Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“So he knows you’re in Vienna?”

“Of course,” I said, clutching Jeremy’s arm awkwardly, hoping that I would not fall.

“You know, Lady Ashton, you are a very bad liar.” She twirled in a circle again, then skated off, the sound of her laughter bouncing after her.

“No, I don’t think I can tolerate any more chocolate,” I said, waving Viktor away. I’d been sitting for nearly two hours at what had become my regular table at the Griensteidl waiting for Herr Schröder and was beginning to regret the extra whipped cream I’d had on my three cups of cocoa. He whisked away an empty cup and refilled my glass of water, then handed me a piece of paper.

“One of von Hofmannsthal’s poems,” he said, nodding towards the table the Junges Wien seemed to occupy permanently.

“Thank you,” I said, scanning the lines. “‘The longing branches / Rustled by the night wind / In your little garden…/ How sweet it is to only / Think of such little things.’ It’s quite good. Do you want more coffee, Friedrich?”

“I shouldn’t,” he said.

This meant that he had neither money nor credit left and planned to drink water for the remainder of the day. “Please bring more coffee, Viktor,” I said.

“No—,” Friedrich began.

“I admire the fact that you do not wish me to hand you money or commissions to support your career. You want to forge your own success. But to deny yourself a twenty-kreuzer coffee on principle is ridiculous.”

He did not argue.

I was finding, as I spent more time in Vienna, that the cafés were centers for culture unlike any others to which I’d been exposed. The city’s artists treated them like second homes. First homes, really. I’d visited the cafés Central, Schrangl, Bauer, and Heinrichshof (where I saw Johannes Brahms), but none appealed to me so well as the Griensteidl. Here I could watch playwrights argue the dynamics of a bit of dialogue, poets curse their search for an elusive word, and painters deep in games of billiards, their eyes hardly focused, thinking more about how to mix their colors to the perfect hue than whether the right ball would drop in the right pocket.

The city’s wealthy frequented the cafés as well, and though there was not perhaps as much mingling as Herr Schröder would strive to obtain, it was leagues from anything that I’d seen in London. Here, within a quarter of an hour, one could find a like-minded soul to discuss nearly any academic subject.

“Have you seen Fraulein Eckoldt again?” I asked Friedrich after Viktor had brought him another coffee.

“Her mother has forbidden all contact between us. And now that she knows I frequent the Griensteidl, Anna isn’t allowed to come here again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I never expected a different outcome. We are neither of the same class nor the same religion. It was always a hopeless love.”

“So you give up?”

“Nein. I will find a way to win her. I am applying to paint murals at the university. It’s a commission that would bring me both prestige and enough money to support a wife.”

“Enough for her mother?”

“Not even close,” he said, grinning. “But enough for Anna, and that is all that matters.”

“Friedrich, I like you more with every passing moment.” I thought of the innumerable instances I knew of in which a gentleman had stepped aside to give the lady he loved a chance to find someone of more desirable financial status—regardless of her thoughts on the matter. “It’s unlikely that I’d be able to convince Frau Eckoldt you’re a suitable match for her daughter, but I’m quite capable of arranging meetings for you and Anna.”

“You would do that?”

“It would be my pleasure.” I smiled.

“How—” He stopped the moment he saw Herr Schröder approach our table. “I’ll leave you to him,” he said, gathering up his drawing materials and disappearing to the other side of the café.

“Kallista,” Herr Schröder said, shaking the hand I’d given him.

“No handküss?” I asked.

“Don’t be ludicrous,” he said, his lips pulled taut, eyes squinting as he looked down at me.

“Forgive me. I’ve become accustomed to Austrian gallantry and wasn’t aware that anarchism requires the death of manners.” He grunted in reply, then flagged down Viktor and ordered a decadent hazelnut torte. “Have you any information for me?” I asked.

“You have a powerful enemy in Kristiana von Lange,” he said.

“I know all I care to about the countess. Have you identified the person who sent information to England?”

“There is no one in my”—he paused and smiled—“…‘organization’ who is dealing with the British.”

“You’re certain?”

“Beyond all doubt.”

“Perhaps someone has told a spouse or a lover, and that person—”

“Impossible.”

“Of course it’s possible.” I bit my lip and forced myself to keep from rolling my eyes. Men and their confidence.

“I do not think you grasp the seriousness of what I do. I have no choice but to surround myself with people whom I trust.”

“No one is immune from betrayal,” I said. “And while you’ve told me you don’t trust Mr. Harrison, you obviously have a connection with him.”

“I would not be alive, Kallista, if I were not immune to betrayal. I take stringent measures to ensure it.”

“But you did not deny the possibility of an informer existing within your group when I first spoke with you about it.”

“I can be certain of my safety because I never overlook a threat. And my cohorts are in no doubt of their fate should they betray me in even the smallest way. Vienna is plagued with suicides. An extra one on any given day wouldn’t draw attention.”

It felt as if the air around me had turned to water, and my lungs were filling at a rapid and irreversible pace.

“You’ve never had coffee with a murderer before?” he asked, raising the cup Viktor had brought him.

“Tea, yes, but never coffee.” My face was hot. I could not control the color rushing to it, but forced composure into every other part of me.

“There is much more to Vienna than the Ringstrasse and Fasching balls. But it would be best, perhaps, if you chose to ignore the darker side of the city.”

“A luxury, Herr Schröder, that I do not have. I want to interview every person who knows the details of your plan. One of them must have some connection with Lord Fortescue.”

“Fortescue?” He laughed. “There’s no chance any of my associates was involved with him.”

“You may have missed something. I don’t know these people, so when speaking to them I’d bring no preconceived notions.”

“You will not talk to them.”

“But—”

“You will never know who they are. This is not some amusing game, a diversion to let you feel useful. You do not belong here. I’m sorry I was not able to help you. If your friend does not escape his fate, well, take comfort in the knowledge that his death may go far in bringing a better life to the masses.”

“I will not let Robert be hanged for a crime he did not commit.”

Herr Schröder shrugged and rose from the table. “Not all goals are attainable.” He walked out of the café. I pulled on my coat and slipped my hands into my pockets, where I felt something cold and hard: one of Mr. Harrison’s bullets. I could not help but shudder. So far as I knew, I hadn’t been in his presence since that day at the café, and I was certain that I hadn’t left the bullet he’d given me that day in my coat. How had he managed to slip this into my pocket?

Consumed with unease, I looked out the window and saw Herr Schröder starting across the street. I waited two beats, then followed.

Colin had taught me the art of trailing someone. Granted, he’d done it not so that I might follow a murderous anarchist, but so that I would be aware if someone were following me. Nonetheless, I was thrilled to make use of my training. I did well at first, crossing the street and staying far behind my quarry, keeping him in my sight as he made his way around the Hofburg and through the Volksgarten to the Grillparzer Monument, erected to honor Austria’s finest dramatist and poet. I hung back, knowing that it would be difficult to stay out of view on the park’s wide paths, but I was not cautious enough. Herr Schröder brushed the snow off one of the benches that flanked a large sculpture of the writer, sat down, and waved at me.

Mortified, I steeled myself and approached him.

“I wasn’t finished with you,” I said.

“So I gathered several blocks ago.”

“You should have let me know you’d seen me.”

“And ruin your fun? Hardly sporting.” He kicked at the snow in front of him. “What do you want?”

I was not about to tell him that I hoped to follow him to his home, to skulk about after him until I’d discovered where he met with his compatriots. “Give me an honest answer. If you had discovered the identity of the informer, would you have told me?”

“No.”

“Neither his name nor the fact that you’d found him?”

“Neither.” He paused, still kicking the snow. “But I am rather taken with your persistence, so I will say again: I did not find him. I did not need to lie to you in the Griensteidl.”

“How can I possibly believe you?”

“You can’t.” He smiled. “Don’t follow me anymore, Kallista. There is no reason for us to speak again.”

I took his place on the stone bench and watched him walk away. I would follow him again, but not while he was expecting it.

A familiar voice drifted through the freezing air. “That’s a miserable place to sit on such a cold day.”

“Colin?” I leapt to my feet as he grabbed my hands and pulled me towards him. “How—I—you—Berlin—”