Of course, he knew no one except Stephan—until he heard laughter to his right and, turning, saw the dainty, elfin-faced Evelyn. He felt a surge of pleasure, almost a physical warmth. He remembered the rose garden and the touch of her fingers on his arm. He must see her again and spend more time talking with her. It would be an opportunity to learn more of Gisela. He must make it so.
It took him nearly two hours of polite introductions, trivial conversation and the most exquisite wine and food before he contrived to be alone with Evelyn at the top of a flight of stairs that led towards a balcony overlooking the Canal. He had stood there with her for several minutes, watching the light on her face, the laughter in her eyes and the curve of her lips, before he remembered with an unpleasant jolt that he would not be there at all were Zorah Rostova not paying for it. Stephan, as her friend, believing her innocence of motive, had brought him there and introduced him for a purpose. He could never have come as himself, William Monk, a private investigator of other people’s sins and troubles, born in a fishing village in Northumberland, whose father worked on boats for his living, read no book but the Bible.
He dragged his mind away from Evelyn, the laughter and the music and the swirl of color.
“How terrible to lose all this suddenly, in a few hours,” he said, gazing over her head at the ballroom.
“Lose it all?” Her brows puckered in confusion. “Venice may be crumbling, and there are Austrian soldiers on every corner—do you know, a friend of mine was strolling along the Lido and was actually driven away at gunpoint! Can you imagine that?” Her voice was sharp with indignation. “But Venice can’t sink under the waves in an hour, I promise you!” She giggled. “Do you think we are another lost Atlantis? A Sodom and Gomorrah—about to be overwhelmed by the wrath of God?” She swiveled around, her skirts frothing against his legs, the lace catching on the cloth of his trousers. He could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the faint warmth of her, even a yard away as she was.
“I don’t see the writing on the wall,” she said happily, staring across the sea of color. “Don’t you think it would be fair to give us some sort of a sign?”
“I was thinking of Princess Gisela.” With difficulty he forced his attention back to the past. The present was too urgent, too giddy to his senses. He was desperately aware of her. “One moment she must have believed Friedrich was recovering,” he said quickly. “You all did, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” She looked at him with wide brown eyes. “He seemed to be doing so well.”
“You saw him?”
“No, I didn’t. But Rolf did. He said he was a lot better. He couldn’t move much, but he was sitting up and talking, and said he felt much better.”
“Well enough to think of returning home?”
“Oh!” She dragged out the syllable with understanding. “You think Rolf was there to persuade him, and Gisela overheard it and thought Friedrich would go? I’m quite certain you are wrong.” She leaned back a little against the railing. It was a gently provocative pose showing the curves of her body. “No one who knew them really thought he would go without her.” The laughter died and there was a faintly wistful look in her face. “People who love like that cannot ever be parted. He wouldn’t have survived without her, nor she without him.” She was half profile to Monk. He could see her delicate nose, a little turned up, and the shadow of her lashes on the smoothness of her cheek. She stared over the hubbub of noise from scores of people chattering, the music of violins and woodwind instruments.
“I remember when one of Giuseppe Verdi’s new operas was performed at the Fenice here,” she said with a rueful smile. “It was about politics in Genoa. The scenery was all rather like this. Lots of water. That was ten years ago.” She shrugged. “Of course, the theater is closed now. I don’t suppose you have noticed it yet, but there are no carnivals anymore, and Venetian aristocracy has all moved to the mainland. They don’t attend the official parties the Austrian government gives. I don’t know whether that’s because they hate the Austrians so much or because they are afraid of nationalist reprisals if they do.”
“Nationalist reprisals?” he said curiously, still watching the light on her face. “You mean there is a nationalist movement here so strong they would actually victimize people who openly accept the occupation?”
“Oh, yes!” She shook her head in a gesture of resignation. “Of course, it doesn’t matter to us, who are expatriates anyway, but to the Venetians it’s terribly important. Marshal Radetzky, he’s the governor, said that he would give balls and masques and dinners, and if the ladies would not come, then his officers would waltz with each other.” She gave a rueful little laugh and glanced at him quickly, then away again. “When the Austrian royal family came here, they went in procession down the Grand Canal, and no one even came to the windows or balconies to look! Can you imagine that?”
He tried, visualizing the sadness, the oppression and resentment, the dignified, rather pathetic figures of the royalty in exile keeping up their pretense of ceremony, and the real royalty, carrying all its power of empire, sailing down those glittering waters in silence as they were totally ignored. And all the while the real Venetians busy elsewhere, planning and fighting and dreaming. No wonder the city had an air of desolation unlike any other.
But he was here to learn about Friedrich and Gisela, and why Zorah had made her charge. He was standing very close to Evelyn. He could feel the warmth of her body. Her soft hair was faintly tickling his face, and the perfume of her seemed to be everywhere. The noise and the glitter swirled around him, but he was islanded alone with her in the shadows. It was hard to focus his attention back to the issue.
“You were going to tell me something about Friedrich,” he prompted her.
“Oh, yes!” she agreed, glancing at him for a moment. “It was the opera. Gisela wanted to go. It was to be a special performance. All sorts of old Venetian nobility were to be there. As it turned out, they were not. It wasn’t really a success. Poor Verdi! Gisela was determined, and Friedrich refused. He felt he owed it to some Venetian prince or other not to go, because of the Austrian occupation. After all, Venice was his home after so many years here. A sort of loyalty, I suppose.”
“But Gisela didn’t care?” he questioned.
“She wasn’t very political …”
Or very loyal either, he thought, or grateful to a people who had made her welcome. It was suddenly an ugly tone in a picture up to then in totally romantic colors. But he did not interrupt.
From the ballroom the music floated up to them, and a woman’s sudden laughter. He glimpsed Klaus in conversation with a white-bearded man in military uniform.
“She dressed in a new gown,” Evelyn went on. “I remember because it was one of the best I had ever seen, even on her. It was the shade of crushed mulberries, with gold braid and beaded embroidery, and the skirt was
