City of Lost Dreams by Magnus Flyte Page A

known in the press as ‘the Lion of Vienna’ on account of the hair. Ha! Adele is a harpist. I’ve known her since we were children. She’s not always so . . . unstable.”
    “You seem to know everyone.”
    “Oh, we’re terrible gossips here.” Marie-Franz laughed her infectious, booming laugh. “And it is more that everyone knows me! Not that I am famous. But you see, I used to be
Herr
Professor
Franz
Morgendal. And now—” Marie-Franz gestured modestly to her dirndled bosom and flipped up the ends of her thick, wheat-colored hair.
    Sarah put the deep voice, the height, the hands, and the slight hint of Adam’s apple together.
    “Some people think I should drop the Franz from my name, because it is confusing,” the professor explained. “But I just like the way Marie-Franz
sounds
.”
    “It’s very musical,” Sarah agreed. “And why not please yourself?”
    “
Yes!
I did not take the hormones or do the surgeries so that I could make people uncomfortable or comfortable. I did it so that I could live my life as it was intended in my soul.
Yes!
I use the word ‘soul’ even though I am a professor of the history of science and in the history of science they have never proved the soul. Only its expression.”
    Sarah raised her glass in salutation. She rarely used the word ‘soul’ herself, but she was definitely in kinship with living your life as you feel it was intended.
    “Geniesse das Leben ständig! Du bist länger tot als lebendig!”
said Marie-Franz, clinking glasses.
    Constantly enjoy life! You’re longer dead than alive!
    They returned to the main floor. A tall man, resplendent in a Tyrolean uniform, had joined their group and stood chatting with Nina and Heinrich. The man’s hair was dark, but his mustache and beard, groomed to a point, were red. His entire bearing and grandeur were very like the statue of the fifteenth-century Viennese notable he happened to be standing in front of.
    “My brother, Gottfried,” said Heinrich. Gottfried bowed stiffly.
    “Gottfried is a rider at our famous Spanish Riding School,” said Nina. “He’s also a terrible snob, so don’t expect him to ask you to dance.”
    Gottfried looked at Nina coolly, then offered his arm to Sarah. By this time, Sarah felt as though she had had enough of the waltzing already. Her toes were aching, her ribs felt oddly numb, and she was anxious about the continuing no-show of Bettina Müller, but she took his arm.
    Gottfried, Sarah noted as they danced, smelled like an intriguing combination of oiled leather and fresh hay. Her sensitive nose also picked up an interesting crackling energy. And the beard was very sexy. Under different circumstances, this would all be worth exploring (and it would be one way to get her mind off Max), but Sarah was at the ball to find Dr. Müller, not pick up hot guys, no matter how Tyrolean. Still, she tried making conversation with Gottfried, asking him about the Spanish Riding School.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I do not speak your language.”
    “I’m speaking to you in
German
,” Sarah pointed out.
    “Yes. You are speaking German as the Germans do. The accent is unpleasant. You must learn to speak like an Austrian.” Sarah had noticed a difference herself, with Nina and Marie-Franz, but it was mostly intonation and cadence. They had understood her perfectly. Nina had been right; Gottfried was a snob.
    As they pirouetted past Alessandro, she saw that he was now talking to a small brown-haired woman with enormous glasses. Bettina Müller at last? She got rid of Gottfried by claiming waltz-induced dehydration and asking if he would mind getting her something to drink, which he seemed to be able to follow without her resorting to mime. She moved quickly over to Alessandro and the woman.
    “Frau Doktor Müller, please allow me to introduce my dear friend Frau Doktor Sarah Weston,” said Alessandro.
    The woman’s small hand was quite strong. Her glasses obscured most of her delicate