“Your—?” Karl choked on his wine and coughed. “The . . . the French king as German emperor? Are you serious?”
Louis Cifre shrugged. “Why not? Francis is young and ambitious, and the German electors like him. And the German Empire is as brittle as an old clay jug because of all the constant disturbances—especially now with this Luther.” Cifre took a sip of his wine, and small red droplets rolled off his lips. Karl noticed that the man had astonishingly pointy white teeth.
“It’s not like Francis is the only European ruler who has expressed an interest,” Cifre went on. “The English king Henry might put up his hand, too. Like I said—exciting times ahead! And one would do well to consider on whose side one stands.” He raised his glass and winked at Karl. “Whose side are you on, Master Wagner?”
Karl’s head was spinning with all the names and political stratagems. What could he say that wouldn’t embarrass himself or offend his conversational partner? “I stand on the side of my master, Doctor Faustus,” he declared eventually. “If you’re on the side of a prophet, you’re always right, are you not?”
“Well said!” Monsieur Cifre laughed and clinked his glass against Karl’s. “How is the doctor doing, by the way? I haven’t seen him yet. Is he well?”
“He is.”
“So this is where you’re loafing about!” Karl winced at the sound of Greta’s ringing voice. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t we say we’d meet by the wagon to take a look at the torn backdrops?”
Greta was wearing a red dress with green slits that perfectly suited a juggler lass, but—so Karl thought—it looked garish in these halls, especially since her bodice was laced rather sloppily. Several older gentlemen had turned to gape at Greta and her feminine shape beneath the dress. Karl was embarrassed by Greta’s flippant demeanor.
“Er . . . a maidservant of the doctor,” he said quietly to the French delegate, hoping Greta wouldn’t hear. But Greta had ears like a fox.
“Maidservant? Are you in your right mind?” Greta stormed up to him, noticing the man next to Karl only at the last moment. The man grinned, baring his sharp white teeth.
“A pretty maidservant indeed. And with a quick tongue.”
Greta wrinkled her nose as she eyed Monsieur Cifre. Then she pulled Karl by his arm. “You’ll excuse us. The maidservant has something important to discuss with this noble lord.”
She dragged Karl along until they came to a quiet bay window that overlooked the forest all the way down to Bamberg.
“Are you crazy?” snarled Karl. “That was the French delegate! Your behavior could cost us our heads.”
“I didn’t like him. He smelled weird,” replied Greta. “Didn’t you notice? If it was perfume like those frog eaters use, he’d better leave it off. I like yours much better.”
In fact, Karl had noticed the strange smell, almost like sulfur, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. He had been much too enraptured discussing high politics with the French delegate.
“Monsieur Cifre is a very interesting conversationalist,” he said bitterly. “I would have liked to speak with him for longer.”
“Karl, what are you doing?” Greta looked at him sharply. “You and I—we don’t belong here! To me it looked more like the fellow was trying to sound you out.”
“Sound me out?” Karl laughed. “And why should he do that? We talked about politics. And yes, he wanted to hear about the doctor, too, but who doesn’t? Doctor Faustus is renowned right across the empire, after all.” He gave her an angry look. “You might not like it here, but I love it. For once we don’t have to travel the lands like dishonorable jugglers. For once—”
“Karl, stop it.” Greta sighed. “Do you think I don’t see how you’re growing further and further apart from us? I understand. You are no juggler, no minstrel—at the bottom of your heart, you’re a scientist. You should go back to your old university, become a magister—a doctor, even . . .”
“You forget that I was forced to leave Leipzig as a wanted sodomite,” Karl replied coldly.
“Then don’t go to Leipzig. Although it’s been so long, I doubt you’d have anything to worry about.”
Karl crossed his arms on his chest and gazed out at the city below. Dusk was spreading over the houses; the first lights had already been lit. “Sounds almost like you want me to leave you,” he muttered.
He couldn’t tell Greta the real reason he was staying, why he couldn’t get away from the doctor.
Because I love him. Even if he’ll never return my love.
“And speaking of our little troupe,” he said, turning back to Greta. “I could say the same thing about you. You’re young and beautiful, Greta, no longer a timid little girl like when you first joined us. And you’re a talented juggler and trickster.”
“Do you think I’ve never thought about leaving?” replied Greta softly. “I even came close to doing it a few times. This winter would be a good time, I’ve been thinking. Especially since the doctor is becoming grumpier and more withdrawn by the day. He doesn’t want to tell me anything, neither about my parents nor about himself. But then—” She broke off.
“Then what?” asked Karl.
Greta swallowed. “It’s . . .” She hesitated. Then she dropped onto a cushioned stool and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and when she straightened back up, Karl saw by her reddened eyes that she’d been crying.
“I wanted to tell you some other time,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. But there is no right moment for something like this.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Karl anxiously. “What are you trying to tell me? Speak up!”
Greta took his hand and held it tightly.
“Karl, I’m so sorry. But I know for certain that the doctor is going to die very soon.”
Johann paced back and forth in the tower room of the donjon, restless like a beast of prey in its cage. He paused and
