City of Lost Dreams by Magnus Flyte Page B

features and magnified her eyes strangely. “So nice to meet you,” said Sarah, flashing her most charming smile, the one she used for job interviews and talking her way out of speeding tickets.
    “Yes.” Bettina Müller looked intently at Sarah, who held the woman’s gaze. She felt a surge of adrenaline course through her body. Sarah had met a few geniuses in her life. Pollina. Her first mentor in neuromusicology, Professor Sherbatsky. Beethoven, when she had been close to him on Westonia. This, she felt certain, was another. Here was a woman who could help her friend.
    “Sarah just arrived today from Prague,” Alessandro said. Bettina Müller was still holding Sarah’s hand, and now the pressure increased, but the woman was no longer looking at Sarah. She seemed to be transfixed by something over Sarah’s shoulder.
    “Yes. Excuse me. I must go,” she said abruptly.
    “But I insist you allow me a dance! If you have another partner I will wait. Or challenge him to a duel.” Alessandro said this with the full weight of his considerable charm, but the woman was backing away, still staring at something past Sarah. Sarah turned, but the ballroom was crowded. She was losing her chance.
    “I’m so sorry, Dr. Müller,” said Sarah, moving forward, “but I came all the way to Vienna to see you. I must speak with you; it’s very important. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting—”
    “I know who you are,” the woman muttered. “I reviewed your friend’s records and turned her down. She is too young.”
    “You don’t know her,” said Sarah. “She has an iron will. I think she can take the treatment. I know she can. Please. You may be our last hope.”
    The woman was pale, Sarah noticed, and her hands were shaking. Sarah could smell the fear on her.
    And suddenly Sarah felt it, too. Danger. It was incredibly powerful. All the hairs on Sarah’s neck went up.
    But just then a group of ballgoers surged in between Sarah and the doctor as the orchestra struck up a new tune. Sarah tried to push past them, muttering
“Bitte. Bitte. Entschuldigung,”
but when she finally did, Bettina Müller had disappeared.
    “Merda,”
Alessandro said, appearing beside Sarah.
    “I’ll go to her lab tomorrow.” Sarah’s brief sense of danger was gone, replaced with determination. Pols wasn’t the only one with an iron will. “I’ll find her home address and wait outside.”
    Nina joined them.
    “What happened?”
    “She left,” Sarah said. “It seemed like something spooked her, actually. Not me. She wasn’t really looking at me. Something was . . . wrong.”
    “I told you she was tricky,” said Nina. “We’ll think of something else. Now, come on. I’m trying to ditch Heinrich. Let’s get something to eat. But not here. Only old rich people eat at balls. The rest of us go to a
Würstelstand
.”
    “Beer and hot dogs.” Alessandro sighed.
“Schifoso.”
    Nina rolled her eyes and laced her arm through Sarah’s.
    They moved through the crowd, passing Gerhard Schmitt—the Lion of Vienna—and his unstable harpist wife, apparently in the midst of a fierce argument. Sarah looked around for Gottfried, but couldn’t find him in the crush.
    At the
Würstelstand
, Nina insisted Sarah sample her favorite, a cheese-filled hot dog known locally as “sausage-with-pus.” Sarah decided at this point it was safe to risk dirndl failure and ate her hot dog and talked with Nina, trying to come up with another strategy for getting a meeting with the skittish doctor.
    “I can mention the case again,” Nina offered. “Not that she listens to me. Ah, shit—” She looked at her phone. “It’s Heinrich. I suppose I better go back or he’ll be pissed.” She tossed down the rest of her beer and headed back to the Rathaus.
    “You want to dance more?” Alessandro asked, but Sarah was way too frustrated to waltz. Also, she was ready to de-dirndl.
    “I’ll go with you to the university tomorrow,” Sarah said to Alessandro