She pushes the thought away and hurries past buildings made of cream stone that make the city feel warm and bright and nothing at all like London, her skirts rustling around her ankles, her tight curls bouncing at her temples.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be somewhere new. She imagines Isabella asking her,How far did you go today?Imagines herself replying,Farther than I’ve ever been. The first time she can claim that since Venice.
She turns the corner, and the theater comes into view. It’s early, but a crowd is already gathering out front. She spots Oliver standing off to the side in a top hat and long coat, watching the carriages come and go. Her heart leaps. Maybe he has something to do with that fizzy champagne feeling she’s had since she woke in a boxcar this morning.
She smooths her rose-pink skirts and slows her pace to something deemed more appropriate for a lady. Her dress is nicer than the one shetraveled to Vienna in, but not nearly as fine as some of the ones the other ladies are wearing, with short, puffed sleeves and a pair of ruffles at the hem. She reaches into her pocket, touches the paper that she knows is there.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says when she is at Oliver’s shoulder.
He turns to face her with a smile. “Still sneaking up on me, I see.”
She gestures to the theater. “Are we here to see a play?”
He shakes his head. “The first performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It was Lucy’s idea.”
“Lucy?” Beatrix asks.
“She coordinates my excursions at Aevum,” he clarifies. “She said this would make up for skipping Mozart.”
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“It’s a masterpiece. One of Beethoven’s most admired works for centuries to come. You’ll see,” Oliver says.
“But?” she prods.
A shadow flits across Oliver’s gaze. “It’s his last completed symphony. His penultimate public performance. Not that he knows that.” Oliver looks at his shining boots. “He only has three years left to live.”
Her heart breaks a little for this man she doesn’t even know. Because the world will be robbed of his brilliant talent. Because he has no idea what is coming for him. “Nobody knows when they’re going to die, Oliver.”
“ButIknow when he’s going to die.” His eyes shine with anguish. “How can I sit there and listen to his music—watch him up there on stage—knowing that?”
“Then don’t,” Beatrix says.
“What?”
“You said this was Lucy’s idea. But Lucy isn’t here,” Beatrix says. “You are. Is this what you want to spend your time on?”
Oliver shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then let’s go find something else to do.”
“Bea, you came all the way to Vienna for this,” he says. “Go to the symphony without me. I don’t mind, I swear.”
“I came to Vienna to see you,” she says, the words slipping out before she realizes they have. Her face flushes with heat. Thankfully, Oliverdoesn’t dwell on it, though she swears his cheeks have turned a shade pinker.
“Do you want to explore the city with me?” he asks. “I’ll try not to get hopelessly lost.”
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Beatrix says.
Oliver frowns. “Really?”
“I absolutely intend to get hopelessly lost in Vienna.” She turns in place and her skirts swirl out around her. She spins to a stop, and for a moment, the world doesn’t. She’s pointed away from the theater now, her back to Oliver, the wide street ahead of her.
Beatrix starts walking.
“Where are you going?” he calls after her.
“No idea,” she shouts over her shoulder, though that’s not entirely true. Wherever she ends up, she knows one thing for certain. It will be farther than she has ever been before.
