City of Lost Dreams by Magnus Flyte

Hohenlohe family had the healer Philippine Welser’s papers and was highly possessive of them. Given the too hungry look of this guy, Sarah was glad that Nico already had the recipe he needed.
    “Is she here?” Sarah asked Nina. “Doktor Müller?” There were hundreds of people milling about. This was going to be difficult.
    “She will be late,” Nina said. “She always is. In the meantime, you should enjoy yourself.”
    Sarah was just hoping not to split a seam before Dr. Müller showed up.
    Heinrich touched her shoulder. “Do not be offended,” he shouted over the din, “if no one outside of our group asks you to dance. It would violate tradition. People come in couples or groups, and it would be considered ill-mannered to prey on a member of someone else’s party, although ogling is allowed.” Heinrich ogled Sarah, as if to demonstrate its acceptability.
    When the orchestra leader announced,
“Meine Damen und Herren, alles Waltzer,”
and “Tales from the Vienna Woods” began, Sarah begged Alessandro to let her just watch the dancing for a moment. Each couple made their own swirling little circle while at the same time the entire crowd swirled counterclockwise, like an elaborate clockwork mechanism with hundreds of gauzy, glinting, moving parts. It was beautiful, it was romantic, it was slightly absurd, and it was fabulous.
    When Alessandro led her into the next dance, Sarah had a moment of panic as she tried to recall where her feet were supposed to be, and then, to her great surprise, she was doing it, waltzing. Not perfectly, but definitely waltzing. She had to splay out her toes to keep the shoes on, and had an ongoing fear that the laces holding in her bosom would snap and release the hounds, and yet it was fun. Alessandro handed her over to another university colleague, who was more precise, and her technique improved. Then she danced with Heinrich, whose hands were predictably sweaty. But still no sign of Bettina Müller.
    Marie-Franz suggested they go up to the gallery, where the view of the dancers would be particularly lovely. “
Vai
. I will wait for Bettina,” said Alessandro. Sarah and Marie-Franz made their way to one of the grand staircases, a marble and wrought-iron affair with columns supporting pointed-arch vaults. Their progress up was slow, as Marie-Franz continually stopped to introduce Sarah to more people. On the mezzanine they looked down on the swirling couples in costume and Sarah tried to remind herself which century she was in. Taking out her cell phone to snap a few pictures helped.
    “Adele!” Sarah turned and Marie-Franz introduced her to a man she named as Herr Kapellmeister Gerhard Schmitt, and then to his wife, Adele, a willowy blonde who clung briefly to Marie-Franz as the taller woman stooped to kiss her cheek. “Frau Doktor Weston joins us from Boston. She’s only just arrived.”
    “Frau Doktor Weston, I kiss your hand. I hope our meager entertainment is not a bore,” said the man, as his wife rolled her eyes theatrically. Sarah couldn’t tell if the woman was unimpressed with the splendid scene or her husband. The Kapellmeister had a mane of very blond hair, and Sarah thought the name was familiar.
    “Not at all,” said Sarah. “It’s—”
    “In the regular season,” the blonde interrupted, “it is not uncommon for women to get fat injected into the balls of the feet, so they can dance all night long.” She spilled some of her drink on Sarah’s dirndl and lurched sideways into the professor. “I wish I had your sense of humor, Marie-Franz. I wish I could laugh it all away.”
    Before the professor could respond to this, the man said, “Enjoy your evening,” and led his wife away, his eyes lingering on Sarah’s breasts.
    “You recognized him perhaps?” asked Marie-Franz after the couple were out of earshot. “Gerhard Schmitt is a composer, and director of the Vienna Chamber Orchestra. He has taken the old title of Kapellmeister, though he is