With one hand, Aloysia slipped a winter rose free from a bouquet someone had left at the foot of the stage; she ran the fingertips of the other along the edges of her lips, checking that the rouge she had applied that afternoon was still in place. If she had to endure one more sharp comment about her marriage from any of her little sisters, she was going to tear off a fistful of petals and stuff them into their mouths. So the librettist had returned Josepha's smile during the entr'acte, had he? She was going to be the first Weber to be invited to sing for the emperor, was she? Aloysia would see about that.

Constance and Sophie had dropped into empty seats at the front of the house and were cheerily discussing their favorite elements of the opera the four of them had just endured. Josepha was already buried into the crowd of admirers, trying with all her might to catch the librettist's eye. As for the librettist himself, he was shaking hands and receiving flowers, smiling cordially at the words of congratulation and taking no special notice of the gawkish woman in the old blue dress who kept batting her eyes at him.

Aloysia twisted her stolen rose between her fingers as she sized up the crowd. If Josepha, the tallest of the four sisters, was having trouble catching the librettist's eye, then Aloysia didn't imagine she would have more luck. The playing field was too even. She scanned the room again, searching for anything that would give her an advantage. Members of the public were dotted here and there about the room, clusters of good-natured conversation dragging on though the candles in the chandeliers overhead were already burning low. Then she spotted her chance, and a smile wound across her face.

The composer-the court composer-had broken away from the crowd and was collecting his sheet music, unnoticed by the admirers who, like Josepha, were still basking in the attention of the librettist. He stuffed his music into a satchel, cast a final nervous glance about the room, and turned toward the nearest exit, keeping his head down. It only took a few quick steps for Aloysia to plant herself into his path. She tucked the stolen rose into her hair and cleared her throat.

"Good evening," the composer said unhappily, his gaze darting over her shoulder toward the door.

Aloysia extended one arm, smiling as demurely as she knew how and watching him through her lashes. "Maestro," she said, keeping her voice as fluttery as possible.

He clasped her fingertips briefly, eyeing her knuckles but failing to bring them to his lips before he dropped her hand.

"I'm Aloysia Weber- Lange," she corrected herself. Having sung under both names, it was hard to guess which the composer might recognize. It also helped to insinuate that the existence of her husband was far from her mind. "I'm a great admirer of your work. The music you write-well, it's a dream of mine to sing in one of your operas someday."

In fact, tonight was the first time she had heard this particular composer's work, and she had found it... passable. Still, he was the emperor's favorite for whatever reason, and that made his work the best in the empire.

"You're a singer," the composer remarked. It wasn't quite a question.

"A soprano," said Aloysia with a curtsy. "I've sung in this very theater before, you know! Before I came to Vienna I was engaged at the opera in Mannheim, and I sang for Mozart before that."

For the first time, the composer wrenched his stare away from the door. "For Mozart?"

Aloysia swallowed a smirk. Of course it would be music that held his attention. Thank goodness all that time she had spent letting Wolfgang Mozart hang off her arm would finally amount to something. "Have you heard Mozart's music, maestro? He was younger then, but already a prodigy! Why, he wrote an aria for me that I suppose has never been performed. Such a shame that his talent is locked away in Salzburg now."

"You- you still have this aria?"

"Gathering dust in a drawer somewhere," Aloysia said with a wave of her hand. "I always wanted to sing it, but without a teacher here in Vienna-"

"I can instruct you," interrupted the composer.

Aloysia clapped her hands, keeping her expression as bright as she could. "Oh! Would you?" she gasped.

The composer rifled through his satchel, tearing a page of parchment in half and scribbling an address in the corner. "Ask for Salieri," he said as he thrust it at her. "Bring the aria."

"If I hear the name Mozart one more time, I'm packing my bags and leaving this godforsaken city," Salieri lied, stabbing his quill into the inkwell so fiercely that the ink splattered over his fingers.

Da Ponte leaned his chair back on two legs and smirked at him. "What, to go to Salzburg and ask for Mozart for his hand in marriage?"

On the other side of the room, Rosenberg let out a snort of laughter.

"For god's sake, Lorenzo," Salieri grumbled.

"You may be in luck," Da Ponte said lightly. "There's talk that old Colloredo may visit Vienna this year and bring his entire household. Including the Mozart family."

The tip of Salieri's quill snapped off under the sudden pressure of his fist, and a blob of ink oozed across his music. He clenched his teeth and exhaled in a hiss. "And?"

"And we may finally hear that famous music of his."

Rosenberg harrumphed, peering up at them over the top of his book. "If there's one thing we don't need, it's that rapscallion bringing his ridiculous ideas to our stages, that's for sure! He's a rogue. Salieri, my friend, what has possessed you to be so interested in his work?"

"I don't care about Mozart's work!" Salieri said for what must have been the hundredth time, crushing his blotter beneath his fist. One time! He had made the mistake of mentioning that he would like to hear Mozart conduct one of his own pieces once to Da Ponte after a long night of work, and the traitor had taken it upon himself to spread the rumor that Salieri was obsessed.

Admittedly, Salieri didn't remember what exactly he had said about Mozart's music that night. They had both been exhausted. And there had been wine.

"Well, I'm curious, at least, hearing the way you talk about him," said Da Ponte.

Salieri rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"I didn't realize you were so well-versed in music," Salieri said dryly.

"It's my duty to be well-versed. I'm a poet."

"Barely."

"I think you'll find that I'm the emperor's favorite poet," said Da Ponte in mock indignation.

Salieri glanced over at Rosenberg and swallowed his retort. Comments about the emperor's taste were best made in private. And in any case, he was only sitting here because that same emperor had named him court composer.

"I wonder if the emperor will offer Mozart a commission while he's here."

Rosenberg's eyes bulged out at that. "I should certainly hope not!" he tutted, scowling at Da Ponte over his spectacles.

Da Ponte just shrugged. "I'd like to hear his work," he said again. "Then we'd know what all the fuss was about."

"My new pupil claims to be in possession of an old aria of his," said Salieri. "She's bringing it to her lesson tonight."

"A new pupil?" Da Ponte asked, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "'She', you say? I had no idea you consorted with the fairer sex."

"Of course I do," Salieri answered hotly. "I don't know what you're suggesting." He sneaked a glance at Rosenberg, who was flipping pages in his book far too fast to be reading them, his eyes trained in one place. Lorenzo Da Ponte was going to get him executed.

"I only meant that if you spent more time attending to your needs, the very notion of music like Mozart's might not be enough to leave you knocking over inkwells and breaking quills," Da Ponte said.

Salieri fixed him with the blackest stare he could muster. "Then I'll find out tonight, won't I?"

Da Ponte's grin was skeptical. "I'm sure."

Josepha had been livid when Aloysia had emerged in her favorite day dress and announced that she had a lesson with Maestro Salieri that afternoon. It was absolutely worth the time it had taken her to sort through her affairs until she found the crumpled pages of music Wolfgang had given her that day at the opera. She checked her reflection in the looking glass one last time. Not bad, she thought as she smoothed back a stray lock of hair. It would certainly have been enough to impress Wolfgang, wherever he was. She wasn't quite as sure what might appeal to Antonio Salieri.

It wasn't for lack of trying. Aloysia had spent the morning calling on her best-connected acquaintances, letting each of them know about her upcoming lesson and asking, as innocently as possible, for advice. She should have come away knowing a little of everything: his interests, his family, the kind of woman with which he was most often seen. But even the shrewdest grin had faltered at the name Salieri. As far as Aloysia could tell, the court composer was some kind of fanatical recluse who only went out in the company of his librettist, and who had appeared in Vienna one day and been commissioned to write an opera the next, without a single powerful relative or wealthy friend to speak for him. One of her husband's friends mentioned that she had seen him eat four sugar rolls in under an hour during a reception. Others claimed he never went anywhere but the theater and the palace.

One name was mentioned over and over, but Aloysia could not bring herself to act on it. Every conversation had ended the same way: why not ask Caterina Cavalieri? Aloysia had dismissed the question with a roll of her eyes each time, but she could not dislodge the name from her thoughts.

Caterina. The soprano who had brought Salieri's opera to life so effortlessly, who had stood in the middle of that great stage and made it seem tiny beneath the spell of her voice. Her lips had parted, and Aloysia had felt the world shift. Caterina.

She hadn't dared to call on her, to introduce herself. Even the thought of her set off a million warning bells in Aloysia's mind-in her heart. She didn't have the time to be distracted from this one simple goal. There were rules with dealing with men, even men like Salieri. A lowered glance, the brush of her fingers on his arm, the accidental flash of an ankle, and he would lead her the rest of the way. He would have to ask her to sing the lead by the time he finished his next opera. He would owe it to her. It would be the price of his clumsy hands on her skin. But Caterina? She didn't know what to make of her. She couldn't find the words for what she wanted. She didn't have time.

The antechamber in which Salieri received her was as barren as the descriptions of his interests her sources had provided: a fine harpsichord, a candelabra, a few elegant chairs, and a fire burning on the hearth. Salieri had been seated at the bench; he rose when the footman showed Aloysia in and crossed the room in a few long strides.

"Maestro Salieri," she began, sinking into a curtsy, "I can't thank you enough for-"

"Is this the aria?" Salieri interrupted. His fingers grazed over the crumpled music in her arms as though he were afraid to make contact with it.

She nodded, studying him as he slid the pages reverently out of her grip, as his eyes pored over the music almost hungrily.

He didn't say anything else. The fire crackled impatiently and a clock on the mantel ticked out each second as Salieri stood before her with the music in his hands. She realized that she was holding her breath and let it out in a long, shallow sigh. If she had not made such a fuss over going to the lesson in the first place, she might have walked right out of the room to see if he would have even noticed. Aloysia had looked over the music years ago, long after she had left Wolfgang staring unhappily after her, and had thought it seemed like a nice tune. It hadn't struck her as anything particularly important. She wasn't even sure why she had kept it. But from the look on Salieri's face, from the way his eyes fluttered closed and he pressed the music over his heart when he reached the last page, Aloysia had to assume that she had missed something.

After allowing him several long seconds during which he did not reopen his eyes, Aloysia finally let out a polite cough. Salieri snapped to attention, the music sliding out of his arms and fluttering to the floor around him as he fixed a stare on Aloysia that left her feeling like he had no idea why she was in his house. "My lesson?" she asked, forgetting to smooth the frustration out of her voice.

Salieri looked around the room, that odd stare of his jumping from Aloysia to the harpsichord to the pages that were scattered around his feet. "Pardon me," he mumbled, and he went to work collecting the music and putting it back in order.

"Would you rather I sing something else?"

He paused at the suggestion, crouched in the middle of his sterile music room with his fingertips hovering over the last page. Then he shook his head and snatched it up, dropping the bundle of music onto the harpsichord and taking a seat at the bench.

Aloysia had had her share of music teachers in her life, ranging from her father to the local choirmaster in Mannheim to Mozart himself. Some lessons had left her exhilarated and inspired; some were forgettable. But this lesson? This lesson with Antonio Salieri could only have been described as bizarre.

They worked their way slowly through Wolfgang's aria, Salieri's fingers lingering over every chord, his eyes closing when her voice reached the high notes, his lips parting as he inhaled. He offered no feedback; she only knew to improve her tone or adjust her pitch when a furrow appeared between his dark brows. Aloysia felt that she served no more purpose than the harpsichord. It was the music itself that Salieri had wanted to see. He would probably have forgotten her name by the morning, if he hadn't already.

Without Salieri as her teacher, without lessons and without a liaison between them, what chance did she have of singing in his next opera? What chance did she have of meeting the emperor? Of dethroning Caterina Cavalieri?

By the time they reached the end of the hour, Aloysia was nothing less than desperate. She watched Salieri stacked up the pages of the old aria, running a hand over them to smooth their curling edges, and she blurted, "Maestro Salieri, my husband is out of town and I'm loathe to return to that empty house. It isn't safe in the evening for a woman on her own. Might I stay for dinner?"

He fixed her with that empty look again, the same quiet stare she so often received from her husband. It was the expression of someone who has just noticed a second footstool in front of an armchair, or a painting that only depicted the stretch of wall upon which it was hung. It was the expression of someone who looked at her and who saw something that was completely unnecessary. Someone who meant nothing to them.

Aloysia snatched the music out of his hands and barely repressed the urge to glower at him, clenching her jaw as she turned away. "Forget it," she said sharply. "You're obviously more interested in Mozart than in my voice. I should have known."

To her surprise, she was halfway to the door when she heard his footsteps hurrying toward her; Salieri slid into her path, cutting her off before she reached the door. "Stay for dinner," he said breathlessly, closing a hand over her shoulder and then immediately remembering himself and releasing her. "It has nothing to do with- with Mozart. Stay."

Aloysia folded the music against her chest and pinned a smile onto her face. She hadn't expected that to work.

This had all seemed a lot easier before Aloysia Lange was sitting at his dinner table, frowning at the unruly stacks of papers that covered most of its surface and picking at her meal.

"Attending to his needs," Da Ponte had called it. Well, Salieri called it "protecting his life". He had only known this woman a few hours, and already she too was accusing him of being obsessed with Mozart. Whatever Da Ponte had done, he had done it thoroughly. And with Mozart on his way to Vienna later this year, it was only a matter of time until the rumors shifted. It had happened once at the monastery in Padua: there had been a boy his age with sparkling eyes and an impish grin. Salieri had lost everything. These days, he had too much to lose.

Her gaze was heavy on him as he reached for another sugar roll and began tearing it into pieces over his plate. He knew what to do, didn't he? Sort of. His older brother had shown him a book of engravings when he was a boy, and he had gleaned the rest from Da Ponte's incessant jokes. Nothing about it was terribly hard. He sneaked a glance at the woman, scanning the length of her angular frame. That was precisely the problem, wasn't it? He crossed his legs and sighed. His body was quick to betray him in concert halls, salons, and opera houses, but now that he needed it... nothing.

Maybe if she would sing again.

Salieri shook his head and started to take a long swig of his wine, but stopped himself. Da Ponte had made a joke about the effects of wine on a man in situations like these, hadn't he? Salieri crammed a few pieces of sugar roll into his mouth instead. He was starting to sweat.

"Maestro?" the woman said in that syrupy voice.

A piece of sugar roll was lodged in his throat. Salieri picked up his wine glass, remembered what Da Ponte had said, and put it down again. How had his mouth gotten so dry so quickly? He was going to choke if he tried to answer her, and she would surely refuse to stay once she had seen his face turn as purple as his waistcoat. Salieri picked up the wine glass again and took a tiny sip, then a long swig. Dammit.

If she noticed that he hadn't answered, she didn't let on. "Do you have someplace I could sit for a while? I'm finding it warm in here."

Salieri cleared his throat and cast a regretful look at the remains of his sugar roll before he rose to his feet and led her to his sitting room.

It was a smaller space than the music room, and for that reason (or perhaps for the lack of visitors he received) he hardly used it. His maid set herself to work bustling about the empty fireplace while Signora Lange bypassed the comfortable chair and arranged herself upon the couch. When she patted the space beside her a cloud of dust rose into the air; Salieri quickly dropped into the seat in hopes that she hadn't noticed.

"It certainly isn't warm in here," the woman said, leaning toward him with that coy smile she favored.

The maid cast an apologetic stare over her shoulder and nearly dropped the kindling in her haste. She managed to strike a match and bowed out of the room without even waiting to affirm that the flame had caught the logs.

Salieri gestured toward the fire. "Better?"

"My hands are still cold," the woman said, and to Salieri's horror she held them out toward him. "Are yours any warmer?"

He shrugged, eyeing her slender fingers and her long, pale arms. It took all of his resolve not to shrink away, to move to the armchair on the other side of the room where he was safe.

But he wasn't safe, Salieri reminded himself, thinking of the way Rosenberg's eyes had narrowed that afternoon when Da Ponte had mentioned Mozart's name for the thousandth time and Salieri's face had gone hot. One night, he told himself: he unclenched his fists and brought his palms up to rest against hers.

Signora Lange let out a dainty little gasp that she must have thought was appealing. "Oh! I never noticed how lovely your hands are," she cooed.

"Alright," Salieri mumbled.

For the briefest moment, she fixed him with a sharp stare, but then it softened before Salieri had time to pull away. She curled her hands around his and guided them toward her, placing them upon her hips and catching her lower lip between her teeth.

"Signora-"

"Call me Aloysia," she said, running her hands up the lengths of his arms and catching the back of his neck. And then she pulled his head toward hers and pressed their mouths together.

In the rude stories his brother had read to him as a boy, kisses were ardent, passionate, were the beginning of a long night of ecstasy. They were punctuated by gasps, by moans, were underscored by fumbling hands and ripping bodices. Never had he imagined that they might be... uncomfortable. Signora Lange's face was pressed to his, her little nose digging into his cheek, her breath tickling through his beard, their lips interlocked-and then she pulled away. For the briefest moment, he could see that her lip was curled and there was a crease between her brows. Then she clapped both hands over her face and burst into noisy tears.

"Um- Signora Lange?" Salieri asked, unsure whether he should remove his hands from her waist. "Shall I- uh- would you-"

"Just send me away!" she moaned from behind her hands.

Salieri glanced up at the door. "Uh," he said.

"My sisters were right! I've lost my looks and my talent! There's nothing left for me!"

Salieri gently took one hand away from her hip and patted her shoulder.

"I've made a fool of myself," she went on. "I'm unlovable!"

"No, come on, don't say that sort of thing," said Salieri.

"And why shouldn't I? My husband won't have me! You won't have me!"

Salieri glanced at the door again. "Don't- don't take it personally," he said, patting her shoulder some more and wishing the maid would come back or Da Ponte would burst into the room or the floor beneath them would collapse. "I'm sure you're lovely."

She let out another tragic wail.

"Look, it has nothing to do with you. I just prefer-" Salieri steeled himself, finally removing his other hand from her hip. "I've never been attracted to- to-"

Signora Lange abruptly dropped her hands and turned that appraising stare on him. Her eyes were dry. "Women?" she suggested.

Grinding his teeth together, Salieri nodded.

"Oh," Signora Lange said. She smoothed a stray lock of her hair into place and continued to watch him, her thin brows puckered. And then she heaved a quick sigh and squared her shoulders. "Well, I am."

"You're what?"

"Attracted to women."

"Really?"

She nodded.

Salieri crossed his arms and leaned back. "If anyone finds out, they could exile me. Or hang me."

"Well, they won't find out from me," she said.

"Thank you."

They lapsed into a strange silence perforated by the drum of Salieri's pulse in his ears. He clenched and unclenched his fists beneath his arms, watching the fire and waiting. He had just put his very life into this woman's hands. One word, and she could ruin him.

"Are you in love with Wolfgang Mozart?" she asked suddenly.

Salieri whirled around in his seat. "What? What?"

Signora Lange shrugged. "I could introduce you. He's written me a few times over the years."

"I'm not in love with Mozart!" Salieri snapped. "I've never even met the man! I admire his music, that's all!"

"Alright," said Signora Lange. "Sorry."

Salieri combed his hands through his hair, accidentally tugging part of it loose from its ribbon. "You can't go around telling people I'm in love with Mozart. You can't tell them any of this. Please."

"I said I wouldn't."

"Please," Salieri said again.

She rolled her eyes, and suddenly broke into a giggle. "Of all the people I could have tried to take as a lover!" she said. "Of all the people who might have saved your reputation!"

"Right," Salieri muttered. "We deserve each other."

And then Signora Lange tilted her head back and smirked at him, the first genuine expression he had ever seen from her. "So we need each other, but we don't want each other? Well, Maestro Antonio Salieri," she said grandly, the smirk spreading into an easy, self-satisfied smile. "I think I've just had an idea."

When Salieri's eyes met Aloysia's from the pit, the edge of his mouth lifted in the slightest suggestion of a smile. Aloysia winked, and an actual grin threatening to break across his face.

Trust had made Salieri a different man than the awkward creature who had invited her over to hear Wolfgang's forgotten aria. Aloysia stopped by several a week now for their lessons, making sure to be seen on the way in and to mention to as many acquaintances as she could where she was going. Then she stayed for dinner, after which the two of them would retire to that little salon. It had taken a few evenings of Aloysia's stories about times she hadn't quite fit in with her sisters before Salieri had told her about the boy he had known at the monastery. The dam was broken after that: what had started as an arrangement to preserve his reputation and to revitalize her career had managed to become an unlikely friendship. Tonight was the premier of his new opera, and he had written this role specifically for her.

Aloysia had always been proud of her voice, but with Salieri's help she found herself mastering runs and flourishes she had never dared try before. The room was full, hundreds of well-groomed faces turned toward her. Up in the grandest box, the emperor himself shifted in his seat. Aloysia eased into the highest note of Salieri's aria and watched as he sat up straighter and the courtiers around him mimicked his response. In another box, her sister Josepha crossed her arms; from the wings, her costar Caterina blew her a kiss. The final note poured out of her like a sigh, and the audience burst into cheers.

Salieri caught Aloysia's eye again as the emperor beckoned him forward. She was smiling that easy smile again that lit up her face and betrayed how young she still was. She clasped a hand over her heart and he bowed his head in her direction. The actors crowded around and the audience continued to applaud while he mounted the stage. Salieri had written dozens of operas since he had come to Vienna, but this one felt different. When the emperor congratulated him on his work, Salieri made a show of kissing Aloysia's hand in front of everyone.

While the emperor offered Aloysia a bouquet of roses, Salieri realized that a smile had crept across his face. That day she had come to his house with that rumpled aria, he hadn't even known how to tolerate her. How strange that a few months later he could feel such affection for such an intimidating woman! It had been Aloysia's idea to write two leads into this opera so that she could sing alongside Cavalieri, and the emperor had obviously been delighted by it. Aloysia passed her bouquet to Cavalieri and kissed her on the cheek, earning a few cheers from the crowd and a blush from her costar.

A hand pressed against the small of Salieri's back, and he turned to find himself facing Da Ponte. "You see?" his friend called, bringing his lips close to his ear so that he could be heard over the crowd. "I told you a woman would do you good."

Salieri glanced at Rosenberg, who was strutting around fussing at the dancers and pushing back enthusiastic members of the audience with his cane. All of Vienna thought that Aloysia was his mistress, and he hadn't had to hear the name Mozart in weeks. Salieri shot Da Ponte a quick grin. "You're a wise man, Lorenzo," he said wryly. "Even when you're wrong, you're right."

Da Ponte raised an eyebrow but didn't ask any questions. Biting back a grin, Salieri returned to watching his friend and pupil bask in the attention of the Viennese people.