Pippa stared at him with big eyes. “He doesn’t?”
“He was neither born, nor did he ever have any papers issued, nor was he ever registered in Vienna. Very strange, don’t you think? And yet you claim that you wrote regularly to him over a period of how long?”
“Three years,” Pippa whispered.
“Three years. Correspondence with a man who doesn’t exist. Fascinating.”
“I’m certain you must be wrong. Of course Klemens exists. I’m not lying to you, either.” Her fingernails dug hard into her palms.
“Hmm. As I said, interesting. Very well. I shall personally see to it that your letter gets delivered. But I expect positive news from you within three days.” He tapped a finger on the table. “Also, in the future,do not come here in person. Send your missives over with one of the footmen.” He gave her a name.
Pippa nodded. “Very well.” Then she leaned over, picked up the remaining tip of hisKipferl, and stuffed it into her mouth.
That night, Pippa lay in her narrow cot, staring into the darkness. The other three girls were already asleep, their breathing heavy and monotonous. One of them snored.
She was bone-tired, yet sleep would not come. The events of the past days tumbled through her mind in relentless sequence: her arrival in Vienna, the theft of her purse, the innkeeper’s blank denial of any Klemens Lindenstein, which August had confirmed; the cold walls of thePolizeihofstelle, Agent August’s bargain, the Hofburg and Frau Benedikt, Greta, and finally Metternich himself.
All of it felt impossibly far from the forests, the meadows, and the green alms of home. From Sepp and Lotta. Papa.
And Klemens. Always Klemens.
The ache of homesickness rose sharp and sudden, choking her. She pressed a fist against her mouth, but the longing spilled through her anyway.
She saw them again in Papa’s study: books piled high on the table, the air thick with ink and candle smoke. Papa lecturing on mathematics, philosophy, economy, and Klemens, fair-haired beside him, quick to argue, quicker still to listen, always respectful yet brimming with questions. Marek was there too, his friend, servant, valet? Pippa had never quite understood his role.Klemens spoke to him as an equal, though he fetched and carried like a manservant.
Often she had slipped into the corner chair, silent, drinking in their debates. She could never take her eyes from Klemens.
That was when she had fallen in love with him. He had not known, of course. To him she was only a lanky child of fifteen, hair cropped short, racing about in boy’s clothes, tumbling from straw piles into manure heaps, more at home in the stables than in the schoolroom. He had teased her, indulged her, treated her with brotherly fondness.
Until, three summers later, when she decided she wanted to be seen as a girl. She had donned herDirndl, the traditional dress that girls wore, with a pink apron, and her dark curls that had now grown fell to her shoulders, tied back with a ribbon. “How pretty you are, Fräulein.” Lotta had tugged on her curls. “Let us see what our Herr Student says when he sees you.” She had smiled smugly.
Pippa had waited the entire day on the hill above the road, heart hammering, eyes straining for the sight of him. He never came. Oh, the bitter disappointment! She trudged home, fighting tears, swearing she would banish him from her heart.
But as she neared the house, she saw the lights burning bright in the Grosse Stube. She ran the last stretch, and burst into the room.
And there he was. He turned at the sound of the door, straightened, and gave her a bow. For an instant hedid not know her. Then his jaw had dropped and wonder dawned in his eyes, slow and dazzling.
Things had changed from then on. He had still teased her, but there had been a new awareness crackling between them.
Then, last summer, they had danced at the village fair, a simple waltz, played by a crooked violin. “You’ll tread on my toes,” she had whispered nervously.
“Then I shall step lightly,” he had whispered back, his smile wicked and tender at once.
Her heart had been full, overflowing.
Until she could bear it no longer, and had gone up to her toes and kissed him. Straight on the mouth.
She had meant it as a brief kiss, but somehow, somehow…he had cupped her chin and they were kissing, kissing, kissing…as if there were no tomorrow.
On the eve of her nineteenth birthday, he had taken her hand, slipped a heavy golden ring onto her finger. “Be mine forever,” he had said, voice low, almost fierce. And she had whispered, “yes,” her heart tumbling out of her chest.
She had believed that by now she would be long married.
Instead, Papa had died, Klemens had disappeared, and she was a maid doing the lowliest of jobs in the palace.
Pippa’s sigh rang loudly through the room.
The girl next to her grumbled discontentedly in her sleep and turned around, dragging the blanket with her.
