"Don't be such a sourpuss, Aloysia! People will think we aren't enjoying the opera!"
Aloysia shot Josepha a cold look. "What does it matter if we're enjoying it? That librettist of yours can't see us back here in these miserable seats. And even if he could, he wouldn't care what we think of his silly opera."
"You don't know that," Josepha answered sullenly.
"Don't I?"
"Will the two of you be quiet?" hissed Constance.
Aloysia sank back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, but once Josepha turned back to the stage a smile crept across her lips. She had missed her little sisters. Her husband's house was too large and too cold, gleaming mahogany and polished marble everywhere she looked. As for her husband himself, he was all reserve and gravity, a silent figure at the far end of the dining table. But her sisters! Her sisters were irreverent giggles, pastel taffeta, and linked arms. They were flashing eyes and messy curls and the press of a hand against hers. She hated how much she missed living with them.
Aloysia turned her head just enough to scan their rapt faces. At her side was Josepha, her eyes trained not on the stage but on a man sitting at the front of the audience. She kept shifting in her seat, rolling her shoulders further back and sticking out her chest every time the librettist moved. Aloysia had always envied the way she went after the things she wanted, be it a singing career to rival Aloysia's own or a husband with a position at the court. Sophie sat beyond her with her lower lip caught in her teeth as she watched the elegant ballerinas. Her littlest sister was everyone's favorite, with large brown eyes and a round face like a china doll. Aloysia could remember several times strangers had stopped the family at the market to comment on how pretty their youngest was. And yet, Sophie seemed oblivious to the power she could have wielded with these charms. Aloysia wished she could recapture that innocence-if she had ever had any to begin with. On the end was sunny Constance, the only sister who dared to match wits with Aloysia, and the only person who occasionally came away the victor. Constance alone was paying the opera no attention, her bright eyes roaming along the painted ceiling as though she were in a museum. What was it about these three that made Aloysia feel so comfortable, so complete?
It had been an unusually harsh winter. Aloysia had sat at the edge of her empty bed and watched the first snowfall with the same private thrill it had evoked in her since childhood. But it continued to come down night after night, and before too long that joy was a distant memory. The relentless snow covered the cobbles in a gray slush that slowly permeated every pair of boots she owned, soaking through the warmest cloaks and the thickest hats until Aloysia had begun to doubt that she would ever be truly warm again. Even last night as she had curled up under a stack of quilts, tucking her icy fingers beneath her arms, she had caught herself dreaming of the luxury of another body at her side, of warm breath clouding against her neck, of arms wrapping around her. She had gotten up with some reluctance and pulled on another pair of woolen socks and a housecoat. Was it her sisters' company that she missed? When they had been children in Mannheim, Aloysia had shared a room with Constance, and her little sister had crawled into bed with her on cold nights like these. Her presence had made all the difference during those winters when the family couldn't have afforded an extra quilt.
But now she had all the quilts she could have ever wanted, and still her bed was too cold. Was it only sisterly companionship that she needed in that empty house? Would that be enough to bring warmth into her life? Into her marriage?
Aloysia caught herself chewing absently at the fingertip of one glove and rolled her eyes, clenching her hands together in her lap. After all these years, why did she still bother with lying to herself?
Aloysia's marriage to Joseph Lange had been a business transaction to all parties involved, and nothing more. Her father had been gone and buried for only a few weeks when her mother had received the letter requesting Aloysia's hand, and at the first sight of the expensive parchment Aloysia had known that her fate was sealed. Her wedding day had been as perfunctory and emotionless as her wedding night. After that she had been left to her own devices.
And what was she to do? She had never had the clear-eyed vision of Josepha. One man was as coarse and as foul the next. How did Josepha decide which were worthy of her attention? How could she stand to linger so near to them, to let them put their heavy hands on her arm or to let their greedy eyes rove over her body? The thought of repeating her wedding night with anyone, even her husband, was enough make her stomach turn. But men were the ones who made their intentions clear, with their lascivious staring and their leering mouths. What other choice did she have?
The powerful voice of a well-trained soprano suddenly soared above the medley of the chorus, and for the first time that evening Aloysia turned her attention to the stage.
A woman in an enormous red gown stood at the center of the company, her arms outstretched, crystals shimmering along her cheeks and her brow. She was small and plump, with a round face and full lips painted the same color as her dress. Aloysia leaned forward in her seat, squinting at the distant stage. There was something about her voice, about her figure, that she recognized right away. She had seen her before. She knew her.
"Josepha," she hissed, leaning over in her seat. "Who is that? Who's the soprano?"
Constance shot her a stern look. "Shh!"
Aloysia fixed her sister with a glare until Constance stuck out her tongue and turned back to the stage. She lowered her voice and leaned closer. "Who is she, Josepha?"
"I don't know," Josepha breathed. "Be quiet!"
"That's Caterina Cavalieri, Herr Salieri's pupil," whispered Sophie; Constance frowned at her, and she sank lower into her seat.
Aloysia smirked at them. "Thank you, Sophie." But her hard expression melted when the soprano's voice suddenly slid effortlessly up a scale and back down the other side.
She definitely knew her. All these years later, halfway across the country, in the middle of the bleakest winter she had ever known, she had found her Macaron Girl again.
Everyone in Mannheim described Wolfgang Mozart differently: there were those who called him a genius, those who thought he was merely ambitious, and of course, those who considered him handsome. Then there was Aloysia, his muse and his pupil, the person who probably spent more time with him than anyone other than his own mother. Aloysia would have described him as exhausting.
But the hours of simpering and batting her eyes paid off at last when she found herself singing at the Princess of Orange's annual ball. It had all gone perfectly; as Aloysia was bracing herself for whatever form of affectionate gratitude Wolfgang might have in store, the princess herself pulled him aside. He shot Aloysia a regretful look as he let himself be led away. Then the yellow parasol the princess's maid was carrying blocked him from her view and Aloysia let out a sigh of relief.
The ballroom, courtyard, and gardens beyond had all been opened for the ball. Wolfgang was being led toward the gardens, so Aloysia retreated into the ballroom. It wasn't that he wasn't kind, or even that she disliked him: on the contrary, she thought he was talented and rather sweet. The problem was that every time Wolfgang turned that heavy stare on her, Aloysia could feel the weight of her own future like an iron chain around her throat. From the moment her father had learned that Wolfgang Mozart himself was seeking work in Mannheim, from the moment her mother had suggested that he should tutor Aloysia, she had seen it all laid out before her like a final walk to the gallows. He would make her voice famous with his music, and in return she would become Frau Aloysia Mozart. The first time Wolfgang had kissed her knuckles, Aloysia had imagined him pressed atop her in a fine bed somewhere, sweating and murmuring in her ear while she waited for it to be over.
At the far end of the ballroom, beyond the whirl of pastel skirts and the field of teetering white wigs, she saw a long table piled high with confections. Checking over her shoulder that her mother wasn't anywhere nearby, Aloysia made her way toward it. A woman in an elaborate dress spun past, giggling at her dance partner, and as Aloysia stepped out of the way she collided with someone who hissed in pain. "Apologies," she said quickly; she found herself facing a small girl near her own age with enormous blue eyes and the prettiest mouth she had ever seen. "Oh, excuse me!"
The girl just stared for another moment. It gave Aloysia the time to assess her: she was in an outdated dress that might have once belonged to her mother, poorly tailored around her figure, shiny at the seams. Her dark hair was swept neatly atop her head, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth.
"Are you alright?" Aloysia asked.
"You're the soprano," said the girl. Her voice was too elegant to come from someone wearing that dress.
"Aloysia Weber." She dipped into a graceful curtsy. "I was just headed toward the dessert table, if you'd like to accompany me."
The girl just nodded, still staring guiltily at Aloysia as though she expected her to have her arrested.
The table of refreshments was like nothing Aloysia had ever seen, though she tried not to let her excitement show. There were pastries and desserts piled high enough that she couldn't reach the ones at the top, elegant icing work everywhere she looked. She selected a little meringue that she suspected was supposed to have been baked in the princess's likeness. "Go ahead," she urged when she saw the girl staring hungrily at a plate of orange macarons. "They're for the guests."
The girl took one, then shot a glance at Aloysia before taking another.
With a reassuring smile, Aloysia finished her meringue and then took a macaron for herself.
"You sing so beautifully," the girl blurted.
"Do you think so?"
She nodded eagerly. "Except- oh, pardon me." She took another macaron.
"Except?" Aloysia repeated. If it had been anyone else, she might have been offended. But for this meek, poorly-dressed girl to criticize her voice! She had to laugh. Why, Aloysia was Wolfgang Mozart's muse, after all!
"Your- well, on the higher notes. You need to take deeper breaths, that's all."
"Is that right?" she asked.
The girl nodded.
"Do you sing?"
She nodded again, but her brows pulled together. "At church," she amended. "Sometimes."
"What church? Perhaps I've heard you."
"Oh, I don't think so," said the girl. Her bright eyes traveled down the length of Aloysia's fine gown. "Just the local church, that's all. I couldn't sing for a princess."
"I'm sure you could," Aloysia said kindly, but something else had caught the girl's attention.
She nodded toward the dancers; her hands were too full of macarons to point. "Isn't that Herr Mozart? I think he's looking for you."
Aloysia groaned. "Already?" She followed the girl's gaze. Wolfgang was bobbing in and out among the guests, his disheveled hair and animal-print jacket hard to miss among the pastel gowns and powdered wigs that filled the room. He looked more out of place than this girl did.
Aloysia glanced down at her new acquaintance, then at a doorway on the other side of the table, and an idea struck her. "Let's explore the palace!"
The girl's eyes went round again. "You and I? I don't think we're allowed-"
"Come on! How many chances do you get to see a palace, anyway?"
"I- I suppose," said the girl, a sweet flush blooming across her cheeks. She glanced at the dessert table again, and Aloysia impulsively winked and seized the entire plate of macarons. For the first time, the girl grinned. Her whole face lit up like a sunrise when she did, those piercing blue eyes of hers sparkling. Fighting back an answering smile, Aloysia planted her free hand on the girl's back and guided her out of the ballroom. Her heart was pounding in her ears, though it was hard to determine why.
Aloysia's new friend was actually giggling by the time the two of them found an empty salon, and the sound of it sat warmer on Aloysia's heart than the applause of a hundred nobles half an hour ago. The salon they had chosen was a fine room like all the others, this one decorated in various shades of lavender. A fire was popping away on the hearth, throwing flickering orange shadows across the furniture and casting a cozy light across a space that might otherwise have been intimidating. Aloysia plopped onto a divan and set the stolen plate of sweets between them. "Here you go, macaron girl," she teased.
"My name's Katharina," said the girl. She popped another macaron into her mouth.
"Katharina. That's pretty."
To her delight, the girl flushed pink at the compliment. "Do you really think so? I've always thought it was too plain."
"Hardly!" Aloysia said. "The simplest names are the sweetest. Every time I meet someone named Katharina, I shall think of you."
The girl was bright red now. She kept brushing imaginary crumbs off her skirts as an excuse to keep her gaze down, and for some reason Aloysia couldn't take her eyes off her hands. Her fingers were rough and chapped, and some of her nails were broken. Aloysia wondered if it would hurt the girl's feelings if she asked how she had come to be a guest at the Princess of Orange's ball.
"Anyway, it's not hard to make a simple name sound extraordinary," she went on, only half-listening to the sound of her own voice. "Just translate it to Latin or Italian, and suddenly everyone will treat you like an exotic guest."
"Is that what you did?" asked the girl, peeking up through her thick lashes.
For some reason, Aloysia's cheeks were getting warm. She frowned down at the half-empty plate of macarons, wondering if all the sugar was heating her blood. "No, my mother named me. Maria Aloysia Antonia Weber, can you imagine? Sometimes I wish I was just called Maria."
The girl's pretty lips quirked up into a smile. There was a tiny smear of orange jam at the corner of her mouth, and it was taking all of Aloysia's reserve not to wipe it away. "May I call you Maria?" she asked in that gentle little voice.
"If I may call you Macaron Girl," Aloysia answered with an easy smile. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt as free as she did chatting with this ragged girl in an empty salon at the Princess of Orange's palace. "Hold on, weren't you going to give me a singing lesson?"
"Me?"
Aloysia sat back and crossed her arms, still unable to work the wide grin off her face. "I thought you had an opinion on my high notes."
"Oh! No, only- well, if you lift your shoulders and hold more air in your lungs, maybe they'll come easier to you. That's all it is."
"Won't you show me? I'd like to hear you sing, especially since you refused to invite me to church with you."
"Did you-? You would-? But I live in the village, that's all. My father is- I mean- someone like you certainly attends mass at a great cathedral somewhere."
Aloysia chuckled. "I think you've got me confused with the princess."
For some reason that set the charming girl to blushing again.
Aloysia snatched up the plate of macarons that was between them and set it on a side table. She sat up straighter, rolling back her shoulders and lifting her head. "Like this?"
"And then you just inhale more," said the girl. She sat up too, squaring her shoulders and lifting her little pointed chin. When she took a deep breath, Aloysia caught herself glancing down at the way her bosom lifted over the neckline of her ill-fitting gown. She found herself wondering how the girl would react if she reached out and traced the well-worn seam that ran up the side of her bodice. Instead, Aloysia slid closer on the divan. The skirts of her intricate white dress folded ever so slightly over the girl's faded one, and Aloysia's knee grazed the other girl's plump leg. Aloysia suddenly felt like she hadn't been touched in weeks, though only this morning poor Wolfgang had clung to her hand and brought it to his lips half a dozen times in the carriage. "You make sure your ribs are lifted," the girl was saying, and Aloysia impulsively seized those rough hands of hers and pulled them toward her, holding them against her own sides.
"Like this?" she asked again, and the question came out much breathier than she had intended.
The girl's eyes had gone round again, but she did not remove her hands from Aloysia's sides. When Aloysia released them and let her fingers graze over her wrists and up the lengths of her arms, she saw the girl's bosom lift again as her breath hitched. "M- Maria," she said, and Aloysia hesitated, unsure whether it was a plea or a warning.
She had no idea what she thought she was doing. Her entire body seemed to be humming, the thrill of disobedience coursing through her like a wave of lightning. Every moment that the Macaron Girl's hands lingered against her stays, with every sharp breath that made her breasts heave, the weight of her future as Frau Mozart seemed further and further away. Fissures were forming in the iron chains the bound her future in place. With this shabby girl who had insulted her singing perched at her side, the dread that was always wound around Aloysia's heart seemed to have lost its grip on her, if only for a few moments.
But the girl was staring at her with a wide-eyed look that Aloysia wasn't able to interpret. Biting back the disappointment that was rising in her throat, she removed her hands from the girl's arms. "We can go back to the ball, if you'd like. They're probably looking for me."
The Macaron Girl licked her lips, and Aloysia suddenly noticed that she had dropped her gaze to Aloysia's own mouth. Her hands were still perched cautiously on Aloysia's sides, both thumbs inches away from her breasts. She hadn't let go.
Aloysia lifted one hand and brought it to the girl's cheek. Still she didn't pull away; if anything, she seemed to have leaned into Aloysia's touch. The fire was burning a little lower, casting a golden glow across her face, across her round cheeks and her well-shaped nose. Her eyes seemed enormous. As for her mouth-Aloysia gathered her courage and ran her thumb along her lower lip, catching that fleck of jam as she did and reassuring herself that she was merely wiping it away before they rejoined the ball.
At the first touch of Aloysia's thumb, the girl let her hands slide down Aloysia's sides to rest at her hips, her fingertips pressing against her backside a little too firmly. Suddenly Aloysia could see herself in that fine bed again, the bed where she would someday become Frau Mozart, but the picture was changed. Wolfgang and his clumsy ministrations were gone: instead she saw lovely Katharina squirming beneath her, her dark hair spread across the pillows, these lips parted and her eyes clenched shut as a single note of pleasure hung in the air above them. And Aloysia wasn't quite sure how, but now she was the one pressing Katharina into the bed, whispering in her ear and laying her sweaty brow against her cheek; she was the one whose hips were rolling of their own accord, whose gasps punctuated Katharina's long moans, who would eventually spend herself and feel Katharina's answering thrusts beneath her.
And when the vision broke, Katharina's grip tightened on her backside and she leaned toward her, those long lashes of hers fluttering as she closed her eyes, as her breath mingled with Aloysia's, as her soft lips brushed hers-
"Katinka!" boomed a voice, and the door to the salon sprang open. Katharina's warm hands were suddenly gone from Aloysia's hips as she threw herself back onto the divan, her cheeks as red as her lips.
A stout workingman had burst into the room. He was small and balding, dressed in an ill-fitting suit that must have been at least as old as Katharina's dress. He had the same sparkling blue eyes and the same rosy cheeks as the charming girl at Aloysia's side.
She scrambled to her feet, shooting a regretful look over her shoulder at Aloysia as she tugged self-consciously at her skirts.
"Where have you been, girl? Her highness said we couldn't stay once the duke arrived, and he's been here for nearly fifteen minutes!"
"I'm sorry, Papa," Katharina mumbled. She curtsied in Aloysia's direction, mumbling, "Fraulein," and let herself be led out of the room.
The door closed, and Aloysia felt that familiar iron grip at her throat again. She swallowed, pressing her fingertips to her lips and thinking of how soft Katharina's touch had been. Thinking that her mouth would have tasted like macarons. Thinking that every part of her body from the palms of her hands to the tip of her tongue was yearning for that door to open up again, for her little Macaron Girl to sprint back into the room and throw herself into Aloysia's lap, to let herself be pressed back against the divan, to let Aloysia's hands slide up the length of her soft, white legs, to let Aloysia press her lips to the insides of her thighs until she was squirming in ecstasy. But the door didn't open. Aloysia had been left alone. The fire burned away furiously at the hearth, but the plate of macarons was empty.
Even from their embarrassing seats, Aloysia knew that Caterina Cavalieri was her Katharina, her Macaron Girl. All these long years had dragged by since that afternoon at the Princess of Orange's ball, since the first time Aloysia had seen that impossible future. At first it had consoled her, but then it had haunted her. She had only avoided becoming Frau Mozart by becoming Frau Lange, exchanging Wolfgang's clumsy kisses for her husband's dispassionate stare, exchanging the uncomfortable bed she had imagined for a cold, empty one swaddled in fine linens. She had her career, she supported her high notes with deep breaths, but without that crystal-blue gaze on her, without those rough little hands gripping her waist, what did it matter?
Caterina Cavalieri, she thought, smiling fondly at the distant figure on the stage. There was nothing plain about a name like that. Each time the little diva rolled back her shoulders and lifted her chin, Aloysia found herself shifting in her seat. The opera house was so packed full of people that it was getting warm, stuffy even. Her whole face had gone hot by the end of the last act.
"We should give our compliments to the writer," Josepha said when the curtain fell. The three of them turned guardedly toward Aloysia, obviously expecting some sarcastic retort, but Aloysia just nodded.
The writer was a tall, lanky man with a nose and brow that looked like they had been carved from flint. He and the soft-eyed composer were both dressed in black, pressed side-by-side in the middle of a crowd of people who were trying to congratulate them on their success. It was common knowledge that the emperor himself had already sat through this opera twice, which was nearly unheard of. Sophie and Constance hung back with Aloysia while Josepha worked her way into the crowd.
"I wonder why she wants to speak to the writer and not to the composer," Constance said idly. "He's much prettier."
"I thought you had sworn off of men," Sophie teased.
"I have! But if a man who looked like that wanted to introduce himself to me, I wouldn't deny him the chance."
Sophie just giggled, lacing her arm through her sister's and dropping her head onto her shoulder.
"I- I'd like to speak with the soprano," Aloysia announced. Her pulse was thrumming in her ears at the thought of it.
"Uh-oh," said Constance with that sly grin.
"You mustn't harm her, Aloysia," added Sophie.
"I'm not going to harm her! I know her!" Aloysia protested, but she was met with another round of giggles from her ridiculous sisters.
Perhaps it was better that they think she was jealous, Aloysia thought as she made her way back toward the wings. She had sung at this same opera house a few times, though never in an opera commissioned by the emperor himself. How long had her Macaron Girl been singing in Vienna? How many times must they have traversed these halls and missed each other only by a matter of days, or even hours?
Would she remember her?
She plucked a winter rose from a bouquet someone had left at the foot of the stage and twisted it between her fingers, absently breaking off its thorns. Aloysia's sisters saw her as someone who always got her way, who always had to be the center of attention. That was the person she had been when she had lived with her parents. That was the person they had made her. They had trained her to float through ballrooms and salons like a little doll, to lower her eyes and smile suggestively at powerful men, to fascinate them. She was good at it. She was good at getting what she wanted-at getting what she had been taught to want. But she had it now, she had a wealthy husband and a blossoming career. Where did that leave her? What was she to do with herself, with the rest of her life?
Why had she ever wanted any of it?
The dressing room was filled with admirers as ardent as those who had been pressed in around the writer and the composer. Aloysia turned the single rose over in her fingers again. Most of the people in the crowd were men, and many of them were clutching enormous bouquets that had probably cost them a small fortune.
What would she tell her? Would she have to remind her of that afternoon at the palace in Orange, of the plate of macarons in the lavender salon? What if she didn't remember? What if it had meant nothing to her?
What if Aloysia was misremembering the touch of Katharina's hands, her fingers pressed against her backside, her breath ghosting over Aloysia's lips? What if it had all been more innocent, if Aloysia's loneliness was adding a heat to the memory that hadn't actually been there?
The crowd was undulating and shifting around her as men were depositing their gifts with the accomplished diva and slipping back out of the room. Gradually, one step at a time, Aloysia managed to edge into the room.
She knew her Macaron Girl at once, even more certainly than she had known her from the back of the opera house. Here were those pretty red lips, those sparkling blue eyes. Her dark hair was swept up atop her head as it had been all those years ago, but she was dressed in an exquisite costume now, her skirts spreading across the settee upon which she was perched the same way Aloysia had once imagined her loose hair might spread over the pillows of their shared bed. Her face was still caked in enough makeup for the stage, rouge following the shape of her cheekbones and accentuating her round eyes. The tiny gemstones she had seen glinting in the candlelight arched above each of her brows, lending her a regal severity Aloysia hadn't expected. This wasn't her flustered, bedraggled working class girl. This was a woman who was used to being spoiled, who didn't need Aloysia to smuggle a plate of macarons off a princess's dessert table for her. An admirer thrust a bunch of roses into her face, each of them twice the size of the bloom Aloysia was holding, and when the soprano reached for them Aloysia noted that her hands were soft and pale, her nails polished, a string of pearls around her wrist.
Aloysia stepped back, casting a glance at the last few admirers who remained in the dressing room. Why was she tormenting herself over what this little diva might think of her when she knew exactly what words would have made any of these pitiful men fall to his knees before her? If she really was so miserable, why didn't she just take a lover like everyone else? She took another step toward the door, thinking of the dark-haired composer Constance had complimented. He was handsome and wealthy, and, judging by the way he had been pressed to his writer's side, she doubted that he had much experience with women. It wouldn't have taken much to invite herself to a few voice lessons, then to his home, then into his bed. She imagined she could have him by the end of the month. All she needed to do was to walk out of this dressing room and join the crowd out by the stage. She bit back a smile, thinking how furious Josepha would be if Aloysia managed to become the court composer's mistress before her little sister had even gotten the court poet to acknowledge her existence.
That was the obvious path, Aloysia thought. There was nothing for her here.
But as she was turning away, she heard a clear voice saying, "Wait! Her- stop her!" and suddenly a hand closed around her arm.
Aloysia jerked herself free and spun around, preparing to put whoever had touched her in his place, but the gentleman leaped back and Aloysia found herself facing Caterina Cavalieri.
"I know you," Cavalieri said, her eyes narrowed. She had risen from her settee and crossed the room, though she was still so small that the top of her head was hardly even with Aloysia's shoulder. "How do I know you?"
Aloysia eyed the two gentlemen who remained in the room. What could she say in front of them? Would this little diva want to remember the poorly-dressed girl she had been with the work-chapped hands? Aloysia cleared her throat and held out the winter rose, keeping Cavalieri at an arm's length. "We met at a ball hosted by the Princess of Orange," she said vaguely. "I had been engaged to sing, and you-"
"Maria!" she breathed, and it was the same gentle voice that had heated Aloysia's blood all those years ago in the lavender salon.
When her elegant fingers curled around Aloysia's hand, around the rose she was still holding out, Aloysia could feel a smile prickling at the edges of her mouth. "Macaron Girl," she murmured, hoping the gentlemen would not overhear. If not for the soft touch of her hand, she suspected that she might have sagged to the ground with relief.
But that hand withdrew, leaving Aloysia standing there with that stupid rose and a stupid grin on her face. She let her arm fall as Katharina turned away.
"Right," said Cavalieri sternly. "Get out."
The breath left Aloysia's lungs as though the words had struck her in the chest. She licked her lips, fighting back the despair that she felt brimming in her eyes, arranging her face into a mask as her mother had taught her. She dropped the rose onto a dressing table, where it was immediately lost among the armfuls that had already been delivered by admirers. By men. "Very well," Aloysia said, careful to hold her voice level. "I only wanted to compliment your voice. Your high notes-"
"What?" she asked, spinning around on her heel. "Oh! No, I didn't mean you! I meant them!" she gestured to the gentlemen who had retrieved their hats and were bowing at the doorway. "Poor Maria, to think I would send you away after all these years!"
Aloysia smiled tersely, deeply aware of the fact that this little diva had very nearly made a fool out of her. Even more worrisome was how easy it would have been. She really should have tried for the court composer.
Cavalieri glanced over Aloysia's shoulder, watching the last of her gentleman admirers show himself out. The door closed, and she caught both of Aloysia's hands in hers. "It's been so long! Come here, come sit with me."
Aloysia let herself be led to the settee, perching at its edge while Cavalieri sat back and appraised her.
"You look just as I remember you," she said. "Although... a touch sadder, maybe."
"Sad? Me?" Aloysia said quickly. She pursed her lips. "I may not be taking lessons from the court composer, but I've made a life for myself."
"I knew you would," Cavalieri answered. "Who was it you were working with back then? It was Mozart, wasn't it? Is he well?"
"I haven't seen him in years. I'm told he's back in Salzburg."
"Pity," said Cavalieri.
"How's your father?"
"Dead. For years now."
"Mine too," Aloysia said. She looked down at her lap, twisting her wedding ring and watching it glint in the candlelight. She had always known that one day the iron chain she had felt around her neck would be exchanged for a gold band around her finger.
Cavalieri suddenly caught her hand and held it still, inspecting the ring.
"That day at the palace," Aloysia blurted, snatching her hand away. "Do you remember it?"
"I remember feeling very uncomfortable and out of place until the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen stole a plate of macarons for me."
That embarrassing heat bloomed across Aloysia's cheeks again. "Don't be silly," she muttered.
"I'm never silly," Cavalieri answered.
Aloysia cleared her throat. What had come over her? If she had been sitting with that ridiculous composer, or even with poor old Wolfgang, she would have already been in his arms. Why was this so much harder? Why did she feel like one ill-timed word could bring everything crashing down around her?
"Do you love your husband?" asked Cavalieri.
"What?"
"Pardon me for being blunt. You know enough about my past to know that I couldn't have made it here if I hadn't learned to go after the things I want at any cost."
Aloysia let out a mirthless laugh. "And how can you know what you want?"
"I've always known," Cavalieri said simply.
"Known what?"
"Well, I've always wanted to sing. I used to sing while I helped my mother with the washing, and sometimes passersby would stop to listen. They told me I had a gift."
Aloysia nodded. She had always wanted to sing, hadn't she? Her parents had trained her to sing since she was old enough to talk. They had told her that one day she would be famous. How could she have ever wanted anything else?
"I've always wanted to be rich," Cavalieri went on, "and I want to be in love."
Aloysia nodded again. Love! She hadn't even dared dream of it.
"I knew I would star in a great opera in Vienna one day. Even when I was washing the princess's clothes at my mother's side. The first time I sang at the old church, I knew I would make it here." She ran a finger down the length of Aloysia's arm, leaving all the fine hairs standing on end. "Was it like that for you?"
Aloysia shook her head. "Success has always been-" she paused, unsure how to describe the iron chain, the weight of her husband's body, the empty bed overlooking an unending winter. "It's been inevitable," she said at length. "I didn't choose it."
"What would you have chosen?"
Another answer she didn't dare give. Aloysia swallowed, glancing at Katharina from the corner of her eye. That day at the palace was the first time she had ever known what she wanted.
"Do you love your husband?" she asked again.
This time, Aloysia shook her head.
"Do you love someone else?"
"I'm not sure," Aloysia confessed. She caught Katharina's eye. "I'd like to find out."
And to her surprise, Caterina Cavalieri clambered up onto her knees and slung a leg around Aloysia's waist, settling in her lap. The long folds of her enormous red gown completely swallowed Aloysia's black satin dress. "Is that something I can help with?"
Aloysia caught her face in her hands, her pulse echoing in her head. She traced the shape of her lower lip with one thumb, just as she had done all those years ago at the palace. This time, it was Aloysia whose cheeks were burning. How long had it been since she had been touched? Since she had touched someone else?
And then Caterina's lips were on hers, and her tongue was gentle and warm, and her mouth tasted like stage makeup and wine. A knot of heat unfurled below Aloysia's belly, between her legs, a twinge she hadn't felt in a long time. She clenched her eyes shut as one of Caterina's hands settled at her hip; the other was running up the front of her bodice toward her neckline. Her heart was pounding in her chest then, her body aching, and the weight of Caterina on her lap was warm and soft and real, and the future she had dreamed, the one she had wanted all along, was finally taking shape.
On the other side of the dressing room, a fire was popping merrily away at the hearth. Roses were piled high on a table, but only one of them mattered.
For the first time in the long winter that had stretched on since Aloysia's marriage, she remembered what it was like to be warm.