A Fatal Waltz

documents from Beaumont Towers—documents significant enough that their disappearance had merited charging Robert with treason. If Mr. Harrison was the culprit—something I did not doubt for an instant—he might have also stolen any written evidence of the warning sent to Lord Fortescue. 

Snow fell all that day and through the night, leaving the inhabitants of Vienna to crawl out from under their warm covers in the morning and find their city still reposing beneath a glistening white quilt of its own. When I dragged myself from my bed, I did not get dressed, but pulled on a robe, moved a chair in front of one of the enormous windows in my bedroom, and sat, watching the snow but not really focusing on it. I had slept fitfully, plagued by troubling dreams. Meg opened the door to bring me tea, but I had no time for it. Having spent too long mesmerized by the snow, I would now have to hurry to keep my appointment with Herr Schröder. 

Jeremy and I walked in silence to the Stephansdom. As we approached the cathedral, I saw Rina standing outside. Jeremy took her arm and invited her to join us; they sat together in the nave, keeping in sight of the chapel where I was to meet the anarchist. He was kneeling when I arrived, a look of such piety on his face that I could not help but laugh. 

“Surely you’re not a religious man?” I asked, dropping to my knees next to him in front of Saint Valentine’s small altar. 

“Not at all. You’re as likely to get results from sacrificing a goat as you are from praying here.” 

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” 

“Why not? Afraid we’ll be struck down?” 

“Yes, actually,” I said, feeling prickles up and down my arms. 

“It’s all mythology. Ours is just more modern.” 

“I’m not here to debate religion. What do you have for me?” 

He stared at me for a moment before answering. “You are a beautiful woman. It is unfortunate that you are caught up in any of this. You have not made a wise choice in deciding who to marry.” 

I sighed. “Herr Schröder, I’ve no interest in being lectured on my romantic life. I’m perfectly capable —” 

“You’ve no idea what misery your choice will bring you.” 

“Is this about Kristiana?” 

“No,” he said. “Although I wouldn’t discount the possibility of her heaping grief on you. He’s in great danger, Hargreaves. You know enough about his work to understand the risks he takes.” 

“He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” 

“Is that what you believe?” He drummed his hands on the railing in front of us. “He’s good, I give you that. But no one in his situation is ever safe.” 

“I know that.” 

“I’ve been asked to kill him,” he said, and I felt as if the blood had stopped flowing through my body. “An easy enough assignment. He’s careful, but not invincible.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“I’m feeling rather conflicted about the whole thing, actually.” 

“Don’t be facetious,” I said, trying to keep my knees from shaking, my teeth from chattering. 

“I’m not being facetious. I’m being straightforward. It’s a job, Kallista. He’s a threat to my goals and those of my partner in a certain matter.” 

“Who is your partner? Harrison?” 

“Very good.” 

“I thought you didn’t trust him,” I said. 

“I don’t.” 

“And he’s the one who wants you to—” 

“Yes.” He stood up and wandered over to the case of relics. “He’s paying me well. But if I eliminate Hargreaves, they’ll send someone else to take over his job. Someone to whom I will not have access via you.” 

“So my ability to steal information from him can keep him alive?” 

“As long as what you give me is worthwhile.” 

“I’ll make sure it is.” I gripped the railing, steadying myself as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed me. 

“There is one problem, though. You are here to help a friend, correct?” 

“Yes.” 

“The answers you seek are in England, not Austria. If you stay here, your friend will hang.” 

“I’m certain that Harrison stole some documents from Beaumont Towers. I need to know what they say and if, among them, there was a letter that contained a specific threat against Lord Fortescue.” 

“You’re not in a position to make demands,” he said. 

“I will make demands when I think it necessary. You are asking terrible things of me. This is the least you can do for me.” 

He smiled. “I’m not ready to divulge that information. Perhaps once my own plans are complete. Of course, the more quickly you supply me with what I need…” 

“You’re abhorrent,” I said. 

“Far from it. Any of my colleagues would have already completed the job. You’re lucky I’m sophisticated enough to see the value in keeping him alive.”

We went straight from the Stephansdom to Colin’s rooms, but he was not there. Without pausing to think, I looked everywhere I could: the Griensteidl, the Imperial, even the von Langes’ residence, but he was nowhere to be found. In the end, I returned to his apartment and bribed the Hausmeister to unlock the door for me, then insisted that Jeremy leave me alone. Rina was still with us, and I did not want her to see my emotions come completely undone. It was not easy to force Jeremy out, but sincere promises that I would not leave the house unaccompanied—I would either wait for Colin or send word to the Imperial that I needed an escort—eventually worked. 

As soon as they had left, I began tearing about, searching for anything that might indicate where he’d gone. It was irrational to think that he had already come to harm; I believed Herr Schröder would not kill him. Not yet, anyway. But I was taking shallow half-breaths and wouldn’t be able to stop until I saw for myself that he was safe. 

He had three rooms that seemed large enough when I’d first entered, but their walls grew closer and their ceilings lower as I felt an increasing sense of desperation. I found nothing of use in the sitting room and passed through his bedroom to a small chamber that contained a desk. Without hesitating, I began to rifle through the drawers, hoping to find a calendar, but stopping at the sight of a bundle of letters. 

They were from me. He’d kept every word I’d written to him, even a note scribbled on a scrap of paper torn from an opera program. I’d passed it to him while we were watching La Traviata at Covent Garden. At once I was consumed with emotions: love, confusion, anger, and an undeniable desire to collapse in tears. Why could we not share an uncomplicated life together? Safe, dividing our time between England and the Continent. I returned the letters to the drawer and staggered back to the bedroom, where my strength left me. I dropped onto the bed and sobbed, vaguely aware of the sound of pealing church bells outside welcoming Christmas Eve. 

I didn’t hear him open the door or step into the room, but gradually became aware of the smell of cinnamon and tobacco and a hint of shaving lotion. He was standing in front of the window, his figure a silhouette, light spilling around him. 

“I hardly know what to say. Is there an appropriate response to finding you on my bed?” 

“Colin—” 

“You’re crying.” He sat and pulled me up beside him. “What is it?” 

I could not help myself. I put my head in his lap and made no effort to slow my tears. He said nothing, but rubbed my back until it had stopped heaving, then pulled me up and kissed the top of my head, so gently I could hardly feel his lips. I opened my eyes and saw his, inches from me, full of concern. 

“My dear girl, what happened? What are you doing here?” 

I sat up straight, took his hands, and blurted out what Herr Schröder had told me. “I’m scared,” I said. He smoothed my forehead and put his hand on my cheek. 

“There’s no need for concern. As I’ve already told you, I’m accustomed to people wanting to kill me. And now