midwest, Carrie Lofty met her husband in England—the best souvenir! After earning her masters degree from Ohio State University with a thesis on Old West legends, she was excited to learn that other parts of the world have history too…and then set about researching it all. Two precocious daughters and a half dozen moves later, she and her husband have settled just north of Chicago.

Aside from maintaining an active presence with the Chicago North and Wisconsin chapters of the Romance Writers of America, Carrie enjoys science fiction movies and TV programs, jogging along Lake Michigan, Shakespeare, time spent with friends, and any opportunity to belly dance.

RT Book Reviews declared of Carrie’s 2008 debut novel: “Lofty writes adventure romance like a born bard of old.” She also wrangles the talented authors of Unusual Historicals, a blog she founded in 2006 to celebrate historical romances set in unusual times and places. With Ann Aguirre, she co-writes hot’n’dirty apocalyptic paranormal romances as Ellen Connor.

CarrieLofty.com | EllenConnor.com

http://www.twitter.com/carrielofty

http://unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com

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Table of Contents

Letter to Reader

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Contents

COPYRIGHT

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HISTORICAL NOTE

About the Author