Free Vienna Nocturne by Vivien Shotwell

painful beneath her feet and she did not have enough breath to continue. He backed his way toward the high bushes, laughing at her. With her eyes fixed on the slippers she followed slowly, relieved to be moving out of sight of the palace.
    “Why do you know Italian?”
    “I spent some time there.”
    “Your accent is impeccable.”
    “So’s yours.”
    “Thank you.”
    She darted at him again and he lifted the shoes out of her reach. He was just that much taller.
    “I’ll scream,” she said.
    “Please don’t, mademoiselle. Everyone would think we’d been having a liaison.”
    “You’re a brute and a thief.”
    He seemed startled at that. “I’m not a brute. I haven’t touched you.”
    “You spied on me and stole my shoes.”
    “I did not
spy
. I was
there
and you intruded.”
    “Please give them back.”
    He looked down. They were pretty slippers with a gold trim and pointed toes and had cost a fortune. “I’d give them back for a kiss,” he said thoughtfully.
    Now she really should scream. Her heart pounded enough to break.
    “All right,” she said.
    He looked up quickly. They were standing quite close now.
    “For the shoes,” she added, blushing.
    He gave her a wondering smile. “Is that so?” he said, in a low voice. “For the shoes?”
    Then, with extreme care, as if afraid she would panic, he set theslippers on the ground beside her. She was breathing quite fast. He straightened and glanced around. “Just one?”
    “Well,” she murmured, amazed at her boldness. “The rest depends on if I like the first.”
    He laughed again. “My God,” he said. “I’ve been longing for this all evening. And here it is.”
    He put a hand to her waist and touched her cheek and looked closely into her eyes, though it was very dark, and then he kissed her lips, gently and softly and long.
    It made Benucci’s kisses seem like hard, hasty fumblings.
    “Oh,” she breathed.
    “One more?”
    “You’re a brute.”
    “All evening,” he said. “And then you come running after me.” And he kissed her again.
    She didn’t want to know who he was. She didn’t want to go inside. But everyone would be wondering. She pulled her stockings from her bodice and he helped her put them on and fasten them with her garters, then helped her with her shoes. His fingers circled her knees and wanted to go higher. She laughed and wriggled away.
    “Go on,” he whispered, and gave her a light push.
    With cautious steps she eased back into the bustling hall. The crowd seemed larger than when she’d left it. She could not contain her smile. At length she found Lidia with the punch. Lidia gave Anna a reproachful look. “I’m parched,” Anna exclaimed, and drank down half the glass. Her eyes searched the crowd for the gentleman from the garden. She did not know what she would do when she saw him. But he must surely have come in after her.
    “There you are,” said Benucci, approaching with a lady on each arm. “We’ve been looking all over. This is Madame Aloysia Lange. She’s a marvelous soprano. She doesn’t have much Italian so we’ll have to make do as best we can with our German.”
    “How do you do,” Aloysia said daintily. “You sang very prettily tonight, everyone thought so.” Her voice was sweet and high as achild’s. “This is my sister, Madame Constanze Mozart; I don’t believe you’ve met.”
    “Hello,” said Constanze. “How nice to meet you. I enjoyed your singing very much. My husband was in ecstasies. He’s a composer. We can’t find him, but he was so impatient to meet you and Signor Benucci and he has such excellent Italian—he’d be able to translate for us.”
    “You’re the wife of Herr Mozart?” Anna asked. She felt a hint of apprehension. But there must be many gentlemen among the party who spoke excellent Italian.
    “That is my fortune,” Constanze observed placidly. She was taller and plumper than her sister—perhaps with child. Her face had a certain lack of