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Authors: Louise Marley

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BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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Chiara,
he reminded himself.
That's Chiara, jeans, sweater, a doctor. Not Clara.
But in that odd, disorienting way that he had come to recognize, it seemed just as likely he had watched Clara descend the stairs. It seemed perfectly possible that when he woke again May sunshine would be streaming in his window and Clara Schumann would be composing at the fortepiano in the reception room, the wide skirts of her dress spilling over the bench, an ink bottle and a pile of fresh nibs close to her hand. He would wake and hear the strains of ten-year-old Clara's polonaise trickling up the stairs.
He turned on his side, and then turned again, tangling in the silly tourist-attraction sheets. It was a long time before he fell into an uncertain slumber.
11
Frederica clung to Hannes's arm as they walked around the little garden, stopping here and there to gaze down into the valley, or to wave at someone climbing up the narrow street. The morning had dawned full of clouds that shadowed the hills and striped the garden with shadows, but it was still deliciously warm, especially in the layers of clothes she had to wear. Frederica had managed the chemise, the lace-edged drawers with their pleated legs and rather mystifying open construction, the corset, the crinoline that held the skirts out. It was a bit hard to remember which went over what, but she thought she had it right. Had she known what she was going to do—that is, what was going to happen—she would have studied the clothes of the day along with the music!
She had chosen a different dress today, one of a purple so dark it was nearly black, with a violet underskirt. There were no bright colors at all among the four dresses in Clara's wardrobe, but this one suited her coloring, and set off the creamy pallor of her throat.
It was hard to believe she had been here just two days, in real time. Everything was changed. She was living the sort of life she had dreamed of. She felt like a butterfly that had emerged from its chrysalis, completed its metamorphosis in one swift, splendid step.
She imagined her mother and father rushing to Italy, bending over the still, pitiful form of that plain girl. She indulged in a brief twinge of sympathy for them, but it was easy to suppress it. They had their own lives, after all. Her mother had her bridge and her tennis. Her father had his business, and his boards. They would have to let her go.
It was what parents did, in the end, wasn't it? One way or another, parents had to allow their children to go forward with their own lives. It was the thing Friedrich Wieck had failed to do with his daughter Clara, and they had suffered years of estrangement because of it. He had molded her, controlled her, managed every aspect of her life. He had even written in her personal diary, put down the things he wanted posterity to remember about his gifted daughter. He had done everything he could to shape her into the creature he wanted her to be, and yet, in the end, Clara had left him, broken with him so she could marry Robert and live her own life. It was the natural way of things.
No child in the world had ever taken the path she was on, of course, but that was her special gift. How could she regret it?
Hannes paused at the gate to gaze out over the twelve houses nestled so snugly into the hillside. The scent of bread baking overlay the perfume of roses, an enchanting blend that made Frederica's nose twitch and her mouth water. Daringly, she put her hand on the iron latch and lifted it.
Hannes said, “Do you think we have time for a stroll before breakfast?”
“Why don't you go and see, Hannes? Ask Nuncia, and I will wait for you here.”
“You're sure you're all right?”
She smiled up at him, tilting her head. She loved the way he looked at her, his eyes resting on her face as if he would never tire of seeing it. All her life she had seen men's glances skitter away from her. It hurt. She had never grown used to it.
This was far, far better—and it was Brahms bending his admiring glance upon her, holding her arm as if he couldn't bear to release her. It was a dream come true. Of course, she had been forced to make it happen. There had been no magic wand causing everything to fall into place, no innocent girl turned into a sparkling princess, but that didn't matter now. He was here beside her, and that was all she cared about. She was not a princess, but perhaps being Clara Schumann was even better.
She patted his arm, liking the way her white fingers looked against the dark wool of his coat. “I'm quite sure, dearest,” she murmured. “I feel perfectly well.”
She waited, her hand on the cool iron of the garden gate, until his tall figure disappeared through the French windows into the
salotto
. When she was sure he had gone into the kitchen, she pushed the gate open and put one slippered foot outside the garden.
She knew where the zone ended. She could see the place just ahead, perhaps three steps from where she stood, the place where she had first arrived, where she took her first look at Casa Agosto and the wonders of 1861. She held her lace handkerchief in one hand, picked up her long skirts with the other, and moved forward.
They had impressed this upon her in her preparation for remote research. They had explained the physics that made it work. She hadn't paid much attention to the science, but she understood its effect.
Except that everything was different now. She had taken a daring step, changed the rules. It only remained to see how much power she had acquired.
She took a step, then two, and paused. She felt steady, calm. Stable. She took a third step. The same.
She put out her foot for the fourth step, but she did it gingerly, as if she were dipping her toes into the sea to test the temperature. Warily, she set that foot on the ground.
She felt it. It was a little bit like an electrical current, too faint to sting, but strong enough to make her toes and heel tingle. She kept her breath even, her eyes fixed on the chestnut grove for which Castagno was named. She put her weight on the foot, and brought the other to rest beside it.
The tingling ran up through her ankles and her thighs, her shoulders. It ran down her arms, and out through the tips of her fingers. Then it was gone. As if it had never been, the sensation passed.
The sense of triumph that flowed through her was nearly as profound as the jolt of the pulse she had felt earlier. She could do this. She could, in fact, do anything she wanted to do.
The sense of freedom made her giddy with excitement. She looked down toward the town of San Felice, and off over the green hills, where the medieval city of Pistoia waited and, beyond that, Pisa. She could go to those places, see their historic buildings. She could travel with Hannes to Hamburg.
She spun to face the house, intoxicated by that thought. She could go to Hamburg with Hannes. She gazed at Casa Agosto, lying so quietly in its little square of garden. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips, struck with wonder at the possibilities. She turned the other way, daring another step, feeling nothing amiss. She gazed hungrily down at the road that led to San Felice, on to Pistoia, surely straight to the train station, where trains could carry her anywhere she wanted to go. Hamburg . . . but she had to consider these things. To think. There would be consequences. . . .
She turned again, in a swirl of skirts, and saw Hannes standing in the French windows watching her. He said, “What are you doing, Clara?”
She gave a light laugh, and tripped easily back through the gate, closing it behind her. “Looking out into the chestnut grove,” she said. “One day, perhaps, we could have a picnic!”
She hurried to him, and took his arm, holding it close to her, pressing her breast against it. His arm tensed, and then, as if he was making an effort, it relaxed again. She smiled up at him. “Aren't you hungry, Hannes? I'm
starved!
”
She thought perhaps his smile was a bit restrained, but he said, “Yes, I'm hungry, too. Come, Nuncia is ready.”
“Oh, good. After breakfast, I must write a letter, and have it ready when Claudio comes.”
“Letter to whom, Clara?”
“To the children. Just to say I miss them.”
He smiled approval of this, and the slight tension in his face relaxed. He took her hand and tucked it under his elbow as they turned toward the kitchen.
 
Despite the espresso he had drunk, Kristian fell asleep almost at once, the heavy sort of sleep that comes at the wrong hour of the night, that brings formless dreams and restless wakings. The ringing of his cell phone jarred him out of one of those strange dreams. He sat up, groping for his jeans to dig the phone out of the pocket. He glanced at the display. “Rik! Where've you been? I've been worried about you.”
Erika laughed. “Kris, don't be silly! I'm right here.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course. Everything's fine. How about you?”
“I'm okay.”
“Did you retrieve her for them?”
“No. I—it's really weird here, Rik. It's not what I expected. Strange things.”
“What's weird? Did you go to 1861?”
“Yeah—three times. And I need to go again.” He gave her a brief sketch of the situation, then added, “Frederica Bannister's parents are here. They showed up yesterday.”
She made a dismissive noise. “I don't know why they weren't there the moment she didn't wake up.”
“Well, the Foundation—I think they were trying to put off telling them.”
“Cover it up, you mean.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“How are they keeping it out of the news, Kris? I haven't heard a thing here. Those protesters are still picketing in Chicago, but mostly people are just laughing at them.”
“Unless someone lets something slip, I guess no one's asking questions. We're pretty far out in the country here, and I'm sure everybody on the staff signed a contract to keep quiet. The PA and the transfer tech are both from Chicago, and they want to keep their jobs. They're not going to talk.”
“Who else is there? Sounds like a lot of people.”
“Just the two from Chicago, the Bannisters—and this Italian doctor. Chiara Belfiore.” He described Chiara to her. “She's pretty young to be a doctor, but she knows her stuff.”
“She sounds nice,” Erika said, with a hopeful tone in her voice.
“She is.” There was a little pause. He said, “I suppose I should go down and see what's happening.”
“Wait; first tell me what it's like—in 1861, I mean. Did you see him?”
“Oh, yes,” he said fervently. “I did see him. It's—that part is everything I'd always hoped for. You can't imagine how
real
it all is!”
“When you get back, I want to hear every detail.”
“You will.”
He was about to say good-bye, but Erika said, “Kris, wait—why did you go back three times? What about time lag?”
“I feel fine.”
Mostly.
“Listen, Rik. She's there. She doesn't want to come back.”
“She doesn't
want
to?”
“I told you it was weird.” He heard her draw breath to ask another question, but he forestalled her. “Are you doing okay? Has Dee Dee been there?”
“I'm fine; I told you, Kris. I'm not the one messing around with time travel.”
“But Dee Dee—”
“Will you stop trying to be my mother?”
“I'm not!”
“You are. Don't.”
He bit back another retort. There was too much distance between them to be arguing.
She chuckled. “Let's talk in a couple of days. Be careful, Kris.”
“Yeah. I will.”
“Oh, Kris—one more thing. Do you remember the little
Lied
you played for Catherine's first recital, the encore? It might have been a poem about a swing—I don't know, I have this image in my mind of a child on a swing, but it might just be random. It would be perfect for one of my students. I've racked my brain, and I can't come up with it.”
“Sure, it was—” Kristian broke off, pressing his hand to his forehead. “Damn, what
was
it? I should know this.”
“You're probably tired right now. Do you have a program around here somewhere?”
“It was the encore. It won't be on the program.”
“Was it Clara Schumann? You were preparing your dissertation topic then.”
“It probably was. I wish I could—” He should have been able to recall it. It crossed his mind that time lag could have erased the title from his mind, but he didn't dare mention that. “Can't come up with it. Sorry, Rik, I'll have to think.”
“Don't worry about it now. Good luck.”
“Thanks. I'll talk to you soon.” When Kristian broke the connection, he stood for a moment, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. It made no sense that he couldn't remember the song. Maybe he really was time-lagged and couldn't tell the difference.
He sighed, and tossed his cell phone onto the jumble of sheets and blankets. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He really did feel pretty good, he thought. Chiara had been right. He had just needed some sleep.
He showered, washed his hair, brushed his teeth, and had a quick shave. When he was done, he dug through his duffel for a clean shirt. He pulled on his jeans, thinking if this went on much longer he should really find a laundry somewhere.
He went down the stairs and directly into the transfer room. Chiara was sitting, as she had promised, beside Frederica's cot. Frederica had not moved an inch that he could see. He crossed the room, and pulled up a chair. “Good morning,” he said.
BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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