Last Act by Jane Aiken Hodge Page B

matter?”
    â€œNot a bit! You’re going to save our lives—or our opera, which is as important. Besides—in a way, perhaps it’s tactful.Lotte’s a fashion-plate. Well—you’ll see. And Alix is …” A quick glance to where Michael was walking a little in front. “Alix is Alix. With all the problems that involves. You’re what we need right now.”
    â€œI do hope I don’t let you down.” But in the face of his obvious state of nerves, she was glad she had not worried him with her own trouble.
    Back in the taxi, Anne sat well forward, eagerly peering out of the window at the little town with its curious mixture of ancient and modern: an old brown beer house cheek by jowl with a garish café that advertised “Homburgers and Snaks,” tourist gift shops side by side with ironmongers and all the basic supplies of a market town. It was raining again, and a few obvious tourists prowled disconsolately about, peering into shop windows which tended to display umbrellas and raincoats prominently among the inevitable souvenirs—the “tat” Michael had described.
    The car was held up for a moment at the only traffic lights Anne had seen, then Michael swung out on to the main road and, surprisingly, turned away from where Anne, now peering backwards, could still see the castle, perched high above the town. “It’s a long way round to the castle,” Michael turned to explain to her. “By road, that is. The steps are quicker, but hard work.” Once again he had to stop and wait his chance to swing the car across the traffic on to a road that angled back and up across the hill, through vineyards.
    â€œWe’re out of town!” Anne had not expected the transition to be so quick.
    â€œSuch as it is,” said Carl. “But, Annchen, tell me, quick, your voice? It’s the same as ever? What have you been
doing?
I’ve looked for your name so often …”
    â€œYou know Robin didn’t like me to sing,” she said. And that, like everything else she had told him, was true so far as it went. “You are going to find I need practice. But, after all, what else does an understudy get? It’s ideal for me; I’m so grateful, Carl.”
    â€œGrateful! It’s we who should be. You don’t understand. Understudy! It will be a miracle if you don’t sing Marcus.” He cast a quick, anxious glance forwards to where Michael sat, shoulders hunched, concentrated on his driving along the nowsteeply zig-zagging mountain road. Alpine meadows below, dark green forest above; if only Carl would leave her alone to enjoy this breath-taking view. But he was talking again, leaning towards her. “It’s Alix, don’t you see? How can we be sure her father won’t forbid her appearing at the last moment? It’s the chance we took from the start, but then, she was so sure it would be all right. We should have known better. That mother of hers.” He was almost whispering. “And now, there’s so much publicity for the peace conference; it’s all different—he doesn’t like it, he has doubts.”
    â€œDoubts? I don’t understand.” But she was distracted. “Oh!” she breathed. Michael had nursed the car gently round one last hairpin bend and parked it in a lay-by just before a high-arched bridge. “Come on!” He jumped out to open her door. ‘What do you think of it, Niobe?”
    â€œDon’t call me that!” But she forgot her irritation in a gasp of pleasure as she gazed up the valley they had just entered. High ahead, dominant, spectacular, on a further range of mountains stood the castle, even more fairy-tale romantic than it had looked from the town, seeming to grow from the dark green of the high forest. Below it, nearer, to left and right, cream-coloured buildings curved down the sides of an Alpine meadow rich with the whites and yellows