Let It Be Me

Twenty-four

THE competition. It loomed in the brains of all parties concerned like a dark portent—one could never be too prepared, because it was coming. While Vienna had been a respite, a holiday from the pressures of what they faced, almost as soon as the carriage doors had closed and they took off that next morning at dawn did it become obvious the competition could no longer be pushed out of their thoughts.

Lady Forrester spent the ride alternately moaning in agony, deciding which dress Bridget should wear to play and whether Molly should be required to add any fluff or furbelows to make it shine like it should, and plotting which of their newfound friends in Venice should be present at this competition.

Amanda spent the six-day journey back to Venice keeping a watchful eye on Mr. Merrick, and just as watchful an eye on Bridget, beside whom she insisted on sitting the entire journey, forcing Oliver to take the seat next to their mother. While she may have been willing to trust Bridget that she knew what she was doing with the gentleman, she in no way was under any obligation to trust Mr. Merrick, especially given that he had not yet had the temerity to speak his intentions toward her sister! Although she did find him kind and solicitous and every bit the gentleman, and he did make her sister happy . . . well, suffice it to say, Amanda’s maturing mind was at a loss how to categorize Mr. Merrick, and therefore she thought he warranted watching. That was all.

Oliver, meanwhile, spent the journey worrying over Bridget’s state of mind, that she was contented and unbothered by anything that could distract her from her playing, all the while his mind completely engrossed in the different tangential possibilities of the future. Also, he could not help wondering why Miss Amanda kept staring at him, as if he were a piece of crown molding to be studied and watched for signs of rot.

And Bridget could only think about how the music was supposed to sound, about the rhythms that came to her from the way the carriage moved with the ruts in the road, and how much she wished she could reach across the space of the carriage and take Oliver’s hand.

Every night spent on the road was more and more torturous for the young lovers. Not because their passions overwhelmed them, but because as they got closer and closer to Venice, the worry returned, the grim lines around Bridget’s mouth became deeper. It was not without notice that the ability to simply hold each other would do her a world of good. As it would Oliver.

A night of rain made the roads slow going, which added a day of travel to their journey. And which, when Oliver finally walked through the door to his house, had apparently wreaked havoc upon Carpenini’s sensibilities as well.

“Where the hell have you been!” he cried, his speech a rush of Italian. “You said you would be back yesterday!”

“I know,” Oliver replied, exhausted. They had taken over fifty miles of road that day to reach the banks of the lagoon before dusk settled in. They found a ferryman to take them across the lagoon to the city, and he had just delivered the ladies to their hotel, where Lady Forrester had been appalled to learn that Signor Zinni had let one of the unoccupied rooms on the second floor while they had been away. From the way she blistered Zinni’s ears, Oliver had the feeling the poor hotelier was going to have to remedy that problem immediately.

“Rain delayed us,” Oliver said in Italian, by way of explanation. “Frederico!” he called out, “I should like some supper, if you please. Sometime before breakfast.” He made a move for the worn velvet sofa that he usually occupied, his entire body aching to lie across it.

But Carpenini blocked his path. “And where is Signorina Forrester?”

“Back at her hotel.”

“Bring her back here! We have only days until the competition; we must practice through the night!” Carpenini growled, pacing as he sat down at the instrument.

Oliver took in the room. After nearly a fortnight away, he would have expected the place to be an absolute wreck, considering he had left Vincenzo in the deepest throes of composition. Normally there would be balled-up paper everywhere, ink on Vincenzo’s cuffs, and a small mound of food detritus—since he would not allow Frederico to come in to clean, if Frederico felt like cleaning anyway.

Oliver turned to Vincenzo as understanding dawned. “You finished your piece.”

Vincenzo could not help a small smile. “Yes, I did. And now I should like to concentrate on rehearsing my student before her recital.”

“That is excellent!” he cried, collapsing on the sofa while Vincenzo was distracted. “Tell me about it.”

“It is a symphony—a full symphony, with weight on the strings, in the beginning, like the dawn awakening . . .”

As Vincenzo began spinning out the description of his symphony, Oliver felt a deep pleasure settle over him. Because not only had he successfully distracted Vincenzo from dragging Bridget to the house for practice at this late hour, but Vincenzo had his piece completed! He had a work that could enjoy its premiere at the Teatro Michelina. And once Vincenzo was vindicated as a musician by Bridget’s beautiful playing, the Marchese would back wherever Vincenzo wanted to play . . . Oliver could get him to invest in the Teatro, he could have the place cleaned up in a matter of weeks and be a viable theatre again . . .

As Oliver indulged his fantasies of everything working out perfectly—if not in quite an orthodox manner—he leaned back against the couch and sighed happily.

“So, are you going to play it for me?” Oliver said, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“Not yet.” Carpenini shook his head. If Oliver had not been so tired, he would have said that his brother was being unusually protective of his work. But he decided better of it.

“Right now,” Carpenini said, cracking his fingers, “we must focus on the competition before us. Have the Signorina here at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

And she was. Bridget appeared on their doorstep at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, having received Oliver’s note the night before, her mother and sister in tow. Now that the competition was so close, their lives revolved around it as well, and they would not leave her side. And Bridget was as restless to play.

Having listened to Vincenzo’s recitations all evening about how he was absolutely certain that Bridget had not had opportunity to practice and that her playing would have suffered for the trip, Oliver knew Carpenini was just as eager to hear. But when Bridget sat down and began to play, suddenly Carpenini was singing a very different tune.

“Wonderful! Bellissima!” he cried, a wide grin spreading over his face. “I knew a trip to Vienna would bring out what was missing! You hear the master Beethoven and he taught you what was in your heart!”

If Oliver and Bridget happened to exchange a quick glance at that, no one in the room was the wiser. For everyone around them, from Carpenini, to Lady Forrester and Miss Amanda, to Frederico and Molly, who had come to hover in the doorway from the kitchens, had gathered around simply to listen to the transcendent beauty of Bridget Forrester’s playing. She had not missed a single note, a single beat, a single emotion. It was all there.

“Just you wait, Oliver,” Vincenzo whispered to him, unable to quell the smile on his face. “Come tomorrow, we will show that fraud Klein and whatever poor student he has just who is the better teacher!”

Oliver wanted to roll his eyes at Vincenzo’s presumption but could not. Because like the rest of them, he was just happy to let the music roll over him, and think about tomorrow, tomorrow. It would come soon enough.





And it did.

Tomorrow evening came like a rush of stillness, each minute marked and waited on, gone through with the patience of those who had only time in their way. Carpenini and Oliver came to the Hotel Cortile to fetch the Forrester ladies, this time in a gondola rented for the occasion. Oliver had no desire to be seen and spotted in as recognizable a vehicle as Lord Pomfrey’s red open contraption again, just in case Klein had some last-minute ideas in his mind.

They had heard nothing of Klein in the short hours since they arrived back in Venice. He had not made any overtures to Oliver or Carpenini; he had not, according to Veronica, come into La Fenice. His staging of his Odyssey had come to an end, but he had been seen there several times since, kissing the correct hands among the musical patrons of Venice. However, one could assume that either Klein had been put at ease by the Forresters’ sudden disappearance to Vienna and had not heard of their return, or he had heard of it and was madly working to bring his own student up to standard. But either way, for the journey from the Rio di San Marina along the Grand Canal, their party was safe.

The Palazzo Garibaldi was lit inside and out with a thousand candles and lamps, making it shine like a beacon over the sea of gondolas that waited just outside it, jockeying for position as their tufted and bejeweled passengers made to disembark.

And Bridget felt for one brief moment that she could not breathe.

The beautiful palazzo, its reflection in the Grand Canal fractured by the movement of all the black boats, caught and held her focus. It was the grandest palace she had ever seen. Grander than La Fenice. Grander than the homes of the richest people in London. She had passed the building a dozen times in daylight and possibly marked its beauty, but now . . . now it was the setting for the most important night of her life.

It was as if the weight of the palazzo itself settled next to Bridget in the gondola and would sink them—her—into the canal.

“Two breaths.” Oliver’s voice came from her side, a warm gentle caress. “The first to steady yourself.”

She did.

“And the second for what comes next.”

By the time she exhaled the last of the second breath, Bridget found that the fear had taken a step back.

She looked up into the eyes of Oliver and took his hand. Her anchor, not caring for once who else could see them. But oddly, no one was paying attention to her at that moment. It had been decided that while Amanda had been permitted to enjoy some of the smaller, more British social functions that Venice had to offer, tonight was too large and uncontrollable an event for someone still sixteen. Therefore she was left in the care of a vigilant Molly, likely one helping the other organize trunks, as they had not yet fully unpacked from their journey to Vienna—possibly because no one knew how long they would be staying in Venice after this evening.

Bridget’s mother sat opposite Bridget and Oliver but was concentrating on a distant point on the water, as she had taught herself to do to stave off any uneasiness brought about by the sea travel. Carpenini sat next to her—however, his attention was to the front, on the Palazzo Garibaldi, and the fight that was before them.

The gondola made its way to the front of the line quickly enough. Oliver and Carpenini alighted first, both turning to take Bridget’s hand.

“Signorina, tonight you must be by my side,” Carpenini commanded, and he brooked no argument. After a moment, Oliver nodded and withdrew his hand.

Bridget stepped out of the gondola on Carpenini’s arm and was made a little uneven by it. She was not used to Carpenini’s attentiveness in matters other than her technique, her playing, her emotional consistency. Nor did she want Oliver to step into the background.

But on the latter score, she was relieved when Oliver leaned down to her ear and whispered, “And you will be by my side every night after this,” causing her to pink with pleasure.

She glanced at him fleetingly as he helped her mother out of the gondola and gave her his arm. They were the words she needed to hear. Needed to know that even though she was Carpenini’s student, she was Oliver’s in truth. And while she was not on his arm as they made their way into the palazzo, its grand hall and staircase dominating the space, littered with the beautiful and powerful of Venice, he was no more than a step away.

As Carpenini gave their names to the majordomo, a hush came over the crowd. And when the stalwart man bellowed their names to the party, cheers and applause rose with the turning faces of the crowd. Bridget was stunned until she recognized Antonia Galetti making her way through the crowd to their side.

“My darling Vincenzo! Signorina Forrester,” she said by way of welcome, bobbing into a scant curtsy as Bridget executed a far more graceful one. Then she extended her hand to Carpenini, and he took it reverently. It was as if through her coquettish smiles and giggles all memory of their previous meeting with Antonia Galetti and her small act of betrayal had been forgiven.

Although, to be fair, she had been away from the Signore for a fortnight . . . who knew how often Antonia had been forgiven in the intervening time.

“Finally, you are here!” she cried in heavily accented English, in deference to Bridget. “We wait, for you,” she said, attaching herself to Carpenini’s other side. Bridget glanced behind her, finding Oliver there with her mother. Her mother seemed to be taking in the grandeur of the space silently, but not in awe. No, Lady Forrester had no need to be awed. But perhaps she was just a little bit impressed by the ornate hall and staircase, the Tintorettos on the wall, the beauty of the guests.

“For a city in decline, you would not know it here,” Bridget heard her mother mutter, and Oliver gave a short chuckle. That was her mother, eminently practical in the face of opulence. And suddenly Bridget felt herself again.

Antonia was pulling Carpenini toward another room through the crowd. Subsequently, he was pulling Bridget, and Oliver and Lady Forrester followed. When they reached the new room, Bridget again found herself rendered speechless—and very, very nervous.

It was a ballroom, but not a ballroom like Bridget had ever seen in a private residence before. The pale blue walls were framed by gilt scrollwork, extending up to a vaulted ceiling floating above them, a celestial night painted on the ceiling above, lit by three massive chandeliers lining the length of the room. But this room had not been prepared for dancing. Rows upon rows of chairs—enough for every person currently jammed into the outer hall!—were facing a polished stage at the far end of the space. And on that stage, which could have fit an entire orchestra, was a single, beautiful, perfect pianoforte. Save their party, the room was empty, except for three men lounging in chairs in the front row, talking and laughing.

“Papa!” Antonia cried across the space. “I have them!”

As they made their way down the echoing space, Bridget recognized one of the gentlemen: Gustav Klein. He was dressed impeccably and seemed to be making the appropriate nods and gestures to his companions, but his stare—that unnerving stare—had locked firmly onto Bridget. Next to him was a younger gentleman—perhaps only a few years older than Bridget herself—just as blond and Germanic as Klein, with a more boyish face. He kept his hands firmly behind his back as he nodded at something Klein said. And the other gentleman, an older man with silver hair and a demeanor that could quell a hurricane, must be . . .

“Papa,” Antonia said as they reached the men, holding out her hands to the older gentleman. The Marchese—for it could only be the Marchese—grasped his daughter’s hands and kissed them. “I have brought you Carpenini and his little student.”

“Marchese”—Carpenini made a deep, obsequious bow—“may I introduce Lady Forrester, and her daughter, my student and entry into this competition, Miss Bridget Forrester.”

Both Bridget and her mother stood forward and gave curtsies. The Marchese bowed and did the honor of taking Lady Forrester’s hand. “Lady Forrester, an estimable pleasure.” The Marchese’s English was impeccable, far superior to his daughter’s thickly accented speech. Then he turned to Bridget.

“I have heard much about you, little bird,” the Marchese said, putting a finger under Bridget’s chin, forcing her eyes up from their spot on the ground. His choice of pet name reminded her of the kind captain on the ship over from England. But the rest of him did not. She met his scrutinizing gaze as best she could, knowing that the Marchese was not the only one watching this exchange. “Not only from my dear Antonia. Indeed, everyone here is wondering just what you can do.”

Bridget’s eyes flicked to the Signore beside her. He nodded once; she knew what she was supposed to say. “Signor Carpenini has been a great teacher, Marchese,” she replied.

The Marchese gave a half smile, a crooked cynicism. “We shall see. He has, at the very least, promised me I shall be greatly entertained tonight. Well, Carpenini,” the Marchese said as he turned to that man, “tell me what you think? We could not possibly fit everyone in the music room; thus I had the ballroom refitted to support tonight’s events—the stage, the small amphitheater we made of this end here?” He swept his arm over the space, at once owning and dismissing it. “I should like your opinion, too, Mr. Merrick.”

Oliver looked away from Bridget for the first time that evening, caught by the Marchese’s instruction.

“I am told that you should like to have something like this at your Teatro Michelina . . . if on a different scale,” the Marchese continued.

“Possibly.” Oliver cleared his throat. “I would accept the Marchese’s recommendation for any builder or mason . . .”

As the gentlemen began to move down the length of the room, talking about raised versus sunken orchestras and acoustics (and no doubt, Amanda would kick herself for not being present), Bridget was left with her mother, Klein, and the young unintroduced gentleman, who could only be his student.

“I wish you the best of luck, Fräulein,” Klein said, his cold stare never leaving Bridget’s face. “You will need it.”

Then, before a retort could be issued, Klein and his student bowed and made to join the men in their discussion.

“Heavens, my dear,” Bridget’s mother said, squinting after Klein’s retreating form. “That man just gets more and more unpleasant, doesn’t he?”

Bridget’s eyes followed Klein as he went, too. Inserting himself between Oliver and the Marchese, making himself the right-hand man of his patron.

“I am afraid he does, Mother.”

“I know you must be a little nervous about tonight, my love,” she said, nonchalant. “And I know that as your mother, you will think me biased. But I hope you believe me when I say that I have heard you play, and I know you can defeat him.”

A giddy resolve began to form in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth became a grim line of determination even as her mother’s words seeped into her head, feeding the soil around a seed of an idea that had not really existed before.

She could win. It was entirely possible. Before Carpenini, before Venice, she had thought herself a good player—talented, one who understood music at its roots but was felled by an unfortunate case of nerves. But now she knew that to be folly.

Now she was better than she had ever been. Even when she had been free from nervous shatterings, she had never, ever played like this. She had not been lying when she had said Carpenini was an excellent teacher. He was. He was a bit of an ass, in all honesty. He was ruthless, demanding, forcing drills and exercises and study the likes of which she had never attempted before. Before, she was good—but a good dilettante.

Now . . . she was a pianist.

“Thank you, Mother,” Bridget said, giving her mother one of her brightest smiles, filled with a surprising honesty. “I fully intend to.”





Guests began to fill into the renovated ballroom with the lazy efficiency of the masses promised a treat. As time passed, they began to fill up the seats, chattering and waving to each other, arranging themselves as they thought themselves best presented, choosing which were the most advantageous chairs to take. It was no different than the opera, Bridget thought, except now the assembly did not have boxes to exclude themselves and mingled freely. And rather loudly.

Bridget and her mother were escorted to a small antechamber where the players could hold themselves away from the crowd to “compose their minds,” as the Marchese had said. It was a pleasant chamber, with sofas overlooking wide windows that faced an inner courtyard. A perfect place for serenity—even if the occupants would never be at all serene. The crowd beyond could still be seen and heard through the doorway, but no one was coming over to wish Miss Forrester luck—all of the attention was on the Marchese and his two dueling maestros.

Bridget watched as the Marchese, standing in front of the stage, conducted the room. Everyone came up to him before taking their seats, causing a queer sort of receiving line—queer, because everyone had been received in the outer hall already. To his left stood Klein. To his right, Carpenini and Oliver. Oliver was the only one who glanced their way, making certain they were all right. More than once, he made to step away from the group, but was always pulled back in by some comment from the Marchese, and then by someone who had come up to them in line.

He was like he was at La Fenice, Bridget realized. He was alive, in the presence of all these musically inclined people. All the people he needed to know if he wished to run a theatre.

Carpenini was no different. But while Oliver was good-humored and making people laugh, Carpenini was impressing everyone with his verve and passion. He gesticulated wildly, speaking with enough animation to turn his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed. Occasionally he would indicate Oliver, draw him into conversation. Oliver would do the same with whomever he was talking to, throwing deference back on Carpenini.

The two worked together like a pair of hands. Partners in their social front, ready to take on the world.

“He seems to be enjoying the attention,” her mother said in her ear. They were perched on a sofa near the door, both peering (her mother squinting) out into the ballroom.

“He needs it,” Bridget replied, her eyes never straying from the pair. “Everyone knows Carpenini needs the Marchese to reinstate his patronage. He must be loved.”

“I meant your Mr. Merrick,” her mother replied grimly.

“He’s not my Mr. Merrick,” Bridget protested, but it was futile.

“My dear, I may have left off my spectacles, but I can still see what is truly important,” her mother admonished. “I should have thought that he would have had you out there, by his side.”

“I do not wish to be out there,” Bridget replied. She did prefer it in their little antechamber, where it was cool and nominally quiet. Why, it even looked out onto a calm, pleasant little courtyard. “But if you wish to be, I would understand,” Bridget said to her mother.

“You do not want me to stay with you?” her mother asked. It was not a question filled with hurt; it was, however, filled with concern. Bridget squeezed her mother’s arm, thankful for that kind tone in her voice.

“Actually, if you would not mind, I think I would prefer to be alone,” Bridget replied. “It will be easier for me to concentrate.”

“Are you certain, my dear? I would not leave you if you need me.”

“Go, Mother. I will be perfectly all right here,” Bridget replied. “Besides, you need to go stake your claim for the best possible seat.”

Her mother gave her one last squeeze and then pecked her cheek.

“You will be brilliant, my dear. I know it,” she whispered, before moving off into the glittering crowds, ready to smile and chatter with the best of them, laying praises upon her daughter all the while.

Leaving Bridget to stand at the door, unable to move forward or back, standing on the edge of the gaiety but not part of it. Not yet. No, she would wait, running through the themes of the music, the trills, the crescendos and decrescendos, letting it play again and again in her mind.

Until it would be time for her to play on the stage.





“When the hell are we going to begin this thing?” Oliver whispered to Carpenini, as the hundredth person came up to them, congratulated them, happy to see Carpenini back to being in his element, eager to see Miss Forrester play against Klein’s protégé.

Oliver was eager, too, but his eagerness was also filled with a sense of dread. As much as he enjoyed the flattery of having the Marchese place him firmly there, his entire mind was on Bridget, who by now would be alone in the antechamber, in a state of nervous anticipation. And picturing Bridget nervous made Oliver anxious as well.

“Desperate for it to be over already?” Vincenzo whispered back to him.

“Aren’t you?”

“No—this could be our only chance to enjoy any accolades.”

“You have so little faith in Bridget?” Oliver shot back, making sure to keep a strong grin on his face.

“Am I the only one prepared for the eventuality that we could lose?” Carpenini replied.

“Are you?” Oliver questioned. “Prepared for what will happen if we lose?”

After all, they could be run out of Venice. At the very least, Carpenini would never play there again, and Oliver would be punished for his support of his brother and likely have to wait another eon before the Teatro Michelina could have an orchestra playing on its stage . . .

“Of course I prepared,” Carpenini was saying. “Why do you think I worked so hard to finish my symphony? Even if the Signorina fails, I will play that piece for the Marchese and he will be forgiving of me.”

Oliver had to keep from grinding his teeth. “I wish you would have more faith in your student. Do you not remember how she played the room to tears only yesterday?”

“I do. And I will be praying she brings the same confidence to her playing tonight.” Vincenzo sent Oliver a sympathetic look. “Do not worry, Oliver. She will play magnificently. My new piece is only in case of true disaster.”

Oliver let out a long-held breath. He should not be as harsh on Carpenini as he was—after all, Carpenini had finished his composition before Bridget had come back from Vienna with her . . . musical education completed. And considering the importance placed on this competition, it was perhaps right to not have the entire weight of it placed on Bridget’s slim shoulders.

“Anyway, it looks as if the wait is over,” Vincenzo murmured. Oliver followed the line of his eyes. The Marchese had moved from his spot at the front of the stage to standing upon it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, in his fluid Italian, “if you would be so kind . . .”

With a wave of his hands, a dozen liveried servants melted off the walls, ornate handheld lamps in hand. They moved the light from the room itself to the stage, placing the lamps on the edge of the stage, effectively lighting the stage and at the same time darkening the room.

The crowd hushed immediately, settling into their seats.

“You are all here because months ago, there was a challenge, a question issued. And we were all too curious to leave it unanswered.” The Marchese gave a quick, practiced chuckle. “Well, I could not.”

The room chuckled with him.

“Signor Vincenzo Carpenini, Herr Gustav Klein?” With those words, the two composers moved to join the Marchese on stage.

Oliver, seeing his chance, left his place in front of the stage and moved nimbly over to where Bridget was hovering at the doorway to the little room the Marchese had provided for them.

“Miss Bridget,” he said formally, smiling as he kissed her hand.

“Mr. Merrick,” she returned, but did not play along. Her attention was too much on the stage. So Oliver contented himself with taking her hand and wrapping it around his arm, holding her close to his side.

“I am a bit unclear on who issued the challenge,” the Marchese’s voice boomed across the room, “but Carpenini has said that he can produce a female student who can best a male student of Herr Klein’s at the pianoforte. An interesting choice of weapon for dueling, to be sure.” The Marchese gave a wry smile at Carpenini. Vincenzo simply gave a fluid bow to the audience, of which they heartily approved.

“And a piece of music was chosen,” the Marchese continued, “that both students learned. And now, it is only for us to introduce them!”

Applause came from the crowd.

“Are you ready?” Oliver asked, leaning down to her. She nodded, her eyes resolutely ahead.

With a breath of resolve, they began to walk up to the stage. Bridget did not pull away or against him—she simply moved with light grace, as if floating, until she came to a stop next to Carpenini, lit by the lamps on the stage.

“May I present Miss Bridget Forrester, lately of England,” Carpenini said in Italian, his words intoned so the whole room could hear. From the audience, there was one person who applauded enthusiastically at the name—one could only assume that it was Lady Forrester herself. Bridget smiled wanly when she heard her own name—as much as she had spent the last months in Venice, she had not learned the language nearly enough to follow the conversation.

Of course, it had been known for weeks that Bridget was Carpenini’s student—her mother had paraded her around the British expatriate houses of Venice with that information. But there was some speculation as to whether Bridget would appear that evening, and thus the wave of murmurs that followed Lady Forrester’s applause was particularly gratifying to Oliver’s ears. He looked down at Bridget—she was blinking out into the darkness, trying to see the audience in the dimness. Her face was rigid, unsmiling . . . and alarmingly pale.

“And Herr Klein? Your student?” the Marchese asked.

While Bridget had been a known entity for a little while, Oliver had it on good authority that no one knew which young man he would present. Klein enjoyed innumerable students in Venice, not to mention those he had taught previously in Austria.

But what he said next was not expected.

“I am afraid,” Klein said, also in Italian, “that the student I have prepared—Josef, come here—cannot play.”

The young man they had met earlier that evening walked up onto the stage, his hands held, as always, behind his back. But when he reached his place beside Klein, he brought his hands forward—the right one wrapped in a huge bandage.

“As you see, the young man has injured himself, just yesterday,” Klein said, as a hushed roar of titillation came from the crowd. “And I have no other student who knows the piece.”

“What is going on?” Bridget asked in a low whisper. She was watching the proceedings, her eyes glued to the bandage on Josef’s hand.

“Klein’s student cannot play,” Oliver whispered back.

“What does that mean?”

“I do not know,” he replied. “Hold on, we may find out yet.”

The Marchese was holding forth, turning over Josef’s hand in his, inspecting the wound. “This is unfortunate indeed. An unforeseen circumstance that does not please me, Klein.”

Klein flushed with chagrin at being admonished by his patron, but charged ahead. “I apologize, Marchese, but it cannot be helped.”

“Oh dear.” Carpenini chose that particular time to join in the conversation. “I am afraid that means that you will have to forfeit. How unfortunate, Gustav.”

“I do not intend to forfeit, Vincenzo,” Klein ground out. Then, drawing back into his usual reserve, he said “I would instead take the boy’s place myself.”

The dull murmurs from the crowd became thunderous at that point. As thunderous as the look on Carpenini’s face. But he did not lash out. Instead, he threw back his head in laughter.

“Oh, Gustav, you have been in Venice for months, and you have finally left your rigid, humorless ways back in Austria. Well done.”

“I am afraid I do not make fun,” Klein replied. “Why can I not—after all, the rules of your challenge state that I must produce a male student. Well, I am male, and I taught myself Beethoven’s Number Twenty-three. I am arguably my very best student.”

The Marchese, who stood between the two men, watched them intently. Then, with the air of a judge making a decision, he turned to Carpenini. “Gustav has a point,” he said, fingering his chin in contemplation. “Besides, I should not like to have my party ruined because it lacked its entertainment.”

“Marchese,” Carpenini replied, attempting to be as ingratiating as possible, “if Herr Klein is to play in his student’s stead, then I must request the same privilege.”

“Oh, but your student is to be female,” Klein piped up. “You cannot play . . . unless you mean to reveal something even more shocking to us tonight.”

The crowd tittered at that. And Bridget dug her hand into Oliver’s arm.

“Oliver,” she said, her eyes pleading up at him, “I don’t understand.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “What has happened is that the competition will go on—and your competitor will be Klein himself.”

He watched as any faint color that Bridget might have had drained out of her face. Her eyes whipped straight ahead, latching onto Klein. Klein, meanwhile, had done the same, locking eyes with Bridget, staring, unblinking, at her.

He was making his way inside her head, Oliver knew. And by the way Bridget paled and her hand began to shake, it was working.

Her eyes broke away from his and flew to the audience, just beyond the threshold of darkness. Searching for anyone . . . anything. But there was nothing she could see, only the hazy movements of people, and she could hear their voices, their whispers, amplified against the walls of the ballroom.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered to Oliver, her voice shaking.

“Well, now that that is decided,” the Marchese was saying, controlling the room with the elegance of a ringmaster, “shall we agree on the order?”

“Oh, since I have caused such difficulty,” Klein was saying with an obsequious bow, “let me cause no more, and offer Signor Carpenini the advantage. Ladies first.”

“Oliver, I’m not ready,” she repeated, her fear palpable in her voice. He reached down, tried to hold her hand against his arm, tried to steady her, but she jumped at his touch, pulled herself away, and fled the stage.

The crowd, already on the edges of their seats from the dramatics—before the music could even begin—began standing and pointing when Bridget left the stage. She ran to the small antechamber where he had collected her and firmly shut the door.

Oliver turned to Carpenini. “Buy her some time. I will calm her down and bring her out—that goddamn Klein is playing head games with her, staring her down, becoming her opponent—”

“I would bet his student’s hand was injured by his own,” Carpenini grumbled darkly.

“Probably, but it does not matter—you just need to buy us some time!”

“How?”

“You’re the one who prepared for this,” Oliver replied, exasperated. Then he turned to the Marchese and said, in a loud voice, so everyone could hear, “Marchese! Er . . . Before the competition begins, the Signor Carpenini has a gift to offer you!”

Carpenini’s face seemed to fall into a grim line. Then, decision made, he opted to go along with it.

“Si, Marchese,” Carpenini said with a bow. “With your permission, I should like to play for you the main theme from my new symphony.”

The Marchese looked over at them with a bemused smile.

“You have something new, Carpenini?” he said. “How utterly rare.”

“Er, yes. I hope to stage it with a full orchestra in the fall, but I could not wait that long for you to hear it.”

“You hope to stage it in the fall . . . I can only guess where,” the Marchese replied, his eyes falling on Oliver. Then, with a wave of his hand, he said, “Very well. Let us hear this new piece.”

As Carpenini made his bow to the Marchese, then to the audience, Oliver could wait not a moment longer. He took three long strides to reach the edge of the stage and ran down the steps, flying into the antechamber and after Bridget.