Masks and Shadows by Stephanie Burgis

never miss Vienna?” he asked at last, after admiring the scenery and the mechanical effects that had been designed for the latest operatic performance.
    Haydn’s eyes widened. “Oh, Vienna . . . my dear sir, how could I not? The hours I have spent in conversation there, enjoying the finest musical salons and listening to the most exquisite performances—but no, sir, you shall not catch me out! I’m quite happy where I am, more particularly as I hie off to the capital with my Prince every year for a glorious four months.” He laughed, wagging a monitory finger up at Carlo. “Not everyone is a virtuoso, signor. Someday you, too, may come to appreciate the joys of a settled and comfortable life.”
    â€œPerhaps.” Carlo smiled ruefully and tipped his head in submission. It had been foolish indeed to imagine that one of the finest musical minds in Europe might be too slow to catch his far-from-subtle direction. “Perhaps I shall try it myself one day after all, and report to you upon my success.”
    â€œI hope you may. Indeed—”
    A crash sounded in the ballroom. Voices rose in shock and dismay. Haydn broke off, paling.
    â€œI beg your pardon, signor!”
    He flew across the stage toward the door, the skirts of his red frock coat sailing out behind him. Carlo followed quickly.
    Three soldiers had entered the ballroom, wearing full Esterházy regalia. The first raised a warrant marked with the Prince’s seal and started toward the frozen cluster of singers.
    â€œFranz Pichler, second tenor of His Highness’s company?”
    â€œI am Herr Haydn, the kapellmeister.” The little man seemed to rise in height as he advanced upon the soldiers. “May I help you, sirs?”
    The theatrical director burst inside, following after the soldiers. “There! There he is!” His knobbled finger shook as he pointed across the room at Herr Pichler.
    The young man’s face looked pale but composed as he stepped forward. “Of what am I accused, sirs? I’ve done no wrong.”
    â€œWitnessed! You were witnessed in the act!” Spittle flew from Monsieur Delacroix’s lips. “You aided their escape, you worm! You probably designed it yourself. You—you blackguard! You devil! You—”
    â€œWhat proof is there, monsieur?” Haydn demanded. “Who was this witness?”
    â€œI received a note.” Monsieur Delacroix slipped it from an inner pocket and waved it threateningly at the young singer. “You took horses from the stable. You were seen!”
    Haydn interposed himself between Herr Pichler and Delacroix. “But who wrote the note?”
    â€œThat, Herr Haydn, is none of your concern. The Prince is satisfied, and that must be enough for all of us.” Monsieur Delacroix shoved a tall soldier forward. “Arrest him! You have your orders!”
    â€œMy apologies, Kapellmeister.” The lieutenant sighed and held out his warrant. “The Prince’s orders are clear.”
    The other two soldiers marched forward and took hold of Pichler’s arms, their expressions stony.
    Panic showed at last on the second tenor’s face. “There must be some mistake,” said Herr Pichler. “I never—I swear—!”
    â€œAnd what exactly is your word worth, sirrah?” Monsieur Delacroix spat upon his feet. The other singers drew back in horrified silence as the old man sneered up at him. “Aye, you’ll have your due now. The bastinado awaits your bare back.”
    The soldiers marched him out silently, ignoring the young man’s babbling protests. Monsieur Delacroix followed, beaming with triumphant glee. Nausea twisted Carlo’s stomach as he watched them go.
    â€œIs it likely that they’re correct?” he asked the kapellmeister, once the door had closed behind them.
    â€œLikely?” Haydn shrugged, his expression sorrowful. Behind him, one of the younger