Mozart’s Blood by Louise Marley Read Free Book Online Page B

towering coiffure. Her paniered skirts draped over a ruffled petticoat beneath a boned and embroidered stomacher. She carried a painted fan in one gloved hand and a lace handkerchief in the other, and she stood in the wings with the other cast members to hear the overture for the very first time.
    The music began. Teresa leaned against a plaster pillar, pressing the handkerchief to her lips. Liquid notes cascaded from the strings and the winds, the oversize orchestra making a sound that penetrated her very bones. She felt it in her fingertips, in her eyelids, in her beating heart. She heard Donna Anna’s music weave into the whole, as closely as the weft of a tapestry. There was the Commendatore’s theme, presaging the fiery end of Giovanni to come. There was the persuasive, sensual melody of “Là ci darem la mano,” when the Don would seduce the country bride, Zerlina.
    Teresa’s eyes opened. She didn’t want to be seduced by Luigi Bassi, the Don Giovanni of this first production. Teresa Saporiti wanted to be seduced by—or to seduce—Mozart.
    She peered out past the proscenium, where he stood at the harpsichord, sweat dripping down his cheeks to mark his black tailcoat with powder from his wig. He was a small man, and he had a profane way of speaking, but his mouth was tender and sweet. His hands were finely made. He coaxed magic from the orchestra with those hands, and worked miracles upon the harpsichord. His eyes, brown as chocolate and sparkling with humor, enchanted her. His laugh was irresistible, making even sour old Pasquale Bondini laugh with him.
    And his music—his music was utterly, stunningly sensual. It made her thighs tremble and her belly dissolve.
    Teresa Saporiti was nineteen, and she had never been in love.
    Â 
    Giuditta knocked gently on the dressing room door, startling Octavia. She blinked and sat up to look around the dressing room. Ugo still had not come. Her tea had grown cold in its cup, and the panino looked tired and limp on its plate.
    â€œSignorina,” Giuditta called softly. “ Maestro is ready for the second act.”
    Octavia shook herself and stood up. “Grazie,” she called back. “I’ll be there in a moment. I fell asleep.”
    The door opened, and Giuditta bustled in to take the tray. “Your tea has gone cold! Shall I make another pot?”
    â€œThat would be so nice,” Octavia admitted. “I’m still tired from the flight.”
    â€œMa certo,” Giuditta said in maternal fashion. “I’ll make it now. You can carry a cup up to the rehearsal hall.”
    Octavia took a moment to reapply her lipstick and brush her hair. She accepted the cup of tea from Giuditta and carried it in her hand as she climbed the stairs to the rehearsal hall.
    The cast and chorus were already assembled when she went in, and all eyes turned to her. She nodded to everyone, an apologetic hand at her throat. “I am so sorry, Russell, everyone. It was such a long flight yesterday, and I fell asleep in my dressing room.”
    Russell hurried to take her hands, to assure her she had not delayed him in the least. The chorus smiled at her. Lukas said something understanding, and Marie Charles dimpled. Massimo Luca gave her a limpid look from his caramel eyes, and she began to feel fully awake.
    Only Brenda McIntyre, the Donna Elvira, frowned and looked away, tapping at her score with thick fingers. Octavia took a chair near her, setting her teacup on the floor beneath her chair. “Brenda, I don’t know if anyone told you, but I finished a run of Traviata in New York just the night before last. I feel like it’s the middle of the night still.”
    The woman’s face softened a bit, and she pointed at the teacup. “You should try some chamomile right after the performance,” she advised, with a sanguine nod. “It soothes the body and the throat, and helps you to sleep.”
    â€œOh, thank