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“And the king won’t even bring you to any of the balls as his guest,” said Margaret with deep frustration. “I know! He’s being entirely unreasonable about it.”
Amalie blinked twice, slowly. Then she said, “Am I to understand that you instructed your ruler to invite me to a royal ball in the Hofburg? As a guest rather than a performer?”
“Of course,” said Margaret impatiently. “The supernatural events are clearly linked to music, so—”
“So you do find me a suspect after all,” Amalie said flatly. Her lovely face tightened, turning remote and haughty as her remarkable voice chilled. “Of course. I am a lorelei and therefore must wish to exact unholy revenge on every man I meet, regardless of morals or any other considerations.”
“That is not at all what I meant to say!” It was Margaret’s turn to speak slowly and clearly, so as not to be misunderstood. “You are a lorelei and an opera singer, and therefore the most expert consultant I could hope for.”
She frowned, her fingers tapping restlessly against the table as she thought through her own words. “Was it offensive of me to say so? I didn’t mean any insult in thinking you were qualified to advise me on links between music and the supernatural. As you chose to become a professional opera singer, I assumed you must have a real interest in the subject, even beyond the powers gifted by your transition.”
“I do. I always did, even before...before.” Amalie’s throat flexed with her swallow.
Margaret had admired the lorelei’s air of implacable dignity and poise ever since the awkward moment of their meeting. Now, though, for the first time, she glimpsed a flash of raw pain lurking underneath.
It took all her willpower, but she forced herself to set aside her burning curiosity. “We needn’t speak any more about it if the subject is too painful. You are under no obligation to assist me.”
“No, indeed,” Amalie murmured, “and yet...” Her beautifully rounded shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug, and she lifted her chin with undiminished pride. “I believe I owe you an apology, Lady Riven. Apparently, it was I who made incorrect and insulting assumptions about you.”
“Ah, well.” Margaret’s own shrug wasn’t nearly so elegant. “I know I don’t present myself particularly well in society. People do find me...awkward, to say the least.”
“That is not at all what I meant, either.” The lorelei’s tone was low and controlled, but intensity vibrated through it. “I did not underestimate you due to any poor behavior of your own, but rather that of so many of those who draft the unspoken laws of our society—and who may well find you eccentric for disregarding them. When I judge you on what I have witnessed of your behavior...”
Amalie’s gaze slid for a moment to Eva’s table before returning to Margaret. “I see nothing to distrust and much to admire.”
“...Oh.” Margaret blinked, too flustered to summon up any better response.
Fortunately, another waitress arrived in time to distract them both, carrying a tray that wafted sweetness through the air. The tea, alas, was every bit as disappointing as Margaret had expected, but the apple strudel was formed of mouthwateringly delicate layers of pastry enclosing warm, cinnamon-flavored apple delights, with thick cream piled on the side of the plate in lush accompaniment.
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes for a moment to simply savor the sensation as she swallowed her first bite. “Now, this, I do enjoy.”
“As opposed to grand society balls and private meetings with royalty?” the lorelei asked dryly.
“Oh, this is infinitely better.” Margaret took a brief sip of her tea, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and consoled herself with another bite of strudel, this time dragging her laden fork through the decadent cream before lifting the combined treat to her mouth. The taste was so exquisite, she could barely hold back a moan more appropriate for the privacy of her marital bed; afterwards, she said with heartfelt sincerity, “I must thank you for suggesting this konditorei. I believe I’ll remember this taste even when I can’t eat such food any longer!”
Amalie frowned. “Do you plan to give up pastries entirely as you age? If you’re concerned about your figure...”
“Oh, no,” Margaret said, “but they will be a necessary sacrifice when I make my own transition.” When Amalie’s frown of confusion only deepened, Margaret waved her fork in a prompting manner. “I do plan to join my husband in his condition at some point, not too many years from now.”
“His...?”
“Vampirism,” she said briskly. “Had you not realized?”
“Oh. Oh!” The lorelei gave a quick glance over her shoulders towards the closest table before leaning closer and dropping her voice. “You speak of such things openly.”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?” Margaret shrugged, not bothering to lower her own voice. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Amalie’s lips twisted as she lowered her gaze to her small cup of dark coffee. Her own strudel sat, still untouched, on the plate beside it. “Not many here would agree with you.”
Margaret sighed. “Ignorance does generally lead to fear. That’s why my work is so important.”
“May I ask,” said Amalie, “what is the work you ordinarily do when you’ve not been summoned to Imperial ballrooms?”
“Oh!” Margaret let out a wistful sigh at the mere thought of it. “I study. My husband and I have found the most wonderfully secluded inn in the Black Forest, situated in the ideal position to meet any number of the local supernaturals. I am learning so much every day we spend there—and we’re both working with the inn’s owner and permanent residents to create a private library within it for supernatural knowledge, only to be shared with trusted visitors.”
“A library of the supernatural?” The lorelei gave a slow, wondering shake of her head. “What an extraordinary idea.”
“But hardly an original one.” Margaret forced herself to take a sip of disappointing tea, just enough to wet her throat, before continuing. “The college I attended in England had a marvelous library of the supernatural, and of course, the Imperial court library here in Vienna is meant to be full of wonders.”
