Masks and Shadows by Stephanie Burgis Read Free Book Online

could he imagine such high, ringing peals arising from Baroness von Steinbeck’s husky contralto voice.
    It was a mystery, and an amusing one, to shake him out of his dreary mood. However, he certainly wouldn’t be able to focus on his own practice while the mysterious soprano continued to magnificently mangle more operatic arias nearby.
    He chose to take it as a sign, though, that it was time to fulfill one of his more pleasant obligations.
    It was time to seek out the musicians.

    The opera house stood behind the main body of the palace, facing the marionette theater and the military barracks across the wide expanse of green that led to the elaborate gardens, labyrinth and—no doubt—carefully designed “wilderness” beyond. Outer stairs led up to a curving balcony in the center of the opera house’s ornate façade, where a man might stand, looking out across the grounds, between acts. Attached to the great three-story building was a smaller, rounded structure—the right size for a ballroom, perhaps? Its rounded shape was smooth and externally plain, unlike the opera house itself, which was so gilded with external decoration, it looked to Carlo like an elaborate, tiered cake.
    Prince Nikolaus’s pride and joy, indeed, and no more tasteful than its founder. Still, Carlo had sung in worse.
    As Carlo walked along the shell-lined path toward it, enjoying the afternoon sunshine, a hatless, white-haired old gentleman burst outside, clutching a note in his hand. With a muttered, “Ha!” the old man sprinted past Carlo, not even bothering to nod his head in courtesy.
    Carlo’s lips twitched. An actor, obviously. Ah, but they were a relief after the arduously refined airs of the aristocracy.
    He found the opera house empty, but raised voices led him through to the door to the ballroom.
    An argument composed of some six or eight people broke off as he stepped into the grand room. Carlo smiled blandly and glanced around, looking for the man described by many as the greatest composer living, and the prime jewel in Prince Nikolaus Esterházy’s collection.
    â€œAh, Signor Morelli!” The man who’d been mediating at the center of the argument burst through the ring of discontented faces and flung out his arms in welcome. “It must be you! Joseph Haydn at your humble service, signor.”
    â€œAnd I at yours, Kapellmeister.” Carlo took the hands held out to him with real warmth. Haydn’s pockmarked skin and great hook nose might be enough to keep him off any operatic stage; but Carlo found the sparkling intelligence and good humor in the composer’s face deeply appealing. “I am indeed honored to meet you at last. I’ve brought you greetings from many of your friends across Europe.”
    â€œI—” The kapellmeister broke off to look around the circle of watching faces, all changed from chagrin to open curiosity. “Signor, I must introduce to you our distinguished singing troupe, or part of it, at any rate. Madame Zelinowsky, who plays all maternal roles—”
    â€œâ€”and who is most honored to meet you, signor,” Madame Zelinowsky murmured. She sank into a curtsey and shot him a glance up through her eyelashes that looked far more seductive than maternal.
    â€œâ€”Frau Kettner, who plays the second ladies in comedies and tragedies; Herr Schwarzwald, the pedants and sober servants; Fräulein Schwarzwald, the young, sentimental ingénues ; Herr Partl, the first tender fathers and sedate parts; Herr Pichler, the second sentimental lovers and young servants.”
    Carlo tipped his hat to the company. “Impressive indeed. But—are you not missing a few important roles, Kapellmeister?”
    Madame Zelinowsky let out a low chuckle. “Indeed, signor. How could we function without our grand old men in tragedies? Our impulsive or funny, disgruntled old men in comedies? Our lazy servants, our comic peasants