Free 6 - Whispers of Vivaldi by Beverle Graves Myers Page B

wondering what was wrong. Torani should be hectoring me with questions about my journey to Milan.
    Instead he said, “Castrato fever is sweeping through Venice, Tito. At every café and coffee house, men who haven’t the ears to distinguish one tune from another are disputing the merits of Angeletto, Emiliano, and Majorano. Women can’t wait to experience the latest thrill.”
    “Did you say Angeletto?”
    He gave a short nod.
    My mouth dropped open. “Since when?”
    Torani slid his wig from his head and slapped it on his desk. He massaged the scab where the roof tile had grazed him—a jagged, wine-dark streak. “Since yesterday morning—since the Gazzetta Veneta announced Angeletto would sing at the San Marco. The journal praised him to the skies, made the young man sound like the second coming of Farinelli.”
    “But that’s impossible! I did engage Angeletto, but I returned home only late last night and I’ve spoken to no one outside my own household.” I probed my pocket for the leather portfolio, flipped it open, and handed over Angeletto’s signed contract.
    “My spectacles. Damnable things…never where I left them.” Torani continued to grumble, patting papers, grabbing his wig’s long plait and flinging the offending headpiece toward the wide window sill. Tedi caught the wig on the fly, then rose to retrieve his spectacles from where they perched on Minerva’s crested helmet.
    “The light is better by the window,” she suggested.
    Torani shambled over and began to read.
    I said, “I still don’t understand. I’m certain Gussie wouldn’t say a word about Angeletto. Besides, he returned to the city with me only last night.” I chewed on a knuckle, thinking furiously. “I suppose a man on horseback could have beaten us back to Venice, but—”
    “Don’t torture the facts for an explanation, Tito.” Tedi’s face darkened. She wrung Torani’s discarded wig like a vindictive laundress. “Beatrice Passoni is the one to blame. She just couldn’t wait until your return—until announcements could be made in formal and correct fashion. No, the little wench had to waggle her tongue far and wide, bragging how she’d persuaded—no—commanded the Teatro San Marco to hire her precious Angeletto. She’s the very soul of indiscretion. Blasted wench!”
    “Take care, my dear.” Torani clucked his tongue, busily scrutinizing the document I’d envisioned handing over amidst general gaiety and shared congratulations. “The Savio would have your head if he knew you’d called his daughter such.”
    Tedi muttered an oath as she plopped down in her seat.
    I asked, “How could Beatrice be so certain that I’d be able to engage—ouch!”
    Isis was digging her unsheathed claws into the brass buckles that cinched my breeches’ cuff. She meowed complainingly when I nudged her away. The poor thing was heavily pregnant. We’d have kittens any day now. Again. She stalked away with belly dragging the floor and tail held aloft like a shepherd’s crook.
    Tedi continued, cheeks flushed. “Have any of young Beatrice’s desires ever been thwarted? She wants Angeletto carried into Venice trussed up like a suckling pig on a silver platter, thus she believes it must come to pass—a gift from Papa.”
    Tedi’s theory did make a certain sense, and it struck me why the soprano was so upset. Like Angeletto, Tedi sprang from common stock, but there’d been no mentor like Angeletto’s Maestro Belcredi in Tedi’s life. She’d elbowed her way into the opera house and up to prima donna on her own, depending on no one and nothing besides her own vocal talent and natural musicianship.
    At the window, Torani uttered a deep sigh. He removed his spectacles and spun them by a wire earpiece. “This contract appears ironclad, Tito. Did an advocate draw it up?”
    “No, Angeletto’s manager…er…his sister.”
    “Well, which was it?” Torani snapped. “His manager or his sister?”
    “His manager and his sister