“he is brother to the Holy Roman Emperor. And after centuries of Church leadership, he is novel. His administration promises a brief sanguinity, at least, no matter the sort of leader he proves.”
He raised an eyebrow. The left one. “Sanguinity?”
Mathilda almost laughed. Just in time, she trapped the sound bubbling behind her sternum. “Of course you are unfamiliar with the word, Herr de Voss. It means cheerfulness.”
The composer smiled—a wide and expressive gesture to acknowledge both his amusement and her victory. Night shadows accentuated the lines around his mouth and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. The flickering torches at once illuminated and obscured every sharp feature, but his smile lent an unexpected friendliness…friendliness like an invitation.
Blood ran to her face. Compulsively, she tried to find another object to divert her attention. But no, she could not look away from his smile. It transformed his austere face into a handsome masterpiece. Each trait entrusted a deeper, more genuine part of him to her keeping.
Those little wrinkles at the corners of eyes shadowed black in the torchlight? Yes.
The line on his right cheek that was almost a dimple? Ruthless.
The persistent twin furrows between his brows? In remission.
And Mathilda’s errant heart beating well above a healthful speed? As better judgment dwindled to naught, she would have been surprised to find it otherwise.
Eager and full of spirited energy, the boisterous crowd continued to jam into Domplatz. A father ambled in front of Arie, trailing a small army of children. Wrapped in layers of winter wear, the toddler he toted on his shoulders was devoid of any discernable gender. An elderly woman carrying a petite dog elicited shrieks of delight from the little ones.
And Arie wanted to flee the unruly scene. His sole question was whether he wished to flee with or from the captivating Frau Heidel.
With.
To catch another glimpse of the divine, Arie wanted her to return to his studio. He had not lied; he arrived on the off chance of seeing her again. But in a city of thousands, his hopes resembled a useless daydream strolling across his wakeful mind. Instead, he had expected Carnival distractions to banish endless thoughts of their encounters.
He had been entranced by the marvelous statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that would have been banned in the Netherlands, when her voice reached him. A light in the darkness.
And he had welcomed her with less affection than a bitter enemy could expect.
Arie had always been able to rely on his aptitude for the piano, even when the guilt of his deception threatened to cripple him. But his aptitude for social graces remained a work in progress. Frau Heidel’s innate skill underscored his inadequacies. Some resentful part of him had lashed out, venting his shortfalls at her expense.
That he needed her back rankled his pride and threatened the safety of his isolation.
Since the widow’s departure from his studio, Arie’s muse had remained as silent as the marble Virgin. A cold shiver of lonely dread racked his shoulders when he recalled the ridiculous scribbles and half-finished ideas littering the floor of his studio. The ridiculous ease of composition in those hours following her lesson existed as some fever dream. Each occasion of pen to parchment produced horrifying results. Gaudy, lifeless, overreaching—he had thrown more sheets into the fire than he cared to recall.
He craved her nearness, her capacity to reawaken his creativity. But how did a man address a respectable woman and persuade her to his aim? Arie wished he could draw on a past success for inspiration. His smile seemed to have had a positive effect, prompting her blush. But he only smiled with ample cause, and such occasions rarely arose.
He glanced at Frau Heidel and abruptly broke their awkward silence. “Do you know of families in need of a music tutor?” he asked.
Having already accepted two additional
He raised an eyebrow. The left one. “Sanguinity?”
Mathilda almost laughed. Just in time, she trapped the sound bubbling behind her sternum. “Of course you are unfamiliar with the word, Herr de Voss. It means cheerfulness.”
The composer smiled—a wide and expressive gesture to acknowledge both his amusement and her victory. Night shadows accentuated the lines around his mouth and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. The flickering torches at once illuminated and obscured every sharp feature, but his smile lent an unexpected friendliness…friendliness like an invitation.
Blood ran to her face. Compulsively, she tried to find another object to divert her attention. But no, she could not look away from his smile. It transformed his austere face into a handsome masterpiece. Each trait entrusted a deeper, more genuine part of him to her keeping.
Those little wrinkles at the corners of eyes shadowed black in the torchlight? Yes.
The line on his right cheek that was almost a dimple? Ruthless.
The persistent twin furrows between his brows? In remission.
And Mathilda’s errant heart beating well above a healthful speed? As better judgment dwindled to naught, she would have been surprised to find it otherwise.
Eager and full of spirited energy, the boisterous crowd continued to jam into Domplatz. A father ambled in front of Arie, trailing a small army of children. Wrapped in layers of winter wear, the toddler he toted on his shoulders was devoid of any discernable gender. An elderly woman carrying a petite dog elicited shrieks of delight from the little ones.
And Arie wanted to flee the unruly scene. His sole question was whether he wished to flee with or from the captivating Frau Heidel.
With.
To catch another glimpse of the divine, Arie wanted her to return to his studio. He had not lied; he arrived on the off chance of seeing her again. But in a city of thousands, his hopes resembled a useless daydream strolling across his wakeful mind. Instead, he had expected Carnival distractions to banish endless thoughts of their encounters.
He had been entranced by the marvelous statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that would have been banned in the Netherlands, when her voice reached him. A light in the darkness.
And he had welcomed her with less affection than a bitter enemy could expect.
Arie had always been able to rely on his aptitude for the piano, even when the guilt of his deception threatened to cripple him. But his aptitude for social graces remained a work in progress. Frau Heidel’s innate skill underscored his inadequacies. Some resentful part of him had lashed out, venting his shortfalls at her expense.
That he needed her back rankled his pride and threatened the safety of his isolation.
Since the widow’s departure from his studio, Arie’s muse had remained as silent as the marble Virgin. A cold shiver of lonely dread racked his shoulders when he recalled the ridiculous scribbles and half-finished ideas littering the floor of his studio. The ridiculous ease of composition in those hours following her lesson existed as some fever dream. Each occasion of pen to parchment produced horrifying results. Gaudy, lifeless, overreaching—he had thrown more sheets into the fire than he cared to recall.
He craved her nearness, her capacity to reawaken his creativity. But how did a man address a respectable woman and persuade her to his aim? Arie wished he could draw on a past success for inspiration. His smile seemed to have had a positive effect, prompting her blush. But he only smiled with ample cause, and such occasions rarely arose.
He glanced at Frau Heidel and abruptly broke their awkward silence. “Do you know of families in need of a music tutor?” he asked.
Having already accepted two additional
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