“I need to talk to you, Franz. It is important.”
Before Franz could respond, from behind him he heard, “Franz? Who is it?”
He looked behind him to see her standing in the doorway to the back part of the house, belting her robe about her waist.
“It’s me, Marla,” Thomas spoke over Franz’s head from his advantage of height.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Franz. Let the man in.”
Feeling more than a bit put-upon, Franz opened the door wider and stepped out of the way for their friend to enter. After closing the door, he picked up the lamp and led the way to where Marla was settling onto a chair. Franz set the lamp on another table and settled himself on the sofa. He pointed to another chair.
“Sit.”
Thomas placed his hands on the back of the chair in question and leaned forward. Before he could open his mouth, Franz snarled, “You woke us up almost in the middle of the night. I am tired, and not at all happy about the manner by which I was roused. I refuse to get a crick in my neck staring up the length of your oversized body.” He stabbed his finger at the chair again. “So sit!”
Thomas released the chair back, stepped around it, and sat, all without a word. He then looked at the two of them, hands on his knees, silent.
Franz wiped a hand over his face. “Ach, my friend, my very dear friend, forgive my rudeness. I am not at my best in the morning, and especially so when awakened so abruptly.”
Thomas smiled, and it was like the dawn of the sun, teeth gleaming in the lamplight. “Well I know it, Franz, and I will forgive if you will forgive my beating a tattoo on your door before a white hair could be told from a black.”
Franz waved a hand. “Forgiven, forgiven. Now, what drives you to chance the anger of the dragon so early?”
Thomas leaned forward, elbows on knees and excitement evident in every line of his face.
“I need the orchestra, Franz—or at least the wind players.”
“Why?”
“Frau Simpson commissioned me to write a march as part of the program she described some time back. I have been working on it. But last night she sent me a note, saying that it needed to be ready to perform at a moment’s notice.” Thomas’ face was animated, and his hands were waving around.
“She gave no explanation as to why?” Franz asked.
“None.”
Franz crossed his arms and leaned back as he thought. “I have heard no rumors that would explain that.”
“Nor have I,” Thomas agreed.
“Me neither,” Marla contributed through a yawn.
“But whatever it is, it must be important,” Thomas rushed on. “This is my chance, Franz, my chance to make an impression! Help me, I pray.”
Franz had known Thomas for years, and never had he heard such a note of pleading from his friend. He thought for a moment.
“The orchestra is somewhat ahead of where we absolutely must be in the learning of Arthur Rex. I think we can allow you some time. At least a half an hour for several days; perhaps a full hour, depending on how things flow.”
Thomas’ face lit up again with the biggest smile Franz could ever remember seeing on his face. He leaned forward and stretched out his long arms to snatch Franz’s hands and shake them both.
“I thank you with all my heart, and so you prove yourself to be the greatest of friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Thomas looked for all the world like a man who had just been told his first son had been born alive and healthy. Franz winced at the thought, but it was appropriate for Thomas, for every composer seemed to have a paternal (or in some rare cases, maternal) instinct for his works.
“You’re not going to have much of a band with only the winds from the orchestra,” Marla observed. Franz caught a glimpse of a broad smile on her face as well.
“True,” Thomas shrugged. “But I will take whatever I can get. And even a brass quartet would get the piece heard.”
“Here’s a thought for you: there are people from Grantville in Magdeburg who play instruments. I can give you a couple of names, and maybe they can think of others. If they don’t have their horns with them, a telegram to Marcus Wendell and he’ll have something playable on a train headed for Magdeburg in twenty-four hours. That would bulk up the ranks.”
“Wait, wait,” Thomas said. He pulled a pad of music paper out of a capacious coat pocket. Franz could see the top page was covered with music notes, with whole sections of the page crossed out.
Franz almost laughed at what happened next: Thomas’ hands began acting like two squirrels chasing each other around a tree, diving into one pocket after another. “Pencil, pencil…I know I have a pencil…I never leave the room without one. Where is it?” His voice descended to muttering as his hands continued the chase.