Chapter Thirty-Six

Many hours later, Carlo found Herr Haydn outside, standing near the wreckage of the opera house. Flames still shot high into the night sky above the crumbling building, though hundreds of workers fought with buckets of water to stem the blaze. Smoke veiled the stars over Eszterháza.

The shells in the path crunched under Carlo’s feet as he walked forward to join the composer.

Haydn spoke without turning around. “Every copy of tonight’s opera. All of the orchestral and vocal parts. My score.” He choked on the words, raising one hand to his face. A moment later, he added, “And all of my other operas, nearly. I kept all of my music in the theater. For safe-keeping!”

Carlo shook his head silently. What was there to say? He stood next to the older man, looking into the fire. It had been one of the grandest opera houses of any noble estate in Europe.

Almost two hundred people had been rescued from the flames, in total. He hoped that most of them would survive. It was more of a blessing than he could have dreamed of before Radamowsky’s change of heart.

It was still not nearly enough.

“I am sorry,” Carlo said softly, as he looked into the blazing ruin of Nikolaus Esterházy’s pride.

“Well.” The kapellmeister straightened his shoulders. “I had one or two of the older opera scores in my room, for revisions. The marionette operas are all gone, with no hope of restoration . . . but I remember tonight’s opera well enough. I ought to, after all the blood I’ve sweated over it.” He sighed. “I’ll start work on its recreation tonight, before I even go to bed. Before I can forget any more of the details. And I’ll write to my publishers—”

“You will do no such thing,” a harsh voice said, behind them.

Prince Nikolaus stood two feet away, trailed by guards. His face was ravaged beneath his clean white wig; deep, raw burns ran all the way up his cheeks. He gripped a blanket around his shoulders with thickly bandaged hands, but his voice was as commanding and inflexible as ever.

“Tonight’s performance, Herr Kapellmeister, never took place.”

Carlo’s eyebrows rose. “Never, Your Highness? With so many witnesses?”

“Signor Morelli.” The Prince’s face tightened. “Her Imperial Majesty Maria Theresia, Emperor Joseph, and I have all discussed the matter, and we have come to the conclusion that tonight’s . . . incidents . . . are best forgotten by everyone involved.”

Carlo took a breath to loosen the tight constriction in his chest. “Over two hundred people have died already, Your Highness. Is that to be forgotten, as well?”

“They died,” the Prince said curtly, “in a most regrettable fire, caused by the combustion of three of the stoves in the Chinese ballroom. As the newspapers will report, all over the Empire, in a few months’ time . . . and as, I am sure, you will confirm to any who ask. It was a most deplorable accident.” He looked past Carlo to the blazing remains of his opera theater, and his voice flattened. “Their Majesties and I agree that no blame accrues to anyone here for the event.”

And how much did you pay the Habsburgs to bribe them into that decision? Carlo watched the flickering shadows cross the Prince’s burned face. Had it been money? Esterházy gold? More soldiers to be sent out to the next Habsburg war? Or—could it have taken the form of the political concessions Maria Theresia had fought for since her accession to the throne, nearly forty years ago?

Perhaps the state of the Esterházy serfs would see improvement, after all, to fall in line with the Habsburgs’ reforming laws for the rest of the Empire. Carlo could only hope as much.

“It will all be rebuilt, of course.” Flames found reflection in Prince Nikolaus’s eyes. “It will be larger and grander than ever before. It will be the amazement of the Empire.”

“And my opera will be performed again, too,” Haydn said quickly. “I was just telling Signor Morelli, Your Highness, that I still remember the full score, and I can certainly order another copy of the libretto. If I start rewriting it tonight—”

“No,” the Prince snapped. “Never again.”

“Your Highness?”

The Prince scowled. “I want no reminders of tonight.”

“But . . .” The kapellmeister cut himself off, biting his lip. A moment later, in a muffled tone, he said, “Of course, Your Highness. I understand and obey. I’ll only write it out for myself, and—”

“Re-read your contract, Herr Haydn. You write only with my permission and only those pieces that I wish to hear. And I never want anyone to hear of this opera or its conception, ever again.”

“But—”

“Enough.” The Prince turned and strode away.

The guards fell into step behind him. Carlo glanced at Herr Haydn . . . then had to look away. Such naked anguish was not meant to be seen. He felt the twist of it in his own chest.

He put out his hand. The older man took it and squeezed it briefly.

“Do you know, Signor Morelli,” the kapellmeister said, “sometimes . . . sometimes I could almost wonder if you and young Mozart are in the right of it after all.”

Carlo sighed and shook his head. He stepped back, away from the wreckage. His head ached with smoke, exhaustion, and grief. If he didn’t go to bed soon, he would collapse straight onto Eszterháza’s well-manicured grass.

In the distance, he saw the Princess approach the Prince, flanked by the Empress herself. He couldn’t hear the words that followed, but he could see the lines of confrontation in the Princess’s cutting gestures.

“Ah, well. It’s probably for the best.” Haydn turned and gave Carlo an unconvincing smile. “Why cling to old ideas, eh? Always best to move forward. In the next few weeks, my friend, we must take the opportunity to work together at last. Perhaps a new opera, if you would lend your voice—”

“No,” said Carlo. “Forgive me, sir, but . . .” His weary gaze passed over the flaming remains of the opera house and settled on Herr Haydn’s face. “I cannot play this part any longer,” he said quietly. “I leave Eszterháza tomorrow.”

Charlotte left her sister’s room at five-thirty in the morning, half an hour after Sophie had finally fallen asleep again, after her first awakening, hysterics, and medical treatment. Deep burns covered Sophie’s skin, turning it from peach to deep red and oozing yellow. Prince Nikolaus had come and gone, and promised to return later. The doctor, too, had promised to return, but he also swore that the only permanent damage was to Sophie’s right arm, which would never again be perfectly smooth and unmarked. Gloves and long sleeves would hide that, Charlotte supposed . . . but still, the news of the small disfigurement had struck Sophie with even more outward horror than the news of her husband’s death.

Three maids hovered near Sophie’s bed, ready and waiting to fill any of her needs. Even with her damaged skin, Sophie looked like a beautiful doll, tucked up beneath soft covers with her burned hands hidden beneath silk sheets. As dawn broke through the window, Charlotte finally stood, stretched her aching arms and legs, and walked out of the darkened room.

Exhaustion had transformed itself, hours ago, into a numb and hollow wakefulness. She knew she ought to go to bed, but the horrors of the night still felt too close. Instead, she walked, forcing energy into her tingling legs, down the long corridor, down the grand stairway, out of the palace, and into the coolness of the early-morning air. Her arms throbbed steadily despite the soothing creams that the doctor had applied to her own burns.

Smoke tinged the breeze that swept against her face. Across the wide lawn, she saw a line of dark smoke rising from the ruins of the opera theater.

She couldn’t bring herself to think, yet, about all that she had witnessed there. She turned around—and sucked in a breath.

Signor Morelli stood framed in the doorway, scarcely a foot away. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed; he leaned against the golden wall for balance.

“Signor.” Charlotte stepped back, lifting a hand to her hair. It was a mangled mess, she knew; nearly half of its curled and piled mass had burned off, leaving the remains sticking out in wildly different lengths, unbrushed and horribly disordered. She would have taken the time to have it fixed, or to put on a wig, had she imagined that she would see anyone outside at this hour.

“Baroness.” He nodded, but did not smile. “I followed you outside. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? No, of course not. But . . .” Charlotte bit her lip. He had changed his outfit, at least, since the fire—but his expression . . . “Should you not be in bed, signor?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” His dark eyes fixed on hers. “How does your sister fare?”

“She is sleeping, and safe, and she should recover soon.”

“Thanks to you.”

“No.” Charlotte swallowed. “I was too late. It was her husband who saved her.”

“Her—? Oh, yes.” Signor Morelli’s eyebrows lifted. “The young lieutenant.”

“He lost his life in saving hers.” Charlotte closed her eyes, but she couldn’t escape the memory. “I watched him disappear into the flames.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“As am I. He was very brave. Heroic.” She paused, fighting down the impulse to tears. “I was so certain, all the way down to the auditorium—I thought it had to be me, to save her. And then I was too late.”

“Yet she was still rescued, after all. Perhaps . . .” His voice trailed off; she saw him draw a breath. “Will you walk with me, Baroness?”

“I’d like that.”

His arm felt strong and warm beneath Charlotte’s fingers. She walked beside him across the wide lawn, into the first of the Eszterháza gardens.

Birds chattered in the tall hedges that lined the garden paths. Charlotte matched her steps to Signor Morelli’s as they walked in silence past clusters of bright flowers just beginning to open to the sun, roses and lilies and bowing tulips. Bees hummed through the unfurling blossoms, droning softly. Rising sunlight warmed Charlotte’s skin.

She found herself lapsing into a near-daze, lulled by the tranquility. She had to struggle to restrain herself from letting her head drop to rest on Signor Morelli’s strong shoulder. It was situated at such a perfect height for her . . . Impossible to believe, now, how alien he had seemed to her, when they’d first met.

His high, pure voice broke the peaceful silence. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I tried, but every time I closed my eyes . . .”

“I understand.” Charlotte winced.

“Do you?” He stopped walking and turned to look down at her. “I leave Eszterháza today. I’ve already made the arrangements.”

“You—today?” She stared at him, almost too numb to absorb the shock. “But . . . where will you go?”

“I have standing invitations from half the royal families in Europe,” he said. “Frederick of Prussia, Gustavus of Sweden, George of England . . .”

Charlotte couldn’t meet his eyes. She had to force herself to breathe, against the tightening in her chest. “Which one shall you accept?”

“None of them.” His mouth twisted. “I find I can no longer stomach the role of courtly guest. The dance of belonging . . . has finally lost its attractions for me.”

“Oh.” She looked down. Perhaps she ought to withdraw her hand from his arm—but her fingers clung stubbornly to the fabric of his jacket. They would feel so cold, bereft of his heat. “Where will you go, then?”

“Back to Naples,” he said. “I have a house there. A palace, nearly.” He gave a muffled laugh. “My voice has made my fortune, at least, if not my . . . I can still sing there, if I choose; there’s a fine opera house in the city that’s sent me invitations every year. And my brothers live in Naples, too. I thought . . . I wondered . . .”

He paused so long, she looked back up to see what was wrong. When she met his gaze, it made her breath catch in her throat.

“I could not sleep,” he said softly, “for wondering if I had any chance at all of persuading you to come with me.”

Charlotte stared at him. His smooth, feminine face was open and vulnerable. His high voice rang in her ears.

In the distance, she heard the hum of other voices: gardeners, beginning their day’s work. Warmth spread through the early morning air. All around her, thousands of flowers opened to the rising sun.

“Will you?” Signor Morelli asked. “Will you come?”