“Where’s Josef?” I asked, hanging my hat and bonnet on a peg by the door and setting down the week’s shopping. Fran?ois rose from the table to assist me, all too eager to leave his sewing behind.
“What took so long?” K?the snapped. Carnival was fast approaching, and the Viennese celebrated with balls and masques before the Lenten season put an end to all luxury and frivolity. Herr Schneider was overwhelmed with work and had given much of it—along with his irritability—over to my sister to manage in his stead. “I need to finish these gowns by tomorrow and could use all the help I can get.”
I looked to Fran?ois, who shrugged apologetically. His German had improved by leaps and bounds since we first met him, but his gestures were just as eloquent as his words. I do not know where Josef is, mademoiselle.
I sighed. “I was waylaid by our meddlesome Frau Messner.”
K?the rolled her eyes. “What did the old busybody want?”
“The usual.” I held up the message from Count Procházka. “Any bit of gossip about our esteemed benefactor, of course.”
“A letter?” Fran?ois asked. “From the comte?” We corresponded so rarely with our patron that any contact between us was a source of both fascination and fear.
“Yes,” I said. A sickly sweet perfume stained the air, cloying and close. I glanced at the message in my hand, trying to identify the scent. Not roses. Violets? Lilac? The poppy on the wax seal stared back at me.
K?the squinted a little as she looked up from her work. “Is that an invitation?”
“An invitation?” I frowned. “To what?”
“His masked ball, of course. For Carnival.” K?the tilted her head toward the pile of dresses around her. “It’s what half these gowns are for. The Count’s parties are infamous.” A sigh of longing escaped her lips. “Invitations are extremely difficult to come by, and the guest lists are kept secret, so no one knows who is to attend.”
“What is infamous?” Fran?ois asked.
“It is, er”—I struggled to find the French word and failed— “it means well-known, though not necessarily in a good way.” Frau Messner’s words returned to me. The tales that come out of Procházka House are more incendiary than most.
“C’est mal?” His brows knit together. “Bad?”
“Infamous isn’t necessarily bad.” K?the returned to her needlework. “People want to go to the Count’s parties.”
“Why?” Fran?ois turned to me.
I shook my head. I wanted to know the answer as well.
“Because,” K?the said exasperatedly, “it’s the mystery that makes it exciting. No one knows exactly what happens at these parties, for the Count binds all his guests to secrecy.”
“What?” I had never heard of such a ridiculous notion. “What on earth do they get up to at these soirees?”
She shrugged, pushing a blond curl out of her eyes. “Oh, the clients tell all sorts of stories at Herr Schneider’s dress shop. The Procházkas sacrifice goats to a dark god in occult rituals. They drink laudanum to induce visions. They call upon sinister forces. There are also”—her cheeks pinked—“other, ah, salacious tales that emerge. Everyone is masked and anonymous, after all. People are keen to shed their inhibitions along with their identities.”
Theirs is a house of madmen and dreamers.
“Salacious?” Fran?ois asked.
Neither K?the nor I answered him. “And you want to go?” For a brief moment, I thought of another masked ball my sister and I had attended, deep Underground, where I had seen her dance and laugh and party to wild excess on the arm of several comely young changelings. A flutter of anxiety and excitement flickered in my stomach.
“Of course!” K?the snorted. “You don’t think I truly believe those stories, do you? And besides, even if the Procházkas participated in arcane blood magic rituals, anything would be more exciting than being cooped up in these apartments, waiting for our lives to begin.”
As apprehensive as I was about our benefactor, I could not gainsay her. Ever since we arrived in Vienna, we existed in a liminal state, always waiting for the next audition, the next chance, the next opportunity. Opportunities for musician work came in fits and starts, either feast or famine. For all that the Count could provide us with funds to live in Vienna, we were as dependent on public opinion as we were his generosity. What passed as talent in our small, provincial town in Bavaria was ordinary in here, for musicians in the city were as common as beer, and twice as cheap. Every week there was another concert, another salon, another gathering, another audience, and it was hard to make ourselves heard above the din.
I held the message out before us. There was nothing to be gleaned from the letter itself; it was faintly perfumed in the same scent, written in the same elegant hand, and sealed with the same poppy seal as the first correspondence we received from our patron. All my misgivings and doubts rose to the fore. When we first heard from Count Procházka, I had been so eager to read news of Josef and so distracted by the unexpected windfall of fifty florins that I had overlooked troubling signs. The lengths to which he had gone to satisfy an obsession with my music. My stolen letters to my brother. The Count’s complete and utter disregard for my privacy. They all pointed to a man who seemed to have little consideration for boundaries.
“Mademoiselle?” Fran?ois lifted his brows. “Will you read or no?”
With some hesitation, I turned the message over. For the first time, I noticed text printed in Roman type beneath the seal. HOSTIS VENIT FLORES DISCEDUNT. Latin. A motto? The words seemed vaguely familiar, but my Latin was rudimentary at best, useless outside the Mass.
Printed on weighted card stock in Gothic black letter were the words BLACK & WHITE CARNIVAL.
And then, in that flowing, flawless hand:
Mlle Elisabeth Vogler is requested to attend the BALL at Procházka House, on the night of Shrove Tuesday, at FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE EVE NING.
An invitation. Four of them, each addressed to a different person. Me. Mssr Fran?ois Saint-Georges. Mlle Katharina Vogler. My heart clenched. Mssr Josef Vogler.
“Well?” K?the bit off her thread and tied a knot. “Don’t keep us waiting, Liesl.”
“You were right, K?the,” I said softly. I handed her the invitation with her name. “We’ve been invited to one of Count Procházka’s infamous balls.”
My sister squealed in excitement. “I knew it!” She tossed aside the gown on which she had been working. “Take that, Frau Drucker,” she gloated to the crumpled silk. “I am personally acquainted with Count Procházka!”
I gave Fran?ois his invitation. He met my gaze. “Josef?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know,” I said in a small voice. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know if he would want to come.”