Free 4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight by Beverle Graves Myers

her?”
    My mouth went dry and I willed myself to meet Carmela’s gray eyes without flinching. I didn’t fully understand why Grisella was so intent on hiding her true identity, but I was willing to keep her secret until I could learn more. With a broad smile I answered, “Madame Fouquet is a lady completely new to me.”
    ***
    Karl met us with a preoccupied frown. He was in his shirtsleeves with his waistcoat hanging open. I couldn’t help noticing his bloodshot eyes and wine-soaked breath as he directed Carmela and me to take a seat in a ring of sofas and chairs around the harpsichord.
    “We’ll begin with Gabrielle and Emilio,” he said, his German accent seeming even heavier than last night. “The duet from Act Three that we worked on yesterday. But take careful note, Carmela, your aria follows.”
    A sunny corner of the vast cream and gilt salon had been given over to music. A fresco of cherubs bearing mandolins and garlands of flowers made a fitting background for a handsome harpsichord in a richly carved case. Potted palms and vases of end-of-season rose cuttings created the atmosphere of a garden pavilion much more conducive to singing than a dusty rehearsal hall. I could easily become accustomed to this.
    At one side of the harpsichord, the Gecco brothers were coaxing their instruments into proper tune. Mario notched his violin under his chin and drew his bow across the A string, which was just enough off pitch to set my teeth on edge. After tightening the peg, he played a snippet of a popular tune. Lucca’s violoncello echoed him in lower tones.
    Karl handed us our scores for the day’s rehearsal, assured me that I would catch up in no time, then settled himself at the keyboard. He took a deep breath; on exhalation, his shoulders sank away from his ears and he began to smile like a man reaching home after a long journey.
    Grisella and Emilio were already studying their parts. I hoped their scores were neater than mine. My paper held staves of tilting, ragged notes looking as if they had been set down at breakneck speed. When I withdrew my thumb, it was smudged.
    Leaning close, I whispered to Carmela, “I can’t believe it—our maestro wrote these out this morning. He must have been up for hours. Why in Heaven’s name didn’t he have his original manuscript copied into parts before he came to the villa?”
    Touching the satin ribbon that circled her throat, she threw a nervous glance toward Karl and shook her head.
    Romeo was not so prudent. He’d been leaning against a nearby pillar, unashamedly listening. He lumbered over and threw himself on a delicate chair that responded with an ominous creak. “For the same reason he assumed that the man who got his brains bashed in came to steal his music.” Romeo winked and circled his ear with a forefinger. “Our maestro is a genius at composition, but a few tiles seem to have slid off the roof, if you catch my meaning.”
    “He actually believes a copyist would dare publish a composer’s score under his own name?” I was astounded. In our tight-knit world of music, such a crime would be swiftly discovered and that copyist would never work again.
    Romeo shrugged. He started to elaborate, but changed course when Karl sent him a glare from the keyboard. The basso jerked his chin toward Emilio. “Poor fellow. You’ve made him so nervous, it’ll be a wonder if he can get through the song.”
    Emilio did appear ill at ease. Grisella stood by the harpsichord, idly twisting a lock of hair as she waited. But Emilio couldn’t seem to stand still, and his complexion resembled the flesh of a peeled potato.
    “What’s all that about?” I asked Romeo in a whisper. “I’m not doing a thing.”
    “You don’t have to,” he answered in his deep, carrying voice. “Just knowing that everyone will soon compare his voice to yours is enough to make Emilio sweat.”
    Looking alarmed at hearing his name mentioned, my fellow castrato paled even more. I sent him a