I lived for art, I lived for love.

I never harmed a living soul.

With a discreet hand,

I relieved all misfortunes I ever encountered.

In this hour of grief,

Why, why, Lord,

Why do you reward me thus?

–Tosca, Puccini

The fortnightly salon of Baroness Magdalena von Westphalen was gliding through another triumphant evening, on a cloud of perfume and snuff. Not that each and every evening which passed over the Capital, even for those high nobles who stood at the Empire's starry apex, was a dream of bliss. There were endless ceremonials, dull parties, dull, dull people. Almost tedious as the War, which had oscillated across distant space for well-nigh a century, must surely have become to almost all its belligerents.

At the Westphalen salon, however, no one was permitted to mention the War. All else in the universe was offered that might excite or intrigue. Beauties of every kind, outward and inward, occupied the heart of the Baroness, snuggly as they filled her 'little place in town'. Where ladies at the forefront of smart society pressed bare shoulders against actresses, academics, musical virtuosos. An artistically given admiral, and two barons whose tax reform proposals had rendered them persona non grata at the palace. Salome smiled down on the company, and Sappho with her lyre. A wall-length painting of especial renown showed gold-haired Idunn, offering Odin and the gods her apples of immortality.

However various the hopes, desires and qualities that had drawn the elect to this plush room of pink and gold, it was the lady herself who kept them there. Now enthroned on a chaise-lounge, carefully sipping from a rare vintage. Clad in a lavender tea dress, with rows of frills and an almost scandalous neckline. Resting an inexhaustible smile on the hand that held her closed fan.

"…in some matters, one must dare to be conservative. Nobody, in three months, has shown me anything in this current neue-rococo fashion that the novo-rococo school did not do rather better last century. That is one of my most beloved styles – the large chiffonier in the hall is a glorious example – but I assure you it will now be thirty years, at least, before fashionable décor sees a revival possessed of life. Granted that revolutionaries haven't murdered us all before then, in each other's beds." Light laughter, from all sides, "Now, my dear Professor Boschen. I haven't made a complete study, but can it not be said, we owe the divine concertos of Klinnsman as much to the liberal reforms of Maximilian II as the maestro's genius?"

"That is exactly what I mean to show in my new study, milady! Free speech led to free thought, to an explosion of brilliant art. One might say that what we commonly call genius is brought about by the conditions of the age, rather than the converse–"

With feline swiftness, the baroness' fan touched the professor's lips. The podgy little fellow turned bright pink.

"My dear man, do not dispense with genius altogether. Like the sunset, it is not valued because it cannot be bought. Cannot be comprehended, even by genius itself, so readily as deeds and dates. Only appreciated, as I am certain I will adore your forthcoming opus."

The professor stammered, dipped his head, and all but fawned over Baroness Westphalen's silk slippers. Amused murmurs among the noble crowd held forth that she had a little genius of her own.

Her bare forearms had the white-rose purity of a true blueblood. A slight equine quality of her flawless face miraculously set off the untameable spirit in grey and widely childlike eyes. Black hair amassed in tube ringlets shone like a crown of stars. Her voice had the exquisite contralto tone that should perhaps be subject to control as a dangerous weapon, or mind-altering substance; her lips were a little more full than refined. She was a baroness in her own right, unmarried. She looked about twenty-three and had not been twenty-seven so many years as all that.

"…dash it all, it's surely the blood that tells?" Someone with a title was proclaiming, "A true gentleman or lady, in any circumstances, and true genius…"

"...if we must consume turnips and inhabit boarding houses, to prove the hypothesis, I shall not be the first volunteer."

"Quite. Exquisite blooms require cultivation. Who said that?"

"Oh, I believe it was me." The baroness affected such innocent surprise, there was a smattering of applause.

"…then, one might say that toil and ignorance cultivate the commons? For their natural role of operating machinery smarter than themselves? Bwahaha...!"

This from a young bounder in a tailcoat, seated on the arm of the chaise-lounge. Who found himself swatted off it, with the fan that now snapped open. Quivering before the baroness' lips, it described the arch of a cat's back.

"You must be feeling indisposed, Lord Verisopht. Rupert will have your coat. I shall speak more with you on this matter, at the first seasonable opportunity."

Cutting him entirely would have completed his social ruin; Verisopht withdrew urbanely as he could manage. The glittering and variegated crowd, in perfect unison, averted their eyes. While the flock of high-born drones around the chaise-lounge shoved forward to closer places round their queen.

Friedrich Verisopht had been a gifted amateur musician, charmingly empty-headed, but needed direly to learn the necessity of shutting his mouth. Musicians, painters, geniuses of every stripe, had all come from common stock. Klinnsman's own father had been no more than coachman to the first Duke Braunschweig, his celebrated son's first patron.

No one with any artistic taste could retain belief in aristocratic supremacy for a minute, which made this salon the Empire's nearest thing to a liberal opposition, in its modest way. Perhaps, peasants were not naturally suited to leading nations or armies, into endless war – which only proved that common sense dwelt with the common man, as far as Magdalena von Westphalen was concerned.

It was the deepest concern of the Westphalen set – as Lady Mangelhoffer reminded them, uplifting soulful blue eyes – that another Klinnsman might now be languishing in poverty, starving in the depths of a Mineworld, or even being brutalised in spirit by hard service with the fleet…

"…oh, forgive me, dear Admiral Mecklinger."

The artist admiral inclined his head and clicked his heels, playing the perfect toy soldier. Aside from his genuine talent, he was invaluable for assuring the government that any witticisms aimed at the starfleet, or the Kaiser's love life, were mere signs of affection for the impeccable guiding lights of the nation.

Before the mood could sober, the baroness clapped slim hand together; if they did not have the Klinnsman of their generation, they had the Wagner. David Wagner, fair-haired young son of a factory worker – foremost violinist of the season, as his patroness had personally ensured – duly rose with a bow.

The gentle tones of Brahms' Third soon filled the salon with a golden piece of heaven. Conversation was removed to intimate whispers on the veranda, or behind a fan.

"Lady Westphalen?" The very young Lady Bertha Essen whispered, as her hostess moved across the room, "My engagement to Georg – I mean, Viscount Hentzau – will be announced at the weekend. Thank you so much for your introduction!"

"A pleasure, darling. As it will be for you, I trust." Lady Bertha blushed charmingly, as Magdalena stroked her hand, "Always such a pleasure to help one's friends."

"We must do something for you, though. Georg told me of newly discovered mines, in his family's star system…?"

"…please, my dear. No more talk of business tonight. There will be time hereafter, but for this little while, we need nothing but music. To bear us all into our shining future."

That would buy time for Magdalena to consult her man of business; to discover if a gift of shares in the Hentzau mines would be the gift it seemed. Bertha was a dear child in love, young Georg likewise, but his father the count was decidedly not. If he wasn't scheming revenge, over a marriage she'd arranged for the couple's happiness rather than his profit, Magdalena could imagine having to repay any favour of his at the most inconvenient time.

That was the way of his sort…or perhaps this gift had really been Bertha or Georg's innocent idea? The children of each season seemed to grow up faster than the one before. They deserved so much to enjoy their youth…as she was, of course. The instant she reached the veranda, Magdalena drained her sipped-from glass in a single swallow.

-0-

The Imperial Capital's skyline of crag-dark mansions and tasteless statuary remained unlovely as it had been for the past five hundred years. Magdalena had heard the rebel worlds were ruled by merchants, as Phezzan was, who build majestic towers of glass and steel – filled with brutishly boring clerks and tradesmen, alas. The sunlit glories and treasures of Neue Sanssouci, known intimately by her as lover had ever known beloved, were truly the pinnacle of human aesthetic history. It very nearly made one weep.

Several noble guests in court coats and knee-breeches had also slipped out into the warm night, for quiet talks with their cellphones. Magdalena had never cared that much about money, living for art as she did – but it was inescapable that the value of Neue-Rococo furnishings would go through the floor tomorrow. As orders for Professor Boschen's book, from persons who'd only ask Magdalena what it said, would rise.

So these worthies were informing their stockbrokers, or else higher nobles not invited to these salons, who paid ready cash to hear from them. From the lady who remained only the third foremost leader of fashion in the Capital – alas! – but the undisputed authority on culture. It wasn't unmanageable, when the Empire hadn't seen one original idea or invention, from long before the birth of the Westphalen barony. Why meddle with what had worked so well in the past?

Still, she would have to meet again with the Lord Chamberlain tomorrow, regarding the royal garden party. Make certain the fantasia of border worlds folk tunes that she'd arranged would not be discarded at the last minute – then she could finally devote herself to the art show next week. Dear Professor Boschen was speaking quietly with Baron Scheisskopf in the garden, on her advice, securing a huge grant to research the noble deeds of the Scheisskopf line. The work of five minutes complete, he'd have marks enough for the definitive study of brilliant composers and liberal reformers.

Magdalena herself, or rather her charities, would also receive a fair payment for the introduction. She gave large sums to respectable charities, like all the liberal nobles; unlike many, she gave even more in secret. There were funds for poor artists, poor actors, impoverished noble families – but her reputation would have been irreparably wounded, had it been known that she gave food and money to persons with no more to merit it than penury and starvation.

(Or husbands who'd come back from the war, sadly changed, or fathers. For dear, poor Annerose's sake she did everything she could, because there was nothing, nothing she could do...)

The rebel worlds had something called a 'welfare state', but Imperial Values included Noblesse Oblige. The stewards who administered Neue Westphalia in her absence, with the several airless Mineworlds she also owned, received thousands of the peasantry's time-honoured pleading petitions every year, and answered, by her orders, a full quarter. The long-accumulated Westphalen fortune was not inexhaustible. She was different from the nobles who thrashed any petitioners for bothering their betters, if they didn't shoot them, or expected their dependants to repay them in beautiful daughters and handsome sons…

She'd already mentioned to prominent nobles that she would rather possess the Erlenmeyer painting owned by Marquis Goering than her very mansion and – most of its contents. At the next garden party, the marquis would speak with the Kaiser. The Westphalian School of Music might have another scholarship fund next year, and how many souls might it save?

Yet, there was no escape from money. Because of dear David's marvellous skills, both their efforts – and her money – his four little siblings had clothes and shelter. Yet, how many merely talented young musicians had been forced to climb over? Because she did not have money enough to save every starving child in the universe?

Empty-headed noblemen who wouldn't have known Raphaels from Zoffanies sometimes told her she was destroying the Empire. It might not be so bad if she were; that would indubitably give rise to some interest and excitement. Scheisse, she needed another glass –

Within the salon, David's purring violin suddenly flashed up into a crescendo. Magdalena threw back her head, shut her eyes and sighed deliciously. She glided back to the salon, where so many little talks and tasks still demanded her attention. It felt practically like work, sometimes…but only sometimes. A snippet of opera danced on her lips.

"I'm indispensable, irreprehensible… factotum of all the town! Ah bravo, Figaro, bravo, bravissimo! Thou art a favourite of fortune, factotum of all the town..."

-0-

As applause filled the lounge, Wagner knelt to the baroness and kissed her hand. There were a few gasps as she drew him up and kissed both his hands, twice, but older guests were used to their hostess's little ways. Now the baroness took a seat at the pianoforte; the floor was opened to any who felt their talents might amuse the company.

A strawberry-blonde in white muslin, something older than the debutantes of this season, rather taller and bigger than the ideal, modestly advanced with her violin. Magdalena spread her fingers and supplied a simple accompaniment to the girl's simple but elegant tune.

Delighted whispers ran through the crowd. The commoner's performance had been technically brilliant, of course, astonishing for what it was – but this was a truly noble spirit. Such talent in one so young and lovely, so precious.

Katerose von Kreutzer certainly did have talent; Magdalena was as certain of that as her name. That was why her fingers struck the keys, and the music ceased.

"At the Marquise von Beenemünde's salons, I understand that any guest who outshines her does not receive a second invitation. That is not how things are done here." A flourish of her right hand described a chord like the ignition of a warpdrive, "Do you know Bartok's Second?"

Rescored for violin and piano, it remained one of the most technically demanding pieces in musical history. White-faced, Katerose stared from lords and ladies to cultured arbiters of worth. Stared round the packed, pretty room that was a world in miniature – looking upon her with the world's judgement, silent as the mesmerised. She looked back at the red smile of Baroness Magdalena von Westphalen, the woman who suddenly held her entire future between barely parted lips.

"…I have played it."

"How marvellous. Do take a deep breath, darling…and do your best. Now, eins, zwei, drei…"

David Wagner's face was ash; he could never have played Bartok's second unprepared. He watched Katerose sway on her feet, sweat bursting over neck and arms in the candlelight. Listened as the legendary twelve-tone themes splintered and shattered, one by one. More wrong and mistimed notes than even Magdalena's fantastically deft tinkling of the ivories could conceal – still, the bow continued to move.

Cheek pressing against the rest like a blaster's stock, eyes wet and wild, Katerose von Kreutzer still stood before the salon, still played. Muscles strained within white arms. Fiery hair rippled back and forth, with the candleflame that music set in hearts. The very desperation and bewilderment of Bartok, the straining against contemptuous tyranny…the passionate press of the soul towards freedom. It sang from the strings, broken but beautiful. It shone from Magdalena's upturned face, as she brought the first movement to a glittering crescendo and cut it off. Katerose, one note away from dropping to the carpet in a dead faint, saw nothing – but heard the whole world madly applauding and shouting, bravo, bravo.

Fixedly smiling, the new foremost violinist of the season passed through the thronging well-wishers demanding her name. Magdalena stared after her as she left. Swiftly, she had Professor Boschen replace her at the piano, to lighten the mood with one of his comic songs – though he had clearly hoped to sit next to her, which was rather precious. She assured David that she would do something to save his career, momentarily, though his only concern was that she go after the girl straight away.

Magdalena made her excuses, sallied forth into the night. Discovered Katerose slumped in a dirtied heap on the edge of the carriageway, beside the thoroughly smashed remains of her violin.

At the baroness's voice, she flew up. Made something of a weak attempt to strangle her and finished up sobbing into her décolletage. She hated Bartok, hated the violin, hated everyone in the Empire, and she hated Magdalena von Westfalen.

"–if I don't have a titled fiancée by the end of the season, my life will be over before I'm twenty-one! I'll be a nobody, an old woman kept fed and clothed by my family, or some other nobody, with nothing to do but stitch needlepoint and go mad! Mother and father spent a year trying to get me invited to your bloody salon, and you chewed me up! Spat me out! I butchered Bartok, and everybody laughed at me, I know you were laughing at me! I had one chance, I never had a chance..."

Magdalena kept hold of the girl's shoulders, guiding her to an ornamental bench among the shrubbery. She stroked her back and made gentle noises until tears were exhausted, and then she told Katerose that she was beautiful.

"You played beautifully. In a year's time, you will play Bartok perfectly. In three years, you will play phenomenally – as no one before you in over a thousand years has ever played. I won't apologise for a test only a prodigy could have survived, because I could tell, my darling. You will meet with false smiles in the capital, and false praise, but if you mean to be someone then you must never doubt who you are."

"Weren't you listening? I hate the violin, I'm only here because I have to get married. I should be with the fleet, fighting back the rebels…as Franz did!"

"I am sorry. Your fiancée?"

"In a skirmish that didn't mean anything. With about six hundred other officers and men, on his ship. While I couldn't do a thing, except play musical instruments. Like you can't do anything, except throwing expensive parties and sleeping with stupid men! We can't inherit titles, we're barred from government, business, the military – we can't get married and keep anything of our own, we can't stay single without being nobodies and whores! Do you think you're changing the universe in there, over wine and fingerfoods? Do you think you've got any power over anything that matters? How can you even stand to live?"

Red, burning eyes followed the baroness as she leaned back. Her enigmatic smile concealed everything but a heart brim full of powerful pity.

"I know who I am, and I know what I am not. I daresay you might destroy some rebels, with so much hate in your heart, but you would have no more power than we now possess to end the War. You would only hate it. A whole generation may pass us by, before the next kaiser proves himself true heir to his most wise and compassionate forebears, by arranging such another skirmish. Such horror and waste as I cannot pretend to imagine. Nor should you. There is nothing in space but dark death, the very stupidest of men, and their hatred. Only love, in despite of all the falsehood and ugliness of this world, makes it a place worth living in. You must build a walled garden and fill it with all you can love, if you mean to be somebody in this world; if you mean to survive."

"Don't I have a choice?"

"So long as you have a noose. Or such genius and will as I myself will never possess." Magdalena stood up, as Katerose finally hung her head, "The Capital is not for everyone. Genius is not for everyone. You may abscond to join the Rosenritter, or do something no other woman has done; no one else's hollow ideal of a strong woman will bring happiness. Only your own choice - and I believe you made that choice, Katerose, when you played to the end. I may at least offer you a place at the Westphalian Conservatory; I will ensure your family's debts are paid. Or a season's fame, and a titled husband; I will make certain that he is everything you could desire. In either case, I will replace your poor violin with the Matthäus Stradivarius. If you so wish."

This instrument, though crafted almost 2000 years after Stradivarius by a fellow who'd assumed the name, had been used by Walter Matthäus in a performance that Kaiser Otto II had called miraculous. It was the sort of gift even a baroness could only give once. It would seal Katerose's renown as an prodigy throughout the universe. Align herself and any titled husband with House Westphalen for life, and against its enemies.

"…can I have some time to think? Only, if it's a husband, he might as well be rich; I will never love a man again, now Franz is gone." Katerose got to her feet, bravely composed herself. Bowed her head again, "Thank you, Lady Westfalen. I'm sorry for all I said. I forgot you lost your own father to the War, when you were younger than I."

"My darling, I was never so young as you. Your pain will become easier to bear…you may give me your answer at the next salon."

"...if I come, milady. Before I choose, I must be sure I'm content with the choices I have."

Katerose von Kreutzer remained a while, as if expecting something more, but finally went to leave. Magdalena von Westfalen remained, settling once more on the bench.

She wished Annerose were with her, by her side. Such love in her heart as might have changed the world, shut up with needlepoint and silent days. Dorothea von Schaffhausen, her dear schoolchum, a better poet than any man she'd met... sincerely preferred a quiet evening in her husband's garden. Nothing more harmless to The Way Things Are than one strong woman - it would take at least a million. Nothing more harmless than a salon with no purpose but pleasure, yet she was searching. Having tremendous fun on the way, of course, spreading her gospel of pleasure, and was that so bad?

It wasn't such a bad world...except that it was. Magdalena stared up at the starless sky and thought about her father.