The Musician's Daughter (22 page)

I crawled back to Mirela.

“You see,” she said, her voice a little recovered now that she had been breathing the cold, winter air, “that’s why the fiddle is so important. We must get those papers to the emperor somehow, now that everything has gone so badly wrong.”

Mirela’s shoulders began to shake and tears poured from her eyes, tracing paths through the soot on her face. She started to shiver. I removed my cloak and wrapped it around her.

Now I began to put all the pieces together. Zoltán had told me that my father had recently found documents that proved the atrocities against the Hungarian serfs and that he had hidden them in his fiddle case. He said that he was to give them to Danior on the night he died. Danior would have secreted them inside his violin until they could be safely taken to some other stronghold. It would have been the final transfer of papers, he told me. Danior must have kept the others somewhere in his hut, and decided—perhaps because of the increased danger, with the capture of the general and our failed excursion last night—that he should hide them for the moment inside his instrument again. But how could we know if the papers Papa had found were among these? Surely they were not. If Danior had them all along, why would he have said nothing to Zoltán?

I shuddered when I thought of how close complete disaster had been. If the fiddle had burned, we would have been left with no written evidence to lay before the emperor—assuming we might be granted the opportunity.

“How are you feeling now?” I asked Mirela. She had stopped crying and sat up.

“Better, I think. I can breathe.”

“Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

The two of us leaned on each other for support and rose to our feet. Together we took a few steps. My ankle was a little sore, but I could bear it.

“My back hurts a bit. I think mainly I scraped it.”

“Show me,” I said.

Mirela turned and lifted the cloak. I saw that her shift had been sliced through at the back where the edge of the wagon had pressed down on her, and that she had a large, ugly bruise, but the skin was not broken. She must have been in considerable pain nonetheless. But I did not want to alarm her. “You have no cuts to speak of. Do you think you can walk far?”

“It will ease as we go. We cannot stay here. We have evidence that might save the others. We must give it to someone who can help.”

By now Mirela had recovered a little of her spirit. I was glad, not only because I did not want her to be hurt, but because I needed her assistance. “We have to find Alida. She will know what to do.”

“That is Zoltán’s sister, no?” Mirela said. “Where is she?”

“In the Hofburg.” I looked down at my dirty boy’s clothes and at Mirela, who was very little better. No one would ever admit us to the Hofburg in such a state. I doubted we could even get into the kitchens looking as we did. “We must change into fine clothes, and I have an idea. Let us go.”

I had only one hope. My uncle had given me unlimited credit for the period of one week at Mademoiselle Helene’s. If Mirela and I boldly walked in and I demanded they furnish my personal maid and myself with elegant clothes at my uncle’s expense, there was a chance they would not, and would simply toss us out into the gutter. There was also a chance they would. And right then, I could think of no other course to take.

I wrapped the violin in the folds of my cloak, linked my arm through Mirela’s, and took the first steps on the long walk back to Vienna.

“Let’s make up a story on the way,” I said. “We have to have something to tell a girl at an elegant shop that will prevent her from slamming the door in our faces.” I saw Mirela’s impish expression, and I knew by the time we got to Mademoiselle Helene’s, we would have at least a fighting chance of success.

CHAPTER 25

W
hen the girl greeted us at Mademoiselle Helene’s, Mirela and I were clutching our sides and laughing uproariously. That had been our plan: we decided we should appear to have come from an all-night revel, perhaps hint at some raucous games in which the girls dressed as boys and the maids pretended to be Gypsies.

To my immense surprise, our playacting worked.

They even let me bathe in a copper tub in a private room and poured me a restorative cordial while they took Mirela to the back, cleaned her up, and gave her a suitable, simple dress and cap for a lady’s maid. My credit, I found, was excellent. I took great delight in requesting the most expensive fabrics, asking for an extra bit of lace, having the seamstresses trim the mantelet with miniver, and even choosing a jeweled comb to hold up my hair. By the end of two hours of frenzied work on their part and much-needed rest on ours, Mirela and I emerged from the
couturier
looking like a fashionable young lady with her maid in tow, ready to spend the morning shopping. So that they would not suspect there was anything at all important about the violin, we pretended at first to leave it behind.

“Oh, dear me! My uncle will be cross if I do not return that fiddle to his musician. Apparently he’s rather fond of it. Can you wrap it in something soft for me, perhaps some velvet?” I asked, not quite believing I had the nerve to act a part so completely.

They did as I asked right away, and I sauntered out into a cloudy afternoon, Mirela behind me with the violin nestled in costly velvet and tied up with a silk ribbon. But I did not trust myself to keep up the pretense for long in the face of the real world, already feeling skeptical eyes following us as we walked. “Let’s go this way,” I whispered to Mirela. “It’s shorter.” I started to hasten my pace.

“Mind you don’t ruin your clothes,” Mirela said. I slowed down and went more cautiously, trying not to catch my skirts or muddy my slippers.

The streets were full of people rushing around on their daily business. A band played some songs and a group of children had gathered around them. I watched as a worried mother rushed up and took two of the smallest ones by the hands and dragged them away. As she passed me, I heard her scold them with, “They’re Gypsies! You should know better. You’ll end up sold as slaves in Turkey.”

I couldn’t help looking back at Mirela, who, although now clean and fresh looking and dressed respectably, had the telltale light almond-colored skin, dark eyes, and jet-black, curling hair of the Gypsies from the encampment. I don’t know if she hadn’t heard or just chose to pretend she hadn’t, but she lifted her chin and assumed a haughty expression. I glanced at the faces of the musicians as we passed, and at least one of them seemed familiar. I thought he was looking at Mirela, too. I was too tired to worry, though. My mind was running fast and my imagination was on fire. I forced myself to think about the task at hand. The Hofburg. That’s where we had to go, making our way as if we had every right to be walking freely in the street with everyone else, and no one had tried to capture either of us and prevent us from bringing terrible crimes to light.

I had never entered the royal palace except from the sewers the night before. Although I knew it was an enormous building, I hadn’t really thought about it much when it formed no direct part of my life. The Hofburg was a landmark, a point of reference when I was going somewhere. Occasionally Toby and I stood to the side and watched processions of guards and gilded carriages when the emperor walked out into the city to greet the people, but that was as close as I had ever gotten to attaching any real significance to the place. And then it was just to peer into the carriage windows and see the ladies in their jewels. Once, I saw a young girl about my age and I wanted to be her. I still remember what she wore—her bodice, anyway. It was shot through with gold that caught the sunlight whenever a beam struck the window in the right way, so that it appeared as if the glow were coming from inside her carriage. She wore a string of large pearls around her neck, which was long and slender, and her skin was so white she looked like a porcelain doll. But as she passed very close by, I could also see that her big eyes were sad, and although she tried to smile, I could tell it was difficult. I remember thinking that I would not like to be forced to look really happy if I felt very unhappy. I rarely had to put on an expression for anyone, especially when I was younger. I laughed when I wanted. I cried when I wanted.

When Mirela and I reached the grand, curved front entrance of the emperor’s winter palace and saw the ranks of sentries on horse back guarding it, we both stood and stared, not knowing what to do. It did not seem like a good idea to just walk up to one of the guards and ask to go in.

I turned to ask Mirela how she thought we should proceed, and was surprised to find she had vanished. I walked a little way back toward the park we had passed through to get there, and found her standing behind a tree, clutching the violin to her.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. Her eyes were bright with fear.

“The guards!” she whispered.

Of course. The palace guards wore the same uniforms as those who had surrounded the camp and set fire to it. “These are not the same men. You must know that. We will be together. They will believe we are who we act like.” I wasn’t really sure of this, but Mirela’s terror made me overly brave on behalf of both of us. “Look,” I said, pointing to the crested carriages pulling up and disgorging their well-dressed cargoes. I watched the footmen open the doors and hand out the ladies, saw the fine folk walk right into the palace without being challenged. “All we have to do is look confident, and they will let us in.”

“But the ladies don’t have their maids with them.”

She was right. I thought we might have to change our plan, but then I saw a footman follow his mistress in, bearing a gout stool. “I know. I need you to carry the gift that I have brought for Alida. The violin.” It was our only hope. I did not want to go alone, for my own sake and Mirela’s. Once inside the palace, she would be safe, too.

We waited until there was a queue of two or three carriages and a lot of bustling activity around the door, then marched forward as if we knew our business there. If the guards suspected anything, they didn’t show it. We received a few curious stares from the people descending from the carriages, one or two lingering on Mirela’s exotic face, but I answered them with smiles and a polite incline of my head. They could do nothing but smile in return.

Before I knew it we were in a large reception hall dotted with knots of visitors whispering among themselves. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry. The high ceilings and emptiness of the space created an odd, whispering echo. I caught words here and there that assembled themselves into accusations aimed at me.
She’s a criminal,
and
No one should believe … a fake … condemned …
I wanted to reach for Mirela’s hand, but that would have called attention to the fact that we weren’t accustomed to the relationship of mistress and maid.

Through it all a large clock ticked. If I focused on the tick, it became deafeningly loud and drowned out the strange echo. I remember noticing that it was a little before two of the clock. As more and more people entered the large vestibule, I thought perhaps something would happen at that hour, and that everyone was waiting on purpose.

I wondered how long we could linger in that space alone without provoking comment.
We had better do something,
I thought. In addition to those who were clearly guests, a number of servants in the characteristic black satin imperial livery wandered through on their daily business.

“Mirela,” I whispered, “find one of the servants who looks nice and ask if I may be presented to Alida. Say I’ve come to bring her a gift.”

The hall continued to fill with people. While Mirela walked toward a footman, I wandered around slowly to disguise my growing sense that everyone was staring at me, and that soon a guard would approach me and escort me out to the street with Mirela. But the guards left us alone. Mademoiselle Helene and her seamstresses had obviously done their work quite well.

I happened to be standing quite near a long-case clock when it struck the hour with a very loud gong. I jumped and let out a shriek that drew all eyes to me. I know I blushed, but I was saved the embarrassment of continued attention by a fanfare that preceded the opening of a pair of tall doors. Everyone turned and started to walk through them, trying not to appear as if they were hurrying so that they would be first.

I supposed, although I did not know for certain, that someone was giving an audience. Through the open doors I saw a large, ornate chair on a dais. Perhaps it was a throne. I glanced around and did not immediately see Mirela. The last thing I wanted was to be ushered in with all the rest, because without Zoltán, Alida, or even Mirela and the violin to give me some purpose, I wasn’t sure exactly what I was supposed to say or do. I doubted that it would be appropriate to make wild claims about children imprisoned in my uncle’s cellar and Hungarian serfs being tortured and sold as slaves.

Yet for the moment, there was nothing else to do except follow the general movement of people. I kept sweeping my eyes around, looking for Mirela. Just before I was about to be nudged into the audience chamber, I spotted a girl with a bucket wearing the simple, muslin dress and apron of a chambermaid, with Mirela following behind her. I started to walk toward them, but the maid pressed a spot on a wall panel, a panel sprang open, and she and Mirela disappeared behind it.

I stopped where I was and pretended to examine a spot on my skirt until everyone had passed around me as if I were a boulder in a brook. Once the crowd had gone in, I found myself almost alone in the huge vestibule. The few stragglers were too intent on following the rest to bother much about me, so no one noticed me pressing that same spring on the hidden door and entering the secret spaces of the palace known only to the servants.

The corridors between the walls were well lit by windows at regular intervals, but narrow enough so that my skirts brushed either side as I passed. I had no idea which way Mirela and the chambermaid had gone. I hoped I’d soon find someone I could ask.

The first soul I came upon was a young girl with only one tooth in her head. She scurried along with a basket of wood that was almost as big as she was, huffing and puffing through her open mouth.

“Excuse me,” I called out to her.

When she saw me, she nearly dropped her entire load and was so flustered that I could barely understand her lisping speech. “Yes, mistress, what’s the matter?”

“My maid came past here, I believe. I had asked her to seek a maid of honor to the Archduchess Maria Elizabeth, for whom I have brought a gift.”

“
Himmel
. You’re lost,” she said.

“Yes, but can you direct me to Alida?”

“All the ladies-in-waiting is at the audience.”

“Where might I wait for her when the audience ends?” I asked.

“Not here!” she cried. “Ladies is not allowed here!”

I wanted to tell her that I was no more a lady than she was, but I realized that in my present costume that would seem unlikely. “Then perhaps you could lead me to where I
am
allowed?” I said, trying not to let my irritation creep into my voice.

She dipped an ungainly curtsy to me. “This way,” she said, and I followed her around and around. At any moment she looked as though she would drop her heavy load. I wanted to offer to help her with it, but I decided that if anyone saw us, she might get into trouble.

At last we left the servants’ corridors and entered a comfortable sitting room through a panel next to a small fireplace. “Here’s where the maids of honor sit,” the girl said. She stood there shifting her weight from one foot to another. I saw by the ample supply of wood in the hopper next to the fire that her destination had not been this room, and wondered why she did not leave me quickly so she could continue with her chores.

“If it’s all right, Madame,” she said, “I’ll get on with my work.”