The Devil's Opera(99)
Franz sobered. “Dear, most people can’t separate a message from its messenger. If they like the message, they will like the messenger. But the reverse is also true. Be thankful they are buying your records. They could be shooting at you.”
“Huh.” After a moment, her frown eased. “I suppose you’re right. And it’s not like all the money is going to be mine. Atwood and Trommler are going to get a good piece of it.”
“Right. So by doing well, you’re doing some good for others at the same time.”
“Right.” Marla’s expression could now be called resigned. “A rising tide floats all boats, or something like that.”
Franz chuckled again. “Only you, dear, would put up such a struggle against people wanting to give you money.”
After a moment, Marla smiled at Franz, and he felt the usual warmth of that smile flood through him. Just to tease her, he frowned.
“What?” Now she looked concerned.
“So what are you going to do for an encore?”
* * *
Mary Simpson stopped short and turned to face Gunther Achterhof.
“Are you certain?”
“From the lips of Frau Abrabanel herself, less than a quarter hour ago.”
“Two days?”
“Yah.”
Mary stood up straight, let out a determined sigh, and nodded to Gunther.
“Tell her we’ll be ready.”
Chapter 39
Gotthilf looked up at a nudge from Byron.
“There he is.”
Sure enough, Hans Metzger had appeared out of the street that ran by the Schardius corn factorage warehouse and all the other businesses that lined the river. They had been watching for some little while. The other warehousemen had mostly left some time ago, but Metzger for some reason was running a little behind the rest. No matter, Gotthilf thought to himself. In fact, it might be to their advantage if others didn’t see what was going to happen in a moment.
Metzger had his hat pushed back on his head and was ambling along with his hands in his pockets and whistling tunelessly. His carefree attitude came to an abrupt end when Byron hissed at him from the shadows.
“Metzger!”
The whistling stopped, and the big man’s head swiveled to look at them. A wary expression dropped onto his face, and his shoulders hunched a bit. “What do you want?” he asked in a mutter.
“We need to talk.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Metzger looked around.
“Someone will see us.”
“I’m not worried about that,” Byron chuckled. “Are you?”
Metzger stood still for a moment, then reluctantly stepped into the mouth of the alley.
“What do you want?”
Gotthilf picked up the conversational thread.
“We are not looking at you for anything, so rest at ease on that score. No, we want to ask you some questions about your employer.”
“Master Schardius?”
Aha, Gotthilf thought as Metzger visibly tensed. Jackpot, as Byron would say.
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know about?”
Even under his loose-fitting clothing, Gotthilf could see almost every muscle in Metzger’s body tense up. The man obviously knew things he didn’t want to make known. The question was, were they the same things that he and Byron wanted to know?
* * *
Franz Sylwester stood outside the imperial palace in the Altstadt in Old Magdeburg, waiting in the cold along with most of the residents of the city for the arrival of Princess Kristina and her consort. He looked over at Marla and smiled. She was swaddled in so much clothing that it was almost a miracle she could move. He mentally recounted the layers: thermal up-timer underwear, doubled wool socks, heavy boots, jeans, her heaviest velvet divided skirt, two sweaters, a green down-filled jacket formerly her father’s, heavy gloves, a triple layer knit cap—pink with green and purple blotches—pulled down low over her forehead, and matching heavy scarf wrapped round and round her neck and face. Her gloved hands were in her jacket pockets, and he could barely see a glint of her eyes in the narrow gap between the lower edge of the cap and the top of the scarf.
“What are you laughing at?”
Her voice was so muffled by the layers of scarf that he almost didn’t hear her.
“You.”
“So I hate to be cold. Sue me.”
Franz laughed and wrapped his arm around her waist. She snuggled against him. For all that she was a humorous sight, he didn’t begrudge Marla her attempts to stay somewhat warm. She did chill easily, he knew, and once she got cold it took forever to warm her up. He still remembered the ride on the river boats when they first came to Magdeburg over two years ago—had it really been that long? She got soaked in the rain because she wouldn’t stay in the shelter but had to be near the crate containing her precious piano. By the time they got to Magdeburg, he was almost beside himself with worry over her health, she had drooped so badly.