Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“We’ve not been troubled inside the hotel since his arrival.” I had poured tea for all of us and was now cutting the Imperial torte.

“I can’t have that,” Sissi said, shaking her head at the piece I offered her.

“What’s your current slimming plan?” Cécile asked. “Are you eating nothing but celery broth?”

“Does it even matter? It’s clearly not working.”

“You’re ridiculous as always,” Cécile said. “You’re wasting away.”

“You’re too kind,” the empress said.

“It was not a compliment, Sissi.” Cécile put a plate with a slice of torte in front of her. “Eat.”

She took a single bite, but no more. “What is the amusement you’ve planned for me this afternoon?” she asked. “I was all curiosity when I read your note.”

“I’ve asked a friend to join us. I think you’ll find him excessively charming,” Cécile said. “He’s an artist, and I want you to let him sketch you.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. But half an hour later, when Friedrich at last joined us, Cécile had very nearly changed her mind with an artfully delivered series of cajoling compliments combined with a moving account of the obstacles the stood in the way of our young friends’ love.

“I do wish you had ironed your coat,” Cécile said as Friedrich sat down next to her. “How did you expect to make a good impression?”

“I had no expectation of Her Highness—Her Majesty—” He looked at Sissi, eyes full of confusion. “Forgive me, ma’am, I don’t even know how to address you.”

“There is something charming about him,” Sissi said, leaning towards Cécile. “You really think it will make a difference in his career if I do this?”

“Oui, ” Cécile said. “Let him make your likeness and then give the picture to me. I want something to remember you by other than portraits from your youth. You were beautiful then, but you’ve character now.” Her hair—said to be ankle-length—was still thick and surprisingly free of gray, though not as lustrous as I suspected it had been in her youth. An olive complexion that must have once glowed was now dull and pale, but this did not detract from the delicate beauty of her chiseled features and wide eyes. Cécile looked at her closely. “I much prefer this version of you. Perfection, chérie , is not so charming as people believe. It’s bland.”

“I’ve no energy to argue with you.” Her voice was listless, but her eyes showed the slightest hint of a sparkle. “Go ahead. Do I have to sit still?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Friedrich said. “I need to see the life in you to capture it.” So we ate Imperial torte—layer upon layer of the most exquisite chocolate cake and almond paste—and drank tea while his fingers flew. He worked quickly, charcoal gliding over the paper with remarkable speed. It was like watching someone dance. Before long, he stopped, placed his pencil on the table, and held his sketchbook at arm’s length. “ Ja. It is you.”

He stood and crossed over to Sissi, handing her the pad so that only she could see it. She looked at it, and tears streamed down her pale face. “I am no longer this lovely.”

“You are to all who see you,” he said. “It is not always wise to believe mirrors.”

“I think I will give this to my husband.” She had not taken her eyes off the paper. “He will recognize me in it.”

“Will you show it to us?” I asked.

“No.” She handed it back to Friedrich, who rolled it into a tube and tied it with a bit of string that he pulled from his jacket pocket. “ Danke, ” she said.

“Bitte,” he replied.

“I almost wish I were wearing a gown that showed off my tattoo,” she said.

“Tattoo?” Friedrich asked.

“Yes. An anchor. On my shoulder.” Then she laughed, and the smile that moved from her lips to her eyes made her face come alive and I saw, just for an instant, how beautiful she had been before grief ravaged her. She rose from her chair, and as I watched her prepare to leave us, I found that I could not resist approaching her.

“Your Highness?” My voice was tentative as I stepped close to her. “May I speak to you privately?”

“I suppose. What is it?” She had switched to speaking Greek.

“I share your suspicions about Mayerling.” My command of the modern language was lacking; I hoped that she could make sense of what I said. “There is an Englishman in Vienna right now who may know something about your son’s death.”

“Who?”

“A man you’re already familiar with. Mr. Harrison.”

“What does he know?”

“I’m only suspicious of him. I don’t know details.”

“I know that there was a plot—I know they assassinated my darling Rudolf.”

“Have you any evidence that I might be able to use to convince him to speak to me? Even a small fact might make him think that I know more than I do.”

“I’ve had everyone I can think of looking for evidence. It was all destroyed. But I do know this: the gun that killed my son was fired six times. He was an excellent shot. Why would it have taken so many attempts for him to kill the Vestera girl and then himself? It makes no sense. And there were bruises on his body. He must have been struggling with someone.” She clutched my arm. “If you can learn anything, you must tell me. I’m certain my husband knows more than I do, and I must find out what he’s hiding.”

“I will do all I can,” I said.

“What were you discussing?” Cécile asked after Sissi had left, surrounded by the bodyguards who had waited for her outside the door.

“Mayerling,” I said. “She deserves to know the truth.”

New Ear’s Eve had arrived, and the entire city was in a festive mood. People all but waltzed as they walked through the town, anticipating the evening’s balls. Musicians lugged their instruments, ready for a long night, while florists delivered heaping mounds of flowers to fill the city’s ballrooms, the occasional stray petal floating to the snowy street, a bright spot against dirty gray. Young ladies beamed, heads tilted together, laughing voices predicting full dance cards and stolen kisses. The streets even smelled festive: pine garlands left from Christmas mingling with baking bread and mulling spices.

Colin’s work had taken him to a small town outside Vienna, and he would not return until the next day, but Cécile, Jeremy, and I had tickets to the opera, where Strauss’s Die Fledermaus would be performed. After that, we planned to go to the Imperial Ball. But before I could give myself over to revelry, I had to meet Herr Schröder.

“I don’t know how I’m going to manage to stay awake tonight,” Jeremy said as we walked down the stairs at the Imperial.

“You look exhausted. You should take a nap.”

“This city is taking its toll on me. I’m thinking of wiring my uncle and telling him to start planning what he’d like to do with my house once I’m dead.”

“After we’re done at the cathedral, you should take a nap. I will not tolerate you dozing during the opera.”

“Perhaps I’ll go to the Griensteidl. I could use some coffee.”

“Nap.”

“It’s useless to argue with you.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally realized that,” I said. We were about to exit the hotel when the concierge called to Jeremy.

“Sir! This was just delivered for you.” He handed my friend an envelope that Jeremy opened at once, squinting as he read it, his hand reaching up to his forehead.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Rina. She’s asking me to come to her at once. Something terrible has happened. She gives no details, only says that Harrison is involved and that she’s in immediate danger.”