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Authors: Carrie Lofty
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panicky flare of questions brightened her eyes, but she did not blush. Already, he enjoyed her most when she forgot to be bashful.
“Yes, Maestro?”
“I await the chance to continue your instruction. Please come to your lesson on Wednesday.”
Gentle snowflakes fell from the dark winter sky, dusting the top of her sturdy bonnet and melting as they landed on her cheeks. The air in Arie’s lungs burned as he anticipated her reply.
“Yes,” she said.
His knees wobbled with relief even as he slung a hundred chastisements at his foolishness. He wanted to say her name again, to see her acknowledge his familiarity. But as the duke took to the stage, the woman called Mathilda Heidel slipped away.
Once, he had mistakenly believed her a bored, amorous widow. Now, Arie’s fascination extended beyond a physical attraction—even as that attraction goaded him with wild urges.
Beauty. Talent. Muse. He wanted all of her.
Was she the most important thing to happen to him in years, or the most devastating? The possibilities stood side by side, waiting.
On the platform below the Dom, His Imperial and Royal Highness Ferdinando III Giuseppe Giovanni Baptista, the Duke of Salzburg, waited with his dignitaries. Three dozen mounted harquebusiers surrounded the assemblage, sporting ceremonial metal body armor and holding antiquated muskets.
But with his hair in wild clumps, poised to lead the court orchestra, Arie De Voss was the man who held the entire city’s attention. He led the musicians with calm, authoritative focus. Into the yawning, impossibly large space of Domplatz, his inspired music offered the voice of the divine. While more conservative than most of his works, relying on familiar harmonics, his cantata for Duke Ferdinand proved down-to-earth, boisterous and unexpectedly celebratory.
From her vantage, Mathilda fought the wrenching sensation of being pulled by his magnetism. She reminded herself that the bigger-than-life conductor held little in common with the awkward, bullying musician she knew him to be.
Yet she watched, hypnotized. Every movement of his slim baton, actions at once frenetic and precise, expunged her unique knowledge. She forgot his abrasive manners. She ignored his awkward hesitations. And she disregarded his peculiar inability to settle on the right tone in any conversation.
A single face among thousands, she watched and listened and yearned.
Wednesday. She would see him again on Wednesday.
C HAPTER S IX
The winds of a harsh Alpine storm screamed down from Mönchsberg and assailed the city with a ghastly blizzard. Winter threatened to punish all who refused to heed its flamboyant warnings. Rescue parties formed at once to search for unlucky citizens trapped by the sudden onslaught.
Lord Venner was among the missing.
A bluster of chaos and worry filled the grand townhouse when he failed to return from a journey to Hallein. Runners to countless business establishments and private homes revealed no news of him within the city. Beside herself with worry, Ingrid proved nearly useless as Mathilda hastily organized a house in confusion and disarray.
And what ridiculous thought nagged her overoccupied mind? It was Wednesday. She would miss her lesson.
Guilt over her selfishness, even if in thought alone, made Mathilda work harder. The pattern proved familiar, reminding her of time spent working alongside Jürgen.
“How goes the repair, Herr Bruegel?” she asked.
The beefy, genial man in charge of maintaining the town home spoke past the tiny wooden pegs clenched in his teeth. “Shortly, Frau Heidel. Nailing the casement will make it sound again.”
Through the window, broad streaks of angry snow clouds painted every inch of blanched sky. She offered Bruegel her brisk approval. “Cook insists that something is blocking proper airflow in the kitchen chimney. Can you see to it when you finish here?”
At the servant’s answering nod, Mathilda left him to continue the hasty repairs and
“Yes, Maestro?”
“I await the chance to continue your instruction. Please come to your lesson on Wednesday.”
Gentle snowflakes fell from the dark winter sky, dusting the top of her sturdy bonnet and melting as they landed on her cheeks. The air in Arie’s lungs burned as he anticipated her reply.
“Yes,” she said.
His knees wobbled with relief even as he slung a hundred chastisements at his foolishness. He wanted to say her name again, to see her acknowledge his familiarity. But as the duke took to the stage, the woman called Mathilda Heidel slipped away.
Once, he had mistakenly believed her a bored, amorous widow. Now, Arie’s fascination extended beyond a physical attraction—even as that attraction goaded him with wild urges.
Beauty. Talent. Muse. He wanted all of her.
Was she the most important thing to happen to him in years, or the most devastating? The possibilities stood side by side, waiting.
On the platform below the Dom, His Imperial and Royal Highness Ferdinando III Giuseppe Giovanni Baptista, the Duke of Salzburg, waited with his dignitaries. Three dozen mounted harquebusiers surrounded the assemblage, sporting ceremonial metal body armor and holding antiquated muskets.
But with his hair in wild clumps, poised to lead the court orchestra, Arie De Voss was the man who held the entire city’s attention. He led the musicians with calm, authoritative focus. Into the yawning, impossibly large space of Domplatz, his inspired music offered the voice of the divine. While more conservative than most of his works, relying on familiar harmonics, his cantata for Duke Ferdinand proved down-to-earth, boisterous and unexpectedly celebratory.
From her vantage, Mathilda fought the wrenching sensation of being pulled by his magnetism. She reminded herself that the bigger-than-life conductor held little in common with the awkward, bullying musician she knew him to be.
Yet she watched, hypnotized. Every movement of his slim baton, actions at once frenetic and precise, expunged her unique knowledge. She forgot his abrasive manners. She ignored his awkward hesitations. And she disregarded his peculiar inability to settle on the right tone in any conversation.
A single face among thousands, she watched and listened and yearned.
Wednesday. She would see him again on Wednesday.
C HAPTER S IX
The winds of a harsh Alpine storm screamed down from Mönchsberg and assailed the city with a ghastly blizzard. Winter threatened to punish all who refused to heed its flamboyant warnings. Rescue parties formed at once to search for unlucky citizens trapped by the sudden onslaught.
Lord Venner was among the missing.
A bluster of chaos and worry filled the grand townhouse when he failed to return from a journey to Hallein. Runners to countless business establishments and private homes revealed no news of him within the city. Beside herself with worry, Ingrid proved nearly useless as Mathilda hastily organized a house in confusion and disarray.
And what ridiculous thought nagged her overoccupied mind? It was Wednesday. She would miss her lesson.
Guilt over her selfishness, even if in thought alone, made Mathilda work harder. The pattern proved familiar, reminding her of time spent working alongside Jürgen.
“How goes the repair, Herr Bruegel?” she asked.
The beefy, genial man in charge of maintaining the town home spoke past the tiny wooden pegs clenched in his teeth. “Shortly, Frau Heidel. Nailing the casement will make it sound again.”
Through the window, broad streaks of angry snow clouds painted every inch of blanched sky. She offered Bruegel her brisk approval. “Cook insists that something is blocking proper airflow in the kitchen chimney. Can you see to it when you finish here?”
At the servant’s answering nod, Mathilda left him to continue the hasty repairs and
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