Vienna, 1774

Antonio Salieri enjoyed being alone. And yet he never really was. In his mind there was often an unhealthy presence, a poisoned voice that whispered in his ear and woke him up at night, a supernatural being woven into the very heart of his soul. His mind, his own enemy. Thus, when this voice would barge in and begin to become too intrusive, too real, he would go to Vienna's disreputable taverns, where he always found something to drink to drown that damned voice. The screaming of other clients helped him as well, creating a continuous noise bubble around him, intoxicating him as much as the alcohol in his glass. In Vienna, even the very poor knew Salieri. Maestro Salieri. At only twenty-four, the prodigious musician of the Court was making a name for himself. And even with two bottles of wine in them, people had the presence of mind to move away from his path and to bow as he passed. He was respected and his reputation as a dark loner was enough to even scare most people away. Not to mention the threatening aura he was giving off with his black sparkling clothes, his raven beard, his hair falling into his equally dark eyes smeared with charcoal black make up, his straight posture and his feline gait. So Salieri would come back, drink and sometimes even compose in these dark and damp establishments where the noise and alcohol made him forget the eternal dissatisfaction which his work procured for him.

Yet that day, an old drunk had decided that he was cleverer than the others. He had approached Salieri who was opening his third bottle of wine, already struggling to keep his head upright. As the young man had finally given up trying and had heavily dropped his head on his arm, the drunkard had seized his chance and had gently grabbed the long black coat left nonchalantly on the seat next to the one occupied by the musician. Very pleased with himself, the drunkard shook the jacket and was delighted at the sound of the clattering gold coins.

"That coat doesn't belong to you." a sharp voice said behind him.

The old man turned around and glared at his new interlocutor. It was a young man dressed in a large brick-coloured pants covered with mud and an old shirt that was too large for him. A large brown hat covered his head.

"What do you want, boy?" the old man grumbled, breathing his putrid breath into the young man's face.

"I want you to return his coat to my client."

"He doesn't seem to miss it" the drunkard chuckled, pointing at Salieri's motionless body lying on the table behind him.

"Last warning. Give it back."

The old man, who, despite his age as advanced as his drunkenness, seemed much stronger than his opponent, threw the jacket on the dusty ground and approached the young man until their foreheads touched.

"You're pissing me off, kid."

Without a warning, he grabbed the young man by his shirt and sent him flying on the table where Salieri was resting, which finally pulled him out of his semi-coma with a jolt. Furious, the other quickly got back on his feet, nimbly jumped over the table and ran head down on his opponent, who went crashing against the bar as he let out a painful "ouff". As he was about to get back up, the young man grabbed a bottle of full wine and crushed it against the drunken man's skull. The noise of broken glass set a heavy silence in the tavern, punctuated by the groans of the vanquished drowning in wine.

"Cheers," the young man breathed out.

His reply triggered hysterical applause in the room. The other drunkards had obviously enjoyed the show. Stunned, Salieri had watched the scene without being able to move. Still sitting in his seat, he watched as the young man picked up his coat, dusted it carefully and put the crumpled sheets that had fallen off back in one of the pockets before handing it to him.

"Your coat, Maestro," he said with a bow.

Salieri squinted at the young man, his sight still a little wobbly from the alcohol. The young man's features seemed very delicate, and his voice was exaggeratedly gruff, as if he was trying to sound tougher than he was.

"Thank you," he mumbled as he grabbed his jacket. "You're bleeding," he added, pointing at the thick red liquid dripping from his saviour's lip.

The latter wiped the blood with the back of his sleeve and turned away quickly, fleeing Salieri's gaze.

"Wait," the latter said, but the young man had already disappeared in the back room.

…

If there was one thing that Alina loved when she disguised herself as a man, it was wearing trousers. The fabric embraced her shapes without hindering her moves, she could run, jump and bend freely, without having pounds and pounds of fabric to drag. It was, at the moment, the only advantage she could see in her situation. She had been in Vienna for several months now, and life was even harder than in Paris, which she thought impossible. She mastered the language but very little understood her accent and she shared a room with a couple and their four children who woke her up at night.

Yet God knows she needed sleep; she worked all afternoon in a bakery where she would spend hours baking hundreds of loaves every day using a heavy tray and working in the heat of the oven without ever stopping. Then when the evening would come, she would go to a little tavern in the suburbs where she would serve drunkards until late at night. After a short sleep she'd go back to work at the tavern, only to stop late in the morning to nibble a piece of bread, and her day would begin again. In addition to the physical difficulties of her work, she had added another problem: having to pass for a man. Otherwise, it would have been impossible for her to find respectable work, and she didn't have the strength to go back to dancing and be fiddled by repugnant men all night.

So every morning waking up, Alina would put on a large shirt over her corset to conceal her chest, trousers wide enough to hide her shapes, brown leather boots, and tied her long hair with a ribbon, then squeezed a large hat on her head to hide her bun. The deception had been working for several months. But today, fate had decided that the farce had to come to an end.

After her confrontation with that old imbecile, Alina had taken refuge in the kitchens, lest Salieri should realise that she was not a man. The musician had stared at her long enough to discover the truth. Fortunately, she had been able to slip away in time. Me and my stupid integrity, she berated herself, rubbing the back of her skull, extremely painful after the shock inflicted by her opponent. Grumbling, she had continued her work all morning, making sure not to have to go back to the main room, knowing that Salieri could sometimes spend a whole morning in the tavern, staying still for hours, gazing in the distance, hand clenched around his glass still full. Despite her own desperate situation, the young woman sometimes pitied him. A deep sorrow was drowning his charcoal gaze. What could torture a talented and appreciated musician so much that he needed to come and get drunk in a miserable tavern? The question bothered Alina all morning, until a clock in the distance finally rang noon. At last, she allowed herself to sit on a small uncomfortable stool, and pulled off her hat so that she could massage the back of her skull, still painful. With a sigh, she stood up and turned only to face her employer. The fat man with red skin, always wearing a dirty apron, even though he had never touched a pot in his life, stared at her, then glared at the imposing blond bun on top of her head.

"What is the meaning of this?" the huge man roared.

"Mister Eberhard, I can expla-"

But her employer did not give her time to finish her sentence. His cheeks turning scarlet, he grabbed her arm and dragged her out.

…

Salieri had just spent the morning sitting on the same seedy seat. He let the information sink in his brain, and for the umpteenth time in the morning cursed himself for being so weak. Weak in front of the work that awaited him, weak in the face of the expectations of this world, and especially weak in the face of this damned voice that was making him go mad. After the agitated intervention of the waiter who had fought to give him his jacket back, the musician had finally sat back down, deciding that it was too early to face the prenteces and the little manners of the people of the Court, who he hated deeply, even though he was one of them. When noon rang, he had finally made up his mind and was going to pay for his drinks when a din was heard towards the kitchens. From the massive wooden door sprang an obese man in an apron -Salieri thought he recognized the owner of the place, whom he knew very little,- who was dragging behind him the young man who had come to his rescue earlier in the morning. Wait, is that...?

Salieri straightened up, certain that his eyes were playing tricks on him. The young man had taken off his hat, and on the top of his head was a huge bun from which blond curly locks escaped. Intrigued, Salieri grabbed his jacket and mingled with the small group of clients who followed the couple of protagonists, already outside. There, in plain view, the owner threw his victim to the ground and snatched her shirt, revealing a simple white corset, causing the curious crowd to let out an "Oh!" of surprise. Eberhard then proceeded to undo the ribbon which held the girl's hair, causing her to cry in pain as he pulled away some strands of her hair with violence.

"Don't you dare show your face around here again!" he screamed at her face, livid with rage. "A women in my establishment…" he kept fuming, so furious that he couldn't finish his sentence.

"Mister Eberhard, I beg of you," the girl said clutching the trousers of her ex-employer, "I need this work, and I've always done it well! I've never been late, you've never had to complain about me..."

Eberhard pulled away with a kick that sent the girl back into the dust. He raised his enormous hand above him.

"I should-"

"Mister Eberhard," Salieri interrupted him with his silky voice.

The fat fellow suspended his gesture.

"Maestro Salieri," Eberhard said immediately, bowing as much as his imposing belly allowed him. "I'm sorry you had to see that, I-"

"You are free to go now," Salieri cut him off, vaguely waving his hand towards the owner.

"But Maestro…"

The young man peered at him with such intensity that Eberhard closed him mouth with a loud 'clack' of his teeth clattering. Glancing at the young woman on the ground one last time, he turned around without a word and got back inside. As the crowd was starting to scatter, Salieri rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and silently reached out his hand to his morning saviour as the latter was trying to sit up, coughing until her lungs started burning. Suspicious, she eventually grabbed his hand and got back on her feet. As the musician calmly observed the young woman, she leant in to pick up her ribbon and put it back in her dusty hair, ignoring the snickering of the few people left around her. Receptive to the woman's distress despite the look of defiance on her face, Salieri walked over to her again and covered her naked shoulders with his heavy coat. She threw an inquiring look at him, but did not protest.

"I owe you that much," he explained, answering her look. "Please, follow me. I will find you something to change."

Alina blinked a couple times. She was covered in mud and blood, and had just gotten invited into one of Vienna's most famous musician's home.

So that's it for this chapter, next one is way longer so it's probably going to take a few days for me to translate it. Please leave a review if you enjoyed!