Chapter Fourteen

Guernsey’s scream cut off in a gurgling hiss as the gray smoke enveloped his face. Other screams filled the room, but no one moved. That was the worst of the horror, Charlotte thought with numb clarity—that they couldn’t even run or hide. Even Guernsey’s own arms remained leadenly at his side. There should have been chairs crashing to the ground, people racing to save the poor man—

Count Radamowsky’s shout silenced all the rest. His words rapped out as Nemenel slid down behind him.

The gray smoke rippled and condensed around Guernsey’s face. Count Radamowsky snapped out a sharp string of words.

Slowly, the smoke pulled away from its victim. Radamowsky’s voice deepened into a rolling chant, dragging the smoke back toward him. Finally, only long, thin tendrils of smoke still clung to Guernsey’s face. They separated from it with a wet pop, and Charlotte gasped.

Blood streamed out of the dozen holes that the tendrils had left behind. As gasps and cries erupted around the circle, Guernsey’s breath sobbed out. He tried to say something, but his eyes rolled up and his head tipped forward. Still, his body remained fixed to his chair.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Radamowsky held the gray smoke before him as he addressed the circle. “If you will aid me with your full attention, we may work together to dismiss both these spirits for the night. Then, all of your fears will be assuaged. Please, let your eyes fall closed.”

The ‘please’ was no more than a formality, his compulsion blatant now, Charlotte thought, as her eyelids closed of their own accord. Still, the oblivion of the trance state came as a blessed relief this time. Radamowsky’s words droned through her ears, and her racing heartbeat gradually slowed. By the time he spoke in German again, her breathing had almost returned to its normal rhythms.

“You may open your eyes.”

Feeling flooded into Charlotte’s arms and legs. She opened her eyes just in time to see Mr. Guernsey crumple and fall to the ground. Blood covered his face.

Sophie let out a piercing scream and covered her face with her hands. Charlotte paused a moment—but no, the Prince’s niece and her companion were already bending over Sophie. Charlotte lifted her skirts and hurried across the circle to drop down beside the fallen man instead. Guernsey was still breathing, but only in short, shallow gasps. Beneath the mask of blood, his face was deathly pale. Charlotte snatched out her silk handkerchief and began to wipe at his skin, fighting down panic. There were too many wounds to even try to staunch them all.

She saw the buckled toes of elegant shoes before her and looked up to find Signor Morelli standing over her.

“I’ve summoned the Prince’s physician.” He glanced back at the sobbing women, muttering men, and various fainting fits taking place around the circle, and his lips twisted. He knelt down beside her. “Is there aught I can do until he arrives?”

“I’d be grateful for your handkerchief. The wounds are deep, and I fear he’s lost too much blood already.”

Signor Morelli’s voice was soft as he passed her a creamy white handkerchief. “There are spots of blood on the floor above which the elemental floated.”

“Horrible.” Charlotte swallowed convulsively and pressed the new handkerchief against Guernsey’s face. Red blood blossomed against the white cloth. Her own handkerchief was already soaked. How long would the physician take?

She looked toward the door and saw the Prince and the alchemist engaged in a heated, whispered argument. Their hands swept through the air in cutting gestures.

Signor Morelli followed her gaze. “Not quite the demonstration they’d planned.”

“I should think not.” Charlotte shuddered.

A round man carrying a medical bag, followed by two sturdy footmen, hurried into the room, pausing only to listen to the Prince’s commands. He bent over Guernsey’s body and signaled to the footmen.

“We’ll take him back to his quarters immediately, as His Highness wishes for him to be treated in privacy.” He gave Charlotte a brief, dismissive smile and nod of the head. “Have no fear, madam, I shall attend upon him myself. I’m certain he will be recovered shortly.”

“Did His Highness tell you how he was injured?” Signor Morelli’s voice was bland, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

“No need, sir, no need. His Highness wishes me to treat him with the greatest care and not to concern myself about the causes.”

“A loyal servant,” Morelli murmured.

“Thank you, sir.”

The footmen managed to haul Guernsey’s body onto a chair, and they carried him out under the physician’s clucking supervision. As soon as they passed through the door, Prince Nikolaus stepped into the center of the room, holding up his hands for the crowd’s attention. As the Prince began to speak, Count Radamowsky walked out of the room, his back ramrod-straight.

“Well, it’s been an instructive evening, no doubt. A great pity about our poor Mister . . . our poor English visitor, but still, my physician assures me that he will recover shortly. Every new weapon needs some testing out, eh? Like a skittish colt being broken in.” The Prince laughed overheartily and turned to Sophie, who was red-eyed but quiet now. He murmured something to her, and she laughed prettily, fluttering her eyelashes.

Charlotte stared at them, her head whirling. When she turned away, she found Signor Morelli looking down at her. He held out his hand.

“May I help you to your feet?”

“Thank you.” His long fingers felt reassuringly warm around hers. Exhaustion flooded her as she stood up. She swayed, and he caught her.

“Baroness?”

“Forgive me.” She released his hand, stepping back. “I only—”

“It’s been a tiring evening.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you back to your quarters? This is no night for walking alone.”

She bit her lip. “I should go to Sophie—”

His voice was dry. “Frau von Höllner seems to have recovered admirably.”

Sophie’s laugh rang out across the room, and Charlotte sighed. “Well, then . . . I thank you, signor. I would be most grateful for your escort.”

She wrapped her fingers lightly around his proffered arm and walked beside him out of the room.

After nearly five minutes, Baroness von Steinbeck still hadn’t uttered a word, yet Carlo could feel her fingers trembling against his arm. He would have spoken himself if he could, but rage choked him. An instructive evening, indeed. And a fine game for the Prince to play on his guests.

Carlo remembered again the moment the elemental had paused before the Baroness and begun to float toward her. His muscles had refused to move. He would have been forced to sit and merely watch as it devoured her. Would the Prince have found that instructive, too?

“Signor?” She was looking up at him now, her light eyes wide. “Are you unwell?”

“Only in spirit,” he said tightly, then clamped his lips together to hold back any worse.

“Pray, don’t even mention the word ‘spirit.’” She shuddered and gave a rueful laugh. “I have lost any fascination I ever felt for those beings.”

“Have you? I confess, I’d never believed in them until tonight.”

“Tonight was . . . convincing.” He felt her shiver.

“Count Radamowsky is a fine mesmerist. Had his exploits ended with Nemenel, I might yet wonder whether it had all been a trick of our imaginations, guided by his will.”

Her fingers tightened around his arm. “That was no trick of the imagination.”

“More’s the pity. Poor Guernsey’s proof of that.” Carlo glanced up and down the taper-lit corridor and dropped his voice. “But have you thought through the other implications of this evening’s work?”

She stopped walking to frown up at him. “What do you mean?”

It was impolitic madness to speak of this. Yet the burning fuse inside Carlo’s chest would be satisfied with nothing less. “I mean,” Carlo said deliberately, “that the great mystery of what caused the singers’ deaths may just have been solved.”

“What—oh!” She sucked in her breath in a gasp. “No, that cannot be right.”

“No? You saw Guernsey’s face. The singers were drained of blood, were they not? And—”

“But Count Radamowsky did not even arrive until this morning. How could it have—”

“The Prince did not speak to him as to a new guest, did he? Prince Nikolaus asked most particularly for that elemental.”

“Well . . .” She withdrew her hand from his arm and stepped back, her face filled with distress. “Perhaps they’d discussed it beforehand, in letters or—”

“Or perhaps he’d already seen and made use of it, only days ago.” Carlo’s arm felt cold, deprived of her touch. “You heard what he said to all of us, Baroness—‘Every new weapon needs testing out.’”

“But he didn’t mean—he couldn’t mean—”

“Who better to test it out on than two disobedient servants? They’d broken their contracts and were thus—in his eyes—utterly disposable. Who would care that they had died? They were only singers!”

“Signor, it is simply inconceivable. No matter what—coincidences, or fantasies you have imagined—the Prince is a gentleman. As is Count Radamowsky!”

“And?” Carlo stared at her, conscious of a sharp pain in his chest. “What matter is that? Their birth is significant as it relates to their wealth, certainly—and, perhaps, to their thirst for power. But—”

“It is significant as it relates to honor.” She took a deep breath. “The Prince is—as powerful men often are, I suppose. But that he would knowingly set that creature on any man or woman—and most particularly to ones he had employed and promised to care for—no. No! I cannot believe it.”

“Then you are not the intelligent woman I took you for.”

Her head jerked up, and spots of color appeared on her cheeks, but he carried on regardless.

“Not everyone of noble birth follows the code of honor you believe in, Baroness. You could have been that creature’s victim tonight, and you know it. Does that not give you any pause?”

“If I were to be frightened off by warnings . . .” She stopped, biting her lip.

“Warnings? I’d call this more than—ah.” Carlo paused, caught. “Who has been giving you warnings, Baroness?”

Voices sounded behind them as two noblewomen rounded the corner. They raised their eyebrows and giggled as they passed; Carlo stiffened. Baroness von Steinbeck drew back, lifting her chin. When the other women had passed, whispering to each other, the Baroness curtseyed stiffly to him.

“I thank you for your escort, signor. My rooms are here, and you have delivered me safely to them.”

He bowed, cursing inwardly. “It was my privilege.”

“Then I bid you goodnight.”

She walked to her room and did not turn to look back even once. The door closed behind her, and Carlo fought down the urge to kick it.

She could not believe the obvious truth? Hardly. She chose to blind herself—and thus render him doubly a fool: for speaking the truth to her in a royal court and for caring how she responded to it. To him. Damnation.

Stupidity beyond anything, that he had somehow imagined she might look beyond his birth and believe him before a man of her own station.

He swiveled around to return to his own room—and stopped.

He was not alone.

The man who stood before him was barely three feet tall—less than half Carlo’s height—and looked up at him with a face creased in open amusement. Before Carlo could speak, he bowed with a flourish.

“Signor Morelli? I’ve been sent to find you.”

Charlotte stalked into her outer room and sank down onto a chair, burying her head in her hands. She kneaded her throbbing forehead with her fingertips.

Not possible. Everything about this evening. The beauty. The horror. Guernsey’s screams . . . She shuddered convulsively. Signor Morelli was right. That could so easily have been her.

“Baroness?”

It was her new maid. Charlotte lifted her head from her hands to give the girl a reassuring smile.

“I beg your pardon, Marta. I am only tired.” For the first time, her gaze took in the rest of the room. “Dear God! What has happened?”

Quill pens lay scattered across her writing desk. The sheets of music that had been set atop her clavichord lay strewn about the carpet. Charlotte leapt up and threw open the door to her bedroom. Gowns billowed across the bed. She turned to stare at her maid.

“I don’t know, madam. I found it this way half an hour ago.” Marta gestured helplessly. “I thought I should leave it for you to see. And perhaps the Prince—”

“No!” Charlotte put a hand to her throat, taken aback by her own vehemence. But—“No, certainly not. We won’t disturb His Highness with this.”

Of course, she did not, could not, would not believe Signor Morelli’s wild theory. But every nerve in her body protested the idea of Prince Nikolaus walking through her private chambers tonight and surveying the intimate display.

She took a deep breath, forcing her voice into steadiness. “Thank you, Marta. You decided very rightly. You didn’t happen to see anyone coming out of here, did you? Or anything suspicious?”

“No, madam. Shall I ask the other servants?”

“I don’t know . . .”

Charlotte’s head was whirling. The last thing she wanted was any gossip spread through the servants’ hall—but could she possibly hope to prevent it? Marta must surely feel more loyalty to her fellows than to her new, foreign employer. Charlotte missed Anna, with a sudden sharp pang. Now that Anna was gone . . .

She looked around the wreckage of her rooms and sighed. Without Anna, Charlotte had no one in this great palace whom she could entirely trust.

Apart from Sophie, she told herself. And winced.

“Never mind, Marta,” Charlotte said. “We’ll clean this up together and worry no more about it.”

“Yes, madam.” The girl’s eyes widened, but she moved forward obediently to begin the task.

Charlotte knelt to pick up the scattered pages of her music. Weariness so acute that it felt like pain dragged at her arms and her head. If she left for Vienna the next day, she would never have to worry about this or wonder who had done it. If she left, she would never need to fear the possibility of Signor Morelli’s disturbing theory. If she left . . .

No. Now that Ernst was dead, Sophie was the only true family Charlotte had. She had abandoned her sister once already, with disastrous consequences. She would not do it again.

“Sent to find me? By whom?” Carlo frowned down at the man before him, fighting to keep his discomfort off his face.

It wasn’t the man’s size that disconcerted him. Carlo had met several such men and women at other courts, playing much the same role as himself—set on display for the aristocrats’ amusement. But the man in front of him, in turn, showed none of the shock or discomfort that most men displayed when meeting a castrato for the first time. Instead, his expression showed a subversive, lurking amusement that discomfited Carlo far more than any outright horror could have done.

“The Princess Esterházy, Princess Marie Elisabeth von Weissenwolf Esterházy. My mistress.” The man bowed again, even more deeply. “I am Monsieur Jean, her page.”

“And what does the Princess want of me at this hour?”

“Why, nothing,” Monsieur Jean said blandly, “but to send you her compliments, signor, and pray that you will wait upon her in the next few days.”

“She chooses a peculiar hour to issue her invitations.”

“The hour is of my own choosing, I confess.” He smiled engagingly. “I’d hoped to intercept you in time to invite you for a drink. There’s a charming little tavern in the village nearby. A bit of fresh air? An evening’s respite from the palace?”

Carlo stared at him. Whether this was the Princess’s plot, or one of Monsieur Jean’s own devising, undercurrents of scheming rippled almost tangibly through the air. The last thing Carlo needed, after this disastrous evening, was another round of courtly maneuvers.

Yet, for the sake of an escape from the palace . . .

“Very well,” said Carlo. “Lead on, Monsieur Jean.”