1635: Music and Murder

By

David Carrico

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

eISBN: 978-1-62579-214-3

Copyright © 2013 by David Carrico

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

Electronic version by Baen Books

Publication History

Earlier versions of the stories in this volume appeared as follows:

The Sound of Music in Grantville Gazette volume 3

Heavy Metal Music in Grantville Gazette volume 4

Suite for Four Hands in Grantville Gazette volume 5

None So Blind in Grantville Gazette volume 10

Sonata in Grantville Gazette volumes 15, 16, 17, and 18

Hallelujah in Grantville Gazette volumes 19 and 20

Motifs in Grantville Gazette volume 21

Elegy in Grantville Gazette volume 22

(All of the above are available at http://grantvillegazette.com/)

The following stories also appeared in Grantville Gazette and Ring of Fire anthologies edited by Eric Flint and published by Baen Books:

The Sound of Music in Grantville Gazette III

Heavy Metal Music in Grantville Gazette IV

None So Blind in Grantville Gazette V

Suite for Four Hands in Grantville Gazette VI

Command Performance in Ring of Fire II

The Sound of Sweet Strings in Ring of Fire III

David can be found on the internet at http://davidcarricofiction.com/

Acknowledgements

To my wife Ruth, who really didn't know what she was getting into when she married me. I mean, who'd want to marry a writer?

And with great thanks to Eric Flint, for letting me (and so many others) play in his sandbox.

MUSIC

Introduction

Imagine this:

You’re walking down a hallway, and you hear very loud heavy metal music pouring out of a door that’s just ahead of you. When you get to the door, you peer around the doorframe and see Johann Sebastian Bach duct-taped to a chair, planted in front of a pair of very large stereo speakers*, long white wig flapping in the breeze from the speakers as he’s sonically force-fed Metallica at 110 decibels at a range of three feet.

That vision was the initial stimulus for the stories in this volume. It dropped into my mind when I closed the covers of the hard copy edition of the first Grantville Gazette and idly wondered about what changes music might go through as a result of the Ring of Fire.

Three hundred and sixty-nine years of musical development and changes get dropped in the lap of the musicians of 1631 all at once: classical, gospel, jazz, blues, country, folk, rock, blue-grass, rap, hip-hop . . . You name it, it came back with Grantville.

These stories are about how a handful of those down-time musicians reacted.

Enjoy.

*JBL L200’s, to be specific.

The Sound of Music

Franz Sylwester, one-time violinist in the chapel of the archbishop of Mainz

To Friedrich Braun, journeyman instrument crafter for Master Hans Riebeck, in Mainz

On the nineteenth day of January in the year of our Lord 1633

Greetings, my friend,

I am sure by now that you have despaired of hearing from your prodigal, but I promised you that when I found a place I would write to you. By the grace of God I now have that place, and so I keep my word.

Before I proceed further, I must confess to you. I am well aware that I was somewhat less than gracious to you and Anna in those dark days after that snake Heydrich smashed my hand. Please mark down the things that I said then to the physical pain of my wound and to the spiritual pain of knowing that I could never play again.

The pen paused as images flashed through his mind: sitting in the tavern that night, arguing with Rupert Heydrich as to who was the better player, goading Rupert and smiling as the rising choleric tide stained the other man's face—the sudden eruption of the fight behind him, being caught in the brawl and knocked to the floor—scrambling to escape the flow of the struggle—the sudden panic as someone stepped on his arm and pinned it to the floor—the explosion of agony as the boot heel smashed into his left hand, and again, and again, and again—the serpent's voice hissing in his ear, taunting him as he curled sobbing around his wounded hand.

"Was there no investigation, no judgment made?" she murmured in his ear.

"No," he said, "it happened in the middle of the brawl, and no one would come forward to support my story."

There was a pause, then came, "Do you miss it?"

"I will always miss it," he said quietly, "but as my friend Isaac says, 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.' Where God has taken one gift away, he has given several in return."

I am well aware that I am alive solely because of Anna's tending me during the fever, keeping the wound rot from claiming me. I am also well aware that I am alive twice over because of the gift of silver that you and Master Hans added to the pittance the Kappellmeister gave me when he turned me out. That gift kept body and soul together until I arrived at my current place.

I am also very ashamed of my churlish words to you when I shook the dust of Mainz from my feet as I set out on my wanderjahr.

Another pause, another flood of memories: burning with fever and biting his lip bloody to keep from crying out as Anna tended his broken hand; the weak-chinned, slovenly Kappellmeister confronting him in his room—"I have no room for a one-handed violinist. You must leave these quarters by the end of the week. Here are your final wages."—the hand slamming down on the table, and lifting to reveal two silver pieces and eight coppers—Heydrich smirking in the background; bickering with his friends as they tried to restrain him from leaving, finally shaking their hands off his arms and snarling, "I will not stay in the same place as Heydrich, and if you loved me, you would not either! If you will stay, then stay, but leave me go!"

"A little rude, were you?" brought him back to the present.

"Aye . . . and with no cause, for they loved me well. I only hope they still do."

I had not traveled many days until I had repented of them, and I am heartily glad to now apologize and ask your forgiveness.

I had no destination in mind when I left you, and so I drifted aimlessly from place to place. I quickly learned that just as there is no future for a one-handed violinist, there is actually little that a one-handed man can do to earn his bread. No Adel or wealthy burgher will hire a man to tutor his children who was crippled in a tavern brawl. The clerks we used to patronize need two working hands. The mercenary companies will not take a one-handed man. Even the common laborers we used to sneer at require two strong hands to wield mattock and spade.

I took up with a couple of traveling players for a few days, who advised me strongly not to sing, as my voice would make even a crow sound melodious! I seem to remember Anna uttering a similar sentiment once, although she was smiling when she said it. They were not.

They also lifted my ignorance and lowered my arrogance when I attempted to become a drummer by showing me that that art is more complex than it looks—and that even a novice drummer requires two good hands to learn his skills.

As each day passed in succession, the Lord taught me humility, until finally, after weeks of such tutoring I left my pride, my arrogance, lying in the dust of the road. Then it was that the Lord opened a door for me. I was sitting in a low tavern near a crossroads, not even in a town or village, nursing the only beer I could afford to buy. I was trying to stave off the moment when I would go out into the night to find a haystack or barn to sleep in, when I heard a peddler wishing that he could tell his sister in Hamburg that he was well, so she would not worry so. A conversation ensued, with the result that I wrote a letter for him and he bought me another flagon of beer and gave me a copper besides. As days passed, I served as scribe to more people who were unable to write well—soldiers, peddlers, laborers—anyone who could buy the paper and ink and would give me a coin or two to put their words into a form that could cross the miles. And I was glad to do so.

It is perhaps an irony that these people that I used to ridicule turned out to be mostly good folk—rough around the edges, often; more than a little crude, absolutely; perhaps not strictly honest by the prince-bishop's laws, but mostly honorable by their lights. And even the biggest rogue that I met was likeable. I certainly never met anyone who compared to Heydrich for malice.

The coins I earned as a scribe eked out the silver you had given me as I drifted south and west through Thuringia, but the work was erratic and my resources kept dwindling. When I arrived at Grantville, there were few coins in my pocket.

I had heard rumors of Grantville while I was on the road, but I passed them off as typical gossip exaggerations. You have probably heard the same rumors, and knowing you, you are even more skeptical than I was. Believe them. To paraphrase the closing words of The Gospel of Saint John, there are not enough books in the world to contain the wonders of the place.

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

"Perhaps." He smiled, still focused on the paper. "Friedrich will shake his head at how credulous I have become, and Anna will be scandalized at the sacrilege."

The guards on the approaches to the town decided I was harmless and let me pass. My English was less practiced than I remembered, or perhaps their dialect was different, but I still understood when they directed me to the grandest tavern I have ever seen, perhaps the grandest the world has ever seen, the Thuringen Gardens. It is huge, and bustles both night and day. It was near sunset when I went there, hoping to find scribal work. I was very hungry, so the first thing I did was order the cheapest food they had. They brought me something called a sandwich, which turned out to be a slab of ham and a slab of cheese between two slices of bread, spiced to the point of burning with ground mustard sauce. A curious thing, but one you get used to so quickly that within moments it seemed natural to have a mug in one hand and this sandwich in the other, even my crippled claw, alternating bites and sips.

After I finished eating the fine meal, which had cost most of my remaining coins, I looked around for those whom I could approach for scribing work. The more I looked, the more my heart dropped in my chest, for nowhere did I see those who would at times use my services. Everyone in sight was clean and well dressed, well fed and content. As the serving maid went by I asked her if there was another tavern in town, one for the common laborers. She laughed and said that this bunch was as common as they came. It was most odd, Friedrich, that she was clad in trousers in public.

I knew nothing of Grantville then, but at that moment I wondered what I had wandered into. If, as it seemed, there were no poor, no one that would hire my scribing, how would I feed myself? In the depths of my depression, I nursed my beer, wondering what I would do now, when suddenly a loud voice penetrated my head. And I do mean penetrated.

Memory rolled as the pen recorded.

"All right, it's Saturday night here at the Gardens, and tonight we have some entertainment. Preeeee-senting the world's greatest rock-and-roll, blues, and country-and-western band, give it up for Mountaintop!"

The man who had been talking stepped away from the tall skinny pole with the knob at the top, and another man bearing a most outlandish-looking device stepped up to it and said, "Thanks for the intro. Of course, we're the ONLY rock-and-roll, blues, and country-and-western band in the world. Anyway, we're going to kick it off tonight with a song made popular by Elton John."

There were five young men on this platform, surrounded by cabinets and very strange devices. Three of them were holding things that in some very faint way could be likened to lutes or Spanish guitarras, and they were gyrating and gesturing with them. One of them was pounding on a strange flat cabinet with his hands. The last one was sitting surrounded by a group of drums of different sizes and Turkish cymbals on poles, beating them all rapidly with sticks.

Friedrich, do you remember when we sat in the tavern and listened to that Swiss traveler talk about being in the Alps and seeing an avalanche pour down a mountainside toward him? That is what I felt like. They produced the most awful cacophony I have ever heard, a veritable avalanche of sound. Even now I hesitate to call it music.

If I concentrated, I could hear individual musical notes and tones, but it sounded like no music I had ever heard. It was definitely polyphony—there were more than one voice present—but there was no contrapuntal flow, no interweaving of parts. I could hear moments of tertiary harmony, but they were overwhelmed by seconds, fourths and sevenths. It was harsh, it was discordant, it seemed like what an anthem from the infernal regions would sound like.

"Mmmph!"

"What are you laughing at?" he asked.

"Rock and roll, the music from hell. Remind me to explain that to you later."

Then one of the men started trying to sing, but it seemed to me that he was more shouting. The only thing I could understand was "Saturday night's all right for fighting." I thought surely I misunderstood, that they would not be inciting a riot.

"I don't know . . . with those boys, that's entirely possible."

"Hush."

This went on for what seemed like eternity, but I have been assured was less than four minutes. It was more than loud. It was so rhythmic and percussive it was like some obscene martial music. I felt it physically as much as I heard it.

Remember your worst morning after a night spent drinking. Remember how your head felt. Now, double that feeling. Double it again. That approaches how I felt—as if my entire being was throbbing with the pulse of the universe. And then suddenly—blessed stillness—for a moment, anyway, until everyone else in the tavern stood to their feet and began clapping and yelling and cheering and whistling.

I sat stunned. Shocked. Appalled. Soon the crowd quieted and the men began making noise again. Unable to move, I listened to several more bouts of chaos. Eventually, I made the astounding discovery I could become used to even this.

At last they ceased, and began moving their cabinets and drums and cymbals from the platform. The tavern returned to tavernish sounds—many conversations, some laughter, but no chaos. I began to think again about trying to find people for whom I could scribe, but before I could stir, a young woman sat down across the table from me.

"Finally, we're getting to the good stuff."

"And we will get done with it sooner if you will quit interrupting me."

Memory began to scroll again.

"Hey, are you all right?" Blue eyes stared at him in concern. He blinked several times, opened and closed his mouth without speaking, again, and finally said, "I think so."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," stronger this time.

"Okay, you just looked pretty dazed for a while there."

"I . . . yes, I was." Pause. "What was that?"

She smiled, and said "What was what?"

"The . . . what those men . . . that noise."

"Oh, you mean the rock music?

"Music?" Heads turned around them at the volume of that word.

"You're new here, aren't you?" Confused, he nodded. "Yes, it is music. You know about where we're from?" Another nod. "It's very popular music from our time . . . up-time, we call it now."

"If that is what music will become, may God spare me from it."

She chuckled, then said, "With that attitude, you must be a musician. Do you sing or play?"

Without thinking, he said, "Violin," then closed his eyes in pain.

"Can I see it? Your violin?"

Eyes still closed, he raised his crippled hand from his lap and laid it on the table.

"Oh, my God," he heard her say softly. Steeling himself, he opened his eyes, expecting to see horror and pity, and was almost unmanned when he saw an incredible empathy—she not only knew his pain, she shared it with him. "It looks recent. Some kind of accident?"

"No. A jealous rival."

The anger that flared in her face surprised him. Eyes narrowed to mere slits, she hissed, "That's just evil."

He shrugged. "I cannot disagree, but it is done."

"No wonder you looked so lost when you walked in. You've lost your cornerstone, haven't you?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he said slowly, then gave a small smile, "but I believe I must admit to a kinship with Job. I rely on the Lord, but I do have some questions I would like to ask Him." She laughed, and he was lost in the silver skirling of her voice.

"I'm Marla Linder. What's your name, wandering musician?"

"Franz. Franz Sylwester, from Mainz." He recovered enough of his manners to stand and give her a bow, hand over heart.

"Sit down, sit down." She looked at him closely, and said, "Mainz. Are you Catholic?"

"Well, enough so that I could play in the bishop's chapel. But my best friends are Lutheran, albeit quietly so in Mainz."

She quirked her mouth a little, and said, "From the looks of you, you haven't had much luck lately, have you?"

"No. A one-handed musician has no . . . no means to support himself."

"Have you thought about learning something else?" She interrupted him as he started to reply, "I mean, learning to play something one-handed, like a trumpet?"

"The thought, yes, but . . . there is something to violin, something about shaping the music . . . molding it . . . that trumpeters cannot do, that only strings can do. If I cannot do that . . . " He shrugged.

"Hmm," she said, "I think I know what you mean, but you might be surprised." Someone called her name and beckoned toward her from the platform. "My turn. I have an idea for you. Wait here and we'll talk again after I'm done."

Her name was Marla. She talked with me for a short time, and then she went to the platform and sat down behind one of the flat cabinets. I steeled myself for more discord and chaos, and was surprised when a much more harmonious sound was heard. She sang several songs in something like a ballad style. They were nothing like our songs: tempi were very loose and meters seemed to meld from one to another smoothly; harmonies were still dissonant, albeit not nearly so much as "the world's greatest rock-and-roll, blues and country and western band." Not at all structured like anything I had ever heard before, yet somehow intriguing.

Some of the songs were pleasing, like the lullaby she sang to a sweet baby named James. Others were disturbing, like the one where she was imploring someone about killing her softly with a song. The last song had me wondering what language she was singing in, there were so many words in it that sounded like English yet made no sense. Even the title was confusing: "I dig rock and roll music," yet it had not one mention of a shovel in it at all.

In some strange way, the cabinet she sat behind was some kind of instrument, but it could not have been because it was so flat and narrow that there simply was not room for any kind of works within it. Nonetheless, it produced a most unusual sound. In timbre it was somewhat bell-like, perhaps like bells struck with soft mallets. That does not do it justice; suffice it to say that it was a sound I have never heard before.

I took some comfort in the fact that if the Kappellmeister had been present he would have been gibbering; partly over the strangeness of what was being called music, and partly over a woman singing unaccompanied, albeit only in a tavern. In fact, that thought quite warmed my heart, and I was smiling when Marla returned to my table, claimed me and led me out into the evening.

Friedrich, she found me shelter, and a place to work to earn my keep. But oh so much more importantly, she took me to people who showed me a new world, a world of music that I thought I had been barred from. First she took me to the school. It is not a gymnasium—they call it a High School, and all the children of the residents attend and learn arts and sciences. There is a professor there, a professor of music. Herr Wendell is a master in command of his art. He teaches these students, these youths, to play music, and to play it with passion. These youth, they play all manner of reeds and horns and drums. Everyone calls them a band. (They are not, however, to be mistaken for the "rock-and-roll" band.) Except that sometimes Master Wendell calls them a symphonic wind ensemble. He does not lead from a clavier, Friedrich. Instead, he stands on a platform in their midst, and by his gestures he shapes them as a potter shapes the clay. He was the one who showed me how our polyphony is changing slowly even now to a new style of music he called homophony, and began teaching me how to understand its forms.

Friedrich, you will not believe what they can do, the flutes and reeds and horns they have! Especially the horns! They have finely made sackbuts—except they call them trombones, which I find to be an odd name. And they have trumpets and other horns of all sizes, all made with great artifice with an innovation called valves that allow them to play diatonic tones in all registers. They can even play chromatic tones in all registers! They are incredible! But most astounding of all is what they use in place of the harpsichord. Oh, Friedrich, there is an instrument called a piano, that is to a clavier what the finest flute is to the crudest willow whistle! All of this Master Wendell revealed to me over several evenings.

Marla also introduced me to her friend, Herr Ingram Bledsoe, a maker of instruments, who makes some small instruments; some, as he says, "from scratch," meaning they are crafted totally by himself, and some from "kits". This is another changed word in the Grantville dialect of English that Herr Bledsoe had to explain to me. His "kits" are not baby foxes. He showed me boxes of instrument parts that had already been cut out from the wood and metal, and explained that he was able to buy these from other people and then assemble them into the instruments himself. He had several harp "kits", and some guitarras also. It seems to me that using these "kits" would rob you of the pleasure of searching out and selecting the wood, and bringing out of it the very shape you wanted. In their old world, however, it seems that the ability to accomplish things quickly was important, and there is no doubt that putting together the parts that someone else has crafted would quickly give you a finished instrument.

He also repairs many of the instruments they brought from the future.

This next part is for Anna. I was in Herr Bledsoe's workshop one day when I made the mistake of saying that women had no strength for music.

Memory again.

Marla looked at him, eyes narrowed, and said quietly, "Is that so?"

He knew her well enough now to recognize the warning signs, and said, "Well, so my masters taught me."

"Your masters were fools, but I don't expect you'll take my word for it. Tomorrow is the town Christmas Party. There will be a concert in the Methodist church. You be there," and she turned and stalked out. He turned and looked at Ingram. "Did I say something wrong?"

Ingram just laughed, and said, "Yep, you did. I'd be there tomorrow, if I were you."

Knowing what was good for him, he went to the concert. Once again, Grantville shocked him, and he spent most of the concert in a daze. First of all, over half of the choir of almost sixty people was women. And Marla was among them. Second, the player at the piano was another woman. Third, they were good. The women's voices had a range and a power and a timbre that the boys' voices he was used to hearing on soprano and alto simply could not possess. And the pianist was extremely accomplished, demonstrating to him the power of that instrument as well.

There came a point where Marla stepped out from the choir, and nodded to the pianist, who began a quiet introduction. The epiphany came when Marla began to sing.

"Ave, Maria . . . "

As she sang that beautiful melody, he was transported to another realm, lifting on the effortless soaring of what seemed to be the voice of a very angel from God. He closed his eyes, drinking in the splendor with his ears, seeming to rise out of his body while she sang. When the beautiful song came to a close, he was the first one on his feet, clapping with all his might, tears pouring down his face.

Anna, you were right all along. Women can be musicians, professional musicians, and can be just as good as any man. Marla is the proof of it. I grovel at your feet, as I groveled abjectly at hers after the concert.

Friedrich, there is more knowledge of music in Grantville than there is in all the courts and chapels of Europe combined! Knowledge of our music and its past and what music had grown into in their time. Master Wendell and Marla have shown me that within our generation the center of music moved north from Italy to Germany, and that Germany remained the center of the greatest music for almost two hundred years. They have devices that play music with no musicians (they say it is not magic, just superior mechanical arts), and I have heard the music of Bach, Brahms, Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, and so many others. I know those names mean nothing to you now, but they are giants, Friedrich, giants. There is so much here, so much to feed on. But it rests on such a slender reed.

One last memory unrolled. Marla turned off the device that had just finished playing Die Kunst der Fuge by Johann Sebastian Bach, and waited with Marcus Wendell while he returned from the heights that the order, structure and innovation of the masterwork had transported him to.

"I seem to spend much time crying around you," he muttered, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. "Very unmanly."

She shook her head, and said quietly, "To me it's a mark of how great a heart you have for music, that you can be so touched by the greatest."

"This Bach, this master of contrapuntal art, he was born when?"

"He was . . . will be . . . that is, 1685, I think. He's the beginning of the German era of great musicians."

He sat with brow furrowed, thinking intently, and finally looked up. "Marla, this butterfly effect you explained to me . . . how because you exist here, now, that ripples of change have begun and that the future you knew will never happen, people will never be born . . . "

"Yes?"

"Is that true of Johann Sebastian Bach?"

Sudden sucking of air, twin expressions of horror on Marla's and Marcus's faces, twin exclamations of "Ohmigawd! I never thought of that!"

Friedrich, we need you. We need you and Leopold Gruenwald and Thomas Schwarzberg to join us here, you three and as many of the others as you can convince to come. For you, Herr Bledsoe will teach you of how pianos are made, and how to repair and maintain them, and of guitars. For Leopold, Master Wendell will show him all the wind instruments that he has, horns of all shapes and sizes, flutes and reeds, and new forms such as the saxophones. We desperately need Thomas to help copy down all the music that is available on their devices before they wear out. We must preserve and spread our German heritage, our legacy that has come from a future that will never be. And last but not least, bring Anna, so that she can learn from Marla and the others and become the musician she so wants to be.

Oh, come, Friedrich! Come for the joy of it, come to become the renowned master the Lord means you to be, come because I love you and need you. Send word as soon as you can.

Franz set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. Marla wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, and said, "Will they come?"

"Oh, yes. Friedrich at least will come, and Leopold should. Once Thomas learns of all the new music he can learn, no one will be able to hold him back. If they come, others will come with them or follow soon after. And of them all, Thomas is probably the one we need most. He can notate any music that he hears, so he is the solution to preserving so much of what you have on the CDs and . . . records." He tilted his head up and she leaned down to kiss him. "Yes, they will come, and together we will learn and save your music." Remembering the "movie" she had shown him the day before, he grinned and said, "And the Grantville hills will be alive with the sound of music."

Heavy Metal Music
or
Revolution in Three Flats

Grantville, March, 1633

Franz hissed in pain as his crippled hand was flexed, twisted and pulled by Dr. Nichols' strong fingers. Sweat beaded his forehead as he endured the testing manipulation. He sighed in relief when the doctor finally released it.

"Sorry," Dr. Nichols said. "I know that hurt, but I had to see what the condition was." He made some notes in a folder, then looked up. "Well, as the old joke goes, I have bad news and good news. Which do you want first?"

Franz swallowed as Marla took his claw in both her hands. "The bad first, if you please," he replied.

Dr. Nichols looked at them both seriously. "I can't help you surgically. I'm sorry. The damage is severe, but I probably could have saved it if I could have seen it right after it happened. Maybe not, with the knuckles smashed in the last two fingers, but we would have had a good chance. Now . . . Frankly, it healed wrong. I'm not faulting those who tended you—fact is, they did as good a job as any down-timer could have done."

He glanced down at his notes, then back up, and continued, "I have—had, rather—a good friend back up-time who could have fixed it, even now, but he was a fully trained specialized orthopedic surgeon with all the appropriate tools and technology at his fingertips. All modesty aside, I'm a good surgeon, but orthopedics, especially with the small bones like in the hand, requires not only the training but the tools, and I don't have either one. Even if I did, I'm not sure I could justify expending them for what is, to be honest, a relatively minor injury. Our resources are so limited right now that they have to be reserved for truly major problems."

Franz looked down at where Marla's hands clasped tightly around the hand in question, sighed, and said, "I understand."

He raised his eyes back up to look into the doctor's, and a small quirky smile played around his mouth. "I truly did not believe you could do anything, but Marla insisted we come to you. Perhaps in my heart of hearts I wanted to believe that you Grantvillers could work just one more miracle"—he chuckled—"as if enough miracles have not been worked on my behalf already." He smiled at Marla, and his good hand rested on top of hers.

"Well, it is sorry I am that we have wasted your time, Herr Doctor." Franz started to stand up.

"Just a minute, young man. I said I had good news also. Don't you want to hear that?"

Marla pulled him back down, and spoke for the first time. "What do you mean, Dr. Nichols?"

"Well, we may not be able to restore the hand to its pre-injury condition, but there are some things we can do to make it somewhat better than it is. Granted, the little finger and ring finger are total write-offs."

Marla saw his confusion, and said, "He means nothing can be done for them, Franz."

The doctor blinked at the interruption, then continued, "Er, yes, they can't be helped. Your wrist and thumb, on the other hand, seem to have totally escaped injury."

"A mark of the malice of Heydrich," Franz said quietly. "To a violinist, the left hand thumb is just a resting place for the neck of the violin. The fingers are everything."

There was a pause, then Dr. Nichols said carefully, "You're saying he not only attacked you, he knew precisely what to do to cause you the most damage."

"Precisely."

The doctor's tone was glacial. "I think Herr Heydrich would be well advised to avoid our territory. I believe I would want to have words with him if I saw him."

"You'd have to stand in line, Doc," Marla snarled. "You're a surgeon, so with your hands you might understand better than most just what this cost a musician, but even you can't understand the grief and madness this caused. I do."

A swirl of appreciation for the woman at his side filled Franz, driving out the old cold ache. The doctor's expression eased to a warm smile.

"Far be it from me to get in the way of mama lion defending her cub. I would be proud to hold your coat, young lady, and see to sweeping up the leftovers if you ever get the chance."

They all laughed, and he continued, "Getting back to your hand, your index and middle fingers are not as hopeless as they appear to be. Granted, they're very stiff right now, but the knuckles escaped injury and the broken bones, although not perfectly straight, healed well enough. What you mainly have is stiffened and inflamed muscles and tendons, with some atrophy because you didn't exercise it while it was healing. The good news is there are some things you can do to help rehabilitate it. If you'll talk to Irene Musgrove, she will describe the procedures you should follow, but basically massages with oil, alternating hot and cold soaks and some exercises with a stiff rubber ball will help bring them back. It will take a while, and I'm not going to lie to you, they won't be as good as they were before the injuries, but you can have more use out of them than you do now."

"Any improvement is more than I have, Doctor. I will do as you say."

"Good. Let Irene know if you can't find a rubber ball, and we'll see if we can requisition one from some kid's toy box." They all laughed again, and the couple stood and left on that note.

Outside the office in the evening twilight, they snugged their coats up against the chill spring breeze and walked slowly down the sidewalk together. After a block or so, Franz sighed, and said, "Well, now we know." He looked over at Marla, walking head down and hands in pockets, and saw tears coursing down her cheeks. Stopping her with his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him and gently wiped them from her face. She threw her arms about him, and began to sob convulsively.

"It's . . . not . . . fair," she said brokenly.

"Sshh, sshh," Franz murmured as his cheek rested against her hair. "The good doctor did not take anything from me except false hope. I lost my hand; I gained you and the music of Grantville. I consider it a fair trade."

"But," she said, her voice muffled against his chest, "I wanted to hear you play. It's not fair," sniff, "that you love the music so," sniff, "and can't play it now." Snuffle. Her arms tightened around him again.

Franz took her by the shoulders again and moved her out to arm's length, then lifted her chin and stared at the brimming eyes. "Marla, I have not lost the music, I have only lost the source of my sinful pride and arrogance. As long as I have you, I have the music. Now, dry your eyes, and tell me where we will find this . . . What did Dr. Nichols call it? Oh, yes, this rubber ball. And why would a child have one?"

She smiled at him, wiping her eyes, and hand in hand they walked on down the sidewalk as she explained the nature of a child's toy from up-time and why it would help him regain partial use of his hand. It being Friday evening, they turned at the corner by unspoken consent and walked toward the Gardens.

"Is anyone playing tonight?" Franz asked as they drew near.

"Not that I know of. Couple of the guys in Mountaintop are out of town, so they haven't been doing anything lately."

Franz sniffed. "That is not a bad thing."

"Oh, now, you listened to them just fine the last time they played. You even clapped a couple of times."

"Do not mistake tolerance and politeness for acceptance," he said with a deadpan expression.

"You!" She poked him in the ribs. He poked back, and they scuffled together for a few moments until they separated laughing. She grabbed his left arm with both hands and leaned against him as they walked on. After a few quiet moments, she said, "You know, Franz, I'm awfully glad you came to Grantville."

"As am I."

"No, I'm talking about more than just our friendship." They walked a few more steps before she continued. "You know, I had my life all planned out before the Ring of Fire hit. I was set to graduate in a few weeks. I knew that I wouldn't be the valedictorian or salutatorian, but I knew that I would be like number three or four in our class. I was going to college in the fall. I already had scholarship offers from University of Virginia and Belmont, and there were hints from University of North Texas that they were going to offer me a good package, too. I was going to double major in voice and piano, and with a little luck I could be the band drum major as well. I even had hopes for Eastman School of Music, although the odds were longer there. Then I was going to do the master's degree, and then the doctor's degree. I was going to be Doctor Kristen Marlena Linder by the time I was thirty, show my family and everyone in this one-horse town that I had what it took to be something other than the little girl that sang in church and at the county fair, and everyone said, 'Doesn't she sound good?' and patted me on the head or someplace else."

Their pace had picked up a little. Franz waited a few more steps, then said, "Marla?"

"Huh?"

"You are . . . steaming, I think Ingram called it."

She slowed down abruptly, sighed, and said, "You're right. I can't help it. Every time I think about what happened, I just get furious . . . with the universe, with God, with Grantville. My life got screwed up royally. Everyone's did; I know that, but my life . . . "

She stopped, rubbed her hands across her face and brushed her long hair back. "Sorry." She took his arm again, and they started walking slowly.

"I was so angry. Aunt Susan can tell you that when we found out what happened and that Mom and Dad and Paul were left up-time, after I got over the shock I wasn't fit to be around. She said I was like an old sow bear just woke up from hibernation with a bad case of PMS. It was literally months before I could talk to anyone without snarling at them, and probably over a year before I actually smiled again."

Franz placed his hand over hers. "I find that hard to believe."

"No, seriously, I can't describe what I was like without getting pretty vulgar." He snorted and she slapped his arm. "I mean it! I was awful!"

"If you say so."

"I was! And I was a long time getting over it. Aunt Susan finally talked me into going into the teacher training program. Since I have no mechanical aptitude, I get sick at the sight of blood and I can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, that was about the only thing that I could do to pay my own way in our brave new world." Her voice dripped sarcasm.

"It is a new world, at least for me."

Marla flushed, looked up at him quickly and then down again. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "That was rude."

A few more quiet steps, and she said, "Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I feel different since you came. I can talk music with you, and daydream about somehow starting a music school. I feel . . . happy."

She stopped and twirled once on the sidewalk, holding out her arms. "You are good for me, Franz Sylwester."

"You just say that because you love me," he joked.

She stopped and looked at him in all seriousness. "I do love you, Franz."

He stared back in amazement. "Are you . . . I mean . . . you mean . . . "

His head was spinning. Yes, they had kissed, and cuddled, but she had not allowed any more than that. They had joked about having a future together, he had dreamed it, but now in cold honesty he saw that he had never truly thought he had a chance at a lifetime with her, crippled and destitute as he was. Jokes and fantasies had all of a sudden become a reality, and he was totally speechless.

With a smile, she reached out and took both of his hands—whole and crippled—in hers, and said, "I love you, Franz Sylwester, I believe you love me, too, and I'm tired of waiting for you to say something about it."

He continued to stare at her, and she laughed. "Close your mouth, silly."

He did. "Well, say something."

He just looked at her, saying nothing. After a few moments, her smile faded away. "Franz?" in a small voice.

He pulled his hands from hers, and turned away, pushing his hands in his coat pockets and ducking his head. "I can't," he choked.

"Why not?"

He started to walk away.

"Franz Sylwester, you stop right there!" A sternness in her voice that he had never heard before stopped him without thought. Her steps sounded as she walked around in front of him, and he looked away.

"Franz, look at me." He did, seeing the tears trickling down her face again, and looked away again quickly. "No, look at me." He did, swallowing.

"You look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't love me, and I'll walk away. But until you do that, we're going to stand right here."

Despite her command, he looked down at his feet. "I . . . love you," he whispered.

"Then why—?" she started exasperatedly.

He snatched his left hand from his pocket and thrust it in her face. She stepped back, startled, as he snarled, "Because of this! Because I am crippled! I cannot hope for you or anyone to marry me. Your family would not allow it. I cannot support you. I cannot provide for a family, when all I can do is translate for one person here today, another person there on Thursday, or write two letters for someone next Monday. I cannot give you what you deserve, a husband sound in mind and body. I cannot protect you from the ridicule that people will heap on you for marrying a cripple! I love you more than my life, Marla, and because of that I cannot do this!"

She smiled, and said, "Oh, is that all?"

Franz was taken aback. "Is that all ? Is that not enough?"

"No," she laughed. "I was afraid there was something seriously wrong."

She took his crippled hand in both of hers, and said, "Franz, you're still wrestling with the trauma—"

He looked at her quizzically.

"Okay, you don't know that word. You're still wrestling with the damaging mental effects from when your hand was shattered. You're dealing with anger, and grief, and bitterness, and finding out that bargaining with God doesn't work, and you're not able to see some things realistically because of that. Believe me, we in Grantville know all about this, me in particular. Trust me, no one whose opinion matters considers you less than a man, less than a whole person, because of what happened to you. In fact, a lot of people, me included, admire your courage."

Courageous, him?

"And besides, Doc Nichols called me a she-lion; Aunt Susan called me a bear. What do you think I'm going to do to anyone who bad-mouths you?" She looked at him expectantly, and grinned in response as the corners of his mouth turned up.

"Franz," she continued more soberly, "we can find a way to make it work. If Grantville and Mike Stearns can remake Europe, then surely you and I can make a life together." She took his hands in hers again. "I ask you again, do you love me?"

"With all my heart," he said, his voice shaking.

"And you won't give me any more foolishness about your hand?"

"No," he told her, his voice stronger.

"Good." She hugged him and kissed his nose. "Now, it's dark and cold out, and after making me cry twice tonight you owe me a cup of coffee. Let's get to the Gardens."

They walked together hand in hand, his left in her right, contentedly. As they turned up the final walk, he said, "Marla?"

"Hmm?"

"If your name is Kristen Marlena, why do you say your name is Marla?"

She laughed. "I haven't gone by Kristen since the third grade. There was another girl in the same grade but a different class who was Kristin. Her name was spelled slightly differently, but sounded the same. She was a bully, and first she picked on me all the time saying I was stupid because I didn't spell my name like hers. Then she started calling me Kristin Junior, and trying to make me follow her orders during recess. So, I got sick of that name pretty quickly, but I didn't like Marlena either. According to Mom, Dad liked this German actress from old movies, so when they couldn't decide on a middle name for me, he suggested that one and it stuck. I told her, 'Gee, thanks.' Anyway, you remember the comics I showed you that my brother Paul used to have?"

He nodded.

"Well, at the time there was this one superhero comic book that had a strong female character in it named Marla. He started calling me that, and after he showed me the comic, I thought it was cool, so I started calling me that, too. Mom and Dad caved in pretty quickly. It took a couple of years for it to stick at school, though. I don't know how many times I got sent to the office for telling teachers, 'Call me Marla!' It wasn't until junior high that Mom was finally able to convince the teachers and principals that she wanted them to call me Marla even though that wasn't what was on my birth certificate. Mom was cool like that. And ironically enough, the cause of it all moved away from Grantville after fourth grade. I could have gone back to Kristen, but I liked Marla better. Marla it stayed."

"So, a name chosen and not bestowed. Appropriate for you, I would say."

She stared over at him suspiciously, making sure that he wasn't being sarcastic. He smiled back blandly as they walked through the door of the Gardens.

No sooner had they entered than a voice yelled, "Franz!"

Recognizing a voice from his past, he spun, looking for a familiar face. "Friedrich!"

A young man jumped up from a nearby table so quickly that his chair fell over backwards. Franz hurried to meet him, and they embraced in the aisle between tables, exclaiming loudly, pushing back for a moment to hold each other at arm's length, then embracing again in a ferocious hug. Franz literally picked his shorter friend up, then dropped him back on the floor and turned to the rest of the people at the table.

"Anna, it is good to see you!" She held her hands out, and as he took them she pulled him forward.

"Lean down, you oaf." He did so, and she stood on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek.

Next, the older man at the table received Franz's attention as he stood up straight and held out his hand. "Master Riebeck, I do not understand why you are here, but I am very happy that you are."

The gray-haired man shook his hand heartily, peering up at him and said, "These young ones said they would go. Old heads were needed, I said, so I come also."

"Even so, sir, thank you for coming."

Finally Franz turned to another young man of about his own age, one even taller than he was, thin but not gawky, and embraced him also. "Thomas, I knew you would come, even if the others did not. I knew the scent of new music would draw you like a starving hound."

"And draw me it did," Thomas rumbled in a full basso, face split by a large grin. "I hold you to your promise to show me all of the music from the future."

"Franz?" he heard from behind him. He turned and held out his hand to Marla. "Marla, here are most of my best friends from my old life, from the days before I left Mainz." He drew her up level with him, and said, "First, here are Friedrich Braun and Anna Riebeckin. You've heard me speak of them, my dearest friends. They are why I am alive today."

They smiled and nodded together. Friedrich was shorter than Franz, shorter than Marla as well, and Anna was just this side of tiny.

"Next, here is Master Hans Riebeck, Anna's father and Friedrich's craft master, maker of fine musical instruments." A distinguished looking older man, longish silver hair swept back, a short square-cut beard and faded blue eyes looking out from under bushy eyebrows nodded in turn.

"And finally, this human pikestaff is Thomas Schwarzberg, another good friend who stood by me in dark days." Thomas grinned and bobbed his head at her. Although unusual for a down-timer, he was taller than Marla, with an unruly shock of dark brown hair.

"Everyone, this is Kristen Marlena Linder—oof!" Her elbow took him under the ribs. They took in the sight of a tallish, well-made young woman with long black hair, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that at the moment seemed to be dancing.

"Call me Marla, please."

"Please, come sit with us," Friedrich said. They busied themselves with taking coats off, pulling other chairs over to their table and waving at the server, who came over to take their orders. In moments, Marla had a cup of steaming coffee and Franz a mug of beer in front of them, and everyone settled in. There was a moment or two of awkward silence, which Master Riebeck broke.

He had been peering very closely at Marla ever since the introductions had begun. Now he sat back with a satisfied smile on his face and said something in German.

"Your pardon," Franz said quickly, "but as a courtesy to Marla, I ask that we all speak English tonight. She is learning German, but it is not easy for her yet."

"Of course," Master Riebeck said, and the others muttered agreement. He continued, "I said, now I understand."

"Understand what, Papa?" Anna asked.

"Ever since the letter from Franz you read to me, I wondered. The letter, it was Franz und it was not Franz. No anger, no bitter, no hurt was in it. We come here, und I see Franz, Franz mit joy in face, Franz with shadow gone from eyes. I wondered. Now I understand. You, young woman," he said, pointing at Marla, "you ist the reason. Compassion I see in your face. By God's grace, you bring healing to our Franz."

Marla blushed, looking down. Franz took her hand, and she smiled up at him, then turned to Master Hans and said, "Actually, sir, we bring healing to each other."

Anna was seated on her other side, and reached over and took her other hand. "Thank you, Mistress Marla."

"Just Marla, please. You make me sound like I'm an old maiden aunt!"

They all laughed, and Anna continued, "Marla, then, to please you. Again, thank you. Franz is very dear to us, and we worried so about him when he left. We were so surprised to receive the letter he sent. It was the first word we had had since he left over a year ago."

"Yes," said Friedrich, leaning over, sandy-colored hair falling into his eyes, "this crazy man took out on his own, leaving us behind to worry. And worry we did! Not a word for months and months, and then like a bolt from heaven comes his letter, sounding almost like a story of one taken under hill to the Erl-king's domain. First he tells of the wonders of Grantville, then he tells of music not known to mortal men, then he hints of a lovely lady." They all laughed again as Marla's blush renewed.

"Indeed," Thomas rumbled with that deep voice that was so surprising from his slender frame, "nothing would do for Anna but that we come immediately and make sure that Franz was safe and hale, that he was not lying in a delirium someplace, or under some kind of enchantment." Now it was Anna's turn to blush as the rest laughed.

"But I did not expect you," said Franz, as the laughter died. "I thought you would write to me a letter of your own. I have been looking for one these past few days, but instead, you are here yourselves. I do not complain, I am glad to see you, but why?"

"Because we care about you," said Master Hans. "We must see for ourselves your wellbeing, see for ourselves the wonders of Grantville, see for ourselves the young woman who has lifted you up."

He raised his mug to Marla, then continued, "Und see for ourselves the music and the instruments you wrote about. Anna would see you, so nothing would do but that Friedrich and Thomas would come und see the other wonders you named. Me," he chuckled, "much have I heard about the new ways and devices of Grantville, of changes good und bad, of people growing rich who grasp change. If new music und new instruments come, then Riebeck will be at the front. Must see them all, especially pianothat shames the noble clavier."

"So," Thomas said, leaning forward, eyes shining brightly "when can we see these marvels?"

"Thomas!" Anna hissed.

"What? What did I say?"

"Enough," the diminutive woman said sternly, looking around the table. "There is time enough to talk about that tomorrow. Tonight, let us just enjoy old and new friends together." And they proceeded to do so.

****

The next morning was bright and crisp and clear, the sun was shining brightly, and Franz's head was thudding like the tympani in the opening fanfare of Strauss' Also Sprach Zarathustra. As he turned onto the sidewalk leading to Marla's aunt's house, a particularly bright beam of sunlight made its way through the naked limbs of the trees and lanced into his eyes. He threw his good hand up to shade his eyes and stopped, swaying a little. Flinching when the front door slammed, he looked up and peered under his hand to see Marla walking toward him, smiling.

"I told you not to drink that wine last night, not after drinking all that beer." Marla's voice held a note of gleeful satisfaction, and pierced Franz's ears much as the light had assaulted his vision. He moaned a little. She took his arm and turned him, walking back out to the street. "Had anything to eat?"

"Please, not so loud. Some bread, some aspirin, a little water."

"You'll start to feel somewhat better soon, then. Next time, listen to me, all right?"

"Yes."

Aunt Susan's house was only a couple of blocks from the Methodist church, which was where their friends from Mainz were supposed to meet them this morning. As they turned the corner, they saw Friedrich helping Anna down from their wagon and Thomas tying the horse to a convenient tree in the parking lot. Master Riebeck was looking around, and he smiled and waved when he saw them. Within moments, they were all together. Franz was somewhat gratified to note that Friedrich and Thomas looked about as bad as he felt. Master Riebeck was apparently none the worse for the evening's experience. Marla began herding them through the main doors of the church.

"You wanted to see a piano, so I thought we'd start here." They could hear ringing tones unlike anything the visitors had ever heard before, which became clearer as Marla opened the doors into the sanctuary. They entered through the rear of the room, and stopped for a moment in awe. The room was not as large as a cathedral, but there was a certain majesty to it nonetheless, with its high ceiling, dark wooden beams and pews, and large stained glass windows. Marla led them down the aisle toward the platform at the front.

There was a large instrument on the platform which was the source of the tones they had heard. By deduction it must be the piano. A gray-haired man seated at it was banging on a key to produce the sounds. He looked up as they approached.

"G'mornin', Marla."

"Hi, Ingram. You going to be long?"

"Nope. Just about done. Reverend Jones called me a couple of days ago and asked me to check the tuning. Near's I can tell, it's right on."

"Great. Ingram, these are some friends of Franz's, from Mainz. This is Master Hans Riebeck, an instrument maker, Anna Riebeckin and Friedrich Braun, his daughter and son-in-law, and Thomas Schwarzberg, their friend. Everyone, this is Ingram Bledsoe, my friend and a good instrument maker in his own right."

There was much shaking of hands and exchanging of pleasantries, then Marla continued. "They came all the way down to see Franz, and to learn as much as they can about the music and instruments he wrote to them about. I brought them in to see the piano. I'm glad you're here, because I was going to call you about bringing them around to see some of your instruments and kits."

"No problem. It's Saturday, so I was going to putter around in the shop anyway. I'll just wait here and we can go on over there when you're done."

He got up from the bench and she sat down, while he raised the lid on the grand piano to its greatest opening. Marla rippled a chord up and down the keyboard, then looked up at the visitors. "How do you want to do this?"

Everyone looked at Master Riebeck, who simply said, "Play music, zings you know."

She looked down at her hands, and began with a short piece in the contrapuntal style. "Two-Part Invention Number 1, by Bach." Then came a slow legato piece with a repetitious arpeggio in the bass. She stopped after a minute or so. "Part of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata, by Beethoven." A martial theme. "Onward, Christian Soldiers."

Master Riebeck raised his hand, and she stopped. "Good. The sound, we know it." He muttered in German to Franz, who said, "He wishes you to demonstrate the power of the piano, what it can do that the clavier cannot."

"I am not very accomplished," Marla began.

Ingram snorted, and said, "Girl, you're the best pianist in town, and one of the best I've heard, period. Just play that thing you were working on before the Ring fell."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sat motionless for several moments. Then she opened her eyes, raised her hands, and literally attacked the keyboard. Franz was astounded. He had never seen anyone's hands move so fast, and the volume of sound coming from the piano was amazing. The arpeggios of this piece made the Beethoven sound like a child's exercise, and the percussive hammering of chords was incredible.

All too soon it was over. Marla lifted her hands from the keys and sat back, breathing heavily. No one else moved. Friedrich and Anna were both staring wide-eyed at her, Master Riebeck was gazing at the piano through narrowed eyelids, and Thomas stood like a statue with his eyes closed.

She caught her breath, and said, "That was the Revolutionary Etude, by Fredric Chopin, a Polish composer and pianist who would have lived about two hundred years from now. Or at least, it was supposed to be. I made so many mistakes it was ridiculous. Got to practice more. Anyway, he'll probably never be born, and the only place his music exists is here in Grantville. And Ingram, the A-flat three is a little flat."

Thomas broke out of his stillness, threw himself to his knees by the bench and took her hand in both of his. "Teach me."

Startled, she tried to pull away.

"I beg of you, teach me! I will pay anything to learn this!"

The happy-go-lucky young man of the night before was staring at her with burning eyes, and his clutch on her hand was fervent and strong to the point of pain. "Please, I must have this music! This power, this passion, this . . . this . . . "

"Thomas," Anna said, touching his shoulder, "let go, you're frightening her."

He dropped her hand as if it burned him, and shrank back, saying, "Sorry," over and over. "Please . . . "

"I'm . . . I'm not a teacher," Marla said unevenly. "I can't teach you. I don't know enough to teach."

"Marla," Ingram said. She looked at him. "You know plenty. What you don't know, you can find out or teach yourself. You can teach. You were going to eventually, before. Looks like you just get your chance earlier than you thought, is all."

She looked into his weathered face for long moments, and seemed to draw strength from his confidence in her. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to Thomas.

"What I know, I will show you. And maybe together we can learn what I don't know." Then she turned to Franz and held out her hand. "And you, too, dear heart. We will find a way for you to do music again."

The young people gathered around the piano, talking back and forth, chattering, even. Marla began playing something light and bouncy. Master Riebeck drifted over to stand next to Ingram Bledsoe. "She is good?"

"Oh, yes. For her age and the amount of study she had before the Ring of Fire, she's very good. And she has the potential, the talent, to be as good as they come. She's right, there's a lot she doesn't know, but even so I'd bet she knows more than anyone except Marcus Wendell, the school band director. Experience, he's ahead of her, but knowledge . . . she's probably not far behind him even now. She'd absorbed everything the piano and voice teachers here in Grantville could teach her a few years before the Ring, and was studying with teachers in Morgantown." He smiled in satisfaction. "Yes, she's good. She even has perfect pitch."

"She is . . . " he stopped, muttered in German, then called out, "Friedrich!" When his son-in-law stepped over, he spoke rapidly in German. Friedrich nodded, and said, "Strong-willed." Master Hans turned back to Ingram and raised his eyebrows.

Ingram laughed, but didn't say anything.

"A good match for our Franz, then." Riebeck nodded. "So."

With the air of a man who's settled his mind about something, the craftmaster marched over to the piano and declared, "Enough of this noodling. Time to talk about important things. Herr Bledsoe, this piano, it is ein grosse dulcimer, yes? Hammers strike the strings, yes?"

The others stepped back as Master Hans, Ingram and Friedrich took over the piano and spent the next little while examining its construction and mechanisms. Exclamations such as " Himmel! " and "Aha!" punctuated the conversation.

While this was going on, Anna visibly steeled herself, turned to Marla and said, "Franz says that you sing. Do you sing as well as you play?"

"Well . . . "

"Yes," Franz said. "If anything, she is better." Marla flushed again.

"Er," Anna hemmed, "um, if-you-teach-Thomas-will-you-teach-me-please?" It all came out in a rush, and she in turn blushed, but still continued to hold her head up and look the taller woman in the eye.

Marla reached out and took her hand, saying, "Of course. I would love to."

"You know," said Thomas, "that some people will disapprove."

Two heads turned as one toward him, two sets of female eyes focused on him, and if pointed glances had been daggers and stilettos he would have been well and truly nailed to the nearest wall. He quickly held up his hands in surrender. "Not me! I would never object. I just meant that others would."

"Smart man," Franz muttered under his breath.

He thought. The heads turned toward him now, the eyes boring, and Marla gently said, "Did you say something?"

"No, nothing, not a word."

"I didn't think so."

"I will deal with Papa and Friedrich and my brother Karl," Anna said. "No one else matters." The two women talked together about singing, while Franz and Thomas silently congratulated each other on narrowly escaping with their skins intact.

Finally, Master Hans pushed away from the piano, and said, "Enough. I must think. Herr Bledsoe, now go to your workshop? I would see more of the wonders of Grantville, bitte."

After Marla closed the piano top and put the quilted cover over it, nothing would do but for them all to bundle up against the cold and traipse back out into the bright day, all load into the visitors' wagon and drive the few blocks to the Bledsoe residence.

Ingram's workshop turned out to be in an old detached garage building behind his house. He ushered them into it and turned on the lights. They all looked around at the neatly racked tools, the power saws and lathe. Both Master Hans and Friedrich were immediately drawn to the workbench where a work was in progress.

"This is?" Master Hans looked to Ingram.

"A guitar, the kind that's called a classical guitar."

"Is this . . . what strange word was it, Franz?"

"Kit."

"Thank you. Is this eine kit?"

Ingram chuckled, and said, "Yep. I got this one and a steel-string guitar kit in right before the Ring fell. Didn't start it until recently, but it's coming along well. I had it in mind to build these, learn from them and try producing my own."

"So, this is apprentice work?"

Ingram blinked. "Well, you might say so."

"If you please, show me this kit."

"Sure." Ingram hauled out the box, laid out all the parts and showed them the instructions. Master Hans and Friedrich looked them over, examined everything, tried to read the instructions and understand enough to follow the pictures.

"Hmm. These writings—good. Friedrich, think about these, how we might use them." To Ingram, "How good will this guitar be?"

Turning to a nearby cabinet, Ingram brought out something wrapped in a scrap of old blanket, which he unwrapped to reveal a lap harp. "This was made from a kit from the same company. I assume the guitar will be similar in quality—not great, but good enough for a beginning student to play." He held it out to the two down-time craftsmen.

As they scrutinized the harp, Marla whispered to Anna, "Why is your father quizzing Ingram this way?"

"Quizzing?" with a perplexed expression.

"Why is he questioning him, and poking into everything?"

Anna shook her head, "I do not know. Papa always wants to know how good other craftsmen are, but I have never seen him this direct before."

"Good, Herr Bledsoe." Master Hans handed the harp back.

"Call me Ingram."

"Herr Ingram, have you zomezing of your own that I can see, zomezing not a . . . kit?" Master Hans seemed to be getting excited. His accent was getting thicker.

Wrapping the harp up and putting it back in the cabinet, Ingram said nothing. Marla could tell he was beginning to get irritated with the down-timers because a muscle in his jaw was jumping. She went over and helped him clear the guitar kit from the workbench. Still not saying a word, he went back to the cabinet and removed a much larger blanket-wrapped parcel which he carefully set down on the workbench and equally carefully unwrapped. Stepping back, he waved a hand at what was revealed—a dulcimer of beauty and quality. There was a faint "Oooh" sound from the others in the room, and they stepped closer.

Marla clapped her hands. "Ingram, you finished it! You didn't tell me!"

"Yep. Finished it last week. Figured I'd tell you the next time I saw you, which turned out to be today."

Master Hans and Friedrich peered at the dulcimer closely, muttering to each other. The craftmaster looked to Ingram for permission. At his nod, they picked it up carefully, turning it this way and that, examining the wood grain and joins, plucking at the strings, nodding approval at the sound.

"Pardon," Friedrich said, "I must be sure. This is not a kit?"

"Nope," said Ingram tightly. "I haven't made a hammer dulcimer from a kit in, oh, twenty years or more."

"A fine work, this," Master Hans declared. "Worthy of rank." Ingram looked pleased.

"Old Bessie MacLaren from Clarksburg commissioned that, before the Ring. She is . . . or I should say she was . . . one of the best players in the country, and I was right pleased that she called on me. I finished it up after the Ring fell, even though she's not around to get it. Couldn't stand to leave it undone, and I figured that sooner or later I'd have a chance to sell it. Anyway, I have to admit that's probably the best piece I've done."

" Ist gut," Master Hans repeated. "Master Ingram"—who now looked very pleased at the compliment—"from this I see that du bist craftsman." He waved at the dulcimer, which Friedrich was carefully placing back on the workbench. "You know wood, you have skills, yes? Now, let us talk of pianos. To make pianos, here, now, what do we need?"

The newly dubbed master pulled at his chin with his thick-fingered hand. "I'm not an expert," he said slowly. "I moonlighted for a music store in Clarksville, Tennessee, when I was working for a contractor at Fort Campbell a lot of years ago. That's where I learned what I know, including how to tune pianos. But I suspect you-all have a handle on the woodworking part of it. The soundboard is large, but shouldn't be a problem, and a cabinet is a cabinet."

Master Hans nodded impatiently, and motioned for him to continue.

"No, the two things that you will need to make one right are the cast-iron harp and the steel wire. You need the wire to stand up to the tension and the hammering and not stretch or break, and you need the harp to brace the soundboard so it will stand up to the tension that has to be placed on the wire to tune it. Otherwise, sooner or later the soundboard will warp and all your work will be wasted."

"As I thought," said the German craftmaster. "For the piano, for the music, it must be this cold heavy metal." Marla choked. He looked at her quizzically, but she waved him to go on. "Good copper and bronze and brass too warm, too soft would be, not hard as iron."

As the craftsmen discussed the metals and their availability, Franz leaned over to Marla and asked, "What was so funny?"

"Heavy metal . . . music. I'll explain later."

"Iron we can get," Riebeck concluded. "From Mühlhausen or even Nürnberg. Wire from steel, difficult."

"Especially that much of it," Friedrich said, "and in those lengths. Steel wire is not common, and is ruinously expensive."

There was silence in the shop, while they all ruminated on that thought.

"There might be a way around that problem," Marla said, "at least until they start making the stuff in Magdeburg that they keep talking about."

Both older men turned and looked at her, identical expressions with raised eyebrows on their faces. She smiled, and said, "You know, Aunt Susan's got that old upright piano in her parlor, Ingram? The one you said had a cracked soundboard? I bet you could buy it from her for not much, strip out the harp and wire and other fittings, and use them to build a new piano."

Simultaneous expressions of joy appeared on the three craftsmen's faces. "Of course!" Ingram enthused. "I don't know what it would take to adapt the works of an upright to a baby grand, but it's worth a try. If that can't be done, then we'll make uprights until someone starts making wire. In fact, I can name fifteen or more houses with old pianos in them that I can probably convince their owners to sell. Not to mention the fact that the Methodist and Baptist churches have at least half a dozen apiece in Sunday School rooms that nobody's played in the last twenty years. Give me two weeks, and I can probably buy enough old pianos to keep you in business for a year, maybe more!"

Master Hans nodded definitively. "Friedrich, Anna, we move to Grantville. Karl will take the shop in Mainz. We must be here to grasp the new, to grasp pianos."

They gaped at him. "I am not mad. It will be as I say." He seemed almost agitated as he turned. "Master Ingram," he began, then muttered to Franz once more in German. "Proposal," said Franz. "Master Ingram, I haff proposal for you. I will bring tools, wood, apprentices, money, even fumble-fingered journeyman." He slapped Friedrich on the shoulder. "You buy pianos, find bigger workspace. We will make pianos, sell to Hoch-Adels, to burghers with more silver than sense. We will be first, we will be rich. Piano from Bledsoe and Riebeck everyone will want. And guitars," he added, almost as an afterthought. Ingram stared at him. It took a moment for him to realize that the German was very serious. A slow smile bloomed on his face, and the two men shook hands.

Pivoting, Riebeck pointed to Franz, Marla and Thomas. "Pianos need the new music, the new music needs pianos. You, you must learn the music. You must teach the music. You must make the people hungry for the music. I will help. Silver I will give, but your hearts must build road, must cornerstone be, must bring light for new music to all who can hear and see."

They stared at each other, light dawning in their own eyes, anthems sounding in their spirits. Marla reached out to the two young men. Hand in hand, they faced the others. "We will," they said, solemnly, soberly.

Suite for Four Hands

Intrada

Grantville

Late July, 1633

As he turned from closing the door of the Bledsoe and Riebeck workshop, Franz Sylwester found several pairs of eyes focused on him. "Well?" his friend Friedrich Braun asked expectantly. "What did the nurse say?"

Franz struggled to keep his expression solemn as he took his jacket off. He heaved a sigh and turned to hang it on a peg by the door. As he faced the others again, Marla moved closer and placed a hand on his arm.

"Franz," she started softly, obviously ready to comfort. He couldn't hold it in any longer, and broke out in a smile, then laughed.

"Frau Musgrove declares that my hand is good, is healed." He held his left hand up and flexed his fingers. The thumb, index and middle fingers moved easily. The ring and little fingers were still frozen in the same curved shape they had healed in after the knuckles were crushed in Heydrich's assault, but even those fingertips flexed a little. "So, I now have enough of a hand to hold things."

"Franz!" Marla squealed. She grabbed him and swung him around. "That's great news!" Friedrich, Anna and Thomas crowded around to slap him on his back in congratulations.

Ingram Bledsoe came in from a door at the back of the workshop. "What's the occasion?" Marla bounced over to him and gave him a swift hug, leaving him looking a little surprised but smiling nonetheless.

The others stepped back from Franz, who lifted up his hand again and flexed the fingers, smiling. "Nurse Musgrove says I am not to come back, that I am healed."

"Congratulations!" Ingram stepped forward to shake hands. "That's great news!"

Franz held up his good hand for quiet, reached into his pocket and dug out a three-inch rubber ball. "Marla," tossing the ball to her, "please give this instrument of torture back to your niece. Tell her I thank her with all my heart for the loan of it, and that I never want to see it again!" Everyone laughed with him again, but they were all aware of how hard he had worked the last few months with that ball to rehabilitate his hand . . . squeezing it over and over and over again in every unoccupied moment . . . squeezing it until his arm ached to the elbow with the effort. They knew what drove him—the determination that he would not be a cripple, that in some way he would again be able to support himself.

Marla moved up and took his arm in both her hands.

"Franz," she said, "to celebrate this occasion, we've got a gift for you." He looked at her quizzically. "Anna, the first part's yours." Franz looked at his friend, wondering what was going on, while everyone else shifted around like young children trying to stifle exclamations. Anna walked over to a chest against the far wall, a chest that had come with them from Mainz, opened it up and took out a bundle wrapped in burgundy velvet. She handed it to Thomas, who passed it to Friedrich, who unwrapped the cloth to display a violin. As he held it out toward Franz, Marla felt him stiffen.

"That . . . that is . . . my violin," he stuttered.

"Yes," from Friedrich.

"How . . . how . . . " he stopped, swallowed, and forced himself to composure. "How is this possible? I smashed it . . . did I not?"

"No," Anna stepped up, smiling, "no, you did not. You did smash your bow that night, and you endeavored to likewise destroy your violin. You did indeed throw it at the wall that night, in your fever and your anger, but you ran out the door before you could see that although the scroll hit the wall above the bench, the body hit a cushion instead."

"The scroll was scraped," Friedrich added, angling the instrument to show the traces of the mar, "but I was able to smooth it down and apply new finish to it. And so," pressing the violin into his friend's hands, "it returns to you. Both are somewhat older, both are somewhat stressed by your experiences, but you still suit one another very well. We kept it safe until you were ready to hold it again." He stepped back, leaving Franz to clasp the instrument he thought he had destroyed—to hold it gently and pass one hand in a caress over its top.

Still staring at the violin—his violin—Franz said, "Never has a man had friends such as you. When I regained my senses, in my wanderings after I left Mainz, I grieved over this, grieved most sorely. The thought that I had wantonly destroyed my violin, made solely for the creation of beauty in a world that has not enough of it, did try my soul indeed." He looked up, blinking, eyes bright with unshed tears. "And today you have restored it to me. I have not words to thank you as you deserve." He looked back down at it as the tears spilled over, caressed it again, then embraced it for a long moment, his cheek leaning against the scroll.

The room was quiet, everyone respecting Franz's emotions. He finally looked up again, smiled a little, and said, "Thank you. I thank God for you, my friends, who have saved me, and now have saved my violin as well. Now I am free of that guilt, and I am free to find someone who will take it from my hands to love it as I do and to play it as I no longer can."

Marla took his arm again and turned him to face her. "Now for my gift. Franz, you don't have to give it up. You can play."

Franz was shocked that she would say such a thing, and a flash of anger and sorrow went through him. "Do not mock me, Marla." Holding up his left hand, he said, "Even with the healing that has been done, I cannot finger the neck; I cannot play."

"Maybe you can't finger the neck with that hand, but I'll bet you can hold a bow with it now! Switch hands! Learn to play with switched hands!" Marla was grinning with delight and bouncing slightly in her excitement. Franz felt stunned. Was it possible? Could he do it? He felt dazed, as if he had been hit in the head. He saw Marla put her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling, so he was sure he looked as amazed as he felt.

"It's true," Ingram said, grinning himself. "I knew a mountain fiddler once who had an accident that left his left hand like yours. He just taught himself how to finger the neck with the right and learned to bow with his left. Last time I saw him, he was just as good that way as he was 'tother."

Franz shuddered, and his jaw snapped shut. He felt an excitement building in him, and his eyebrows climbed to meet his hairline, causing Marla to giggle. He looked at her, and asked, "Do you think I can do this?"

"I know you can."

Taking a deep breath, Franz turned to Friedrich and said, "My friend, how long until you can make me a bow to grace the violin you have restored to me?"

"As it happens," Ingram interrupted, "that's my gift to you." He brought his hand out from behind his back, and presented a bow to Franz. "I always seem to end up with odds and ends of musical stuff. I've had this bow for ten years, never had a fiddle to go with it, never could bring myself to get rid of it. Now I know why. I was savin' it for you. It's made in the up-time style, not like the ones you're used to, but I believe you'll actually find it easier to hold with your hand the way it is."

"So," Marla spoke again, "you have your violin, you have your bow, you have your hand, and you have your friends. What more do you need?"

Franz looked around at the smiling faces, and smiled back. "Nothing."

"Then get started."

"As you wish, Mistress Marla," and he danced away from the jab she aimed at his ribs.

Bouree

Grantville

August, 1633

As he was giving the tuning knob a final twist, Franz heard the door open.

"So, have you decided yet?"

Franz looked up from his violin to see his friend Isaac Fremdling entering the choir room. "Have I decided what?"

"How you will string your violin, of course? Will you string it in the usual manner, or will you reverse the order of the strings?" Isaac pulled one of the chairs around and sat down.

"What do you think I should do?"

Isaac fingered his moustache, and after a moment of contemplation said, "'Twould perhaps be best to keep the usual order of the strings. In that manner you and another could play each other's instruments with no difficulty."

"An advantage, to be sure," Franz replied. "Yet think of this, if you will: it will likely be easier to learn to play again if each right finger will move in the same manner and in the same relationship to the strings as the left does—if to play an 'F' the related finger makes the same motion, only mirror reversed, if you will."

"A point," nodded Isaac.

"And then consider the bow. Would it not be easier to train myself to reproduce the position of the bow as in a mirror, rather than in a totally different angle and position?"

"Aye," Isaac nodded again.

"Well, then, Isaac, you have answered the question, have you not?"

"It seems that I have, at that," his friend laughed. " So you have decided, then?"

Franz chuckled, and held up his violin. "Friedrich has moved the sound post inside and made a new bridge. I just now finished the stringing and tuning. Behold, a mirror violin." He handed the instrument to Isaac, who examined it closely, tested the tuning, then attempted to place it under his chin.

"Pfaugh! It feels most unnatural to try to hold it under the right chin. But if anyone can do this, Franz," he handed the violin back, "'tis you."

"My thanks. I've no choice, you see, for now that I see a glimmering of light in the night, I will pursue it with all my heart."

Isaac looked at his friend, his expression sobered, and he said quietly, "I grieved for you when I heard of the attack."

Franz looked down, uncomfortable as always when offered sympathy. "I thank you, but as you are so fond of saying, 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' My pride needed curbing, I freely admit. I could wish that the manner of that curbing had not been so severe, and that I had been calmer and wiser and more considerate of my friends afterward. But it took long months of being alone before I began to slowly grow wise, and it was not until I found my way here to Grantville that I could begin to understand how and why you would say that. The Lord gave, the Lord took away, the Lord gave again, and I have learned to bless Him no matter my circumstance."

"Then you are indeed wise, my friend, for there are few enough even of gray-hairs who possess wisdom that equals what you have just shared." Isaac paused for a moment, then chuckled.

Franz raised an eyebrow.

"My initial reaction to your misfortune was grief indeed," Isaac said, "but hard on its heels came indignation in harness with rage. I must admit that the thought of applying the consequences of the Golden Rule to Heydrich did cross my mind more than once or twice."

"Surely you did not . . . "

"No, I could not bring myself to do it in cold blood. But there were others of like mind, and I doubt not that their conversations did find their ways to Rupert's itching ears, there to alarm rather than soothe. In truth, he began to company with various fellows, brutes from low taverns, in fear of what had been rumored. And he found no ease in that none of the rest of us would be alone with him thereafter. All of us found it to be most humorous."

Franz smiled. "Well, I am not saintly enough to not find some small pleasure in hearing of his discomfort."

"Oh, aye, before we left Mainz he had become almost two men, one moment the loudest of braggarts, the next like a nervous hind when the hounds bell out. I have seen the man's head almost swivel completely in a circle as he tried to watch his own back."

"The wicked fleeth when no man pursueth," Franz chuckled. "It is perhaps the best vengeance. He will torment himself more than I could or would, and my hands and heart are clean."

"Indeed." There was another moment of quiet before Isaac continued, "As I said, I grieved when I heard. Of all my friends and fellow musicians, your love of the art is most like my own, and I knew well how I felt when someone attempted to take it from me."

Franz raised an eyebrow again.

Isaac made a hand motion as if brushing off a table top. "You know that I am out of the Jews, but I say nothing of my life before Mainz. I knew, however, what you would feel. I was born Isaac Levin. My father is—I trust he still lives—a rabbi in Aschenhausen, where our forebears settled when the elector expelled the Jews from Saxony. Early in my years I showed promise of music, and he desired me to become a cantor. But other music enticed me, that which I heard from the taverns, through the windows of the merchants' houses and the doorways of the salons. I hungered for more than the Psalms, for more than the music of our traditions. The wealth that was to be heard away from the synagogue filled my heart. I could not see how beauty such as that could not exist in God's presence, but my father rejected it. He forbade me, he lectured me; as I grew older he reasoned with me. He even took a rod to me more than once.

"Finally, in my sixteenth year, he caught me once again slipping away from the door of a salon, and dragged me in front of the elders of our congregation. Right soundly he berated me, and demanded of me a solemn oath by the name of God that I would abandon foolishness and obey him in this. He ended by saying to me that if I would not, then I would no longer be his son. I would be dead to him."

Franz whistled.

"Aye. I was stunned indeed, as were the elders. They argued with him that he was being too harsh, that he should not emulate Saul who drove away David, but to no avail. And all the while I tried to think of life without the music that was so much a part of me. He withstood them all, seeming to grow ever more rigid, and when they were finally silenced he turned to me and demanded my answer.

"I grappled my wits together, and gave the only answer I could give. I still remember every word. 'Papa, I have tried to do as you say, but you were the one who instructed me that the Holy One, blessed be He, created music, that His very spirit guided David when he invented the lyre. Do not now blame me if that music calls me. Some men are called to trading; some men are called to farming; some men are called to the working of metal; some men are called to the study of Torah; and men such as I are called to music. If I do not swear, I am dead to you; yet if I do, I will be dead inside. You force me to judge between two evils, to cause a death either way. But in truth, it seems to me that the greater evil would be to forswear what the Holy One above has placed in me. Papa, it will be as you will it, but I cannot swear.'"

"A grievous choice, indeed, for a youth to have to make." Franz placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"But the tale is not finished. I saw at that moment that my father had never truly understood me, for all his wisdom in Torah and Talmud. I saw that he had fully believed that I would swear, for the shock of my choice well-nigh shattered him. A proud, upright man he was, but he turned away from me gray and old. It was as if a tall and vital oak in the full bloom of summer in an eye-blink turned to a dead and hollow husk. The light in his eyes died, for he had made his command in public in front of the elders of the congregation, and his own pride and authority would not let him recant. His face turned to stone, his very voice turned to gravel as he said, 'Thou art dead to me; Thou art dead to me; Thou art dead to me.' He turned away, and trudged out of the court and into the house. The elders followed him, silently, except that for a moment old Joachim Arst, a man I had never before cared for, came to me. As tears coursed my cheeks, he placed a purse in my hands, saying, 'I believe that I have lost some coins in the streets today.' Then he took my face between his hands, and said, 'Always remember, young Isaac who is now a stranger, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' And so I am now Isaac Fremdling, Isaac the stranger."

Isaac brushed a hand across his eyes, looked at Franz and said gently, "And so I know somewhat of how you felt after Heydrich mauled you, for I know how I felt when I thought I would not have the music, and I know how high a price I paid to have it."

"Indeed," Franz said, aching in his heart for his friend, knowing the kind of desolation that had been dealt him. "How is it I never heard this, from you or one of the others?"

"Because I have not shared it these last five years; before now there was none who would understand, none who could know what I felt then."

Two young men—of different heritage, yet brothers in their love of music and the prices they had paid to have it—sat together in silence, contemplating things lost and things gained, and likewise contemplating the ancient wisdom of a man named Job.

Allemande

Grantville

Moments later

The door to the choir room crashed open, startling Franz and Isaac both. They had been wrapped so deeply in their thoughts they had not heard anyone approach. As the door panel bounced off the doorstop, a group of young men of an age with themselves broke into the room, arguing at the top of their lungs. They threw their books down on the tables at the head of the room and carried on with their heated discussion. Two of them in particular stood almost toe-to-toe, arms waving frantically. German epithets were bouncing from the walls and ceiling, the mildest of which were "Fool!" and "Imbecile!" The others quickly turned to egging their champions on, and if the volume did not decrease, at least the mass confusion did. Franz began to chuckle. They were such a sight: faces red, veins bulging on their foreheads, hair dancing wildly. He leaned over to Isaac, who was grinning broadly, and near-shouted in his ear, "I wonder how long Thomas and Hermann have been at it this time?" Isaac shrugged, but didn't try to shout over the din.

For a moment there was quiet, as both men ran out of breath at the same time. Chests heaving, sweat running down their faces, they stood glaring at each other. Nothing was settled, though—this wasn't even a truce. It was more in the way of a pause for breath in a long-fought duel between two very evenly matched opponents. That last thought caused Franz to laugh out loud, for although the two champions might have been evenly matched with their chosen weapons of words, little else about them was.

Thomas Schwarzberg, one of Franz's closest friends, was a very tall man. Even among the giants of Grantville he stood out; among the native down-timers he was often more than the Biblical head and shoulders taller. On the other hand, Hermann Katzberg was short, even for a down-timer. Franz doubted if he was five feet tall, especially if he took off his boots with the built-up heels. He was stocky, though not misshapen, and reasonably handsome with dark hair. In Franz's mind, Hermann was more than a bit pugnacious, as he had just been demonstrating—possibly an in-born temperament, but just as likely an attitude adopted to keep the taller world in which he dwelt from overlooking him. It obviously irked Hermann just now that as much as he wanted to be nose-to-nose with Thomas, he was actually more like nose-to-navel.

The two were both excellent musicians, adept at several instruments, although each had one in which he was clearly superior. Hermann was perhaps the best harpsichordist that Franz had ever heard—better even than Thomas, which was praise indeed. Thomas, on the other hand, was far and away the finest flautist it had been his pleasure to hear, although Hermann, in his turn, was more than competent with a flute. Neither man had met the other before they came to Grantville; Thomas at Franz's invitation, Hermann following rumors of new and powerful music. Within hours of their first meeting, they had accurately assessed each other's skill and moved directly to mutual respect. And indeed, on most days and on most subjects they were very amicable and usually in agreement. There was one topic, however, on which both men had very strong opinions, and they were on different sides of the issue.

Just as Hermann opened his mouth to renew the verbal conflict, Marla Linder came walking in the door, books in arms. She stopped dead at the sight of Thomas and Hermann on their feet. "Not again!" She stalked over to the instructor's desk, dropped her books with a loud slam, and glared at Franz and Isaac. "Can't you keep them under control?"

"The battle was well under way ere they arrived, Fräulein Marla," Isaac said, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. "In truth, it were worth our lives to attempt to come between them." His inability to repress a grin garnered another glare from Marla.

"And I suppose that's your story as well." She shifted the adamantine gaze of her icy blue eyes to Franz.

"Well, as they had not progressed to the throwing stage yet, I had hopes that they would run out of energy soon." He twitched his shoulders; Marla was obviously in a testy mood today.

Marla snorted, turned to the other men and pointed at ranked chairs. "Take a seat!" Looking over her shoulder at Franz and Isaac, she added, "You, too!" They all wasted no time in obeying. As they did so, Franz propped his chin on his good hand, looked at them all through half-lowered eyelids, and smiled a little.

He remembered the day these discussions began. He and Thomas and their other close friend Friedrich Braun had met with the musicians that were going to participate in the music "sem-i-nar." In addition to Isaac, another of the newcomers was a man that he and Thomas and Friedrich had known in Mainz—Leopold Gruenwald, a maker of trumpets who was also a player of some skill. Leopold was the last of the musicians that Franz had invited to come to Grantville.

Of the others, there was Hermann, of course, and two brothers, Josef and Rudolf Tuchman. Hermann had come from Magdeburg, and the brothers Tuchman had followed the rumors all the way from Hanover to Grantville.

Leopold and Isaac were willing to accept the unanimous declaration of Franz, Friedrich and Thomas about Marla's knowledge, talent and musicianship. The other three, however, had come seeking the new music that was hinted at in the rumors, seeking with an odd mixture of skepticism and hope. Once they heard what they would have to do to learn it, the skepticism rose to the top and they expressed some serious reservations. The thought of sitting in a school room to learn music was unheard of, by all that was holy. Musicians learned by doing, by sitting with other musicians and copying technique until they made it their own. This sitting in a room and talking about it was nonsense!

Then they found out that the seminar leader was to be a woman, and hackles started rising. By all that was unholy, a woman had no place in music, or at least not in the serious work that they themselves were doing!

Franz remembered shuddering as he looked around to make sure that Marla was not in ear-shot. From the expressions on their faces, Thomas and Friedrich had been thinking much the same thing. Together they faced forward and glared at the Tuchmans, who had been the most outspoken in their opinions. Franz had started to speak, but Thomas held up his hand and Franz swallowed his words.

"I make allowances," Thomas had said sternly, "for the fact that you do not know Fräulein Marla. I also agree that a woman musician is most unusual, although perhaps not strictly unknown. However, I strongly urge you to keep the words you have just said behind your teeth in the future.

"Let me make it clear to you: you will accord to Fräulein Marla the minimum respect you would grant a visiting doyen or master. You will find that she is worthy of it."

"And what if we do not?" Josef had asked, almost sneering.

Three faces had glowered in return, and Josef's face went blank

"You will not be allowed to learn from her," Franz had said finally. "And there is no one else to learn from, for Master Wendell has said that this is to be her work."

"Well, will she go all faint and quivery if I yell," Hermann had demanded, "or, God forbid," going falsetto, "I should be vulgar in her presence?" He had looked very nonplussed as Franz, Friedrich and Thomas had burst into laughter.

"No," Franz had choked, fighting down the mirth, "she is no wilting flower. She will assuredly deal with you as you are." Sobering quickly, he had reiterated, "She is worthy of your respect." Hermann looked at the brothers and shrugged, and they all nodded.

Franz felt Isaac nudge him, and he came back to the present quickly, noticing that the room had gone quiet. Marla's eyes were drilling into him. "Excuse me," he said.

"You with us now?" Marla asked sharply.

"Yes."

"English or German?"

She was asking what language this day's discussion would be held in. They had adopted the practice of alternating between the two to strengthen Marla's command of German and help the others improve their English.

"English," Franz said, and his heart beat faster as she rewarded him with one of her glorious smiles.

"Good," she said. "That's the first thing that's gone my way today." She glanced at the door, then back at the others. "We're going to have guests today. Elizabeth Jordan, one of my former voice teachers, has made contact with a couple of Italians who wish to join us today. One is a musician—a composer, I believe—and the other is a craftsman of some kind. They should be here any . . . ah, and here they are now."

The door to the choir room opened, and a short, slightly plump woman entered, followed by a short man in a black cassock. Franz didn't quite goggle at him, but was taken back a bit. One did not ordinarily expect that mode of dress in Grantville, or at least not in the high school. A Catholic cleric of some kind, possibly.

The third member of the party was somewhat larger, but definitely not of a size to stare Thomas eye to eye. Franz estimated he was about his own height. He moved with some grace, but was obviously not a courtier. He must be the artisan that Marla had mentioned.

"Elizabeth, you're just in time." Marla stepped forward and shook hands with her former teacher. "Please, introduce your guests."

"This is Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and Signor Girolamo Zenti, all the way from Rome." Each man nodded slightly when his name was called; Carissimi stiffly, as if he wasn't comfortable, and Zenti with a slight, crooked smile on his face. "The maestro has come in search of knowledge about our music, and Signor Zenti looks for knowledge about musical instruments. When you told me yesterday what you would be discussing today, I knew they would both find it of interest."

"Thank you for coming," Marla said, offering her hand. Carissimi hesitated, then reached out and shook it quickly, releasing it at once. Zenti in turn took her hand, and instead of shaking it raised it to his lips. Marla was obviously taken off guard, but kept her composure and retrieved her fingers as soon as he released them.

Marla turned and had the others introduce themselves. As they did so, Franz decided that the maestro was innocuous, but that he could find himself taking a dislike to Zenti without much effort.

Once the introductions were completed, Marla said, "Please be seated where you please. We were about to get started. And please, feel free to speak up at any time. This bunch certainly does."

With that, she shifted her focus again to Thomas and Hermann, who, despite their verbal combat were sitting next to each other. "You two were arguing about tempering again, weren't you?" They nodded cheerfully. "And the rest of you," sweeping a hand motion to include Josef, Rudolf, Leopold and Friedrich, "were kibitzing and cheering them on from the peanut gallery, right?"

Smiles and nods were mixed with confusion over the figure of speech. "Meanwhile, the grinning gargoyle brothers over here"—she pointed to Isaac, who looked offended, and Franz, who just smiled—"were laughing at all of you. And you probably deserved it."

She sat down at the piano, and placed her hands on top of the cabinet. "I'm tired of all this argument, so I've spent the last couple of days researching this issue, and I'm ready to put a stake in it and bury it for good." The Italians looked very confused, but Elizabeth was whispering to them, explaining Marla's figure of speech.

As always when she started one of their sessions, Franz was a little nervous for her. He knew her heart, her desire: how she desperately wanted to succeed at this work; wanted to bring the glory of the music she knew to the time she was now in; how she wanted to midwife the birth of a glorious age of music. He knew how hard she studied and prepared. He knew how when she first started her stomach had ached before every class; knew, too, how she had castigated herself after each of those early sessions because she felt she had sounded uncertain and timid rather than assured and self-confident. The fact that he had detected nothing of the kind and repeatedly told her so was no comfort to her. But gradually, as she learned that she could teach them, that she could hold her own in discussions with them, that she could find answers to all their questions, she had indeed found assurance and self-confidence, and their sessions had become the joy that she had so wanted them to be.

Today, however, she was tackling head on an issue that she had been dancing around for weeks, the issue of tunings and tempering systems. If she was feeling nervous, there was no evidence of it in her demeanor. She sat there calmly, smiling slightly, looking cool and collected in front of the eight of them.

"Hermann, how many tempering systems are you aware of?"

He sat in thought for a moment, then said, "The Just and the Pyth . . .

Pytha . . . "

"Pythagorean," Thomas prompted.

"Pythagorean systems," he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?" Marla looked at him with her head tilted to one side.

He squirmed a little, then said, "I have trouble wrapping my tongue around that name when I'm speaking good Deutsche. It is even harder with English."

"Continue."

"Just, Pythagorean, and Mean are the ones I know of, Fräulein Marla."

Franz looked at him out of the corner of his eye, checking his attitude, but he seemed totally serious.

"And of those, which are in common use?"

"Only the Mean."

"Why is that?"

Hermann thought for a moment, wanting to make sure he didn't trip up, then said, "Because the other two are too limited, are too discordant except in a few keys."

"Right. But, can't you say much the same thing for the Mean temperament as well?

Hermann looked stubborn, while Thomas made no attempt to suppress a very wide smile as Marla made his case for him. Franz watched to see how Marla would handle this. He wanted her to do well, to bring Hermann around, because to be the power in music in the USE that he thought she should become, she had to be able to engage the stubborn peers of his musical generation in dialogue, reason with them and eventually bring them to see her positions. Hermann was perhaps her first serious test, as he himself, Friedrich and Thomas had been won over very easily.

"Hermann," she said, "you have to face the fact that the Mean system works okay with voices, strings and horns, all of which the musicians instinctively tune, usually without even being aware they're doing it. But with any kind of keyboard, it is just too limiting. You're basically limited to four or five tonalities, the simpler ones." She set her hands on the piano keys, saying, "Stay with me, Hermann. We're going for a ride"

Marla began playing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." Over the simple harmony, she said, "You know this hymn. Even in the time we came from, it's one of Luther's most famous works. It's in our hymnals in the key of C major—no sharps, no flats. Now listen, and listen carefully."

Franz saw an intent expression come over her face, one that he was coming to know very well. He nudged Isaac, and mouthed to him, "Get ready."

There was a brief pause, then Marla's hands began moving swiftly over the piano keyboard. Arpeggios were rolling up from the low end of the keyboard, and over it she began playing the melody and harmony of the old hymn in the traditional 4/4 time. At the end of the verse, she played a transitional phrase which modulated into a sustained chord, then suddenly began playing a light rendition of the song in 3/4 time, almost a dance, in a new key. Again, when she came to the end of the verse she played a transition, this time immediately modulating to a new key where once again she played in 4/4, this time playing the song as a canon of repeating lines over a constant bass note. Another modulation, another style—this time a quiet meditation, almost in the manner of an adagio.

Franz looked at the others, and saw on the faces of the newcomers the stupefaction he had expected. He, Thomas and Friedrich knew Marla's talent, but this was the first time she had unleashed its full potential before Isaac, Leopold, Hermann and the Tuchman brothers, and they were obviously stunned.

Once again she modulated, this time playing the old hymn in a hammering martial style, at once pompous yet regal. She brought it to a rousing close, playing the last line in a slow ritard that allowed her to alternate chords first in the treble keys, then in the bass, using the sustain pedal to let them ring and create an effect that almost rivaled an organ for richness and sonority. She allowed the final chord to resound in the room, then released the pedal and let the piano action damp the strings.

Franz saw a small smile play about the corners of her mouth as she took in the expressions of the others.

"Okay, guys," she said, "how many keys did I play in?"

Hermann shook himself, looked at the others, and said, "Five." They nodded in support.

"And what were they?"

"First was C."

"Right."

"Then the next was . . . G."

Hermann sounded a little reluctant, and Franz thought he knew why. When Marla smiled, he knew he was right.

"And what is G to C?" Marla asked.

"The dominant,"

"And in the Mean system," she said, "can those two keys sound consonant in the same piece of music?"

"Yes."

"Ah, but what about the next keys? Where did I go from G?"

"D?" Hermann sounded a little unsure of himself.

"Yes, D was next. I used an augmented sixth chord for the modulation, so it was a little tricky, but you got it, we landed in D. D is the dominant of G, right?"

Heads nodded all over the room.

"So now we have C, G and D. Is consonance possible in the same piece with those keys? Just possibly," she answered her own question, "just possibly. But where did we go from there?"

No one ventured a guess.

"Thomas, did you follow?" When he shook his head, she smiled again, and said, "Okay, I'll have mercy on you. I went from D to A, and ended in E. See the pattern in the modulations? Each time I modulated to the dominant of the previous key. I've now got five different keys in this piece, ranging from C major with no sharps or flats to E major with four sharps. Hermann," she looked at him seriously, "in the Mean system, can I have all five of those keys sound consonant in the same piece of music?"

Franz heard her emphasis, but was glad to note that her tone of voice and her expression were both serious, that there was no sense of mocking or humor. She was treating both the topic and Hermann with respect.

The room was quiet. No one said anything, no one even stirred until Hermann finally sighed, and said, "No, Fräulein Marla, you cannot. Your point is made."

"But don't you see, Hermann," Marla said, "don't you see that it's not my point? This is not some dictate that I'm trying to force upon you. It's not some up-time invention or standard that I'm trying to shove down your throat. The earliest mention I could find for equal temperament goes all the way back to some guy named Grammateus in 1518—that's over one hundred years before today, for heaven's sake! Equal temperament was something that generations—your predecessors in music, your peers now, and your successors in music—all worked toward. As composers and performers alike desired more tonal complexity and sophistication in their music, as they experimented and argued amongst themselves and with their patrons, they eventually hammered out a consensus for the equal temperament system."

Marla looked around at all of them, then said slowly, "And Hermann, it was the Germans who arrived at it first. By 1800, this was the standard in German music. It took the rest of the world at least another fifty years to catch up to you. So you see, I'm not trying to force the stream of music into an unnatural streambed, I'm not trying to force it to flow uphill. Instead, I'm trying to guide you into the natural bed for your stream, but I'm trying to guide you to it now instead of several generations later."

Hermann muttered again. Franz saw Marla lift an eyebrow, Hermann coughed, and said, "But it still sounds discordant."

"Of course it does," Marla laughed. "It's a result of musical diplomacy. I once heard a definition of diplomacy that goes something like this: diplomacy is the art of leaving all interested parties equally dissatisfied. That's a perfect definition of equal temperament. All keys are slightly less than consonant, but importantly, all keys are equally dissonant. Once we accept that compromise, then the full artist's palette of tonalities is available to us."

Franz smiled at her metaphor.

"Believe me," Marla added, "I know exactly how discordant equal temperament is. I have absolute perfect pitch, so anything less than pure consonance grates on my ear. But, I will accept the minor discomfort that equal temperament causes in order to play things like this."

She turned to the piano again, and began a piece in 3/4 time. It lilted and danced, almost like a stream flowing over rocks. The music flowed, with waterfall-like runs in it, broadened out to a more stately theme and treatment, then returned to the original style. Marla's fingers flew; the tempo ebbed and flowed, and finally began to move faster and faster until it trailed away under the right hand in the high treble keys.

Once again dead silence reigned in the room, until it was broken by a collective sigh from the men. Marla turned to them, and said, "That was the Waltz in C# minor by Frederic Chopin, part of his Opus 64, one of the loveliest piano pieces ever written. The key has four sharps, and it probably couldn't be played in the Mean system."

Looking around the room, she asked, "Any questions? Any comments?"

"Excuse me, please, Signorina," Maestro Carissimi said.

"Yes, sir?"

"I understand what you say, and it makes clear much that I did wonder about. But is there not a . . . how would you say . . . alongside . . . "

"Parallel?"

"Yes! Thank you for the word. Is there not a parallel issue, one of tuning, of intonation?"

"Oh, absolutely," Marla said. She pressed a key on the piano, and a tone sounded. "That is an A, the note defined by international agreement to be the tuning standard. And there are machines and tuning forks to exhibit that standard and to measure against. That standard was arrived at almost," she looked confused for a moment, "well, what would have been almost 250 years from now. But between now and then, tuning was a local matter, usually determined by whoever built the organ in the local church or cathedral."

"Exactly my point!" said the Italian. "In Italy, the tuning is higher, brighter than in Germanies, but even within a province, is not the same from place to place. Until a standard for all of Europe can be devised, we musicians must still adjust tuning as from place to place we go. Music written for Italian churches transcribed to other keys must be to get same sound in northern German churches, and perhaps the same if northern music to Rome or Naples is brought."

"And that will change not so quickly," his companion said. "Musicians—especially Italians—will not like hearing that wrong are their tunings." There were murmurs of agreement from around the room, and Thomas and Hermann in particular nodded vigorously.

"Well," Marla said, "at least we all agree that developing a standard tuning is an issue, and that it probably won't be solved soon. But do you all understand why the equal temperament is so important?"

Heads nodded all around, and "Yes," was heard from every corner.

Marla looked down at her watch. "Yikes! I didn't realize it was that late! This is Wednesday night, and I've got choir rehearsal at church. Okay, we'll meet again on Friday here in the school choir room. We'll finish the discussion we started last time about modes and the changeover to major and minor keys. See you then!" And in a whirlwind, she grabbed her books and was gone. Elizabeth and her guests also rose, made their farewells, and left.

The eight young men sat quietly for a moment, as if drained of energy. Finally, Hermann looked up, and said to Franz, "Now I know what you meant. She is indeed worthy of our respect. It would be an insult to say she does not play like a woman, but when I close my eyes, all I hear is a musician of great skill and talent playing with vigor and authority."

He sighed. "Forced to discard another preconception. Two in one day. At this rate, in another month she will have me cleaned off like a blank slate, a tabula rasa."

"Well, I am tempted to ask if that would be such a bad thing." Thomas grinned, obviously restraining himself from crowing over Marla's victory. "But instead I will say that you at least had the advantage of knowing her first, and seeing that she did indeed possess some knowledge and skill before she unleashed the full fury of her arsenal on you. Friedrich and I, we were exposed to the full-bore power of her talent within hours of first meeting her."

"And do not forget the hangovers," Friedrich interjected.

"Ach, how could I forget? The memory of the thunder in my skull being matched by the thunder of her piano playing still makes me shudder!" Thomas matched actions to words. "Some time, Hermann, have her play for you the Revolutionary Etude. Then you will see the full scope of her power, and you will truly understand why I sit at her feet."

"But she is so young!" Josef said. "How can she be so strong, so assured, so . . . so . . . "

"Authoritative?" Thomas supplied.

"Yes, how can she be so authoritative? How can she be like a master at her age?"

Thomas looked to Franz. "How old is she?"

"She recently passed her twenty-first birthday, which is young but not so young. To us, she's of an age to be a journeyman. To the folk of Grantville, she's her own woman, to do as she pleases. Most of them know she is talented, but I believe that Master Wendell and perhaps Master Bledsoe are the only ones who truly appreciate her magnitude. Master Wendell says that if not for the Ring of Fire, he thinks she could have been one of the great ones of their time."

He stood and walked over to look out the window. "She is driven to mastery. Her spirit, her gifts drive her to rise above her origins, her womanhood, to become a master." He turned to face them. "She will not stop until she is either broken or is acclaimed by all."

"So if she is of age, why is she not married, as so many of the Grantvillers are?" asked Josef. "She is comely, and seems pleasant enough."

"Hah!" snorted Rudolf, surprising everyone, since he was the most taciturn individual most of them had ever met and never volunteered anything. "No, thank you. That fräulein has sword steel for a spine, and I suspect she could out-stubborn Gustav Adolf himself. She may be a muse incarnate, a very Calliope . . . "

"Take care," Friedrich warned.

"Nevertheless, I fear that most men would desire someone with at least some compliance in her soul. Fräulein Marla may be doomed to a spinster's life."

Friedrich and Thomas burst out in uproarious laughter. Friedrich actually slid out of his chair and rolled on the floor. Thomas bent over holding his stomach, howling.

The newcomers all stared, eyes wide and jaws agape. Finally Hermann collected himself. "What is the jest?" he demanded.

Thomas managed, by sheer willpower, to somewhat compose himself. "The jest," he wheezed, "stands there." He waved a hand at Franz. Franz waved back, smiling slightly, as Thomas continued. "Our man Franz there woos her."

"Not just woos," Friedrich husked, levering himself into a sitting position on the floor. "Not just woos; for he has won her heart."

The astounded expressions returned, now focused on Franz. He shrugged and said, "'Tis true."

"Then why have you not wed, if you feel thus?" asked Hermann.

Franz lifted his left hand, and everyone sobered. They all knew the story by now. "When I can play again in public, when I can again make my way with my violin, then I will ask her." The fire in his heart at that moment was a match for Marla's, and enough of it showed that the others actually sat back a little.

"She assents to this? It seems somewhat unlike her," said Rudolf.

"She knows. She agrees."

They all looked at Franz soberly. He bore their gaze calmly, and they all saw the determination in his eyes. Finally Hermann spoke.

"Of all men, Franz, you may be most worthy of Fräulein Marla."

As the others nodded, Franz said quietly, "'Tis the challenge of the rest of my life, Hermann."

Gigue

Grantville

A few days later

"C'mon in, guys," Marla said to Franz and Isaac, holding open the door to her Aunt Susan's house. "The rest of the group is already here." She led them into the living room, where the only seats left open were the hard wooden chairs that had been brought in from the dining room. The sofa and easy chairs had already been claimed. Thomas, Hermann and the others grinned at them from the soft seats as Marla's aunt bustled around handing out glasses of apple cider and water. Cookies were evident all around, and Thomas was almost oblivious to their entry as he blissfully devoured a slice of apple pie that must have occupied a quarter of the pie pan it came from.

"Sit down, boys, sit down," Susan said, as she went by them on her way to the kitchen. She came back out with glasses of ice and pitchers of cider and water and set them down on the coffee table in front of them. "Fill up with whichever you like," came back over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen once more.

She reappeared carrying another plate of cookies, which Isaac took from her with alacrity, fending off hands that reached toward it from those who had been there before him.

"Away with you, jackals," he mock-snarled, holding the plate out of their reach. "'Tis bad enough that you usurp the chief places, leaving poor Franz and myself to set our nether portions on the hardest seats. 'Tis not enough that you have already wreaked destruction upon good Frau Garrett's provisions. But when she takes pity on poor Franz and myself and brings forth the fruits of her labors to revive us, you attempt to acquire them as well. Nay," he laughed, leaning away from Hermann, "nay, you will not have them. Look to your own!"

"But there are only crumbs here," Hermann whined.

"Then lick the platters clean," Franz weighed in, taking a handful of cookies from Isaac's plate, "for you'll have none of ours."

He took a bite, and the expression that came over his face rivaled that on Thomas', who had finished his pie and was now diligently scraping his plate clean and licking the fork.

Franz stood and bowed to Susan. "Frau Garrett, once again you have demonstrated your command of the baker's art, and produced what might be a model for the ambrosia of Olympus."

"Enough of your foolishness, Franz Sylwester," Susan said, blushing slightly as she wiped her hands on her apron.

Marla's aunt was indeed one of the best bakers in town, but at this point in the post-Ring of Fire existence of Grantville, she had what some in town considered an unfair advantage. Her husband, Jim, had owned and managed Garrett's Super Market when the Ring fell. As soon as she had recovered from her shock and thought through the implications of that event, she had marched right down to the store and commandeered all the spices that were left on the shelves. As a result of her foresight and her sparing use of them, she had bottles of cinnamon, nutmeg and other spices hidden away long after most of the other households in town had run out. True, spices were now available from the down-time merchants that serviced Grantville's economy, but their supplies were low in quantity and erratic in availability, which kept the prices high. As a consequence, in the late summer of 1634, if a baking mood settled on her, children from all around could be seen gathered around the screen door to her kitchen inhaling the aromas, and it wasn't unknown for grown men to plead for the privilege of licking her mixer beaters and bowls.

Franz and Isaac gave testimony to Susan's skills as they wasted no time in reducing their plate to mere crumbs as well. There was silence as everyone was either chewing or chasing crumbs around their plates, obviously thinking hard about licking them, but resisting the temptation. Finally, Marla stood up.

"Okay, guys, let's get started. English or German?"

"English," several voices replied.

"Good," she said, "because I'm not sure I could discuss today's topic in German.

"I asked you to meet here today, because I needed access to a good stereo." She put her hand on a stack of black metal cabinets piled on a small table next to where she stood at the head of the room, and then pointed to some fairly large wooden boxes in the corners of the room. Franz noticed wires running from the metal cabinets to the boxes in the corners, and deduced that they must be some type of the "speakers" that were used elsewhere in Grantville to produce sound and music from the shiny silver discs called CDs. The speakers had the letters "JBL" on an emblem. He wondered what that stood for.

A sad expression crossed Marla's face, and she said quietly, "This was my brother Paul's stereo. Before the Ring fell, he spent hours listening to it. This is the first time it's been hooked up since then."

She fell silent for several moments, then sighed. The others waited patiently, knowing that her brother, along with her parents, had not been within the radius of the Ring when it fell. Franz in particular knew how hard she had been struck by the knowledge that she would never see them again.

She looked up and, with an obvious effort, said, "Anyway, I want to spend tonight talking about popular music.

"There has always been a difference between the music done for art's sake, and the music done to please the common man. You know that's true. The music you create for patrons, and I include the church in that category, is different from the music you create on street corners and in taverns. It may be related—you know as well as I do that melodies from the street and the taverns have a way of sneaking into even the music written for the churches—but there is a definite difference in complexity between the two. The more complex the music grows, the smaller it seems the audience is who can truly appreciate it.

"As I said, this has pretty much always been the case, but until the early 1900s the music of the streets was more of an undercurrent in the stream of music. That changed with the invention of mechanical devices that could record music played in one place onto some kind of medium, such as wax or types of plastic—" They all nodded at the reference to the magic stuff that was so prevalent in Grantville. "—or even the CDs.

"What happened was once the average citizen could own a device that would play whatever music he wanted whenever he wanted it, he began buying the music he liked. That changed the way music was created and performed. By the 1970s, it was becoming difficult for many orchestras to exist, partly because people were buying different music than what the orchestras played, and partly because even the music the orchestras did play could be recorded, bought and played at any time.

"The popular music, the outgrowth of the music of the streets, took many forms. Most people would like a few types. Very few people liked them all. But in almost every case, the popular musicians became like heroes, and it became a status symbol to people to have a lot of these recordings. The more you had, especially of rare or new or avant-garde musicians, the more status you had among your friends. By the time I was in high school, a ridiculously large amount of money was being spent every year by people all across our nation to purchase these recordings.

"The styles of music diverged for a while, but inevitably they began influencing each other again, both between different types of popular music and between the popular music and the art music."

Marla stopped here, took a drink of cider, then picked up a CD and began to turn all the equipment on. "We're going to listen to a number of different kinds of popular music tonight. Some of it you may like; most of it you will find discordant; some of it you will out and out hate. But this is part of what music was right before the Ring fell."

****

Susan turned back into the kitchen from the door into the living room as music began to flow out of the speakers. She recognized the tune: "The Entertainer," by Scott Joplin. She was slightly pleased with herself that she knew it . . . Lord knew that music was not her strength, not like Marla and Paul and their mother Alison. Now that Marla was so involved with this bunch of boys—young men, rather—she had rather the feeling of the duck that had hatched a swan. Marla was growing and stretching her horizons, and Susan could only stand behind her and watch her go. It was good to see her living and laughing again, but it still was a little scary to see her surrounded by these young men all the time, talking about things that Susan didn't understand. If only John and Alison could have been with her. They would have been so proud of Marla, and Alison at least would have understood her and what was going on.

She dabbed at her eyes with her apron, then muttered, "Standing around leaking tears isn't going to get the dishes done, silly." She began running the water in the sink, added the soap, then gathered up the bowls, pans and plates and put them in the sink. As she was turning the water off, the outside screen door opened, and she looked around to see Ingram Bledsoe and Hans Riebeck coming in.

"Sorry we didn't knock, Susan," Ingram said, carefully closing the door, "but we didn't want to disturb anything."

"That's all right," she said, drying her hands on a towel. "You all want some water or cider? I'd offer you some cookies, but those two-legged vacuum cleaners in the other room have already Hoovered up everything I baked today."

Ingram chuckled, and said, "I'll take some cider, thank you kindly."

"I, too, bitte," Master Riebeck said. His English had rapidly improved since he had first come to Grantville back in March, but he was obviously still thinking in German and translating to English as he spoke. Occasionally, what came out sounded a little odd or stilted to American ears.

In the other room, the music had ceased, and there was a murmur of conversation. Ingram looked that way, then looked back at Susan and said, "How's she doing?"

She shrugged. "You're askin' the wrong person, Ingram. I'm a Linder born, and ain't no Linders been great musicians before Paul and Marla. Grandpa used to say that he was goin' to sing in Heaven, but it would take Heaven for him to do it. The Linder women all sound like rusty gates, and the men all sound like asthmatic bullfrogs. Even Marla's older sister Jonni takes after us. No, it was the Easterly blood that brought Paul and Marla their talents."

She picked up her glass of water and swirled it around. "Alison used to say that her great-grandmother was half Black Irish and half Cherokee and was what the old folks used to call a cunning woman, but that even in her eighties when Alison knew her, she could still sing the birds out of the trees onto her fingers. She said all the talent came from her."

She raised the glass and swallowed the water. "John was mystified by them two kids," she continued. "He didn't understand them at all. Called them his cuckoos sometimes. He was proud of them, though. He'd about bust his suspenders any time that Marla sang, and he just about couldn't keep his feet on the ground when Paul played that guitar." She set the glass in the sink, and she stared into the soapy water. "It about killed him when Paul got the cancer. He lost about as much weight watching Paul suffer through the chemotherapy for the leukemia as Paul did. That's why they weren't here when the Ring fell . . . they'd driven Paul to his next treatment. Oh, drat," she said matter-of-factly, wiping her eyes with her apron again. "It's been over three years. You'd think I could talk about them without crying."

She was surprised when Master Riebeck reached a gnarled hand over and patted her shoulder. "Frau Susan," he said, "those we love, we love forever, we miss forever. My brother was younger than me. He died years ago; I miss him still."

"Thanks," she said softly. "I miss them, I worry about how they felt and how they handled our being gone, but I think the worst is that we don't know what happened to Paul. Marla had a bad cold, so she'd been sleeping over here for several days so she wouldn't infect him. She didn't even get to say goodbye. She took it hard, real hard."

Ingram nodded in agreement. "The Bible says Hell is a place of fire, but I seem to remember readin' about some guy who said that there was a place of ice in Hell."

"Dante Alighieri," said Master Riebeck.

"Whoever. I could almost believe that, 'cause that's what Marla was like after the Ring fell," Susan said. "Her soul was frozen, and she was pure cutting edge. I thank God every night for Franz Sylwester. I mean, I'm sorry he got hurt and all, but I think it was purely the hand of God that brought him to Grantville and to Marla. Whether they marry or not, he's made her live again, and he'll always have a place in my heart and my home because of it."

"Ja, and we say danke Gott for Fräulein Marla, because she gave him life and worth again."

"Ain't it funny how God works?" The two men raised their glasses in a toast to that simple truth.

A long moment of quiet followed, and the music from the other room intruded. A man with a silky voice began singing. Ingram raised his eyebrows. "Frank Sinatra? What's she doing tonight?"

"She said she was going to walk them through one hundred years of popular music tonight."

"Well, it sounds like she's only up to about 1940. She's got a ways to go yet."

****

Franz's head seemed full to bursting, and he was very glad to hear Marla say, "Okay guys, we're almost done. Let's take a quick break, and then we'll wrap it up with one last song."

She disappeared down the hallway to the bathroom, and everyone else just seemed to slump in their chairs. Isaac leaned over, rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands.

"Oooh," he moaned. "My head is spinning. Ragtime, Dixieland, jazz . . . "

"Southern gospel, black gospel . . . " Hermann added.

"Blues . . . " from Leopold.

"Country and western . . . " Josef and Rudolph said together.

"Rock and roll," finished Friedrich.

"Louis Armstrong . . . "

"Glenn Miller . . . "

"Harry James . . . "

"Billie Holiday . . . "

"Frank Sinatra . . . "

"Elvis Presley . . . "

"Brubeck . . . "

"Hank Williams . . . "

"The Beatles . . . "

"Johnny Cash!" several voices said at once, and they all started laughing.

After they regained their composure, Friedrich said, "How can so many different styles have developed so quickly? Our music develops slowly, changes slowly. Why did theirs change so rapidly?"

"We've already talked about the access to mechanical and electrical systems to play music," Marla said as she walked back into the room. "Another factor, though, is the changes in the place and authority of the church in society. For most of its existence, the church has been a conservative institution. That can be a good thing, at times. However, it can also be a drawback, for conservative organizations tend to be very slow to change. Ultraconservative organizations actively resist change. Hence the boiling pot of Europe that Luther and Calvin have lit a fire under."

She moved to the stereo, and continued speaking while she searched for a CD. "One of the areas where the church exerted its control was in the arts. Musical forms changed very slowly over the years. But as a result of the changes that occurred beginning with Luther, the influence of the church—whether Roman, Lutheran or Reformed—over music began to ebb, and musical evolutions began to cycle faster. By the 1800s, musical generations were occurring on a level with human generations. By my lifetime, musical generations were occurring every five to ten years.

"Ah, here it is!" She picked up a CD and turned to them with a smile so filled with mischievous glee that the hair on the back of Franz's neck prickled.

"Okay, guys, one last style, one last song. I've been promising Franz for weeks that I'd explain what 'heavy metal' means in our rock and roll music, and tonight's the night. You're all along for the ride. The song is For Whom the Bell Tolls." She loaded the CD player, pushed the play button, and turned the volume up.

Franz leaned back as a bell began to toll out of the speakers, and then the speakers erupted. After his exposure to what the local band Mountaintop played, he could call it music, but it was of a type that even Mountaintop had not produced. The sounds were harsh, discordant, but there was beat, there was rhythm, there was a recognizable harmony. What impressed him the most was the relentlessness of the music. There were lyrics—he heard them—but his whole focus was grabbed by the sounds produced by the musicians.

From the beginning, he was snared by the textures. The sounds that Marla had assured him before were produced by a type of guitar—somehow combined with the miracle of electricity—had an edge to them, an edge that was like both a saw blade that cut and a string of barbed fish hooks that caught and tore. There was no virtuosity, no showcasing of a musician's skill at ornamentation. There was only pure relentlessness, pure passion, pure drive, that reached deep inside him and struck a resonance that vibrated his entire being. The song was not performed, it was executed, and he was the target of it, caught up in it, feeling nothing but the angst of the music.

After an eternity, the song gradually faded away. Franz fell back in his chair, suddenly released from the tension, feeling more drained than if he had been performing for hours. He looked around, and the others looked even worse than he felt—pale, eyes wide, breathing hard.

Marla looked around, smiling slightly, and asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think I've heard the triumphal march of Hell," Hermann muttered. "Nothing could have prepared me for that."

"Was that really popular in your time?" Leopold asked.

"Oh, yes," Marla said. "Millions of people, including my brother, loved the stuff. If he had . . . Let's just say that his heart's desire was to play it, and he was well on his way when he got sick."

"I liked it," Rudolf said, which provided everyone with their first glimpse of a disconcerted Marla.

"You did?"

"Yes. Oh, do not mistake me! I would not choose it to listen to all day long, nor do I think it will ever be accepted by our people today—definitely not by the church. But there was a passion to it, and once you get past the harsh metallic sound you can tell that it was crafted well. We could learn about the use of discord and tension from that music."

Marla had smiled in the middle of Rudolf's comments, then started to giggle, and finally started laughing when he was finished. She calmed down quickly, wiping her eyes, and said, "I'm sorry, Rudolf, I wasn't laughing at you. It's just that you were righter than you knew when you described the sound as metallic. The band's name was Metallica."

"Appropriate." He smiled in return.

Marla stood and stepped forward a step or two. Franz watched with pride as she effortlessly gathered their eyes and attention.

"There's a lot more that we could listen to, but the point of the evening was to give you an overview of what we called popular music to wrap up the seminar. Now, we've walked down a long road all these weeks, but you've been given a taste of what up-time music is like, the sonorities and techniques it can add to your musical palette. I don't want it to replace everything that you have. I don't want you to become imitation up-timers. I want you to be the musicians you are, but along the way I want you to incorporate what you find good and worthy from our music. Help preserve its master works, but produce your own as well. Regardless of what happens with the war, regardless of whether Gustavus Adolphus wins or loses, regardless of whether or not Grantville survives, don't let our music die."

Franz stared at Marla, standing straight and tall, eyes gleaming like blue torches, passion radiating from her like heat, and his eyes blurred as tears of pride welled up. Now she was coming into her own, now she was calling them, challenging them to follow her, to be more than they ever thought they could be.

Hermann was the first on his feet. He stepped forward, clasped her hand, stared up at her and swore, "By my name, Fräulein Marla, I am with you. If your cause is lost, it will not be for want of my best effort."

Swiftly the others joined them, hands joined with Marla's and Hermann's. "The music of Grantville must not, will not die!" Thomas thundered.

"Amen!"

Coda

Magdeburg

August, 1633

Mary Simpson picked the letter up and read it once more.

From the Desk of Marcus Wendell

Dear Mrs. Simpson,

I received your request that I come to Magdeburg and become involved in the establishment of an instrumental arts program. While I am very flattered that you think so highly of me, I must regretfully decline.

What you need is a virtuoso, and even in my best days, in my youth, I was never a virtuoso. I am definitely not one now. I am good at what I do, which is take children and turn them into well-rounded educated individuals who know something about the arts and music. Every few years, I am fortunate enough to have a student or two of sufficient talent that I can guide them into a life of music as a teacher or minor performer. But that experience does not equip me to do the work you are asking of me. Bluntly speaking, I have neither the temperament nor the tools to be what you are seeking.

Having turned you down for myself, however, now let me provide you with another possibility. I don't happen to have a virtuoso in my pocket, but I perhaps can point you to someone who can become a virtuoso.

Her name is Kristen Marlena Linder, although she prefers to go by Marla. She's young, about 21. Physically, she's rather striking. I wouldn't call her pretty—handsome is a better word. She's tall by our standards, about 5'10" or so, and she has that amazing Black Irish coloration that you sometimes see in the Appalachian hill families: coal black hair, skin so pale it's almost translucent, a dusting of freckles, and the bluest of eyes. There were girls in her class at school who were prettier, but if she was in the room, most of the boys preferred to talk to her. Marla is definitely a good example of that old cliché, the magnetic personality. And if she smiles, it's like switching on a flood lamp.

She was a senior the year of the Ring of Fire, almost ready to graduate. Musically, she was my drum major during marching season that year, and my student conductor and first chair flute player during concert season, but that's not why I'm bringing her to your attention. She is also an extremely talented pianist, easily the equal of many collegiate piano majors. But perhaps her greatest gift is as a vocalist. She can vocalize to about four and one-half octaves, maybe a little more, and has a usable range of almost four octaves. Her voice is unusual—she has the high range of a coloratura, but the timbre and power of a lyric soprano.

As an indication of just how good she is, the day before the Ring fell I heard from a college friend who is the brother of a woman on the faculty at Eastman School of Music in New York. He told me that Eastman was going to offer her a full scholarship in voice. She had scholarship offers from other universities, but as you know, Eastman is a conservatory to rank with Juilliard. The official notice never arrived, of course. I never had the heart to tell her, because she was pretty badly torn up by losing her parents and brother, and this would have made her grief just that much worse.

She finally came out of her shell after meeting some down-time musicians this year, and for the last several months has been leading what I would consider to be a graduate level multidiscipline seminar in music history, form and analysis, and piano and voice performance with several down-timers using nothing more than a couple of old college textbooks, encyclopedia entries and liner notes from classical music recordings. They're all young and arrogant, of course, but she has not only held her own with them, she's earned their respect, to the point that they have basically accepted her as their leader and mentor. I don't have to tell you just how unusual that would be in our time that was. I am almost in awe of it now.

Mrs. Simpson, if a music teacher in my position is very fortunate, perhaps once in his lifetime he finds a student who can soar to the highest heights, who can become one of the stars in the musical firmament. For me, that once-in-a-lifetime student is Marla Linder.

Allow me to present Marla to you as a virtuoso in development. I believe she is the best solution available for the situation you have described. I also believe that if you were to provide to her the guidance that I cannot, the guidance on how to be a virtuoso among virtuosi, then her potential will be realized, to the enrichment of the world we now live in and the joy of those who know her.

Sincerely,

Marcus Wendell

Mary put the letter down on her desk, and tapped her finger against her lips, thinking. Marla . . . a woman . . . She must be a truly remarkable young woman, to have brought forth such a paean from Marcus Wendell. She hadn't had much contact with the band director during the Simpsons' relatively short stay in Grantville, but he had impressed her as a direct, outspoken man who would usually call a spade a spade. If he judged her so, then she must be good.

One of the things that Mary had been wrestling with was how to get up-time music somehow disseminated among the down-timers. That was the cornerstone to the plans she was even now trying to formulate for building an arts program in Magdeburg. An imperial capital deserved the best: opera, ballet, a symphony. Spreading the musical knowledge that she knew was available in Grantville had to happen for any of those programs to be sustainable.

The irony did not escape Mary that, even as she struggled with how to begin such a process, it had happened without her. With a quirky smile, she reminded herself that the world did not revolve around her. In fact, she'd best pull up her stockings and hustle if she wanted to guide this particular parade.

Mary reread the portion of the letter where Marcus described what Marla had done. A bond between an up-timer and down-timers, based on nothing more than the common love of great music. How remarkable.

Marla . . . a woman . . . Her thoughts repeated themselves. Mary liked the thought. She had never considered herself a feminist. In her college days, she had known plenty of fem-libbers. Some of them had become very impressive women in their maturity—she'd allow, albeit a bit grudgingly, that Melissa Mailey was no one to sneer at. But many had later morphed into the types who seemed to do nothing but whine endlessly, fund litigations over every perceived slight, and extend "political correctness" into even trying to revise the Bible to remove gender references to God. She'd never had much sympathy for them.

On the other hand, she had quietly encouraged John to ensure equal pay for equal work in his industrial plants. She'd always been of the opinion that if they were given a level playing field, women of any ability would do well.

Mary laughed to herself, almost wishing that one of those so-called radicals had been caught in the Ring of Fire. That would almost have made what had happened worth it, to see one of them caught up in the truly patriarchal societies of the seventeenth century. She would really have enjoyed seeing one of them square off against some of the down-time ministers. Melissa Mailey could stand her own against them, certainly, but most of the ones Mary had known in college would just run for cover.

Shaking her head, Mary returned to her thoughts about Marla. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the fact that a young woman had become the center around which this group revolved. Under her aegis, perhaps this young woman could serve as a dash of cold water in the face of the smug musicians she'd met so far, the ones who were just parasites on the coats of the Hoch-Adel.

There had been conflicts between up- and down-timers on many fronts. In the early days of the naval yard, John had more than once spent an evening raving about problems caused by hard-headed Grantvillers and hard-headed Germans both getting wrapped up in their pride and arrogance. She didn't delude herself that it would be any different between the court musicians and Marla and her young lions. But the fact that Marla was a woman would perhaps keep the "old school" off balance.

She sat up straight. Decision made—invite Marla here. Why not? If she was that good, she was worth bringing in as a performer. If she could in time become something more than that, well . . .

Telegram? No, too impersonal. This needed a human touch. She pulled open a drawer and took out a sheet of cream-colored paper—they did make such nice paper here-and-now—and uncapped her fountain pen.

Dear Miss Linder,

My name is Mary Simpson, and I am writing to offer you an opportunity . . .

Command Performance

Magdeburg

Friday, October 14, 1633

Franz knocked on the door, and waited impatiently for someone to answer. Marla made a slight grunt, and her hold on his arm became a fierce clutch. He leaned over to her bowed head, and said, "But a moment more, and you will be out of the rain and able to sit." She nodded her head slightly, and he straightened.

At that moment, the door opened and a young woman looked out at them. "Yes?" she said in accented English.

"Fräulein Marla Linder, come at Frau Simpson's invitation," Franz replied.

The young woman opened the door wide. "Please, come in. Wilkommen."

Franz led Marla into the house. The comparative warmth of the sitting room was a very welcome change from the liquid ice of the October rain, and he heard her sigh. Another woman swept into the room from a side door as the maid shut the front door behind them.

"Miss Linder, I am so glad to finally meet you face to face," the newcomer exclaimed.

Franz was in no doubt as to who this was, although he had never seen her before in his life. Even in Grantville they had begun to hear of Mary Simpson, the Dame of Magdeburg, whose grace and courtesy had charmed even the young myrmidons of the Committees of Correspondence.

Marla's fingers clenched on his arm again. "Your pardon, Frau Simpson," Franz hastily interjected, "but it would be a kindness if Marla could sit down."

Mrs. Simpson's beaming smile shifted to an expression of concern, and her eyes widened as she took Marla's hands. "Dear, your hands are like ice! You poor thing." Mary released Marla's hand and began unfastening buttons. "At the end of a long journey, and you're soaking wet and cold. Hilde, help take her coat." With the maid's help, the drenched coat was removed and hung up. "Come with us, and we'll get you warm and dry."

The serving woman led Marla out of the sitting room as Mary turned to Franz. "Please, make yourself at home, while we take care of Miss Linder. Tell me, Mr . . . ." she looked at him in inquiry.

"Franz Sylwester, Frau Simpson," he responded with a slight bow.

Mary smiled. "Oh, good, I was hoping to meet you. We'll talk later, but for right now, do you know if Marla gets like this often? How long has she been hurting?"

"Never have I seen her like this," Franz said, his worry coming to the fore. "She has been suffering for over two days now, since after the rain started."

Mary nodded. "As I thought. If we get her dry and warm, it should ease up. Please, Franz, be seated, and we'll be back with you before long." She turned and hurried out of the room.

Franz took his violin in its bag and Marla's flute in its case from the plastic bags that had protected them from the rain. He set the instruments on a nearby table, then hung the precious bags to dry on a peg next to Marla's coat near the door. He stopped for a moment to look at the bags, and marvel at the stuff they were made from. How plastic was made still seemed like magic to him, but there was no denying how useful the stuff was. Take these bags—they weighed next to nothing, could be folded and stuck into a pocket, yet at a moment's notice they could be taken out and used to shield anything they would contain from moisture. Truly, the future must be a marvelous place if it could produce Marla, the music he was coming to love so strongly, and plastic.

With a smile he started on his own buttons, and moments later his own very wet coat was hung on the next peg in the wall. Finally shed of his various burdens, he took a seat in one of the most comfortable chairs it had ever been his pleasure to sit in. The warmth radiating from the stove soaked into him and the chill left his own extremities. He felt his body relaxing for the first time since the trip from Grantville had begun.

Traveling in Thuringia in the late fall and early winter was unpleasant at best, and arduous at worst. Rain or early snow could turn what roads there were into muddy bogs. Shepherding a grand piano from Grantville to Magdeburg in early October had been . . . interesting, Franz mused.

****

The process began when Marla accepted Mary Simpson's invitation to come to Magdeburg and bring 'modern' music with her. The day the letter from Mrs. Simpson arrived, Franz saw a rare mixture of emotions in Marla. She was very excited, which was to be expected; but for the first time in their relationship, Franz saw Marla experiencing uncertainty. It had taken the combined support of Marcus Wendell, Marla's old high school band director, Ingram Bledsoe, her instrument maker friend, and her entire circle of down-time musician friends to convince her that she should take up this opportunity.

Once Marla decided to come to Magdeburg, however, her self-confidence came rolling back like a river flooding over its banks. The metaphor, Franz smiled as he recalled those days, was an apt one; she was as relentless in her focus as a flash flood. The days that followed were very intense, as she gathered music and supplies. Her biggest need, however, was a piano—a good one.

That need for a piano caused a whirlwind inventory of instruments in Grantville. The results surprised every up-timer except Ingram, who was Grantville's resident piano tuner. For such a small town, there were a surprising number of pianos. They found nearly one hundred upright, console and spinet pianos in various states of repair with ages ranging from pre-World War I instruments to one that had been delivered only a few weeks before the Ring of Fire. A fair quantity of the older and more dilapidated instruments were now located in the warehouse-cum-workshop of Bledsoe & Riebeck, the new piano manufacturing firm formed by Ingram and Hans Riebeck, the father-in-law of one of Franz's down-timer friends. They all made jokes about the graveyard of old pianos, but actually the craftsmen were mining the instruments for hardware to make new pianos for down-timers.

Marla didn't even consider selecting one of the smaller pianos, though it would have been easier to move. She focused her attention on the larger grand and baby grand instruments. Franz remembered going with her on her rounds of various houses and churches. There were over half a dozen baby grands in Grantville, and she played each one extensively. He also remembered their conversation as they left the last house.

"Well, that was disappointing," she said, as they walked down the sidewalk from the house. "I haven't heard a baby grand yet that I really liked, but that one was just bad."

"So what will you do?" Franz asked.

"I don't have any choice. I have to have one of the big grands."

"Tell me again where they are."

"First Baptist Church has a Baldwin, the Methodist church has a recent model Steinway, and Marcus Wendell tells me there's an old Steinway in the High Street Mansion," Marla said.

"Do you know them well?"

"The ones in the churches I do. I haven't seen or played the old Steinway, but from what Marcus tells me, it needs some pretty extensive work done to it."

"So which one do you want?"

"I don't have time to wait on the mansion's piano to get fixed. Besides, Girolamo Zenti is having a bidding war with Bledsoe and Riebeck for it, and who knows how long it will take to settle that. It will have to be one of the church pianos. I'll take whichever one I can get," Marla answered, "but I want the Steinway. The Baldwin's tone is too dark, and although it's a lot newer than the mansion's piano, it's still old enough that I'm a little afraid to move it very far. No, it has to be the Methodist Steinway. It's going to put a big hole in the church's music program though," she said in a worried tone, concerned about her home church. "I hope that Reverend Jones will forgive me."

Ingram had once warned Franz that when Marla 'shifted into high gear', she was hard to keep up with. Franz learned exactly what the older man had meant over the next three days, his recollection of which was a little blurred. He moved in Marla's wake, watching mostly in silence from behind her shoulder as she went from office to office and person to person, asking, pleading, demanding and negotiating. Her concern about the effect of this requisition on her home church didn't stop her from making it all the same.

At the end of it, Marla had forged an agreement between several parties wherein the Methodist church agreed to release their grand piano for shipment to Magdeburg. In exchange, the church was to receive some compensation from Mary Simpson's arts league, the use of the best of the baby grand pianos (which happened to be owned by a member of the church, who was also to be compensated), and an option to purchase a new grand from Bledsoe & Riebeck at cost when their new company was able to begin manufacturing them. The arts league agreed to pay the costs to transport the requisitioned instrument to Magdeburg, and the government agreed to give Bledsoe & Riebeck a tax deduction for the difference between the cost of the replacement piano and the price for which they would normally have sold it.

It was the piano that dictated when they would leave for Magdeburg. Their friends Ingram Bledsoe and Friedrich Braun first had to build a shipping crate for it. And of course, Marla was hovering at their shoulders while they were doing so, anxious that it should be perfect so that no harm should come to her beloved Steinway. It was well-designed, well-constructed and definitely well-padded. She finally agreed it was time to encase the piano and prepare to leave. At that point Ingram, for the first time since Franz had become acquainted with him, became firm with her. His words were, "Marla, if you're here, you will drive us all batty. Even if you don't say anything, you'll make us so nervous there will be an accident. Now, be a good girl and go with Franz, and let us pack your baby up for you."

Franz smiled as he remembered the expression on Marla's face. She was surprised more than anything that a man she considered to be like a favorite uncle would speak so to her, but she did understand the sense of it, and reluctantly—very reluctantly—came away with Franz.

The next morning they went to the church to find that the piano was packed, wrapped in one of those marvelous sheets of plastic—Ingram called it a 'tarp'—and sealed with some also marvelous sticky stuff. When he asked Ingram what it was, he thought he didn't hear the answer correctly. "Duck tape?" It gave rise to a number of interesting mental images.

"Duct tape. Duct with a 't'," Ingram said. "The late twentieth century's answer to twine and baling wire." And then Ingram had to explain what baling wire was.

Several large and brawny men had been recruited to remove the crate from the church and load it onto the wagon that was going to carry it to the river. Franz remembered his surprise at the size of the crate. He had expected it to be quite large, but it was only about eight or nine feet long, about six feet wide and about four feet high. When he remarked on this, Friedrich looked at him with a supercilious expression—'Of course, the legs come off,'—as if Franz were a dunce. Before Franz could hit him, the call came to lift the crate, so his sarcastic friend escaped without lumps.

The crate was lifted with a great deal of heaving, straining and grunting; and with a great deal more it was walked out the doors of the church meeting hall, through the entry and out into the daylight. It had to be lifted even higher to place it into the bed of the wagon, so along with the heaving and grunting, Franz remembered hearing words muttered that properly should not be spoken near a church. It took all their strength, but it was finally loaded onto the wagon and on its way to the riverside.

The River Saale was not very wide or deep at the place where they were to embark, and those who had arranged for the barges had told Marla of the trouble they had in finding one that was large enough to carry the piano yet small enough to navigate the course of the river that far upstream. There were actually two barges awaiting them when they arrived at the riverside—one to carry the piano, and one to carry Marla and her friends and their bags and instruments. When she saw the barges, Marla almost had an apoplectic fit. The larger of the two was for the piano. It seemed as though it almost touched the banks on both sides of the river, yet when she looked at the crate it appeared to be wider than the barge. Ingram and Friedrich consulted with the barge master, then Ingram took out his . . . 'tape measure', Franz thought it was called—another marvelous device—and measured the width of the barge cargo space, then measured the crate, and pronounced a judgment that it would fit. That calmed Marla to some extent, but she was still nervous as they wrapped the harness around the crate and attached the hoisting tackle.

Franz still had a bruise from where Marla's long, strong pianist's fingers clamped on his arm while the crate with the almost invaluable and definitely irreplaceable Steinway was swayed up and out and eventually lowered to the deck of the first barge. She relaxed finally as the deck hands lashed down the crate. Piano and crate together only weighed about 1000 up-time pounds, so the barge didn't settle much in the water, which was a good thing—the river was not only narrow at this place, it was also shallow. In any event, the crate filled the craft from side to side. There might have been room for someone to step between it and the side of the barge, but that someone would have needed a very small foot.

That was actually the most exciting part of the trip. The people were loaded on the second barge in a matter of minutes. Marla, of course, wanted to ride on the first barge with her 'baby', but the barge master refused. He said that with the cargo area so full there was only room for his crew. He was right. There might have been five feet between the bow and the crate, and maybe a little more than that between the crate and the stern, which truly was barely enough room for himself, his brother and his two sons to work in. He offered to let her ride on top of the crate. Franz still wasn't sure if the barge master was jesting or not, the man's craggy face was so sober. He thought that Marla actually considered it, but she finally refused, to Franz's relief.

"Well," Marla had said, "here we go." Their bags were being tossed from the dock to the deck of the second barge, so she led the way down the gangplank, followed by Franz and the rest of those who were traveling with them, all clutching precious instrument cases under their arms. The mooring ropes were untied and thrown on deck, and the bargemen leaned into their poles to shove off into the river's current and begin the journey downstream to Magdeburg.

Then the rain began.

****

Franz's train of thought stopped abruptly when Mary Simpson returned. He shot to his feet.

"Frau Simpson, how is Marla?" The worry in his tone matched the expression on his face. Mary settled into a nearby chair, crossed her legs and waved him back to his own seat.

"Marla is just fine," she said, smiling. "She's changed into dry clothing and is getting warm. She was already starting to feel better when I left her."

"But will she be all right?" he persisted.

"Franz, she is fine." Mary's voice had a soothing note, and Franz finally relaxed back into the embrace of his chair.

Now that his mind was easing, Franz became very aware of the presence of Mary Simpson. She reminded him of Marla. It wasn't a physical resemblance. Neither woman was classically beautiful; Mary's nose was somewhat aquiline, and Marla's chin was a shade too strong. Physically, Mary was a small woman, slightly built, whereas most down-timer men, including Franz himself, had to look up to meet Marla's eyes. And when it came to eyes, Marla's were blue and set in a pale complexion, while Mary's were gray and framed by slightly olive skin. At the moment, Mary's eyes were warm and smiling, but Franz could easily guess that if she became angry they would be storm cloud gray, to match the ice that could sometimes come to Marla's gaze. They both had black hair, but Marla's was glossy, long and straight, while Mary had short wavy black hair turning gray at the temples. That gray hair and the small wrinkles at the outside corners of her eyes were the only things that indicated that Mary was perhaps older than she appeared to be at first glance.

Though there wasn't a strong likeness in appearance, the two women were even so similar in poise and grace. Just now, despite the fact that Mary was wearing trousers, Franz still felt an impression that earlier she had been gracefully moving in formal attire. Marla could move with sufficient poise at times that one would ignore the jeans and sweater that she might be wearing. Both women had a smile that could light a room and serve as a beacon of warmth. Right now Mrs. Simpson's smile was focused on him.

"So, since you're here, Franz, I assume that the piano made the trip safely?"

"Yes, Frau Simpson . . . "

"Call me Mary, please."

"Mary," Franz smiled a little, recalling his comparison of Mary and Marla, and how frequently he had heard another voice saying, "Call me Marla." Recollecting the question he had been asked, he continued, "Yes, the piano arrived safely. Even in her pain, Marla would not move from the docks until she saw it taken from the barge and loaded safely on a wagon."

"Good." Mary nodded. "I really wanted it to unload at the naval docks, but I couldn't get John to agree." Franz realized she was referring to her husband, John Simpson, Admiral of the USE Navy. "He said that things were too tightly scheduled right now for him to spare that much time at one of their docks." She frowned a little, then shrugged. "He did agree that he would send one of his men to the civilian docks to oversee the unloading there and make sure that everything went well."

"There was a Navy man at the dock, and he did indeed watch all the unloading," Franz said. "But everyone on the dock, including the Navy man, was watching another man out of the corners of their eyes. I do not know him. He did nothing but stand there in the rain, hands in pockets, and watch the unloading. He was not dressed well, but all the dockmen and bargemen acted as if he was an angel of the Lord. They walked wide circles around him, would not face him, and they worked at the unloading like men possessed. The crate was off its barge and on the wagon almost before we could climb up the gangplank from our barge to the dock. He did not introduce himself the whole time, even when the Navy man was telling the wagon driver where to take the crate and me how to find your house."

"That must have been Gunther," Mary replied. In response to Franz's raised eyebrow she continued, "Gunther Achterhof, the head of the local Committee of Correspondence."

Now both of Franz's eyebrows climbed to meet his hairline, and he gave a low whistle. Gunther Achterhof was building a reputation among the Committees of Correspondence. If Gretchen Higgins was the Moses of the CoC and Spartacus was Aaron the spokesman, then Gunther was reputed to be another Caleb, the fierce old man who at the age of eighty had told Joshua, "Give me the mountain with the wildest tribes to conquer," and then had gone out and done it. Remembering the stony face he had seen at the dock, Franz had no trouble believing everything he had heard about him.

"Oh, yes," Mary smiled slightly, "right now John and I are in very good favor with the Committees, partly because of the Navy and partly because of some other things."

Franz knew she referred to the events of the previous two weeks, where Magdeburg—indeed, much of northern Germany—seethed on the edge of open rebellion after the Battle of Wismar and the revelation of the self-sacrifice of Hans Richter. The actions of Admiral and Mrs. Simpson had been part of the lid that had kept that particular political pot from boiling over.

"Right now, anything that either of us finds important," Mary continued, "the Committees take an interest in. I imagine Hilde, our housekeeper, told him about the piano." In response to Franz's quizzical expression, she laughed a little. "Oh, yes, Hilde keeps them informed. I don't mind. John doesn't bring anything secret home from work, and since they have appointed themselves to see to our security, better that they get their information straight from the house rather than from rumors or from having to guess." She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward a little. "Now, tell me how the trip went. The last word I had was from a week ago, where Marla said she had the Steinway—which was great news—and that she would be coming by barge and would be arriving sometime around now."

Hilde had appeared with a tray carrying a coffee service while Mary was speaking. She poured two large cups of coffee as Mary finished and handed them to Franz and her mistress. She then took the wet coats from the hooks near the door and carried them away; to the kitchen Franz supposed, where they would be hopefully dried and warmed. Franz cradled the cup in his hands for a long moment, soaking up the warmth, especially in his crippled left hand, which was still aching from the cold. Finally, he took a sip and let it seep down his throat.

"Aaah."

Mary smiled over the rim of her own cup. "Yes, when you're cold and wet, a big cup of coffee is a good thing to have."

Franz nodded agreement, took another long sip, then leaned back in his chair again. He briefly recounted everything that had occurred in requisitioning the piano and preparing it for shipment. Taking another sip of coffee, he continued with, "We unmoored and pushed away somewhat before noon, and the rain began not long afterward. The bargemen put up a canvas shelter in the middle of the barge where we were able to sit and stay mostly dry. Marla, however, constantly fretted over the piano, so she spent most of her time up near the bow, watching the other barge like a mother whose only child is marching off to battle. From time to time I would bring her back to the shelter, but before long she would be back up leaning on the bow rail, watching her beloved piano. She spent most of the trip there, even at night."

"So how long did the trip take?"

"Three days from the time the barges pushed away from their moorings near Grantville to the time we touched the dock here in Magdeburg," Franz replied. "The barge masters had their crews poling during the first few hours. Gerd Eugenson, the master on our barge, told me that they wanted to get along as fast as they could while the rain was keeping the water high. He warned me that if either barge ran aground on a shallow bottom we would all have to get in the water and help pull it free. God be praised that was not required.

"Once we reached a place where the river was wider and deeper, they stowed the poles and we floated with the current. We only pulled to shore one morning when fog arose, as the barge masters were concerned about running into objects they could not see. The rest of the time we floated, even at night. They would light lanterns and hang them on the prow and stern, and keep a lookout ahead. When I asked why, Master Gerd laughed and said that they were being paid by the trip, not the number of days.

"We arrived at Magdeburg at last, and made our way past the activity of the Navy yard to the comparative quiet of the city docks, where we moored and unloaded. And so, we are here, safe and sound."

"And when did Marla start having trouble?" Mary asked.

"Yesterday," Franz answered. "She is, as you are no doubt aware, somewhat strong-willed," he chuckled, "and as I said, would not stay in the shelter. She kept going out on the prow in the rain, so she was cold and wet all the time. By this morning she was as you saw her when we arrived."

"I should have known you'd be talking about me," another voice said, and Franz's head whipped around to see Marla standing in the doorway at the back of the room, dressed in a thick robe and with a large shawl wrapped around her.

In the next moment, he was at her side and guiding her to a chair near the stove. "You should be resting," he scolded, worry in his eyes.

"I'm fine, Franz," she said, a little of her normal fire returning to her face and voice. "Once I got dry and started to get warm, I began to feel better."

"Are you sure?"

"Franz . . . " with a warning tone.

Marla's face was still somewhat drawn, but the color was returning, and she was smiling. A knot of worry in Franz's mind released, and he sighed in response. "All right, if you insist. But you are not going outside again today, maybe not tomorrow."

"I promise," she said. "But . . . "

"But what?"

"I want to know about the Steinway."

"Marla . . . " with exasperation.

"Franz . . . " sweetly.

He gazed into her eyes, and sighed. "All right, if I go and bring word to you, will you stay here?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

She raised a hand to his face. "I promise." He captured the hand and brought it around to kiss the fingertips.

"Then I will go forth and return with word of your precious Steinway." Franz straightened, then looked down at her with a grin. "You know, if that piano was a man, I would be very jealous."

"You!" She slapped his leg. "Get, and find out what's happening with my piano!"

"As you command," he intoned. Hilde appeared with his coat, which, if not totally dry, was at least dryer than it had been, and considerably warmer to boot.

"By your leave, Frau Simpson," he said with a slight bow.

"Go, Franz," she laughed. "She won't rest until you do."

He stepped to the door, raised a hand in farewell, and was gone.

****

Franz closed the door behind him and turned to face the street. Immediately he noticed that the rain had almost stopped. Casting a quizzical eye to the sky, he muttered, "You could have answered my prayer to stop the rain a little earlier than this, and spared Marla." He looked back at the street, and started down the steps. "I know, I know, 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the Name of the Lord.'"

When he reached the bottom, he turned and began walking toward the docks. At the end of the row of houses, he stopped a merchant's apprentice hurrying by and asked for directions to the palace. Slipping and sliding through the mud, he dodged wagons, horses and other people and finally arrived at the palace without injury. The wagon that had been hired to carry the piano from the docks to the hall was still waiting in front of it.

Like the rest of Magdeburg, the building had been built anew after Tilly's sack and the subsequent fires had damaged the original hall. Franz walked up the main steps to the portico, paused at the top to scrape his boots on the tool provided for that purpose, then faced a pair of large but plain doors. No doubt they would be replaced with ornately carved panels at the emperor's earliest convenience. He passed through them and entered a foyer with a couple of offices on each side, then a cross hallway, and on the other side a large space before a pair of doors flanked by stairways. Some money had already been spent here, for these doors had glass panes in them.

One of the office doors was open, so Franz stuck his head in the doorway. He spied a clerk hard at work at a ledger book. "Where is the great room?"

The clerk didn't even look up, just jabbed with the quill in his hand toward his left. "Through the glass doors." Dipping his quill in his ink, he continued his hasty scribbling.

The first thing Franz noticed as he opened the doors was Friedrich Braun's voice. "No, you idiot! Do not start lifting until I tell you to!"

Franz entered the room at the far end from where Friedrich was rolling out from under the piano to glare at someone Franz didn't know. Several of the men standing around the piano looked around as he approached. He saw Hermann Katzberg, Isaac Fremdling and Josef and Rupert Tuchman standing together, watching as Friedrich worked at uncrating the piano. Several Magdeburg locals, obviously drafted to provide muscle power, were grouped together on the other side of the piano. It was one of them that Friedrich was glaring at. The man started to bristle, but something caught his attention, and he paled and backed away to mingle with his companions. Franz followed his eyes, to see Gunther Achterhof leaning against the side wall and directing a very piercing gaze at the offender.

Franz's footsteps sounded in the suddenly quiet room, and Friedrich turned to spy him. "Franz! How is Marla?" All of his friends looked at him with concern written on their faces, expressions which lightened as they saw the smile on his own face.

"She is feeling better," he responded as he joined their rank. "Getting her inside where she could be warm and dry has made much difference. In a day or two, we will have her amongst us again, belaboring us with directions and criticisms, and assuring us that we will grow used to the dissonance."

They all laughed in relief as Franz squatted to bring himself down to Friedrich's level. "So what happens here, oh greatest of all journeymen?"

"Have a care how you speak to one who holds tools in his hands," Friedrich retorted, "lest you find them applied to your skull instead of this crate." He rolled back under the piano. "As you can see, the bottom of the shipping crate is resting on trestles. Master Ingram, who is indeed worthy of that accolade, designed the crate in such a manner that while it rests on the trestles, we can remove part of the bottom and reattach the legs and pedals to the piano. Thus we do not have to tilt it onto its side, nor have many men attempt to hold it in the air whilst I scurry around like a beetle underneath it, striving to attach the legs before it is dropped upon me. That is, if a certain lackwit can be restrained from attempting to lift one side of it until I am finished!" Friedrich's voice at that moment dripped acid. The man he referred to shuffled his feet and moved to the rear of the group of locals.

"So the liberating of the Steinway from its crate proceeds well, then?" Franz asked lightly.

"Aye, well indeed, thanks to the artifice of those unknown craftsmen who made the Steinway. 'Tis a miracle of design, Franz. So spare in features, so well crafted, so few tools needed to disassemble and reassemble it. There is an elegance in their work that I despair of ever attaining. And in its own way, Master Ingram's design of the crate is almost as elegant, allowing the piano to be enveloped by the crate's assembly around it, rather than forcing the instrument to be jostled around and eventually placed inside the crate. Much less risk of damage in his way. There!" he exclaimed, rolling out from under the piano again.

Climbing to his feet, Friedrich said, "All right, you lot, space yourselves around the piano, but leave the curved side open for the moment." He waited for the locals and Isaac, Johann and Rupert to take their places. "Do not grasp the packing crate, but the bottom of the instrument itself. Take a good grasp, so that the blanket wrapping it does not slip in your hands. And do not lift until I say the word!" with an indiscriminate glare for everyone involved. "Franz, Hermann, when we lift, gently pull the trestles and the remaining portion of the crate from under the piano. I remind you all, if anyone mars the beauty of this creation, he will answer to Fräulein Marla, and I would not be in his shoes for all the silver in Amsterdam." Franz took his coat off and tossed it to the floor some distance away.

Friedrich took his place at the keyboard end between two of the locals, took his grip and looked around at them all. "Lift!" The piano elevated, and Hermann dove under it to support the bottom of the case and guide it as Franz carefully pulled the first trestle from under the small end of the piano. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a very few of the up-timers' minutes, it was accomplished.

Hermann came out from under the instrument with a sour look on his face. Guessing that the expression came from his being apparently relegated to the easy work because of his short stature, Franz caught his eye and held up his damaged left hand, not saying a word. It took a moment for Hermann to catch his meaning, but catch it he did, and he acknowledged it with a nod and a wry twist of his mouth. As much as they might wish otherwise, Franz thought, they both had to acknowledge their limitations.

Friedrich handed a purse to Isaac, asking him to pay the locals, then rolled back under the piano. Franz heard Friedrich muttering, so he squatted again. "Now what occurs, oh wonder in the firmaments of craftsmanship?"

"What occurs is that a certain flap-tongued sawyer of strings is treading the steps of a dangerous dance, and may well find himself dancing with the devil if he continues." Friedrich muttered again, and this time Franz caught a mention of matter that was typically shoveled out of stable stalls.

Given that his friend normally took seriously the scriptural instruction to avoid vulgarity, Franz therefore knew that he was indeed frustrated about something underneath the Steinway. "Is there aught I can do?" he asked in a sober tone.

"Nay. The blanket that enwraps the piano is laced together underneath," Friedrich's voice sounded strained. "The knots will not release their hold."

"And who tied these knots?"

Silence, for a moment, then a surly, "I did."

Franz looked up at his other friends, to see grins that matched his own.

"Aha!" came from under the piano, and they could hear the sound of cords being drawn through holes, evidence that the knots had finally given way. In a few moments, Friedrich rolled out from underneath with two fists full of cords. The blanket edges now hung down straight from the sides of the piano. Friedrich pulled the blanket off, then opened the lid and took out the blanket that had been padding the props and the edge of the opening. Propping the lid open, he then unlocked the keyboard cover and removed the padding that had been inserted underneath it. "Hermann," he said, pulling over the bench that had been set to one side, "you are the best of us at this in Fräulein Marla's absence. Play, so that we can hear if it has suffered some hidden injury."

Hermann sat down and began to play something contrapuntal, something Franz knew he had heard before. After a moment, he recognized it as one of the Three-Part Inventions by J. S. Bach, one of the pieces that Marla had used early in their discussions about the future of music to demonstrate the final glories of the contrapuntal style of composition. Hermann played it well. After he brought the work to its conclusion, he looked at Friedrich, then at Franz, saying, "To my ear, it rings true."

"To me as well," Friedrich nodded. "Marla will probably want to tune it, but I think it has survived its travels without injury."

"Good," Franz replied, picking up his coat and shrugging it on. "That is the word that Marla sent me to obtain. Now I can take that to her, and she will at last be at her ease." His fingers busy with buttons, he asked, "Where are we sleeping tonight? Have you found word of an inn where we can stay until we can find rooms?"

Before anyone could respond, Gunther Achterhof pushed off from the wall where he had been leaning, forgotten all this time. The friends turned to face him, and Franz forced himself to not step back from the man's presence. "No need for an inn," the CoC leader said. "Mistress Linder will be staying with Admiral and Frau Simpson, and rooms for all of you have been provided by Herr Wilhelm Wettin."

Franz knew that name, but it took him a moment to remember why he knew it. Then his eyes opened wide—the former duke of Saxe-Weimar! That was who was providing them accommodations! He glanced around, and the others were as stunned as he was. From the slight smile on Gunther's face, he found their reactions humorous.

"Umm," Franz hemmed, "are you certain?"

"Oh, yes," Gunther replied, still smiling that slight smile, "the former Duke of Saxe-Weimar, now the commoner Wilhelm Wettin, has offered to 'put you up', as the Americans say. I think it would be rude to refuse." They all assured him they were in agreement with him. "And besides, your bags have already been delivered there," Gunther concluded, which left them with nothing at all to say.

"Good. Now, Herr Sylwester, let me walk with you back to Admiral Simpson's house." And with that, Franz found himself waving goodbye to his friends as Gunther urged him out the door.

He looked over at the Committee man's face as they walked down the street, wondering what Gunther's desire to walk with him foreboded. Gunther caught him at it and smiled his slight smile again. "Do not worry, Herr Sylwester. I simply wanted a little privacy to tell you something."

"Tell me something?" Franz almost stuttered.

"Yes." The smile disappeared. "We will be watching over you."

"Over us?" Franz knew he sounded stupid, but he was almost struck dumb over the notion of the Committees of Correspondence keeping watch on Marla and himself.

"Yes. Magdeburg is not as . . . civilized . . . as Grantville. You will be protected, much as we protect the Admiral and his lady."

Moments of silence as they walked along, then, "Why?" from Franz.

"Partly because Fräulein Linder is American, and you are hers; partly because she is here under the wing of the Admiral's lady; and partly because of who she is." Gunther paced quietly for several steps. "I heard her sing once, at the Gardens. Almost I forgot who I was." More silent steps, then, "Will she sing for us here?" There was a tone in his voice, one that Franz could not recognize, but something more than the usual gruffness.

"I cannot speak for her, but it would not surprise me," Franz responded.

"Good."

They stopped at an intersection of streets, where Gunther clapped Franz on his shoulder, staggering him slightly. "The Admiral's street is the second corner after this one. You should make it with no problems from here. And remember, we are watching. If you need anything, just look around. You will find us." Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, he turned up the cross street. Franz stared after him.

****

Marla reached up and undid her pony tail holder as the door closed behind Franz, allowing her coal black hair to settle around her shoulders and flow down her back. She leaned back in the embrace of the chair, resting her head against the upholstery.

"So how do you really feel, Marla?" she heard Mary ask.

Opening her eyes, she said, "I think I've felt worse than this in my life, but I can't really remember when." She raised her head with a tired smile, receiving a smile in return

"Probably a combination of stress and being thoroughly chilled," Mary said.

"Is there any coffee left in that pot, Mrs. Simpson?" She leaned her head back against the chair again.

"Call me Mary, dear. There's not much here, and it's cool. Let me have Hilde bring some more." The maid must have been within earshot. Marla never heard a summons, but in a moment she heard footsteps crossing from the door to the nearby table and back again.

Mary cleared her throat. "So, you're here, the piano is here, and Franz is here. Tell me who else came with you."

"Hermann Katzberg, Josef and Rudolf Tuchman, and Isaac Fremdling are the musicians. Hermann is an absolute wizard at harpsichord and organ, and does well with a Baroque flute. Josef plays viola d'amore, and his brother Rudolf plays Baroque flute and has a good baritone voice. Isaac is a really good violinist in the German style, and has a tenor voice that would have earned him rock god status if he'd been born in the twentieth century.

"Friedrich Braun came with us to see to the unpacking and setting up of the piano, but he'll be returning to Grantville as soon as possible. He has responsibilities in the Bledsoe and Riebeck shop."

****

Mary looked over the rim of her cup, assessing the young woman seated across from her. Her face was drawn, with dark shadows under her eyes; her shoulders slumped slightly from exhaustion. Nonetheless, her voice was strong, her tone was calm, and she seemed composed. Either she was one of those people who bounced back from injury quickly, or she was one who worked through her pain. Either way, Mary liked what she had seen of her so far.

"And where does Franz fit into this gallery of musicians?" she asked. She had her guesses, but she wanted to hear what Marla said.

A small, dreamy smile appeared on Marla's face for a moment, then she took another sip of coffee before responding. "Musically, Franz is a work of salvage at the moment. His left hand was crushed by a rival violinist who was jealous of his skill."

Mary flinched a little. "That almost sounds like something out of the Pittsburgh docks and the mob."

"Oh, yes," Marla said. "That was my first thought also. However, you know as well as anyone that musicians, like actors, are typically passionate people. Sometimes that passion takes a wrong turn. Anyway, Dr. Nichols wasn't able to offer any hope of surgical repair, but with some therapy Franz has regained enough use to hold an Italian style bow with his left hand. He's now in the process of learning to play again, only with reversed hands: the right doing the fingering and the left the bowing. He's frustrated at this stage . . . he knows what to do, but the muscles are still in early training and don't just automatically do what he wants them to do. But Isaac says that Franz was the best player in Mainz before the attack, and that he should regain that same level in short order."

"And personally?"

"Personally . . . " Marla drew the word out. "He's a passionate soul, with an incredible gentleness. He has very high standards for himself. And . . . " another long, drawn-out word, then a rush to "I love him."

"A love he obviously returns." Mary chuckled, recalling the scene when Marla sent him out to find out what had happened with her precious piano. "So, if it's not prying, do you intend to marry?"

"Franz won't hear of it until he can play in public again. He says he will not ask me until he can prove he can support us."

"I take it he's somewhat strong-willed?"

Marla burst out laughing. It took a moment for her to regain her composure. "That would be somewhat like calling water wet," she at length replied. "It's probably a good thing, too, as more than one of my friends have hinted that I'm a bit that way myself."

Mary smiled. "Actually, Franz did say much the same about you."

Marla laughed again. "I've always suspected it would take a strong will to both stand up to me and put up with me. Franz is the first man, up-time or down, that has managed to do that and interested me at the same time. My Aunt Susan says I'm obsessed at times. That's probably true, but it's usually about something musical, which as far as I'm concerned is worth being obsessed about."

The two women shared a look of understanding. Obsession about music was indeed a mindset they both understood very well. It boded well for their relationship.

****

Franz again knocked on the door to the Simpsons' house. He was a little taken aback when it was opened by Mrs. Simpson herself.

"Come in, Franz, come in. We've been having a lovely talk while we waited for you."

"Um, thank you." He stepped in, took his coat off and hung it on the same peg he had hung it on when he had first entered the house.

"Well?" Marla asked impatiently from her seat. He was encouraged to see even more color in her face than had been there when he left. "What's the verdict on the Steinway?"

He crossed over to her, bent down and kissed the top of her head. "The piano has been totally uncrated and reassembled in the palace. Friedrich has examined it with great care, and both he and Hermann are of the opinion that it has suffered no harm from its journeys. So, you may rest your mind about it, and therefore rest your body as well."

Marla sighed, and Franz watched as a certain tension drained out of her, leaving her almost limp in the embrace of the chair. Her blue eyes peered up at him through the curtain of her bangs, followed by one of those smiles that reminded him of just why he loved her. "Okay. I've had a nice long chat with Mary, but I think I'm ready to go to bed now. Help me up."

He reached down to take one arm just as Hilde the maid appeared at the other side of the chair; between them they raised Marla to her feet. He walked with them to the door that led to the stairway. Marla gave him a quick kiss, then started up the narrow stairs with Hilde supporting her.

"An unusual young woman," Franz heard from behind. He turned to face Mrs. Simpson.

"I believe that is what my friend Ingram would call an understatement," he said soberly.

Mary smiled. "No doubt."

"Frau Simpson . . . "

"Mary," she interjected.

"Mary, then . . . I thank you for arranging a place for my friends and me to stay, but I must tell you that a simple inn would have been more appropriate than the . . . Wettin household."

"Oh, that. Actually, my original plan was to rent some rooms in an inn, but Eleonore volunteered . . . insisted, actually. She said that now that she was a commoner, she wanted to meet some of these interesting people that before now would hardly open their mouths in her presence."

Franz was surprised into a laugh. "She may get her wish, then. Hermann will talk to anyone, and is almost impossible to stop once he begins."

"Good. I would so hate for her to be disappointed." Mary's impish smile surprised Franz.

Saturday, October 16th, 1633

The next day dawned with clear skies. The rain had stopped in the middle of the night, and the clouds had dissipated. Franz stepped out into the street with his friends, smiling at Hermann's last joke with the maid who closed the door of the Wettin house behind them.

"Right," Isaac said. "What do we do today?" They all looked at Franz.

"You go to the palace. I will go to the Simpsons' and look in on Marla, then join you."

They walked together past several houses, then separated to go their ways. Franz continued alone down the busy streets until he arrived at the Simpsons' house. After Gunther's revelation yesterday, Franz looked at the surroundings with new eyes, finding what Gunther had assured him would be there: two young men, hard-edged and hard-eyed, standing together under a streetlight across the street from the Admiral's house. He swallowed nervously as he approached, but nodded to them and said "Good morning." They said nothing, but did nod in return.

Feeling somewhat encouraged, he crossed the street and knocked on the Simpsons' door. Hilde opened it with a smile. "Welcome." She stepped back to allow him to enter, then took his coat.

"Good morning, Franz," he heard behind him. Mrs. Simpson and Marla were seated in the same chairs they had occupied when he left them yesterday. The only way he could tell that time had passed was that they were both wearing different clothing. Well, that and Marla looked normal again. Her eyes were smiling above her coffee cup as Mary reached for the pot to pour a cup for Franz. He took a seat as Mary handed the cup across to him.

"What's on the agenda today?" Mary asked.

Before Franz could respond, Marla said, "Practice at the palace."

"Just a moment!" Franz interjected, not believing what he was hearing. "I do not believe that is a good idea, not after the way you felt yesterday, and the day before."

Marla carefully set her cup down on the table, clasped her hands together, and stared into Franz's frowning eyes. In a very calm tone of voice, she said, "I feel better than I have since we started the trip. It's not raining. I will bundle up and stay warm and dry. I will not push my limits. But I am going to the palace. The piano must be tuned, and I've got to check out the acoustics of the hall. Unless you plan on tying me to this chair, I am going." Her expressionless face told Franz that if he did, he would regret it.

Franz was astute enough to recognize a battle he could not win, so he gave in to the inevitable. "Frau Simpson . . . Mary," forestalling her correction, "would it be possible . . . "

Mary smiled as she said, "I've already arranged for a ride." Both women laughed at Franz's rueful expression. Franz muttered . . . under his breath, he thought.

"What was that?" Marla asked.

"Nothing."

"Franz . . . " with a rising tone of warning.

"I said, I feel conspired against."

Mary chuckled. "Poor man." Sobering, she continued, "She'll be fine, Franz. I would not willingly risk her, any more than you would."

And with that he had to be content.

****

Franz looked around as his foot touched the ground, seeking that which would previously have gone unnoticed. There, across the street, two more young men in the mold of those who waited outside the Admiral's house. He turned to help the ladies down: first Frau Simpson, then Marla. Even after only one day in her presence, he had not a problem with thinking of Mary Simpson as the Dame of Magdeburg. Her charm and grace were the equal of the rumors and legends beginning to circulate about her. Marla, in her own right, young though she was, bid fair to shape into the same kind of woman. Already, he could see one or two little ways where she had been influenced by Mary.

Together they proceeded up the steps. Franz held open the outer door, then led the way into the great room. The sound of the piano poured out as he opened those doors. Marla smiled and pushed past him, hungry for her 'baby'. Mary followed in a more sedate manner.

Hermann was playing another piece from Bach's Three Part Inventions—and doing a good job of it, Franz thought, given that he had only been working on it for two weeks prior to the move to Magdeburg. He looked up from the keyboard. "Marla!" His obvious surprise resulted in a delighted tone of voice.

"Hi, Hermann." Marla plopped down beside him on the piano bench. "How does it sound?"

"The piano sounds fine," Hermann enthused. "This is the first time I have been able to play this one. It is much better than the pianos we heard at the school."

"Now you understand why I want it here. Move over." Marla bumped his hip. Hermann not only moved over, he got up and let her have the entire bench. She set her hands on the keys, paused for that instant that Franz had learned to recognize as her moment of focus, then began a piece that he didn't recognize. It was not polyphonic, but the chords were harmonious to his ear, so he knew it had to be an 'early' piece from Marla's repertoire.

All the others gathered around the piano as Marla played: Franz, Mary Simpson, Johann and Rudolf and Friedrich. The piece was not lengthy, and before long she brought it to a rousing conclusion. Her audience burst into applause. Franz could tell from the startled expression on her face when she looked up that Marla had, as usual, focused on the music to the exclusion of everything around her.

"That, my dear," Mary said, "was simply lovely. I don't believe I've heard a piano transcription of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik before. Did you produce it yourself?"

"No." Marla flushed slightly at the praise. "I would have, or Thomas Schwarzberg would have done it for me, but the Grantville High School band department has a band transcription of it. The condensed conductor's score actually is nothing more than a piano transcription. I borrowed it from the band a couple of years ago, and learned it for fun. I haven't played it for a while, so I'm pretty rusty."

"You should include that in your recital program," the older woman remarked. "It should be well received by those who attend."

"I intend to," Marla responded.

Mary started to say something else, then visibly collected herself as Marla began playing a pattern of scales, beginning at the low end of the keyboard and rolling to the high end, pausing for a moment, then commencing again on the next highest pitch at the low end. She repeated this several times, until she had played every key on the piano at least once, and most several times. Finally, she stopped and played several widely separated keys individually, obviously listening carefully.

"Friedrich," she called out. "Where's the tuning kit?"

Friedrich was already digging it out of his bag, and in a moment handed it to her. He slid the music stand out of the piano frame above the keyboard and set it on a chair to one side as she unrolled the kit on the bench. Then he opened the lid up to its maximum height, standing to one side to allow Marla full access to the interior of the instrument.

Franz watched with Mary Simpson as Marla reached inside the piano with the tuning wrench. "Okay, how much did Ingram show you about tuning pianos?" Marla asked.

"Master Ingram said that I had learned the theory well, that what I needed now was the practice," Friedrich responded.

"Okay, practice away. First thing, the d2 is flat."

Marla and the journeyman instrument crafter labored to restore the piano to perfect tuning. Mary beckoned Franz to follow her to the rear of the room, where she turned to face him. "I understand why you and Friedrich are here, but why did Marla bring the others?"

"Hermann is to accompany her when she sings," Franz said.

Mary grimaced. "Of course, I should have realized that. She can't very well accompany herself, not with the art music I've asked her to sing. That explains Hermann; what about the rest?"

"Isaac she wishes to do a duet with, although she has not yet decided what to sing with him."

"Hmm, I may have a suggestion or two there, depending on what music she has brought with her. And the others?"

"I do not know. It was a late decision, made just before we left. She said something about Maestro Carissimi possibly having something for them to perform."

Mary's eyes widened. "Carissimi? Giacomo Carissimi?"

"Yes, I believe that is his name."

"She knows him?"

"Yes. We all do. He arrived in Grantville from Italy several weeks ago, along with an instrument crafter named Giro . . . Girolamo Zenti, I believe. He has had several long conversations with Marla, and even sat in on one or two of our seminar discussions. He is working now with Frau Elizabeth Jordan to learn the new music styles, much as we worked with Marla this summer."

"Oh, my." Mary was silent for long moments, staring at the wall beyond his shoulder.

"Do you know him?"

Mary sighed. "Know him? No, I don't. I do, however, know of him. I think it just finally sank in to me in a way that it never had before that I really am in the seventeenth century; that I will have a chance to meet some of the people that I have loved from afar and whose works I have listened to with joy and appreciation. Oh, my." She took a deep breath, and turned to focus on Franz with glittering eyes. "Yes, indeed, if she has an opportunity to do something by Maestro Carissimi, we should make every effort to include it."

"You must ask Marla," Franz said. "I have told you what I know."

Mary nodded, a determined look on her face as she stared in Marla's direction. After a moment, she looked to Franz again. "Weren't there more people studying with you?"

"Yes; Thomas Schwarzberg and Leopold Gruenwald. They were left in Grantville by their own desires." Mary looked at him with a quizzical expression. Franz continued, "Thomas stayed to copy music. He can notate anything he can hear, so he stayed to notate everything that is recorded in the records, tapes and CDs. It may well prove to be his life's work. And Leopold, although not as adept as Thomas, is also good at notation, so he will assist Thomas when he is not working with Master Wendell to learn the designs of up-time wind instruments. He is a crafter of horns in his own right, much as Friedrich and Herren Bledsoe and Riebeck are of things that sing from wood."

"So, after Friedrich leaves, Marla will have the core of your group with her, those who have learned from her and will perform with her?"

Franz turned to look at the others: Friedrich, who had his head inside the piano alongside Marla's as she explained something technical to him; Josef and Rudolf who waited patiently to one side, their fingers silently running patterns on their instruments; and Hermann, who was fidgeting in his chair—which was as patient as he knew how to wait—all of them somehow bound to Marla. He looked back at Mrs. Simpson. "Yes. These men will be with Marla forever. They have committed to her, to follow her lead, to be her hands and voices in this lifetime."

"And you, Franz," Mary asked, "what will you be to her?"

He looked down at Mary, who waited expectantly, then looked out at the sun and moon of his life where she laughed at something Friedrich said. "I will be her heart."

Wednesday, October 19, 1633

Franz threw the door to the tavern open and they all trooped in, exclaiming at how good it felt to be out of the weather. The wind was from the north that evening, and as dark closed in it felt as if it had blown straight down from the Swedish mountains, it was so frigid. Everyone but Franz had instrument cases tucked up under their arms as they blew on their fingers to try and warm them. His crippled left hand was aching savagely. He tucked it inside his coat under his arm to warm it as quickly as possible.

"Come on, guys," Marla said, eyes sparkling and cheeks reddened by the cold, "the host is waving us to the table by the stove." They made their way through the throng, Josef and Rudolf leading the way and parting the mass of people, followed by Marla and Franz, with Hermann and Isaac bringing up the rear. They all sat down on the benches and carefully set their instruments on the table.

"What will you have?" the barmaid near shouted to be heard over the roar of conversation.

"Coffee!" was the unanimous voice from every throat. She bobbed her head and scurried off to the kitchen, to return shortly with five cheap ceramic mugs and a large ceramic pot which she set on the table.

"Compliments of the master," she said, "to keep your throats wet tonight. He says whenever you are ready, begin. This lot will quiet down quickly enough." With another bob of her head, she dashed off to grab a circle of empty flagons being held up by a table whose occupants were loudly demanding beer.

The largesse was perhaps no great surprise, as the keeper of The Green Horse tavern had been delighted to find that players who had played in Grantville's famed Thuringen Gardens were in town. He had sought Franz out and asked if they would play in his humble establishment. When Franz polled the others, they were all ready for some fun, so they agreed to play one night in his tavern, on the condition that whatever funds were thrown their way by the patrons were theirs. The alacrity with which he agreed made it clear that he expected to make more than enough from the beer and wine and coffee that he would sell to those who came to hear them.

Franz grabbed for the pot as soon as their mugs were filled, letting the heat soak into his chilled and hurting hands. The blissful heat drove the ache from his fingers; as it did so, he mused on how the people who were touched by the Americans all adopted many of the American practices. Surprisingly—or perhaps not so surprisingly—the thing that everyone took up was the drinking of coffee. The Abrabanels were making a large fortune by importing it from Turkey.

He focused on the present again as Marla unloosened her scarf and unbuttoned her coat, took a big swig of the oh-so-popular coffee, then opened her flute case and began assembling the instrument. "Man!" she exclaimed. I forgot just how cold this thing can get." She began blowing into the open end, forcing air through it to warm it up.

Franz watched Marla closely. She was in high spirits tonight, with no evidence of the exhaustion, stress and pain that had drawn her down only days before. He worried, nonetheless, despite the assurances of both Marla and Mrs. Simpson that she was fine. It was foolish to do so, he knew, but nonetheless he did worry.

They spent several minutes warming their instruments: Rudolf rolling his baroque flute in his hands, letting the warmth of his flesh warm the wood before he blew into it; Isaac and Josef doing much the same thing as they ran their hands over the violin and viola d'amore. Hermann took the longest, holding the harp he had received from Ingram Bledsoe near the stove, then drawing it to himself to run his hands over the wood, then repeating the process until he was satisfied that it was warm. Finally, he ran his hands up and down the strings, then began the tuning process. Once he was satisfied, he looked over at the others, plucking a tone so they could tune to him.

Marla looked at them all and raised her eyebrows. "What will it be, boys?"

They looked at each other, then to Franz, who over the weeks had been proven to have the best skill for reading a crowd. He shrugged, then replied, "Brian Boru's March."

"Right," Marla smiled. She stood, and Josef, Rudolf and Isaac stood with her. Hermann stood long enough to shift a chair around to the center of their line to face the patrons. Franz moved the coffee pot to the top of the stove. No sense in letting it get cold while they performed.

Raising her flute to her lips, Marla counted, "One, two, ready, go!"

The strains of the music readily penetrated the fog of conversation, which died away almost immediately. The boisterous song soon had everyone in the tavern tapping the table or clapping their hands. Franz looked around, and no one was talking, no one was drinking; everyone, even the host and the barmaid, was caught up in the music.

The sound of the music triggered Franz's memory, taking him back to the day in early July when Marla had unveiled to their circle her mother's prized collection of Irish folk music, a mixture of old LPs and newer CDs with mostly Chieftains and Clancy Brothers albums. The down-timers had all fallen for the infectious melodies, rhythms and harmonies of the songs. Within a quarter hour they had all brought out their instruments and started trying to play along. They were all skilled at learning music from the hearing of it, so it hadn't taken them long to learn many of their favorites. Within a few weeks they were actually performing one night a week at the Thuringen Gardens, with Marla doing most of the singing and Isaac and Rudolf sometimes joining in. They would occasionally change a few of the words to fit them to Germany, but all in all the songs they sang adjusted well, and of course the instrumental music needed no translation. Whether they played the fast dances or the slow ballads, the music all seemed to strike a chord in their listeners; tonight appeared to be no exception.

They wrapped up the march with a flourish and the tavern rocked with applause. The players all grinned at each other as they sucked in air. Judging the mood of the crowd, Franz stepped up to the players and took Marla's flute. They all leaned in for his word. "Do Nell Flaherty's Drake next." They nodded in response; he stepped back, giving them the downbeat. Isaac and Rudolf gave Marla an introduction with violin and flute, fast and bouncy like the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem version they had learned it from, and then she came in with the verse.

Oh, me name it is Nell, and the truth for to tell

I come from Cootehill which I'll never deny.

I had a fine drake and I'd die for his sake

That me grandmother left me, and she goin' to die.

The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow.

He could fly like a swallow or swim like a hake,

'Til some dirty savage to grease his white cabbage

Most wantonly murdered me beautiful drake.

Now his neck it was green, almost fit to be seen.

He was fit for a queen of the highest degree.

His body was white, and it would you delight.

He was plump, fat, and heavy and brisk as a bee.

He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,

And the universe round I would roam for his sake.

Bad luck to the robber, be he drunk or sober,

That murdered Nell Flaherty's beautiful drake.

Franz stood to one side near the stove, foot tapping to the beat of the rollicking song. He was as caught up in the music as the performers, and without conscious thought his hands were at waist level, directing the performance. He had seen Marcus Wendell direct the Grantville High School Band; he had seen various choir directors in Grantville leading their groups; during their seminar he had seen videos of men that Marla called great directors using their gifts to lift orchestras to unbelievable heights of artistry. Unbeknownst, unacknowledged, unperceived, the desire to be one like them—one who would gather the strands of single musicians and weave them into a unique tapestry—that desire was growing in him, and at unguarded moments his hands would make in miniature the movements he would make if he were a leader, not someone standing in the shadows.

Marla began the third verse, and smiles began appearing all over the common room as the tavern patrons began hearing the inventive curses of the robbed and deprived Nell.

May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,

May each hair in his wig be well trashed with the flail.

May his door never latch, may his roof have no thatch,

May his chickens not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.

May every old fairy from Cork to Dun Laoghaire

Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,

That the eel and the trout they may dine on the snout

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake.

The smiles around the room had become chuckles.

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,

May a ghost ever haunt him the dead of the night.

May his hens never lay, may his horse never neigh,

May his coat fly away like an old paper kite

That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease.

May the piercin' March breeze make him shiver and shake.

May a lump of the stick raise the bumps fast and quick

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake.

Franz could see Marla grinning as she sang, obviously enjoying how all the chuckles as quickly became guffaws. She glanced his way and winked, to which he smiled in reply. Her glance bounced back to the players; she nodded to them to bring it all together for the last verse.

Well, the only good news that I have to infuse

Is that old Paddy Hughes and young Anthony Blake,

Also Johnny Dwyer and Corney Maguire,

They each have a grandson of my darlin' drake.

Me treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins

And one I must get or me heart it will break,

For to set me mind easy or else I'll run crazy.

So ends the whole song of Nell Flaherty's drake.

The previous applause was now seen to be just a foretaste of what the evening held, as the patrons now produced a volume of sound that had to be heard to be believed; cheers, yells, foot stomping and whistling to the point that the walls seemed to bulge and dislodged dust was floating down from the rafters. Marla dropped a mock curtsy, then flung her arms wide and took a bow, echoed by the rest of the players.

The noise abated a little when Marla beckoned Franz forward, and they all huddled together, eyes gleaming and breath coming hard but all of them quivering like a team of horses ready to run a race. "Now what?" Marla demanded of Franz.

He thought for a moment. "Do the fast version of Jug of Punch. You sing it. Then let Rudolf sing Long Black Veil. End with Isaac singing Rising of the Moon." Marla gathered the eyes of the players, and they all nodded as one. Franz gave them the count, stepping back as the music broke out again.

The three songs were performed in turn, with loud applause sounding after each. Finally, the players begged off, telling the crowd they needed a rest. Franz topped off the coffee mugs, and took the empty pot to the bar to ask for more. He had to push his way through the crowd that had gathered around Marla, then wend his way between the tables to reach the bar. He set the pot down, realizing as he did so that Gunther Achterhof was standing next to him. He started to say something, but was interrupted by sounds from the other end of the room.

****

Gunther straightened from his slouch against the bar as Franz Sylwester approached him. He gave him a slight nod in recognition. Franz seemed about to speak, when there was a sudden Smack! of hand meeting flesh, followed by a man's shout suddenly choked off. He spun to rake the room with a glance, immediately noting people pushing away from where Marla Linder stood facing an unkempt man. Grabbing Klaus, one of his confederates, by the arm, they plowed their way through the room, sending people reeling and tables and benches flying. Those who started to object took one look at him and hurriedly backed away. He could hear Franz following in their wake.

He noted as they neared the confrontation that Fräulein Linder had one hand at the man's throat, and that the man was standing stock-still, even rigid. Marla released her hold as soon he and Klaus grabbed the man's arms, and the man immediately began choking and gasping, trying to grab his throat with the hands that Gunther and the other CoC man were restraining.

Marla grabbed his hair and tilted his head up, bringing his wide-eyed, fearful gaze to meet her narrowed, ice-cold blue eyes. Gunther could see the mark on his face where she had slapped him. "No one paws me," Marla hissed from a distance of inches. "Get out of my sight, and you'd better not ever let me see you again, or I'll shred you." Even to one as hardened as Gunther, her voice held unnerving menace.

Gunther released the arm that he held to another CoC man who arrived at that moment, just in time to grab Franz and prevent him from assaulting the slumping man, who by now was wheezing as he breathed. Marla stepped back, and a greasy smudge on the breast of her bright yellow sweater made it very clear what had happened. Gunther jerked his head at his fellows, and they hustled the man out the back door of the tavern. By main force he dragged Franz around to look him in the eye. "Tend to Fräulein Linder," he grated. "This one is mine." He dropped his hand from Franz's arm, but Marla placed a shaking hand on his chest as he started to follow out the back door.

"I know you," she said in a tone that, despite the tremor of her hand, was remarkably firm. "I remember seeing you in Grantville. Don't kill him." Her voice was so matter-of-fact that Gunther was slightly shocked. He stared at her, and she bore that gaze. Finally, he nodded. "Or maim him," she added. Angered, he started to move past her, only to have her step into his path and continue to steadily look into his eyes. Once again she bore his hot gaze, and once again he finally nodded.

Marla stepped out of his way and let Franz enfold her. Gunther now moved implacably toward the door. Those who were between him and it scrambled to be someplace else. He stepped out the door and closed it, then stood still until he was sure he could see well enough to walk without running into anything.

"Klaus," he called.

"Here."

Gunther walked toward the sound, rounded a cart that was standing in the alleyway, and there found Klaus and Reuel holding the attacker up against the rear of the cart. His breathing had eased some, so that he was no longer choking and wheezing, but he still coughed and hacked frequently. That such a piece of filth could—would—assault someone under his protection stoked the furnace of Gunther's ire to a level that would melt steel. He stopped in front of the drooping figure, grabbed his hair and slammed his head back against the cart, receiving a cry in response.

"I do not know you, and I know everyone in Magdeburg worth knowing. You are new to Magdeburg, are you not?" he snarled in the local German dialect. The man, whites of his eyes gleaming all around the irises, gulped and tried to nod. "Who are you?"

"Johann Gruber," the unkempt man slurred.

"What did you think to do in there?"

"I . . . I . . . "

"Spit it out, sow's get!"

"I thought she was a whore!" the man blurted. "She was dressed so strangely—indecently! Her hair was unbound in public. She was singing in a tavern! What was I to think?"

Gunther slammed his head back against the cart again. "If you had been thinking, you would have realized that no one was treating her like a whore, that everyone was respecting her and her companions. You would have had even the small enough amount of wisdom to ask questions." Wham! went the head against the cart one more time, leaving the man even woozier than he was when he was dragged out of the tavern.

When Gruber seemed to be able to focus again, Gunther said in a softer tone, "Have you heard of the Americans, in whatever midden you climbed out of?" Receiving a shaky nod in return, he said, "She is American." The man moaned, and sagged to the point that it was only the strength of Klaus and Reuel that kept him out of the reeking mud. "Yes, now wisdom arrives. If you had managed to harm her, they would have hunted you to the ends of the earth, they would have razed the town where you were born to the ground and sowed that ground with salt, they would have made your name so notorious that mothers would have used you as a bogey-man to frighten their children with."

Gunther stepped back. "You know of the Americans." His voice was hard again. "Do you also know of the Committees of Correspondence?" A shaky nod. "Do you know of Gunther Achterhof?" Again a nod. Leaning forward close enough to smell the foul breath of the frightened Gruber, he snarled, "I am Gunther, and that woman is under my protection. Tell me, why should I not kill you now, and leave the world a cleaner place?"

There was an acrid reek as the now thoroughly-panicked man's bladder released and he tried to struggle with those who pinioned his arms. Gunther let him struggle for a moment more, then stepped up and grabbed his hair again, yanking his head around to stare at him eye to eye. "I should kill you now . . . " he brought his large clasp knife out of his pocket, flicked it open and held it up in Gruber's vision, where he stared at it with dread fascination," . . . but I will not. You are not worth cleaning your blood from my blade." Releasing him, he closed his knife and put it away.

"Even in her anger, Fräulein Marla," Gunther snarled, "had enough grace to command you be left alive and unmaimed." The object of his scorn and rage looked up, hope dawning in his eyes in the moonlight, until he saw the predatory smile on Gunther's face. "However, she said nothing about not punishing you."

The rock-hard maul of Gunther's fist drove into the pit of Gruber's stomach. Air whooped out of lungs, and Gunther watched in some satisfaction as he doubled over, retching. Long moments passed. Just as the wretch started to straighten a little, Gunther's boot crashed into his groin. Klaus and Reuel released him to drop to the mud. The three CoC men stared at him as he curled into an agonized ball, unable to do more than sob and gasp.

Gunther finally stirred. "Take him away from town, and leave him." His confederates looked at him in some surprise. He glowered at them, which produced its usual effect. They hastily dragged the moaning bundle of reeking cloth and limp body up and began marching it down the alley. Gunther watched until they turned the corner into the nearest street, then wiped his hands on his trousers and returned to the tavern.

****

Franz somehow put a damper on his anger as the door slammed behind the CoC man and turned to Marla, enfolding her in his arms. The others gathered around them, shaken, saying nothing, not touching, but emanating concern nonetheless. Marla was shaking slightly as she returned his embrace. "Shh, shh," he crooned. "It is all right. No reason to fear." He felt her shaking increase, and thought for a moment she was going to begin crying, until she pushed away from him and he saw that she was laughing. Laughing! Laughing with an angry icy glint to her eye, but laughing just the same. From the expressions he could see, their friends were as dumbstruck as he was.

"I'm not afraid," Marla finally explained. "I'm angry. No, I'm beyond anger—I'm furious." She pulled away from him, crossed her arms, and stared at the floor for long moments. She finally looked up with a crooked smile. "You might as well know, I guess. You would have found out sooner or later. When I was fourteen, I was nearly raped in the back seat of a school bus. If my brother hadn't missed me and come looking for me . . . well, it wouldn't have been good. He kicked the guy out of the bus, and then beat him to a pulp." She brooded for a time, staring at the floor. Franz didn't know what to say, so he decided that the course of wisdom was to say nothing and wait. Finally, Marla heaved a sigh. "Afterwards, I swore I wouldn't let that happen again, and learned a few things from Dan Frost and Frank Jackson. I hoped I would never need it, but . . . " another sigh, " . . . as Reverend Jones keeps saying, nowhere in the Bible does it say that life is fair." She turned to Franz with a fierce expression. "I wanted to hurt him. I wanted very much to hurt him very badly." Her voice took on a plaintive tone. "But, he hadn't actually hurt me, and he was ignorant. And what would it have accomplished, except to change the way you looked at me? I wouldn't chance that," her voice broke.

Franz once more took Marla in his arms. There were no words that he could say; all he could offer was the comfort of his presence. As his arms encircled her, her arms in turn went around him and delivered a ferocious hug. They stood thus for some time, sheltered by their friends.

They all turned as the rear door opened again.

****

Gunther found Marla and Franz standing near the door in a semi-circle of their friends. She had her hands in her jeans pockets, and his arm was around her shoulder. Her expression was calm . . . remote, even, but the fire in Franz's eyes was a match for that in Gunther's. Franz dropped his arm and took a step forward, saying with an understandable bitterness, "Is this how you protect her?"

Gunther felt a twist in his gut. He took a deep breath as Marla laid her hand on Franz's shoulder. "The fool was no one, an idiot who had just arrived in Magdeburg and had never seen American women. There was no real danger to Fräulein Linder. I regret that what happened, happened, but it will not happen again."

"You . . . " Franz began.

"Franz, enough," Marla interrupted. He turned his hot gaze on her, but she simply repeated, "Enough." Gunther watched as the anger drained, as the fire died away in Franz's eyes, leaving only a young man with worry and nascent grief on his face. She reached up to brush his hair back; he caught her hand and held it against his cheek for a moment.

"I couldn't stand it . . . " Franz murmured.

"I know."

They stood in a silent tableau for a moment, then Marla dropped her hand and turned to Gunther. She eyed him expectantly. "I won't see him again, will I." It wasn't a question.

Gunther smiled thinly. "No. He is being escorted out of town, alive and unmarked," he held up both hands, "but chastened, and with a clear understanding that he is no longer welcome in Magdeburg."

"Thank you," Marla said quietly.

Gunther hesitated, then finally asked the question that had been in the front of his mind ever since the whole scenario had begun. "Fräulein Linder, what . . . what did you do to him?"

She stepped up to him. "This." Swift as a serpent, her hand flashed to his throat. His eyes widened as he felt her thumb and middle finger snap into the little hollows on each side of his larynx and begin to squeeze. The strength in those fingers was undeniable. He couldn't talk; he struggled to breathe, he felt the cartilage begin to creak. Just as a flutter of panic began to make itself felt, she released her hold and stepped back.

Gunther rubbed his throat, coughed experimentally and decided that things were where they belonged. "Fräulein Linder . . . " he said as she started to turn away.

"Call me Marla, Gunther."

He wondered why the brief smile flashed across Franz's face, but continued on with, "Would you sing the song for us?"

****

Franz was almost astounded at the nerve of Gunther Achterhof. To ask Marla to sing after such a thing happening! He opened his mouth to let the man know that, regardless of who he was, he had no right to ask Marla to sing for him or anyone else right now. Before he could speak, he heard Marla say, "Yes."

"Marla!" Now Franz was truly shocked.

"It's okay, Franz," she said. "Tonight I need it just as much as they do." The level stare from her blue eyes and the firm tone told him that it would be fruitless to argue further, so he sighed and followed her and their friends back to their table.

During the summer, as their circle of friends had performed the Irish music at the Gardens and elsewhere, they noticed that the members of the Committee of Correspondence quickly developed a real affinity for the Irish songs of rebellion. The Rising of the Moon became one of their favorites, and they would roar the words right along with Marla or Isaac as they sang. But there was another song that they asked for, over and over again. It got to the point that they just began asking for 'The Song.' It was one of those for which Marla had adapted the lyrics. It wasn't one of the bouncy, catchy ones; in fact, it was rather grim. They would never sing along with it, but every time they heard it, the CoC people seemed to condense and become almost all edge. Now, as Marla, Isaac and Rudolf readied themselves, the people of Magdeburg were about to hear for the first time what seemed to have become one of the CoC's anthems.

Isaac led off with a haunting line on his violin, almost a quiet wail. The room grew deathly still. Marla opened her mouth, and began to sing.

I sat within the valley green,

I sat me with my true love.

My sad heart strove the two between,

The old love and the new love.

The old for her, the new

That made me think on Deutschland dearly.

While soft the wind blew down the glade

And shook the golden barley.

Despite the softness of her tone, Marla's voice was very intense. It reached throughout the room, filling every nook and cranny, and it seemed to cast a spell. All were still. No one moved. No one did more than barely breathe. All in the room were focused on the tall young woman singing with the flute, violin and harp underlying her voice, pouring her heart and her talent and all of her emotions into the song.

T'was hard the woeful words to frame

To break the ties that bound us.

But harder still to bear the shame

Of foreign chains around us.

And so I said, the mountain glen

I'll meet at morning early.

I'll join the bold united men,

While soft winds shook the barley.

Earlier in the evening, Marla's voice had been warm, even inviting. Now, as she sang 'The Song', it was just almost serene, with a purity of tone that was almost angelic, yet raising neck hairs all over the room. Franz shivered a little, knowing what was coming next.

T'was sad I kissed away her tears,

My fond arms round her flinging,

When a foeman's shot burst on our ears

From out the wild woods ringing.

A bullet pierced my true love's side

In life's young spring so early.

And on my breast in blood she died,

While soft winds shook the barley.

A note of loss and grief had crept into Marla's voice, and almost they could hear the keening for the dead. By the end of the verse she sounded so forlorn that, despite himself, despite knowing the song intimately, Franz felt tears welling up in response.

The first two lines of the last stanza were snarled, and several of the hearers jumped.

But blood for blood without remorse

I've taken at Oulart Hollow.

The second two lines were sung quietly again, almost meditatively, but again with a forlorn note.

I've lain my true love's clay cold corpse

Where I full soon must follow.

Marla was giving the finest performance of this song that Franz had ever heard; far surpassing the recorded version she had learned it from. The final lines were so poignant, and Marla invested them with so much grief, that his heart ached within him.

Around her grave I've wandered drear,

Noon, night, and morning early,

With breaking heart whene'er I hear

The wind that shakes the barley.

No one stirred. No applause was given. Finally, through the moisture in his eyes, Franz saw Gunther give Marla a salute and slip out of the tavern.

Friday, October 21, 1633

Marla hammered out the final chords of the Revolutionary Etude, bringing it to a driving finish. She held the final chord for a long moment, then released the keys and sat back on the bench, smiling. "Well," she said to herself—or so she thought—"that wasn't too bad."

"I agree."

Gasping, she sat bolt upright and twisted on the bench, only to recognize Mary Simpson seated in a chair some distance behind her in the great room. "You startled me!"

Mary laughed. "Marla, my dear, I could have come in the door with clashing cymbals and you wouldn't have heard me. I don't think I've ever seen anyone focus like you do when you play."

"How long have you been here?"

"Let's see . . . I believe I came in during the middle of the Waltz in C# minor, and after that I heard the Moonlight Sonata and the Revolutionary Etude. All of which, I might add, were performed very well."

Marla blushed a little. "Thank you."

The other woman stood, walked over to the piano and leaned against it. "So," she said, "have you decided on your program yet?"

"I think so . . . the instrumental part of it, anyway."

"And what are you considering?"

Marla began ticking off her fingers, beginning with the thumb. "For the flute, the first movement of the Spring concerto of Vivaldi's The Seasons."

"Good," Mary nodded.

"For the piano, Bach—either the Little Fugue in G or Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring."

"Umm, I think maybe the Jesu would be the better choice, but I wouldn't argue with either one. What's next?"

"Piano, Mozart—first movement of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik," ticking off the index finger.

"The transcription I heard the other day? Excellent! Next?"

The middle finger was ticked for "Piano, Beethoven—first movement of the Moonlight Sonata."

Mary frowned. That frown caused Marla to tense a little. "I agree the program needs Beethoven," Mary said slowly, "but I'm not sure that's the best piece to use. It's beautiful, of course, and you did an excellent job of playing earlier, but I'm afraid it's too still, too placid for the audience you're going to have. You risk losing their attention with that one. Hmmm, do you know Für Elise?"

"I have the music for it, but I haven't played it in quite some time." Marla attempted to hide her reluctance, but Mary noticed.

"Marla, I'm really not trying to be patronizing. You are the artist, not me, and you know best at this point what you can play." Mary straightened to her full height. "But, I know these people, and I'm telling you that Moonlight Sonata would be a mistake for this program. Later, after you've raised their understanding of music, they will appreciate the elegance of it. Now, they would just consider it simple, and would tune it out. You would lose them, and probably not regain their attention. For your first recital, and the first program of the music we—sorry, not we, but you—have to offer, you really can't risk that. If you don't like Für Elise, then find something comparable that you like that you can work up quickly."

The older woman stared steadily at Marla as she worked through everything that Mary had just told her. She didn't like anyone telling her what she could play, but Mary was right . . . she didn't know these people. And, truth to tell, since she had never performed a recital like this at all, she really didn't have any experience of her own to guide her. It took several moments before Marla came to the conclusion that Mary was the closest thing to a mentor she had right now. Mary's experience in the world of music and the arts, although not that of a performer, was so much wider than her own, particularly in the area of production. It would be at best foolish, and at worst suicidal to ignore her advice at this stage of her career.

Decision made, Marla gave one firm nod. "I can polish up Für Elise fairly quickly."

Mary smiled. "Good. You won't be sorry for the change."

"For the final piano piece," Marla resumed her program list, "I considered something by Mendelssohn, one of the Songs Without Words, perhaps, but I finally decided to do one of the Chopin pieces."

"Do you have a preference?"

Marla grinned. "Revolutionary Etude, of course."

"Good choice," Mary replied, her own smile broadening.

Marla set her hands back on the keys and began doodling a little, feeling good about what they had just worked out, and likewise feeling good about how her relationship with Mary seemed to be developing. When she first arrived several days ago, she was somewhat uncertain about how to react to Mary Simpson. She had heard all the stories about the Simpsons, and even though they seemed to have changed those stories had worried her a little. Too, arriving the way she did hadn't done anything to bolster her self-confidence, either. But Mary seemed willing to give her room and not dictate her every move. She could live with that, she decided.

Mary sat up straight, as if something had jabbed her. "Oh, by the way, dear, you may be sharing the billing. I've been trying to get Maestro Frescobaldi to come here from Florence. "

"Italy?" Marla was astounded.

"Of course, Italy, dear. If we can bring him here and introduce him to our modern music, he could be an influential force in spreading the information and the techniques."

"Um, wow." Marla had moved from astounded to stunned. "I'm, uh . . . are you sure about that? I mean, about me being in the same recital as someone like Frescobaldi?"

"Of course, dear. You have the talent, and you have music that no one else can play or sing. Besides, it's not even definite yet that he can or will come. The Medicis may very well refuse him permission to leave their court."

Marla decided she had too much to do to worry about Frescobaldi right now. She began playing through part of the Jesu piece. After a few measures, she asked, "How long do I have to finish drawing up the vocal part of the program?"

"I'm leaving for Grantville soon, and I'll be gone for a while. I'd say until about November 15th. We have to have time to write and print the programs, if nothing else. Among other things, I'm working with Elizabeth Matowski to fund a performance of The Nutcracker."

"Elizabeth Matow . . . " Marla began, confused, but suddenly the light dawned. "Oh, you mean Bitty!"

"Bitty?" Mary was now confused in her own right.

"Oh, nobody calls her by her name. She's gone by Bitty for years."

"Is that short for Elizabeth?"

Marla laughed. "Nobody knows what it stands for. She won't say. But, she's pretty attached to that name. Somebody called her 'Bitsy' one day, and she tore into him and chewed him up one side and down the other.

"So, she's doing Nutcracker this year? That's great! I really missed seeing it the last couple of years."

"Let's say I've talked her into it," Mary said. "She's the best hope of bringing modern ballet to this time. I haven't actually met her yet, but from the letters I've received she doesn't seem to like me very much, though."

"I took dance from her for a few years as a kid, until I shot up six inches in the middle of sixth grade. I quit when I caught a good glimpse of myself in a mirror next to the other dancers. I looked like a pelican among ducks. Anyway, I know from experience that Bitty's a perfectionist and can definitely be prickly at times."

"I can deal with her not liking me." Mary's eyes had turned steely gray. "But she needs my help if she wants to preserve and spread ballet. She needs to work with me."

"Bitty's pretty sharp," Marla replied, still doodling on the piano, marveling a little at how she seemed to be somehow sidling into an inner circle. She doubted that Mary would say the things she'd just revealed to just anyone. "But she's not really very fond of people telling her how to stage her shows. I imagine that as long as you really listen to her, give her a little respect and let her handle the staging, she'll get along with you."

Mary absorbed that in silence, then nodded slowly. "All right." After a moment, she sat down in a nearby chair and continued, "Anyway, I'll probably be gone for about two weeks, so you'll have time to finalize the total program before I return. Do you have any thoughts?"

"There's an aria by Purcell I can do, and of course something from Messiah. I was thinking something by Mozart, maybe from The Magic Flute or the Requiem."

"Can you do the Queen of the Night aria from The Magic Flute?"

Marla squirmed a little. "Well," dragging the syllable out, "I've never performed it. My teacher was working it with me right before the Ring fell."

"I'll bow to your judgment, but if you can do it, that would create exactly the kind of effect we're looking for. What else?"

"Something Verdi or Puccini, don't know what yet."

"Un Bel Di, perhaps?"

"That's one I'm thinking about."

"What about something from northern Europe?" Mary asked.

"Wagner, Mahler and Bruckner would be too over the top, I think."

Mary laughed. "Agreed. What about Schubert or Brahms, though?" Before Marla could answer, Mary's eyes kindled, and she exclaimed, "Schubert! What about Der Erlkönig?"

"Umm, I don't know. Wouldn't that seem awfully pagan . . . I mean, given the times, and all?"

"No, no, no," Mary said quickly. "The audience for this performance will be the educated elite, the patrons, and they have all been steeped in the Greek and Roman myths. I don't think they would flinch at a literary treatment of one of their own."

"Okay." Marla was a little dubious, but she'd already decided to follow Mary's judgment in things like this. "I think I've got the music, but I've never sung it, so it will take some time to work it up. If I remember right, that's in a pretty low key. It might be under my range."

"Can you transpose it?"

"Sure, but it might sound funny."

"I've heard it done by a soprano. I believe it was Jessye Norman. It was very effective. See what you can do, please." Mary tapped her lips with a finger. "We don't have time for anything Russian. Wait . . . what about Rachmaninoff's Vocalise?"

"I don't have the music."

"That's a pity. Well, it can't be helped, I suppose."

Marla didn't mention to Mary that there was at least one recording of the piece in Grantville and Thomas could notate it from the recording. She was afraid that what was supposed to be a recital was going to be a marathon as it was, without including a bunch of new music like the Vocalise.

Mary set that disappointment behind her, and moved on. "What are your thoughts about 20th Century choices?"

"I figured I'd select mostly Broadway songs," Marla said. "Partly because the Impressionist, post-Impressionist and Modernist stuff would be so dissonant to seventeenth century ears, and partly because that's really the only kind of music I have from that time." She smiled. "Sort of making a virtue out of necessity. I haven't made any choices yet, though."

"Then the only thing I'll say now is to look at the strongly melodic composers: Sondheim, Lloyd Webber, maybe even some of the Disney composers." Marla felt her eyebrows raise, and Mary gave her light laugh again. "Oh, yes, there are some delightful little songs hidden in some of the Disney musicals. It's just a thought, though."

Marla shrugged. "I'll check it out."

She had been doodling all the while, and now her doodling led into a quiet rendition of Amazing Grace. She played it several times through, varying the style each time. She held the final chord for several moments, letting the sound resonate. After it died away, she released the keys.

"Very nice," Mary commented. "I'm always amazed at how easily musicians can improvise."

"I'm not really very good at improvising," Marla replied. "I know that hymn well, so I know when and how to change it up. But if you hand me a new melody and tell me to improvise while I'm sight reading it, I'd be doing good to just put simple chords behind it the first few times through it. I need to improve, though, because it's considered one of the standards of musicianship in this era. Bach was well known for it, for example. If you want to hear someone who's really proficient at improvising, even by down-time standards, you should hear Maestro Carissimi some time. He's so good at it I can't even be jealous. He's awesome."

Mary took a deep breath. "Carissimi? Giacomo Carissimi? Composer of the oratorio Jephtha?"

"That's the one," Marla grinned.

"Franz told me he was in Grantville," Mary said. "I was stunned. I still am. I almost went to Grantville that day. The thought of meeting him just sends chill bumps up and down my spine." Marla found it a bit humorous that Mary sounded much like a school girl hoping to meet her favorite teen idol. There was a definite air of excitement about her, unlike her normal cool, collected grace. "Tell, me what is he like?"

"Well, he's very reserved, almost shy, but he seems to be a very nice man. He doesn't act like he's famous or anything. In fact, he seems to want to keep a low profile. His friend, Signor Girolamo Zenti, attracts a lot more attention. I had to read in the encyclopedia and some of the album notes to find out about him, or the him that would have been before the Ring fell." Marla paused for a moment . . . something about what she just said didn't sound right. "I mean . . . oh, never mind. Even without those write-ups, though, I would have known he was really talented, really good, just from the way he talks about music and from the way he took to the piano."

"He's learning piano, then?"

"Oh, yes. He's made connections with Elizabeth Jordan, my old voice teacher. She's a pretty good pianist in her own right, so she can show him all about it. Plus, she's got copies of all my notes from the seminars we did this summer, so I'm sure he'll be picking her brain about all of that, too. From what I could tell before we left, he was obsessed with learning as much as he could as quickly as he could."

The two women shared a smile as they both remembered their conversation about obsession on Marla's first day in Magdeburg.

"So, Franz said something about him writing a piece for you? For the recital, I assume," Mary said.

"Actually, no it's not." Mary looked surprised as Marla continued. "No, it seems that he has conceived of a new piece since the Battle of Wismar. He wants to write a lament, a formal eulogy piece, in memory of Hans Richter."

Mary was quiet for a very long moment, staring off in space.

"Mary?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, just thinking that through. Methinks I detect the fine hand of Mike Stearns in that. I could be wrong; it could be Don Francisco Nasi, but I'll wager that one or the other of them is involved in it." Mary saw Marla's confusion, and gave one of her light chuckles. "No, dear, I'm not disparaging them. Mike, probably more than anyone except my husband and Colonel Woods, knows the bitterness of the price paid to win that battle. But at the same time, it's entirely too convenient that a composer of Giacomo Carissimi's stature arrives in Grantville and just happens to want to write this piece at a time when it would have the most political benefit.

"Oh, I'm sure it will be a fabulous piece of music, and no doubt it will be a catharsis for everyone who hears it. Mike would push for it anyway, because he would think it the right thing to do, but he wouldn't be Mike Stearns if he didn't see the political advantage of it as well.

"So, does Maestro Carissimi have a title for it yet?"

"The last I heard, he was going to call it Lament for a Fallen Eagle," Marla said.

Mary gasped. "That is perfect. That is absolutely perfect. That will mean so much to Sharon Nichols and Gretchen and the family, and will speak so strongly to everyone in the country as well. Have you seen anything of it yet?"

"No," Marla smiled. "Right before we left, he had started writing the theme and was really feeling handicapped because there is no orchestra in Grantville."

"Oh, no," Mary laughed. "How did he take that?"

"Well, he tried for a little while to score it for band instruments. He figured out pretty quickly that wouldn't work, though. That was about the only time I saw him showing strong emotion during the little while I was around him. He threw his pencil down on the desk, grabbed the sheet of paper he was working on and tore it into little pieces. He muttered something in Italian that I think must have been pretty vulgar. At least, Signor Zenti looked awfully surprised at what he heard."

"So what is he going to do?"

"Well," Marla said, "he found out that about the only string players in Grantville are my friends Isaac and Josef, and that Rudolf, Thomas and Hermann can play flute. So, he told me that he would score it for that ensemble with piano right now, and rescore it later after he finds an orchestra."

"Something else we need to work on," Mary noted. "Not now, dear," in response to Marla's alarmed look. "Not until after the New Year, anyway," and she chuckled again at the resulting expression of relief. "So, will you be involved in the lament, other than providing the instrumental ensemble?"

"It's for solo voice with instruments," Marla said, "and he's asked me to sing the solo."

A pleased smile spread across Mary's face. "That's wonderful, Marla. Principal performer in a high-profile work by a major composer. This will help establish you just as much as your recital will. When does he think it will be performed?"

"Well, that's the tough part. He wants to do it before Christmas in Grantville."

"What?" Mary looked aghast. "But you're doing your recital here in Magdeburg on December 15th!"

"Tell me about it. I really want to do it, but there has to be some travel time and at least one rest day. And I—we—have to see the music soon."

"Yes, you do." Mary looked determined. "I will see to that."

"Thank you."

Mary leaned over and placed her hand over Marla's. "You will be a great success, my dear, both in your recital and in Maestro Carissimi's work as well. Believe that."

Marla watched as her new mentor picked up her coat and walked out of the room. She was still impressed at how much strength of purpose and will was enclosed in that small lady, and she was very glad to have her support.

Tuesday, November 16, 1633

"I can't wear that."

Franz winced a little at the sharp tone in Marla's voice. They were in Mary Simpson's parlor, gathered with Mary and a seamstress. It was Mary's first day back from her trip to Grantville. She had called the women together to address the question of what Marla would wear for her concert performance. Franz had quietly shadowed Marla, as was his wont. He could have told Mary that Marla would reject the down-time styles, but as the lone male in the room, he wisely chose the course of silence.

Affronted, the seamstress looked first at the young woman who had spoken, and then at Mary Simpson. Marla caught that glance, and before Mary could say anything, she continued, "I'm sorry, no offense, but it's just . . . too much. Too much fabric, too much bulk. I wouldn't be able to move freely. That outfit would restrict me in playing the flute and the piano."

The seamstress' daughter, who was modeling a clothing ensemble similar to what the seamstress wanted to prepare for Marla, did a slow turn, showing off her mother's fine work. Franz admired the quality of the tailoring; it was equal to anything he had ever seen in the prince-bishop's court in Mainz. But, somehow he doubted that he would ever see Marla wearing anything like it.

"Are you sure?" Mary asked.

"Yes," her young protégé answered firmly. "I mean, look at it: underskirts, overskirt, bodice, blouse, jacket, large sleeves, ruff collar. At least it's not an Elizabethan ruff, but still . . . " She laughed a little. "Mary, without shoes I'm four to six inches taller than most of the down-time women. What looks dainty on them would start to look ponderous by the time it's scaled up to my proportions, besides the fact it would make me so bulky I'd have trouble getting through doorways and sitting on chairs."

Franz nodded agreement from his seat by the stove.

"Not to mention," Marla frowned at the model as she concluded, "that after a few minutes of performing in that rig," the seamstress bristled a little—she wasn't sure what a 'rig' was, but it didn't sound complimentary—"I'd be sweating like a pig." Turning to her mentor, Marla said, "I understand why I can't wear my prom dress . . . bare arms and shoulders, and all that."

"That's right," Mary replied. "After that little episode at The Green Horse, you should understand the problem of down-time perceptions now."

Marla shrugged. Franz felt the flash of anger he felt every time he thought about what had happened a month ago. Marla had been able to put it out of her mind by the day after, but he still wanted to hurt someone . . . preferably the fool who had accosted Marla. His fists balled . . . or at least his right one did. The pain from his crippled left hand as it tried to close jerked him out of his mood. He forced himself to relax, rubbing the stiffened ring and little fingers on the crippled hand.

"I'm willing to accommodate perceptions." Marla had quieted. Perhaps she hadn't put that unpleasant event totally out of her mind after all. "But only to some extent, and definitely not if it interferes with my ability to perform." She stood, stretched her arms out, and performed her own slow rotation in front of the other women. "Mary, Frau Schneider, look at me. I am five feet nine and one-half inches tall in my bare feet, and I weigh somewhere around 160 pounds. I am not a small woman, and you can't dress me like I am. I may not know yet what will look good on me, but I'm very certain that what I've seen today will not work."

"Well, what do you want, dear?" Mary asked.

The young woman sat down again with a pensive look. "I don't know." There was a pause. "I just want to look . . . elegant." The momentary expression of longing that crossed her face tugged at Franz's heart.

Mary smiled her slight smile and reached into the large bag on the table near her. "Do you think you could wear something like this?" She pulled out a piece of paper with a bright splash of color on it.

Franz could see that it was the shiny paper that was found in some of the 'magazines' that had come from up-time. He couldn't see more than that from where he was seated, but obviously it attracted Marla's attention. She took it from Mary's hand and focused on it. After a long moment, she nodded. "Yes, I could. We'd have to make sure I could raise my arms without binding, but I think . . . I think this would work. I like it."

"Good." Mary retrieved the page. "Frau Schneider," she beckoned the seamstress over, "can you make something like this?"

The down-time woman took the page, and her eyes widened a little as she took in the picture. After a moment, she said, "Yes, but . . . "

"But what?"

"Is this a dress? It looks more like a shift for bed wearing," with a slight frown.

Both Mary and Marla laughed, and Mary responded, "Yes, it is a dress. It's called an Empire style, and I had a little trouble finding a picture of one that I could bring back with me." She stood, and took the page back from the seamstress. "I suspected that Marla would not care for the styles currently in favor at the courts. She is right, you know. She is enough larger than most women here and now that she would look odd and out of place in court dress. But she is also right in her desire to look elegant. Here," Mary tapped the paper, "here is the solution: a dress that is somewhat fitted on the top, yet free to flow from the high waist; a dress that will allow her the freedom to move as she needs, yet will at the same time look elegant."

"But . . . but . . . " Frau Schneider sputtered, "it is so . . . so plain!"

Mary's smile returned. "Marla, stand up again, please." Turning to the seamstress, "Look at her, Frau Schneider. Imagine her dressed in that dress, in a deep, rich color. See her carriage, her grace. Imagine her walking in that dress." The down time woman said nothing, but after a few moments began to nod. "Yes," Mary said, "she needs no ornamentation. In fact, anything more than the richness of the fabric would detract from her."

The seamstress tapped her finger on her lips slowly several times, then gave a firm nod. "Yes, I can do this. I will do this. And perhaps," she smiled a little, "perhaps we will see this become the new fashion." Franz could just visualize her rubbing her hands together in glee at the thought that she might become the leading name in Magdeburg court dress with this new creation. "Velvet in rich color, you said. What color do you desire?"

Mary looked to Marla, who said, "I don't care, as long as it's not olive green, yellow or pink."

Looking back to the seamstress, Mary asked, "What would you recommend?"

Frau Schneider walked over to where Marla stood and peered at her, looking at her skin, her hair, her eyes. The young woman bore the seamstress' scrutiny calmly. "I would say a deep blue."

Mary nodded. "Do you have enough on hand to make such a dress?"

"I know where I can buy it."

"Good. My contacts could not find a pattern that I could acquire. Can you make it from this picture? And can it be done in four weeks?"

Once again the seamstress looked affronted. "Of course I can, Frau. Simpson. And I have a Higgins sewing machine." Franz observed as the expression on her face settled to one of satisfaction, almost glee. "It will take me longer to get the cloth than it will to sew it."

"Good. Then why don't you and Marla step into the next room so you can measure her."

The seamstress, her subject and her daughter all moved into the office. Franz remained where he was seated, deciding that he would be just a bit superfluous in the bustle that would be occurring in the other room.

"Franz," Mary said quietly. He looked up, to see her beckoning to him. Rising, he walked across the room to the chair Marla had just vacated, and sat just as Mary was removing some other items from the bag on the table.

"First of all," Mary handed him a large packet of paper, "this is the final version of the parts to Maestro Carissimi's Lament for a Fallen Eagle. You can give it to Marla after the measurements are done. Tell her that he has decided on St. Stephen's Day, the day after Christmas, for the performance."

"She will not be happy that it was not given to her last night when you returned," Franz grinned.

"I know," Mary smiled back, "but I know her well enough now to know that if I had given it to her last night, I wouldn't have been able to get her here for this session, and in its own way this time with Frau Schneider is almost as important She may not think so, but it is. So, I prioritized her time a little bit for her. She won't stay mad long, not after she gets her hands on it."

Mary then handed a small box to him. "This is the other thing we talked about."

Franz opened it carefully. The sight of what was revealed caused a wave of pleasure and anticipation welled up in him, to the extent that he felt light-headed. He bowed slightly to Mary. "It is beautiful. Thank you."

"It was truly my pleasure. Do you know yet when it will happen?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed, "I do."

Thursday December 15, 1633

Mary Simpson paused for a moment to look around. The great room was beginning to fill. Those she had invited to the concert tonight were beginning to arrive, and as expected, were bringing others with them.

From where she stood she could see her husband, the admiral, and a few of his naval officers talking to some of the younger nobility. The events of the month of October had rung the status quo of Europe like a bell. Many young men of the lesser noble families were displaying a surprising ability to read the 'Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin' on the wall, and were seeking to enroll either in the newly mustering regiments or in the navy that was being built by John Simpson.

Beyond them stood Wilhelm Wettin (who, according to her sources, was becoming known as 'The Great Commoner') and those men and Hoch-Adel present who were aligned with his growing movement, all deeply in conversation about some undoubtedly political topic. Fortunately, there were few in Magdeburg tonight who would contend with them, so hopefully this evening would be free of impassioned political debate.

To the other side of her she could see the group of women around the Abbess of Quedlinberg, the core of her Magdeburg arts league. The names in that group were beginning to read like a Who's Who of many of the noble families in central Europe.

Yes, things were progressing nicely, and more were coming in the door at regular intervals. As she watched, a man entered who doffed his hat and cloak and handed them to a hovering servant, who bowed and scurried off to hang them in an impromptu cloak room. He was dressed well, in expensive forest green cut in an unfamiliar style, although not nearly as elaborately as the nobility in the room at the moment. The gentleman definitely knew how to make an entrance, striking a pose to shake his hair back and adjust his lace cuffs.

It took Mary a few moments to realize that she knew him, but as soon as she did she advanced across the floor. "Signor Zenti, how good of you to come." She had met the redoubtable Italian in Grantville during her recent trip to confirm Bitty Matowski's production of The Nutcracker ballet, due to be staged in two more weeks. Her time with him and his—to her—more notable companion, the composer Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, had been very enjoyable. Girolamo Zenti was an outrageous flirt, to be sure, who managed to have her laughing and blushing at the same time, while Maestro Carissimi tsk'd at him. However, when the topics turned to music and instruments, even in his sometimes stilted English, mangled German, and the Tuscan dialect that was partly comprehensible to her twentieth century Italian ear, he still managed to communicate intensity and passion about his work. All in all, she approved of Signor Zenti.

The Italian gave an elaborate bow as she reached him, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Signora Simpson, when I realized that I would in Magdeburg be at this time, I swore to attend. Maestro Giacomo drove me, reminding me that I would to Magdeburg go soon at any event, and begging me most piteously to hear Signorina Linder's concert tonight and plead with her to hear her practice of his Lament. The poor man is almost prostrate with nerves. Chewing his mustache, chewing his pens, chewing his lace he is, waiting for her to return to Grantville so he can hear how she will sing his new work." Zenti chuckled. "It is divertente . . . how you say . . . humorous, to see him fret."

"You are an awful man, Signor Zenti," Mary laughed.

"Si, so I am told many times," he said equably, turning away as others came in the door and claimed her attention. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he headed for the buffet tables at the back of the room. Zenti collected a glass of wine, but was diverted from the food tables by a stack of programs. The program text was in German for the most part, listing the pieces to be played, the composers and the 'dates' of composition. For the vocal selections, especially those from opera and theatre, there were brief paragraphs establishing the context of the song and the related story.

Just then, Amalie, landgravine of Hesse-Kessel entered, which gave her a swift sense of relief. With Amalie and the Abbess on hand, the success of this evening's event was assured. They quickly clasped hands, and delivered the obligatory kiss to each other's cheeks. Then the landgravine released one hand, and turned to face the man following her, drawing Mary with her.

"Mary, may I present to you our guest, Signor Andrea Abati. Andrea, this is Frau Mary Simpson, of whom we have told you so much."

Mary felt her composure start to slide as she faced her friend's guest; and she was forced to grasp it quite firmly. If Signor Zenti had made a definite entrance earlier, this man trumped that in spades, posing as if he were an up-time model. Signor Abati presented quite a figure, and from the slight smile on his face he obviously knew it. Tall even by up-time standards, he was lean, with a face framed by thick, long, curly red hair, that from the way it floated when he moved his head was not a wig. And the face—heavens, the man was beautiful!

Signor Abati was obviously not one to keep a low profile. His sartorial selection for the evening was a statement designed to attract maximum attention. Starting at the ground, the shoes were the soberest part of his ensemble, being a gleaming black with large buckles that were obviously gold. The stockings on his well-formed calves were an almost gleaming white silk, while the culottes that ended below the knee were of bronze brocade. Overlaying the britches was a long waist-coat in white, which was elaborately embroidered in gold thread. This was, in turn, overlaid by a silver brocade coat which reached almost to his knees. Lace spilled, fountained even, from his collar and sleeve cuffs. Atop his head was a flat-topped, high-crowned blue hat, out of which sprang plumes. Mary saw an ostrich plume, a peacock feather and a third that she did not recognize. The final component was an ebony cane with an ornately carved ivory head on it, held casually to one side.

On someone else, Mary would have sworn that an up-time pimp had somehow been in Grantville when the Ring fell, only to find a new career as a fashion consultant for the tailor involved. Signor Abati, however, had such panache, and exuded such an aura of self-confidence, that on him it worked.

Mary shook her head slightly, then extended her hand to the Italian. Signor Abati gave an even more flourishing bow than his countryman had earlier. When he took her hand to kiss it, he looked up at her through thick eyelashes and she felt like a doe in headlights. She railed at herself for acting like she was sixteen, but the feel of his lips on her hand sent her heart racing nonetheless. Clearing her throat, she said, "I . . . I'm pleased to meet you Signor Abati."

"Enchanté, madame," he murmured in flawless French. His voice gave her another shock, for it was pitched higher than her own.

At that moment Landgrave Wilhelm stepped up and Mary forced herself to turn away from the Italian. After exchanging greetings, the landgrave suggested to his guest that they find the wine.

Mary turned to Amalie, and hissed, "Who is that?"

The landgravine gave a wicked little grin, and whispered, "He's from Rome. They call him Il Prosperino, and until recently he was il gentilhuomo premiere in that city, and the pope's favorite singer."

"Oh," Mary said, as the light dawned, "he's castrato."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh . . . my." Mary's thoughts whirled. "Well, what's he doing here?"

"He was invited to reside at the court of the Elector of Brandenburg for a season, to sing for them. Both of his coach horses took lame near here, however, and he came to Magdeburg until they can be replaced or restored to health. Horses are in scarce supply, however," for military reasons, Mary thought, "and his are slow in healing, so it appears he will be our guest for some time." Amalie flashed her wicked little grin again, and murmured, "There are the most interesting rumors about him."

Recalling both her history and the effect Il Prosperino had had on her, Mary said faintly, "I can imagine."

****

Girolamo was headed for the buffet when he heard his name called in a soprano that seemed familiar but couldn't be placed.

"Signor Zenti! Signor Girolamo!"

He turned, a smile forming on his face, only to freeze when he saw someone that was one of the last people he had expected to see in Magdeburg. Il Prosperino! What was he doing here? He quickly made a bow. "Signor Abati. Signore stimatissimo ed illustre. Che sorpresa meravigliosa il vedervi!"

The other man bowed slightly, and laughed. "Infine, un viso civilizzata in questo incolto terreno culturale."

Girolamo caught a motion from the corner of his eye as someone near them turned and frowned. He stepped closer to his countryman. "Attento, mio signore estimato. Ci sono i presenti che capiscono l'italiano."

More laughter. "Shall we speak English, then?"

"Si, I mean, yes, esteemed sir."

Abati linked his arm through Girolamo's and they walked together as they conversed. "Do call me Andrea, and I shall call you Girolamo. We are almost brothers, are we not, in this cold, almost barbarous country?"

"Yes . . . Andrea"

"See, that was not so hard, was it? By the way, I must tell you that the harpsichord you made for the Holy Father was excellent, perhaps the finest I have played."

"Thank you." They were walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, with every eye on them. Girolamo was still somewhat nervous, and could not bring himself to say much yet, arm in arm with a man who was arguably as famous as the pope . . . at least in Italy.

"So," Abati said in his cool soprano tone, "this music we are to hear, will it be worth my while, or will I be as bored tonight as I have been on every other night of this trip?"

"I believe you will find it worthwhile," Girolamo said, mustering his assurance.

"Of course Maestro Frescobaldi's works will be of interest, but what of this woman who will sing?" Doubt dripped from Il Prosperino's tones.

"Even so. Maestro Carissimi judges her accomplished enough to sing his newest work, a lamento."

Eyes wide, his companion stopped and said, "Maestro Carissimi is here? In Magdeburg?"

"No, he is in Grantville, where the lamento will be performed soon."

They resumed walking slowly. Abati said slowly, "I met il Maestro some time ago. He is a composer most gifted, and he writes such beautiful melodies. If he thinks that highly of her, then I will truly listen."

****

Marla peered out through a crack between the room dividers that screened off the end of the hall from the area where the guests were. Hermann had been playing music on the piano for some time, music from the down-time era. She could see the guests milling around and conversing, grazing from the buffet and soaking up wine. Hermann's music seemed to be providing dinner accompaniment. It still seemed strange to her that the concert would include food and drink, but Mary had explained to her that this was simply the way things were done here and now. Now that she thought of it, though, it really wasn't any different than singing in The Green Horse. If she could grab the attention of two-fisted drinkers in taverns, surely she could do it here.

She placed her hand over the gold cross hanging around her neck under the dress, remembering when Mrs. Simpson had given it to her earlier in the evening.

Marla was finishing dressing, using her mother's ebony combs to draw her long hair back from her face to let it cascade down behind her ears and down to the high waist of the Empire gown, when the older woman had entered the room carrying a small box. "Let me look at you, my dear." Marla had stood straight and turned slowly, coming around to face her mentor, who was wearing a big smile.

"Oh, Marla. You look exquisite. You only need a few touches." She had set the box down on a table, opened it, and showed it to Marla, who gasped. "I will loan you these tonight to provide just the right accent of elegance." She lifted out the pearl drop earrings and handed them to Marla, who received them very gingerly. "John gave these to me on our fifth wedding anniversary. He was stationed in Viet Nam for a while, and was able to buy these over there, even on a lieutenant's salary." As Marla had put them in her earlobes, Mary had lifted out the necklace and unfastened it. "This, too. Here, let me help you put this on." Marla remembered lifting her hair out of the way and bending down slightly so Mary could fasten the necklace around her neck.

Mary had turned back to the box and lifted out a thin gold chain with a crucifix hanging from it. "The pearls are for the audience. This one is for me. My mother gave this to me when I graduated from college. We—John and I—only had one son, and we . . . weren't on good terms with Tom when he left." Mary had looked slightly forlorn. "I know . . . hope . . . we will eventually reconcile, but I don't know when. In any event, this isn't something for a man, anyway."

Mary had looked her in the eyes. "I know you lost your mother when the Ring fell. In a way, this would be your senior recital, so let me give this to you in her place." As in a dream, Marla again lifted her hair and let Mary fasten the necklace around her neck. "Tuck it under your dress, dear. This will be our secret."

****

The two Italians had collected glasses of wine and continued to drift around the hall, conversing about this and that. It occurred to Girolamo that perhaps Il Prosperino was keeping him by himself for familiarity's sake. The northerners in this room would be a strange audience to him, which, as hard as it might be to believe, just might be causing a slight amount of uncertainty. Certainly, he was making no attempt to capitalize on the many swooning glances directed at him by many of the young—and even not-so-young—women in the room. Most unlike him, according to his reputation.

"So, my friend," his countryman said as they drew up behind the instrument being played by the very short German. "What is this . . . this Steen . . . way?"

"Steinway," Girolamo corrected.

Andrea grimaced, and said, "Steinway, then. It looks like as if it might be un grandissimo harpsichord, yes? But it sounds nothing like one."

"It is," Girolamo declared, "a piano, and it will revolutionize music."

"Oh, come now," the other scoffed. "Surely that is very strong language for such a thing."

"That is not just my judgment, sir, but that also of Maestro Carissimi."

"Is it indeed?" Andrea's attitude returned to thoughtfulness. "So then, what or who is this 'Steinway'?"

"It is the name of the family who built it. They were Germans originally . . ."

"Surely you jest," the other said with a smile. "Can anything excellent come out of Germany?"

Zenti chuckled at the Biblical allusion. "Andrea, from what the up-timers tell us, the future of music was almost dominated by Germans not long after our time. Composers, instrument makers, orchestras, it was all in their hands."

His companion stared at Girolamo with wide eyes. "I find that very hard to believe, but I must take your word for it. So, this Steinway was a German, then?"

"The family name was originally Steinweg, but after moving to America they changed it to Steinway."

"Did they invent this piano, then?"

"No, it was invented by a Tuscan."

"I knew it!"

Girolamo smiled at the enthusiasm for things Italian heard in the other's voice. "But it was this Steinway who took a number of innovations and created the great instrument you see before you. Even at the time when this so-called Ring of Fire occurred, for 150 years Steinway was the standard of excellence for pianos."

"And why do you know so much about them?"

"Because I will make pianos, and I will learn from the best. I just concluded the purchase of the only other Steinway in Grantville, one that is in need of renovation, for that express purpose."

Andrea sniffed. "I do not care much for their cabinet ornamentation. So plain," he said disparagingly. "Even your journeyman work was much better."

"There is a certain Spartan elegance to it. When it is so simple, it must be absolutely flawless. However, those who will come to me will want more, of course. I think you will find that I have not lost my skill. But of all people, Andrea," Girolamo said gently, "you should know that the quality of the gems on the hilt say nothing of the quality of the blade in the sheath. So it is here. I will learn from the best."

And with that, they began walking again, with Abati whispering improvised scurrilous doggerel in gutter Italian about various random individuals in the room, reducing Zenti to almost helpless laughter.

****

Marla returned to the present as Franz stepped up beside her, dropping her hand from where it had rested over the cross. She was still somewhat surprised by the gift from Mary—not the value of it, because it wasn't that much, but the personal-ness of it. She wondered at why it had been given, then shook her head to clear it.

"Is it time, yet?" she demanded of Franz.

"Almost," he replied. "I think I see Princess Kristina entering now."

****

Mary turned as the latest group entered the hall, and sighed in relief as she recognized Princess Kristina and Lady Ulrike. Finally. Now the concert could begin.

"Mrs. Simpson," from the princess.

"Princess Kristina." Mary bent and offered her hand. Having just spent a couple of weeks together on the round trip to Grantville, she and Kristina got along well. "I'm so glad you came tonight. I believe you will enjoy the music."

"Thank you, Mrs. Simpson," the young girl replied in her Swedish accented English.

Mary walked with them as they visited the buffet. She helped Kristina make her selections and collect a glass of apple cider, then escorted them to the chairs that had been set aside for them as the evening's most important guests. As she straightened and looked around, she could see Franz Sylwester standing against the side wall, watching her. Stepping away from the people who were slowly but not-so-subtly drifting to coalesce around the princess, she beckoned to him.

"Is she ready?"

"Past ready," Franz chuckled. "She dances as if she has ants in her shoes."

Mary laughed. "Are the others ready?"

"Yes. All are feeling some nervousness, perhaps, but excitement as well."

"How about you?"

Franz sobered. "I am ready to do my part. I hope to, ah, 'get it right', as Marla says."

"And is tonight the night?"

The brightness of his smile almost blinded Mary. She waved her hand at him. "Go. Tell them to begin any time." He stepped back from her and slipped along the wall to disappear behind the room dividers.

****

Franz stepped in behind the room dividers, and walked over to where Marla and the others waited. They looked at him expectantly, and in Marla's case, impatiently. "Mary says to begin at any time." They stood and gathered their instruments.

"Isaac," Marla said, "give Hermann the high sign. We'll start as soon as he finishes the piece he's playing now." Turning to Franz, she accepted a quick hug and kiss on the forehead. "It's time."

****

Hermann stopped playing the piano background music. Most everyone in the hall looked in that direction for a moment as a screen was placed in front of the piano, followed by an ornately decorated harpsichord placed in front of the screen. There was a brief spatter of applause as Mary stepped forward to offer her hand to a somewhat pudgy man and lead him from his seat to the harpsichord.

"Princess," she bowed her head in that direction, "lords and ladies, friends, please lend your ears to the music of Maestro Girolamo Frescobaldi as he presents toccatas, canzonas and ricercare for your enjoyment." A slight amount of applause sounded as she returned to her seat by her husband.

The next hour or so was filled with music of the time, the contrapuntal works for which the good maestro was known. Mary watched the audience as much as she did the performer, and noted that although a good many of the people did pay him some attention, there were others who never once looked his direction.

The question of where Prime Minister Stearns was kept popping up in her mind. He had accepted her invitation, but as of yet still hadn't made an appearance. That wasn't like him. For all that he wasn't her favorite person on the face of the earth, he was unfailingly polite to her and would have made his excuses if something had arisen to prevent his coming. She kept wondering what had come up. After the third time through those thoughts, she firmly banished them to the back of her mind and spent the rest of the time listening to the music.

****

At length Maestro Frescobaldi's portion of the program came to a close. He stood and gave his bows, spoke to the princess for a moment after she motioned him over, then resumed his seat. The harpsichord meanwhile was removed. Then the screen was drawn aside to reveal the stark lines of the ebony Steinway, gleaming in the candlelight.

Mary's heart seemed to swell as she saw Marla leading the other players into view from behind the other screens. Tall in her royal blue Empire gown, Marla looked well from the audience, she decided. The richness of the velvet, with no ornament except the many small gold buttons lining the long sleeves; the high white collar framing her dark hair and face; the pearls—all combined into a picture of elegance that truly made Marla the focus of attention. The women in the hall all leaned toward each other and whispered behind fans and programs at the sight of the gown. Mary smiled. The seamstress would undoubtedly be receiving inquiries tomorrow.

The whispers redoubled as Marla raised her flute. No one in Magdeburg had seen a metal transverse flute before, and the Böhm keys just added to the mystery of what sound it was going to produce. Mary saw her give the slight dip of the head that gave the count to the others, and they began.

The first notes of the first movement of Vivaldi's La Primavera took flight, and everyone in the room stopped. The rapid notes as Marla played the solo part on the flute just mesmerized every listener. Mary looked over at Princess Kristina, who was staring at Marla, eyes gleaming, watching her fingers fly. The thin grouping of instruments behind the solo flute—violin, viola d'amore, Baroque flute and piano—sounded unusual to Mary, but she had to admit that they did justice to the piece.

It seemed like only moments passed, and suddenly it was done. A spattering of polite applause was offered. As the others filed out behind the room dividers, Franz came out and raised the piano lid, propping it to its most open position. He turned and took Marla's flute, then left.

There was a burst of conversation as the transition occurred, but as soon as Marla sat down it began to quiet. Mary was impressed that, by the time Marla began, the room was still again. She had anticipated that Marla would eventually become the focus of the audience's attention, but in the event it occurred much quicker than she had expected.

****

Franz slipped down the side wall of the hall, emerging from behind the room divider screens to watch this portion of the concert from the back. The piano pieces rolled smoothly, one to another. His heart lifted and soared with each, watching Marla; watching her every graceful move at the piano—never quite still, always moving, leaning forward, back, to one side or the other, hands lifting, floating across the keys.

The 'Little' Fugue in G minor, BWV578, by Johann Sebastian Bach, greatest scion of that incredible family of musicians, now never to be if the butterfly effect theory was correct. It was performed without flaw, and was received by a burst of spontaneous applause at its conclusion.

The first movement of the Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K525, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, perhaps the greatest German musician of the so-called Classical era. Again, performed flawlessly. The applause was greater this time, and the listeners flowed into a semi-circle around the performance area.

The Bagatelle in A minor, by Ludwig Beethoven, otherwise known as Für Elise, a lilting composition that sounded deceptively simple but in fact required more than a modicum of skill to play well. At its conclusion, the princess clapped furiously, obviously taken with the beauty of the piece.

And finally, Etude No. 12 in C minor, from Opus 10, by Frederic Chopin, usually called the Revolutionary Etude. Marla paused for a long moment, as she always did before she played this one. Someone coughed in the silence, and Franz jumped. Finally, she raised her hands and attacked (the only word Franz could use) the keyboard. As with the very first time he heard it, he was astounded by the rolling arpeggios, the percussive chords, how the music seemed to emerge from chaos. He tore his eyes from Marla, and looked around. Everyone was transfixed by her electric performance of the piece. When the final chords were hammered home, the room rocked with wild applause, which Franz joined for a moment before slipping back up the wall and behind the dividers.

****

The amazing young woman stood at the end of the piece, and despite being in a gown, gave a bow to acknowledge the applause. After she walked behind the screen, there was a moment of quiet, then conversation erupted all over the room. Everyone that had a program was pointing at it, everyone who did not was either looking for one or was gesticulating in the air. They all seemed to understand the term Intermissio which lay between the piano and the voice music in the program. Some few of them had headed for the wine table with alacrity, and a few more were picking up the remaining tidbits from the buffet.

Girolamo turned to Il Prosperino. He said nothing; merely raised an eyebrow, as if to say, "I told you so."

Andrea nodded in response, acknowledging the point. "How soon can you make me a piano?"

Girolamo shrugged. "Perhaps a year."

"Why so long?" in a surprised tone.

"First, I must finish refurbishing the one I purchased, which is dedicated to a special patron. Despite what I have already learned, I will learn more by doing, which is a slow process. While that is going on, I must locate an iron foundry that can cast parts according to my specifications. Even more critically, I must find a reliable source of relatively fine gauge steel wire. Then, and only then, will I be able to begin crafting my own pianos." He thought for a moment. "I have a facility in Grantville, but I may have to relocate to Magdeburg."

"You will not return to Rome?" Andrea eyed him with even more surprise.

"Not soon. Even if the Casati family were to forgive my putting a sword through a son's shoulder, everything I have learned in the last few months tells me that the future is here," he waved his arm around, "here among these Germans."

Andrea shook his head.

"I mean it," insisted Girolamo. "You think what you have seen and heard tonight will not change our music?"

****

Josef and Rudolf joined hands with the others and said, "Do well," then slipped out the way Franz had come in. Franz, Marla, Isaac and Hermann looked at each other, no one wanting to say anything. Finally Franz laughed. "To quote our good friend Ingram Bledsoe, 'Knock 'em dead.'"

Franz turned Marla to face him, looked into her gleaming eyes. "Continue as you have begun. You have won them over, now seal it." He kissed her hands. "Go. They await you." She squeezed his hands and turned to follow Hermann.

Franz and Isaac slipped back down the wall behind the dividers, to emerge at the rear of the room and join their friends. The applause that greeted Marla resounded around them. The four of them stood together at the back, not able to see very well because many of the patrons were standing, but listening nonetheless.

****

Her butterflies were gone, Marla noticed. She was calm, now that she was finally getting to do what she had prepared all this time for, what she had always dreamed of. She turned her head to give a slight nod to Hermann. They began.

****

"Thy hand, Belinda . . . " The opening words of Dido's farewell recitative sounded in the room, and Mary closed her eyes and drank in the sound of that lovely voice. Henry Purcell's Dido and Aeneas had always been one of her favorite early operas, and the despairing recitative and aria where Dido realized that she had driven away her love and subsequently died never failed to grip her. It was a lovely choice by Marla, not just because it was from later in the 17 th century and so would be easy for those present to relate to, but also because the classic story taken from Virgil's Aeneid was one that almost everyone in the room had heard before in many forms. Here was a fresh new form, and one of beauty, sung by one of the finest young sopranos she had ever heard.

"When I am laid, am laid in earth . . . " The aria began; Mary abandoned herself to the music, drifting with its rise and fall, until the final plaintive line, "Remember me, but oh, forget my fate."

****

The room was hushed. Someone at last broke the rapture and began to applaud. The room echoed with the sound for some time. Isaac and Rudolf nodded to the others before slipping back behind the screens to return to the head of the room. When the applause began to fade, they stepped out and joined Marla by the piano.

****

Hermann began an introduction, and soon Marla's voice was soaring again, this time with the beautiful melody of Mozart's Laudate Dominum from Vesperae Solennes de Confessore, K339. Mary remembered wondering if Marla knew what she was doing when the young woman told her that they were going to adapt this song, re-scoring the central section for a trio instead of a quartet. Now she didn't wonder, she just melted into the music and let that effortless soprano voice carry her along. Isaac's tenor and Rudolf's baritone added to the glory of it, but the solo ending, where Marla sang the final phrase, just was heavenly.

Once again the room was hushed. It took longer for someone to begin the applause this time, and it lasted longer. Marla, smiling, took a bow with both Isaac and Rudolf, and they exited.

****

The rest of the evening moved from one triumph to the next: Rejoice Greatly, O Daughter of Zion from Händel's Messiah was followed by Senza Mamma from Puccini's Suor Angelica. Each was received by great applause. Marla bowed, beaming.

Franz, knowing what was coming next, held his breath. If the audience would stumble over anything in the concert, it would be this piece. It had taken some little time to transpose it to a key that was at the same time low enough to retain some of the darkness of the original music, yet was high enough that Marla could sing it comfortably. They had finally achieved it two weeks ago, and Marla had diligently practiced it since then.

She opened her mouth, and sang.

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?

Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;

Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,

Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

Franz could almost feel the temperature in the room drop as the opening verse of Goethe's poetry mated with Schubert's music in Der Erlkönig was revealed. The story of the father and son's ride home continued to unroll; shivers chased one another up his spine, and the hair on his neck began to bristle. Once again, Marla was bringing to a performance an indefinable something that he never heard during rehearsals. It was as if being in front of an audience raised her to a plane where her voice was a tool in the hands of God. He looked over at Isaac, to see him with his arms wrapped around himself. From the look on his face, he was feeling it too.

The song progressed. In each succeeding verse, the child grew more and more panicked at the sight of the pursuing Erlkönig, and the worried father tried to calm him, assuring him he was safe. The tension in the great room was building, more and more.

The last verse arrived, and Franz braced himself for the ending. Marla arrived at the final line, and declaimed:

In seinen Armen das Kind . . .

with a very pregnant pause, then

war tot!

Immediately applause broke out. Franz could see that this time it was led by none other than the very flamboyant gentleman standing with Signor Zenti. Whoever he was, he obviously liked that song, and to Franz's great relief was dragging everyone along with him. Marla was breathing deeply as she took her bow. Even after the applause died down she stood with her head down for several long breaths. Finally she straightened, smiled, and moved on to the penultimate section of the program.

****

Mary was almost wrung out at this point. Marla had so far delivered an absolutely bravura performance. She was so proud of the young woman, her protégé in part. In the afterglow of the intensity of the Schubert, she finally admitted to herself that perhaps she was living a little vicariously through her young friend, but perhaps even more her relationship with Marla had helped to fill the void in her heart caused when she and John—no, to be honest, mostly just she—had driven their son away.

Looking at her copy of the program to refresh her memory of what was next, Mary saw that Marla had filled the 20 th Century section of the concert with songs from three musicals. She didn't object—they were, after all, from three of the most memorable productions done in the last twenty years before the Ring fell, and the selections that Marla had chosen were among the strongest. It would be interesting, however, she thought to herself, tapping her finger against her lips, to see how some of them would be received.

Marla sailed through the next few songs, almost breezing through them. Don't Cry for Me, Argentina from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Evita led the way. Isaac then joined her to do the duet All I Ask of You, also from a Lloyd Webber work, The Phantom of the Opera.

They then moved on to selections from Les Miserables, by Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Sch önberg and Herbert Kretzmer. Marla led off with Cosette's wistful Castle on a Cloud. She then stepped back and took a rest while Isaac stepped forward and sang Valjean's pleading Bring Him Home, which led to sustained applause, then followed it up with Marius' Empty Chairs at Empty Tables. His pure tenor voice rang with sorrow, grief and anger throughout the song, and at the end generated applause almost approaching that offered to Marla. Finally, Rudolf stepped out from behind the screen, and joined them in performing Do You Hear the People Sing. The rousing conclusion of the song led to another round of sustained applause.

****

Franz moved to the wall as soon as the applause began, slipping behind the dividers until he reached the front of the room again. The final section of the program, entitled Christmas, was about to begin. Isaac and Rudolf each smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder for a moment as they moved past him on their way out. Once the applause began to wane, he took a deep breath, tugged on his jacket hem, picked up his violin and bow and checked that the newly-attached chin pad was still seated solidly. He softly tested the strings to see if the tuning had held, took another deep breath, and walked out to join Marla.

He took station at the end of the piano. She looked over from where she stood in front of the curve, melting his heart with one of her brilliant smiles, then nodded to Hermann to begin.

The introduction was short and soft, then Marla began to sing.

'Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!

Alles schläft; einsam wacht

Nur das traute heilige Paar.

Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar,

Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!

Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!'

Marla's voice was so soft and warm that Franz got lost in it and almost forgot to raise his violin to play. He gave a swift prayer that he would play well as she began the second verse, tucked the violin between his chin and right collar, positioned the bow in his left hand over the strings, and began to play a descant over her melody.

Franz was unaware of the picture he presented to the audience. Their other friends had dressed in attire that was normal for musicians of the day: knee britches/culottes, waistcoats, long coats with large sleeve cuffs over it all, embroidery with brass thread that in the evening's light looked to be gold, and much lace at sleeve and collar openings.

In contrast, Franz was dressed in long trousers, much like the styles worn by the up-timers, such as Admiral Simpson. They were black velvet, and looked very well indeed. He had wanted a coat out of the same material, but the black was so costly and so difficult to acquire that his jacket had instead been made out of the same royal blue velvet of which Marla's dress was made. And it was a jacket; rather short waisted, rather than the long-tailed coat that was the rule here and now. Marla in her Empire dress and he in his trousers, jacket and short hair presented to the audience a glimpse of the future. The portrait was most striking.

The descant repeated over the third verse, then Marla dropped out for an interlude. Franz played the verse melody solo over Hermann's soft accompaniment. He poured his heart into the simple music, letting his violin sing.

Once the interlude was over, Marla sang the next two verses with Franz's descant, but when the final verse began, both he and Hermann ceased playing, and Marla sang a capella.

'Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!

Hirten erst kundgemacht

Durch der Engel Alleluja,

Tönt es laut bei Ferne und Nah:

Jesus der Retter ist da!

Jesus der Retter ist da!'

Marla held the last note for a moment longer than strictly called for, letting it resonate within the room. As it died away, the audience burst into applause. Franz gave a thankful prayer, and grinned in relief—he'd done it! He'd played his part, simple though it was, flawlessly. All of the challenges had been surpassed, all of the work had paid off, all of his fears had proved groundless. He now knew, without a doubt, he would once again be the musician he had been before the attack that crippled his left hand.

He looked to Marla and saw that brilliant smile again. She held out her hand to him. He stepped to her, joined hands, and they took a bow together. Then he stepped back once more and pointed to her, focusing everyone's attention on her, which let him escape. When he stepped behind the screen, Isaac, Josef and Rudolf all pounced on him, clapping his shoulder, pumping his hand, and hissing congratulations to him. He reveled in it for a moment, then hushed them as the applause out front began to die down. Gesturing to them that they should slip out again, he laid the violin and bow down, sat and leaned his head against the back of the wall. The final piece of the night was about to happen, and he didn't want to share that with anyone.

Hermann began the familiar introduction of the oh-so-beautiful Schubert song, and Franz was taken back in time twelve months, to last year's Christmas concert at the Methodist church in Grantville. This time, knowing what to expect, as soon as Marla began to sing, he was transported.

'Ave Maria!

Gratia plena, Maria,

Gratia plena, Maria,

Gratia plena.

Ave, Ave!

Dominus, Dominus tecum,

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

Et benedictus,

Et benedictus fructus ventris,

Ventris tui, Jesus.'

Hearing Marla sing, it was as if Franz was lifted out of his body. Even more than last year, he felt that he stood before the very throne of God, hearing what could only be described as the voice of an angel. Tears ran down his face. If this was what Mary had heard so many, many years ago, then she was indeed blessed among women. After what seemed to be an eternity, the song came to an end as Marla sang the final 'Ave Maria!' and Hermann finished the last few measures of accompaniment.

If the earlier hushes in the hall had been notable, what followed now was nothing less than remarkable. For the longest time, there was no sound: no applause, no movement, no coughing, no rustling—nothing. Franz began to worry and stood to put his eye against the crack between the dividers to see what was going on. Just as he did so, he saw one of the seated nobles stand to his feet and begin applauding. Within a moment, everyone in the room had followed suit. The storm of applause that followed seemed to have the walls of the hall bulging. He even thought he heard some muted cheering.

Franz stepped back and looked past the end of the screen, to see Marla giving bow after bow and motioning for Hermann to stand and take a bow. Recalling what his next responsibility was, Franz wiped his face and scrambled around behind the chair to find the long package that he had secreted there earlier. He unwrapped it and smiled at the bright colors. About to walk out from behind the screen, he stopped short and felt in the pocket of his jacket. Finding the expected lump, he squared his shoulders, and stepped out.

The applause seemed to be almost a physical force once he was out from behind the screen. He walked over to Marla, and as she turned to him he presented her with what appeared to be a long stemmed rose. She stared at it in amazement—December was not a month to expect roses, especially in Magdeburg—but reached out and took it anyway. Once her fingers touched it, she began to laugh, as Franz's little joke was revealed. Unable to find flowers, he had found a brass smith who had created him a rose in brass, which he had then enameled in the red and green of a true rose. She turned and lifted the 'rose' above her head. The audience's laughter joined hers, even as they continued to applaud.

****

Mary watched, tears in her eyes, clapping and whistling for all she was worth as Marla acknowledged the applause of the elite audience. Her protégé's career was well-founded now, even assured, with this reception.

Just then Franz dropped to one knee, and Mary had to be very stern with herself to keep from laughing or cheering. The applause died away as everyone wondered what would occur next. Those behind the front rows craned to see. Franz took Marla's left hand in his, reached into his pocket and removed something that he slipped on her ring finger. Marla gasped, and would have dropped her 'rose' if Hermann had not come up behind her and taken it from her. She pressed her right hand against her mouth, staring at the ring on her hand. Those in the front row were close enough to see the tears that began to roll down her flushed cheeks. Cheers erupted from the back of the room as she reached down and pulled Franz to his feet, only to then engulf him in a fierce embrace and a most passionate kiss, right there in front of the Princess, who was grinning and clapping again.

"I think he got it right," Mary said to no one in particular.

****

Finally all the noise died down, and Marla and Franz slowly circled the room, accepting compliments and congratulations from all. Marla was bearing her 'rose' as if it were a scepter, which it perhaps was on this evening of triumph. Mary was close enough to hear the conversation when two Italian gentlemen finally approached.

"Signorina Linder," Girolamo Zenti began, obviously moved, "I have not the words in English to compliment you as you deserve. I do not have the words even in l'Italiano to say it. Semplicemente magnifica. Belissima."

He stopped, obviously at a loss, only to be nudged by his companion. "Introduce me, lout," was hissed at him, and he jerked.

"Perdonarme, Signorina Linder," he said. "May I present to you Signor Andrea Abati of Rome, a most well-known singer and famous musician, an acquaintance of both myself and Maestro Carissimi."

Abati elbowed him aside, almost rudely, only to say expansively, "Signorina, I congratulate you on your magnificent performance." Marla blinked at hearing a soprano as clear as her own coming from what appeared to be a man. "I have been singing for twenty-four years now as un gentilhuomo, and tonight I have heard that which, for the first time, made me wish that I had been born a woman. You were not, perhaps, perfect," Marla's eyes started to cloud over, and Franz began to bristle. The Italian hurried on to say, "But, only one of great experience, such as myself," theatrically laying a hand on his breast, "could possibly have noticed the tiny flaws." He took her hand in his, and smiled, "No, signorina, as I understand, this was your first concert such as this, and it was remarkable." He placed a hand over his breast again, and bowed to her. Marla's expression eased, and Franz stepped back.

"Now," Abati exclaimed, "Girolamo, you must help me find quarters here in Magdeburg. I will be staying for some time."

"But . . . but Andrea," the other man stuttered, "what of your trip to Brandenburg? What of the fees and acclaim you would earn?"

"Bah! Mere money, mere noise!" Abati drew himself up, flung a hand in Marla's direction. "Here, here is art! What is more, it is new art, art that I, Il Prosperino, will become a part of, will take to new heights. Here is new music I must learn, here are deserving pupils I can teach." He abandoned his theatrical posture, and laid a hand on Zenti's shoulder. "After all, Girolamo," he said in that disconcerting soprano tone, "you were the one who told me that the future of music was here in Germany. After tonight, I believe you, and I would be a part of it."

The two Italians made their farewells and walked off together, talking volubly and, on the part of Abati, gesturing flamboyantly.

Mary stepped up to the couple and took both their hands. "Well done, both of you."

"Thank you," Marla replied. She was beginning to droop a little as the adrenaline of the evening drained from her, but her smile was still the brilliant light that Franz loved. Franz said nothing, just nodded.

"Now," Mary said, "you have a taste of what the future could be. Do you still want it?"

Marla looked over at Franz. They both smiled and joined hands. "Now more than ever."

Sonata

Movement I - Allegro con brio

From the Grantville News, Monday, January 2, 1634

Linder-Sylwester Wedding

The New Year began with more celebration than usual yesterday as Marla Linder and Franz Sylwester were united in marriage at 3 p.m. in the Methodist church. The bride wore a white gown in the old Grantville tradition, while the groom was dressed in a blue velvet jacket and black velvet trousers. The matron of honor was Anna Riebeck and the best man was Friedrich Braun. Other attendants were the bride's sister Jonni Chieske and Thomas Schwarzberg. The Reverend Simon Jones led the bride and groom in their vows and joined them in holy matrimony. A reception was held in the church's fellowship hall afterward.

When asked why they selected Sunday as their wedding day, Marla replied that they wanted to begin the New Year as husband and wife. Franz added that being united on the Lord's Day made it even more meaningful.

The new family will make their home in Magdeburg, where they will both be involved in music and the arts.

Grantville

Thursday, January 5, 1634

Franz felt as if he were walking on clouds as he walked hand in hand with Marla up the steps to the High Street House. Of course, he had felt that way since Sunday, when he and Marla were wed. It had happened so quickly, he still felt somewhat dizzy. It was hard to remember that it was only three weeks ago that he had proposed to Marla on bended knee before a room full of the most influential people in the USE. She had been patiently waiting for him to do so for months, but in his stubbornness he would not do so until the rehabilitation of his crippled hand had progressed enough to let him play his violin in public again. Once he had determined to propose, he waited for the night of her concert and took advantage of the setting as she responded to the final applause. He had well and truly surprised her, which was part of his delight, but it had not taken her long to overcome that surprise, pull him to his feet and—how did he hear someone describe it . . . oh, yes—"plant a lip lock" on him.

The days after that night had been a whirlwind of activity, as Marla was obligated to return to Grantville as soon as possible after that to sing the premiere of Maestro Carissimi's lament for the death of Hans Richter, Lament for a Fallen Eagle. It was to be performed on December 26 th, the feast day of St. Stephen the Martyr. Somehow Franz was not surprised at the timing. The maestro, quiet though he was, had impressed him as being a man of thought and order. So, Marla, Franz and their friends—including Klaus and Reuel, who had been assigned to bodyguard duty by Gunther Achterhof after the episode in The Green Horse when Marla had been accosted by a drunk—had packed up on December 16 th, the day after the concert, and left for Grantville. Klaus and Reuel were theoretically serving as couriers, and indeed, they did carry a package of papers to the CoC in Grantville. Everyone knew, however, that they were charged with Marla's safety.

The trip, although somewhat more taxing than when they traveled to Magdeburg on a barge, was somewhat more pleasant because of one thing: it was not raining. Marla did not handle being wet and cold very well. Franz sent silent prayers of thanks upwards for every day that dawned sunny and dry.

Once they arrived, the days prior to Christmas were filled with rehearsals at St. Mary's Catholic Church, the venue the maestro had chosen for the performance. Franz had sat on a pew, listening, as Marla, Isaac, Josef, Rudolf and Hermann had practiced with the composer and his chosen pianist, Elizabeth Jordan, one of Marla's former teachers. Frau Jordan had become a mentor to the renowned Italian composer in the ways of the music brought back in Grantville by the Ring of Fire, and it was a natural choice for her to play since Marla had been asked to sing the solo. Franz was still unable to play anything very complex yet, and had chosen to not attempt a part in this, desiring only the best performance for both Marla's sake and that of the maestro he had come to admire.

Christmas happened; a most joyful time in Grantville. The day after Christmas was the performance of the lament, and Marla had done as well as he had expected. Then she sprang her surprise on him. Even now, he remembered feeling as if he had been punched when she turned to him the morning of December 27 th and said, "Let's get married! Now! We're here, my family and friends are here, and so are yours. Let's do it! On New Year's Day!" And he had been helpless to do anything except agree.

Once again, he saw Marla "kick into high gear." Once again all he could do was cling to her train as she, her aunt and her sister huddled together and planned a whirlwind campaign. They divided the tasks and moved out to conquer far faster than any military staff. Aunt Susan retired to the kitchen to do the baking for the reception. Jonni took over the arrangements with the church and the minister, the publication notice and preparation and circulation of invitations. Marla herself dealt with the question of attire.

A phone call to Karen Reading produced a squawk of "What?" Franz had heard it across the room from the phone. Karen had followed it with a stern command for Marla to get her behind to the Bridal Shop with no dilly-dallying around. Marla had obeyed that command. Franz traveled in her wake, to sit in a chair while Karen and Donna Lynn Rogers had fussed and fretted enough for three weddings while Marla tried on several dresses.

There were extended conversations about the suitability of each design, filled with arcane words that Franz had never heard before. For all he knew, they were conjuring up the desired dress. Fortunately, he had with him the book that Marcus Wendell, the band director, had given him, and he spent his time poring over that, looking up from time to time when one of the ladies would ask, "Franz, what do you think?" Each time he would smile and respond, "It looks beautiful to me."

When they (finally) had been allowed to leave toward the end of the day, Marla squeezed his arm as they walked out the door, and said, "Poor Franz, captive all day in a dress shop. You didn't have a clue what was going on, but your being there made me happy. Thank you." She leaned over and kissed him lightly.

The day of the wedding was mostly a blur, but he did have a few very clear memories. Marla smiling at him almost always warmed him to the point of fever, but that day, as he watched her walk down the aisle, the light in her eyes and the aura around her face took him to the point of incandescence. That peaked when she joined her hand to his and they walked up the steps to the platform and faced the minister.

That memory was playing in his mind as they stepped onto the porch of the mansion. Franz moved to one side, gathered Marla in his arms and proceeded to "plant a lip lock" of his own.

A timeless moment later they separated. Marla smiled at him. "Goodness! What was that for?"

Franz reached up to brush her hair back behind her ears as she continued to look at him quizzically. One of the many reasons he loved Marla was that she had never flinched from his crippled left hand. Truth to tell, when they walked hand in hand, she preferred to hold that one. "I love you," he said. Her smile widened, and she flowed back into his arms.

Another timeless moment passed. "You know," Marla murmured, caressing his cheek, "if you keep this up we'll be late for the meeting."

Franz captured her fingers and kissed them. "I know. If it wasn't so important to both of us, I wouldn't mind being very late."

Marla broke away from him and slapped his bicep. "You! Get in there." He sighed, opened the front door, and followed her in.

Every Grantville native called the stately old home that had been taken over by the city for administrative functions the High Street House. It was the closest thing to a mansion in Grantville. Franz and Marla walked into the meeting/event room at the back of the house and were greeted by applause. The ornate mahogany table had been moved from the former dining room. Many of the equally ornate chairs were occupied by friends and acquaintances who were clapping and whistling. Franz grinned. He could see Marla blushing.

Mary Simpson was seated at the head of the table, which didn't surprise Franz at all. She waved them to seats next to hers on the far side of the table as the noise died down. "Thank you all for coming today. I appreciate all of you taking the time for this meeting out of your busy schedules, or in the case of Marla and Franz, out of their honeymoon." Again there was applause from around the table. Marla blushed even more, and Franz's grin just got wider. "Nonetheless," Mary said, "I have to leave for Magdeburg shortly, and I really needed to talk to all of you about something that has got to be developed soon: an orchestra."

Ears perked up all around the table. Franz looked over at Isaac Fremdling, then to Josef Tuchman, to see wide smiles on the faces of his fellow string players. Rudolf Tuchman, Josef's brother, snorted, and said, "Finally."

Mary smiled. "Yes. Finally. But we had to walk first, before we could run. The work that you did all last year . . . " Mary waved her hand to encompass everyone at the table, " . . . all of you, has laid the foundation for the work that will be done this year."

"Umm, excuse me," said the quiet man dressed in a black cassock. "I think, perhaps, it would more correct be to say that the ground has been cleared for laying a foundation." The lilt of his voice made it very clear that not only was English not his first language, neither was German.

"You are right, Maestro Carissimi." Mary nodded, accepting the correction. "I spoke out of enthusiasm, but you are indeed right. What you collectively did last year was assemble the workmen and the tools that are needed to lay the foundation. Now we must begin that work."

Franz looked around the table as Mary spoke. It was quite an assemblage of musicians and craftsmen in this one room . . . perhaps the most impressive collection of adepts that he had ever had the good fortune to be part of. To Mary's left was Marcus Wendell, the Grantville High School band director. He was a man with an incredible mass of up-time musical knowledge in his mind. To his left were the Italian contingent, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and his musician and crafter friends and associates. Beyond the Italians sat the representatives of Bledsoe and Riebeck, the Grantville/German instrument crafters. At the far end of the table, opposite of Mary, was Bitty Matowski, the ballet mistress, fresh from the triumph of her staging of The Nutcracker. Franz noticed that Bitty was the only person in the room who was smaller than Mary. To Mary's right were Marla, Franz, and all the men who had been part of the study group that had formed around Marla in the spring and summer of 1633.

Mary smiled again. "I am not a musician, but I have worked in supporting musical groups in the past. I can assure you that I have received commitments for financial support for an orchestra for the foreseeable future. However, if we want to realize those commitments, that orchestra must be produced, and soon. I believe that all of you in this room can contribute to that effort in some way. So, let's get started."

The next hour was a revelation to Franz. Mary directed the discussion as surely as Marcus Wendell directed the high school band. They moved smoothly from topic to topic, covering the various issues involved with reproducing the up-time instruments in their current circumstances. Franz watched with interest as Mary stopped incipient arguments, prompted people into revealing information they didn't realize was important, and kept them focused on the goal, all the while making copious notes in a notebook. He found the time educational, to say the least; as much about how to manage a conference as about the information that was being shared.

At the end of the discussion, Mary looked around the room. "Right. To summarize, both Ingram Bledsoe and Marcus Wendell believe that a number of usable instruments can probably be found in basements and attics in Grantville. Ingram will take charge of locating and acquiring those." She waved at the crafters on her left. "You gentlemen will work together to develop the techniques to reproduce uptime strings. Friedrich Braun will also collaborate with Leopold Gruenwald on duplicating the woodwinds. Leopold has already made good progress on duplicating the valves and slides for brass. Marcus believes duplicating the percussion instruments will not be a serious challenge as soon we can locate down-time drum crafters. So, did I leave anything out?"

"The wood," prompted Marcus.

Mary circled a note on the page in front of her. "Sorry, I do have that down. We need to get our merchant connections searching in Central and South America for pernambuco for bows and rosewood for xylophones and marimbas."

Mary turned a page in her notebook. "All right. We can probably locate enough wind instruments to begin an orchestra, and with some time and resources we can produce more. But instruments are useless without musicians to play them." She looked around the room. "We need more musicians. A lot more. And we need them relatively soon. With all due respect, Maestro Carissimi and Signores Abati and Zenti, they will probably have to be Germans. We don't have time to wait for messages to get to Italy and for others to follow your footsteps here."

Carissimi simply nodded. The others looked slightly mutinous but followed their countryman's lead and remained silent. Franz was wondering why Mary kept emphasizing a short time frame, when Marcus asked, "Why the short fuze, Mary?"

"I'll get to that in a moment. So, if we need good musicians, and we need them quickly, where can we find them?"

Franz looked down the table at his friends, and collected several nods. He looked back at Mary. "Some of them, at least, might come from Mainz. When the Prince-Bishop fled the sight of the Swedish army, he left his orchestra behind. That is where Isaac, Leopold, Thomas and I came from. There are others who can be encouraged to come, particularly if appropriate stipends are made available."

"Excellent! How many?"

Franz looked back at his fellows. "Twelve, maybe fifteen?"

Isaac nodded. "Unless they've all fled in the last few months, about that many."

Mary looked pensive. "That's not enough. Where can we find more?"

They all looked at each other, and a moment of silence ensued. Finally, Thomas asked, "Cannot some of your patrons provide some musicians?"

"As a last resort, they can," Mary responded, "but I would really rather not inconvenience them if we don't have to." Suddenly her eyes lit up, and an almost beatific smile appeared on her face. "What about the Elector of Saxony's orchestra? Can we abscond with it like we will with the Prince-Bishop's?"

Shrugs all around the table. "It would be worth a try," said Isaac.

"Where else?"

Marla cleared her throat. "You might try sending circulars throughout Thuringia." Mary looked at her with a questioning expression. Marla continued. "According to the music history books, there should be at least a few Bachs scattered throughout this part of the country . . . ancestors and cousins of ancestors from collateral lines."

Mary grimaced, and made notes. "I knew that," she muttered.

"And according to Ed Piazza, there should be a sizable college of musicians around Stuttgart, as well," Marcus contributed.

Mary made more notes. Finally, she looked up again. "Okay, how do we get the word out?" The down-timers looked at her quizzically. She grinned. "How do we let musicians know that we're hiring, and what we have to offer?"

"I think," Maestro Carissimi offered, "that you will have to send personal representatives to most places. Here in Thuringia, perhaps broadsides would be useful, as most everyone does know of Grantville and what it means. But for places farther away, you must send ambassadors of music."

"Does anyone disagree?" Mary looked around the room. "Okay, we have Mainz, Stuttgart and Saxony. It will have to be you on this side of the table," she said, pointing to Franz. "The craftsmen, including Leopold, cannot leave. Thomas Schwarzberg as well. They must be focused on their work. So, who will go where?"

Franz looked over at Marla, who nodded in return. "We will go to Mainz."

Josef and Rudolf whispered back and forth for a moment. Josef said, "We will go to Stuttgart. We have a cousin there, who should provide us an opening."

Isaac had also been whispering with Hermann. He looked at Mary. "We will go to Saxony."

"Good." Mary wrote a few more notes in the ubiquitous notebook. She set the pen down, clasped her hands together in front of her, and gazed around the table. "Now, to answer Marcus' question from a few minutes ago, the reason I stressed short time lines is because our first concert has to be ready by the first of July."

"What?"

"Gott in Himmel!"

Various exclamations echoed off the walls of the conference room, including at least two that Franz recognized as being Italian. From the frown that appeared on Maestro Carissimi's face, they must have been very vulgar.

Mary raised a hand to quiet them as Marcus interjected, "Mary, I don't know who you've made that commitment to, but you'd better try and get out of it, because, bluntly, it's not going to happen."

Mary's head turned and her eyes bored into his. "I beg your pardon? Did you not just tell me that there were plenty of instruments in the garages and attics, and that you could loan those we couldn't find? Did we not establish that the violins today are similar to the violins from up-time? If we can get the musicians quickly, what prevents us from getting the orchestra together and performing in six months?"

"Did you ever play a musical instrument, Mary?"

"I took piano lessons as a child."

Marcus chuckled. "About what I figured. Mary, I'm not concerned about the string players. In fact, I misspoke slightly. You can have a Bach era orchestra ready in six months or less. Bach, Händel, maybe early Haydn and Mozart, they could play. But late Classical era and later would be beyond them."

"Why?" Mary frowned. "Make me understand, Marcus."

"It's the wind players, Mary. All of these instruments we've been talking about—the woodwinds with the Böhm keys, and the brass with the valves and different styled mouthpieces. For these players, it will be almost like learning new instruments, and for clarinet and saxophone players that would be literally true.

"Mary, I've been teaching band for almost as long as Marla has been alive. And I worked with good musicians in college. I've seen musicians pick up a new instrument—one that's different from their primary—and try to learn it, and it takes a lot of time. I'll spare you the lengthy explanation with all the technical musical terms. It boils down to just the sheer physical drill of practicing, over and over and over until your lips are puffy and sore, your fingers are blistered and you are so sick of the instrument you want to throw it in the river, until you build muscle memory and it finally becomes second nature to you."

Marla smiled and nodded. Mary caught the motion, and it obviously added to the weight of what Marcus was saying.

"Okay, then, how long until we have a Beethoven or Rossini era orchestra?"

"From the time you hand them the instruments to the time they might—I say might—be ready to tackle that music, ten to twelve months. Might be more, but it would take a divine miracle for it to be much less. An individual player, maybe less, but a full ensemble, nope."

Mary frowned down at her hands tightly clasped on top of her notebook. She said in a low tone, "If that's what it will take, then that's what it will take. But we will perform a concert of at least some up-time music in early July, even if it's nothing but Bach and Handel. And, yes, Bitty, I still want a season of ballet this year. Some kind of accompaniment will be available." She raised her head and stared each of them in the eyes in turn. When his turn came, Franz felt as if he were staring down the barrels of a pair of matched dueling pistols. He had never seen her gray eyes seem that cold before. Taking a deep breath, he nodded in return, and everyone in the room echoed him.

"Good." Mary closed her notebook. "I will be leaving for Magdeburg in another day or so. I may speak to a few of you before I leave. For now, after I leave you can contact Lady Beth Haygood. You will be able to communicate with me through her, and she will coordinate finances, including traveling expenses for those of you who will be traveling." She stood. "Thank you all for your time today, for the hard work you've already done, and for your commitment to the work yet to be done. I truly do appreciate it." She looked around the room, this time with a warm smile on her face, and everyone's spirits lightened a little before she swept out of the room. The Italians and most of the instrument crafters followed close behind her.

The energy level in the room dropped dramatically after Mary left. Once again Franz was reminded of just how intense Mrs. Simpson could be. Someone at the other end of the table gave a low whistle. Marcus chuckled. "I do believe we've been drafted into the USE Arts League, folks."

"I was reading in the Bible yesterday, in the Book of Judges," Isaac said. "I believe I now know how Barak must have felt when Deborah summoned him." Everyone laughed.

Marla smiled. "Well, that's better than Elijah before Jezebel. All we have to do is raise an orchestra out of the fertile ground of Thuringia." The laughter was louder this time.

"At least your assignment is possible." They all looked at the end of the table where Bitty Matowski had almost huddled in her chair for the entire meeting. "She wants me to stage Swan Lake in six months, and I can't do it, not here, not now!" Franz was a little taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. "The only reason I came to this meeting was to find out if an orchestra will be available in July."

Marcus and Franz both started to speak, but Franz gestured to Marcus to continue. "Bitty, there will be an orchestra then. Will it be able to perform Tchaikovsky? I doubt it, but I'm not going to rule the possibility out. If Franz and his friends can play the music, can you stage the dance?"

"No," Bitty said in a low tone of voice. "At least not anything like what Her Ladyship and her friends would be expecting. The big set pieces she expects for the second and fourth acts require more than two dozen en pointe dancers, and I'm lucky if I have ten. I won't allow any of my students to perform en pointe until I believe they are ready. Not a moment earlier. Not for anyone or anything will I risk ruining their feet. And if Her Ladyship doesn't like that she can . . . "

"Bitty," Marla interrupted. "Calm down." Bitty settled back in her chair, giving a jerky nod in return.

Franz was astounded to hear Mary Simpson spoken of in the tone used by Bitty. Evidently not everyone viewed her intensity and drive as well as he did.

"Now, do you know for sure you can't do Swan Lake?" Marla asked.

"No. She told me last Friday, after the last performance. I've been stewing about it ever since, but I haven't talked to the dancers yet, because I didn't want to ruin their holiday."

"Well, then," Marla said, "get them together. Talk to them. See if together you can think of a way to do it. If you can't, come up with an alternate proposal and present it to Mary."

"But what about music, and lighting, and . . . "

Marla raised a hand, and Bitty stopped in mid-sentence. "How many times while I was taking dance from you did I hear you say that you can't write staging directions and cues until you know what you're going to do and where you're going to do it? Figure out what you're going to do and tell Mary, then find out where it's going to be done. Then you can worry about the other stuff."

Marcus cleared his throat. "When you know what you want to do, Bitty, come talk to me so we can look at music. Whatever you end up using musically, there's a pretty good chance that Thomas will have to transcribe it. That will take some time, so he needs to know as soon as possible. That goes for you, too . . . " Marcus looked across the table at Franz. "Once you decide what will be performed, get the word to Thomas as soon as you can. If she wants a concert in July, you'd best start rehearsing in April. And no, before you ask, I can't help."

Bitty still looked unhappy, but she nodded. "Thanks, Marcus, Marla."

Marcus placed his palms on the table and pushed himself upright. "Well, folks, I believe we've all got work to do." He led the way out of the conference room and down the short hall to the front door.

Outside, Marla gave Bitty a quick hug and some more encouragement, then joined the huddle of friends around Franz. He looked at them all. "Well, what are we going to do?"

They looked at each other. Glances went around the circle several times, and finally Thomas rumbled in his deep voice, "You have the best sense for the music, Franz. You choose the works, and I will make sure they are ready by April."

Franz looked around the circle again. "Is that what you all want?" Nods from them all, including Marla. He sighed. "So be it."

Grantville

Friday morning, January 6, 1634

Marla kissed Franz. "I'm off to the school. I'll meet you in the band room at last hour, right?" Franz nodded, and she turned away to walk down the street, headed for her appointment to play and sing for some of the elementary classes as a treat.

For a moment, Franz was a little disoriented. This was the first time since the wedding that they had been separated for more than a few minutes, but today he had no desire to mingle with a mob of young children. It did feel a little odd, though, not having Marla beside him as he wandered up the street.

The day was sunny and clear, the air was brisk and cold, but not to the point where it hurt to breathe. The joy that had been bubbling inside of him for the last three weeks overflowed, and he flung his arms wide and twirled on the sidewalk, laughing freely. As he came full circle, he was face to face with one of the elderly ladies who lived nearby. She was on her way to do some shopping with the net bag hanging from her arm next to her purse. Her eyes were wide, but she offered him a timorous smile when he stepped off the sidewalk, bowed and, with flamboyance worthy of Signor Abati, gestured that she should continue.

He was still grinning from ear to ear when he entered the workshop of Bledsoe and Riebeck. Not only was his friend, Friedrich and his craft master Hans, present, but also their competitors, Signor Girolamo Zenti and Johannes Fichtold, his associate journeyman. Of the major wood craftsmen at yesterday's meeting, only Ingram Bledsoe was missing. The four were grouped around a work table, looking at the pieces of a violin in the process of assembly and discussing it animatedly. Friedrich looked up and spotted him.

"Franz! What are you doing here, and where is Marla?"

"She is visiting school classrooms this morning to entertain children, so I thought I would do something similar and come see what happens here."

Friedrich laughed, and Master Hans had a smile nestling in his gray beard. Their two visitors were a little taken aback by the banter, but quickly sprouted smiles of their own.

"Ach, Franz, I see that marriage has not stopped your foolishness," Master Hans said.

"And if you thought it would, good master, then you expected too much. I am as great a fool as ever." Franz laughed. "The giddiest of fools, indeed. I rouse with the sun each day in joy, and lay my head down at night in bliss. 'Twixt the two I wander and run in delight. A fool I am indeed." He held a finger up and winked. "But surely the wisest of fools for wedding Marla. Let it be carved on my tombstone at the end of a hopefully long life, that I had wisdom enough to marry the good Marla Linder."

Now they all started laughing, and crowded around Franz to shake his hand and clap his shoulders once more in congratulations. As they started to settle down, Master Hans assumed a serious expression. "You know, young Franz, that it will not always be thus. The first bloom will fade, and only if you have sunk deep roots will you survive."

Franz sobered. "Aye, Master Hans. We know enough of life to know that our roots must run deep and twine together for there to be blooms and fruit throughout our lives. Marla will challenge me to my best, but a burden that will never be, as I want for her nothing but the best. We have each other, and we have God. It will be enough."

The others nodded, with a muttered, "So let it be," from Friedrich.

There was a moment of silence, then Franz gestured to the bench. "Enough of me. What happens here?"

"I had some time ago," Friedrich stepped toward the bench, "begun trying to fashion a violin after the model of one belonging to Master Ingram, one he said belonged to an uncle before it came to him. Maple for the back," pointing to the elements," spruce for the top, somewhat wider than your own, sound holes cut as so. Resonator bar here, sound post ready to join front and back. Longer neck, joined to the body at a steeper angle.

"One innovation that I had not seen before: the finger board on the neck is slanted slightly from side to side. I had to think on it for some while before I realized that it provided an equal distance for each string to be pressed down to the board. You had told me before of the increase of violin art, of the rise of virtuosi, and I heard music last summer. But this brought it home to me, that the virtuoso's technique would be so demanding that a flat neck would produce irregularities in playing rapidly because of the differing widths of the strings. It makes sense, once I understand it, as does the longer neck. The longer the neck, the more notes you can play on it. This is a design with years, even centuries, more breeding behind it than the one I made you. This is a merino, while the one I made in Mainz for you is perhaps not a Brillo, but is not far from it."

"So I am a shepherd now, am I?" Franz laughed along with the others at the reference to the famous—and infamous—ram.

"Aye, a shepherd of music," Friedrich replied, "perhaps one of the great ones."

"Pfaugh! You flatter me."

"No, my friend, no. It is but truth. You found Grantville's music first, even before Maestro Carissimi." Friedrich nodded to Master Girolamo. "You called us here, you drove us to follow Marla, chivvying us along, all the while wondering if you would ever play again. And by the grace of God and your own endurance you have begun to play. The others follow your lead, and well they should. You will lead them to glory, a musical Alexander, and they will be known as your companions. They all sense this, even Hermann of the hard head."

Franz stared at his friend in amazement. Never had he heard such come from Friedrich before. "Are you the modern Delphian Oracle, then?"

Looking a bit abashed, Friedrich replied, "Nay, no prophet or seer, I. The future is hidden from me in fog and clouds of gun smoke, just as it is to everyone. But this much is plain to me."

"Heavy expectations you lay upon me," Franz said.

"No heavier than what you lay upon yourself."

"I will say this," interjected Master Girolamo. "I have heard Maestro Carissimi say that Signora Marla's flame burns bright, but yours burns hotter." Johannes nodded in agreement.

Franz stared at them all, all of them returning his stare with level gazes. "I . . . I do not know what to make of this. I . . . I am not accustomed to thinking of myself as such."

Master Hans stepped to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Think not about it. Just be yourself, the wise fool Franz who loves Frau Marla Linder and loves music. Be true to that, and let whatever else come that will."

Franz looked him in the eye for a moment, then nodded slowly. "That I can do. That I will. Marla and I together, loving music."

"Good." The master clapped his shoulder again with a blow that staggered him. "Now, let us consider again this merino of violins." They all shook themselves, laughing together, and grouped around the table again.

"So, you have determined the instrument's physique," Franz said. Master Zenti grunted, the others nodded. "And how long to make one, then?"

"I say three months or more," from Friedrich, "but Johannes there says that his kinsmen and fellow craftsmen in Füssen can produce one in two."

"Ah, you are from Füssen, then?" Franz turned to Johannes. "I have heard of their violins, I believe. Are you then a crafter of such?"

Johannes shook his head. "No. I agreed to come with Master Girolamo, and I am assisting in his work with pianos, but my family are luthiers . . . Geigenbauer. Our specialty is lutes, but I have helped with violins before. Four, maybe five violins."

"Füssen has fine woods, fine timber," Master Girolamo added. "I have ordered woods from there to be sent to me here. But obviously the Füssen craftsmen would get first choice."

"So, two months. Allowing for time to get to Füssen, and time for the violins to return, if we desired to order from everyone in Füssen who could build this 'merino' violin design, including the new bows as well," Franz said slowly, working through an idea, "how many could we have by, say . . . the end of April?"

Johannes pondered that question, lips moving and fingers counting on fingers. Finally he looked up. "If they can be convinced to make these the most important works, put them ahead of their other contracts, I would think twenty, perhaps twenty-five."

Franz looked at the two masters. "If Ingram has any fortune at all in finding sound and playable up-time violins in basements and attics, that would surely equip the violinists of our orchestra soon to be hatched." They accepted his statement as fact, and both looked back at him with identical quizzical expressions on their faces. "So, you send Johannes to Füssen with the 'merino' design, authority to contract and enough silver to bind the contracts. Get them started soon. Neither of you can produce what is required as soon as they can."

"True," Master Hans said sourly, and Master Girolamo grunted in agreement.

"It will cost," warned Johannes. "You will pay for the new design, you will pay for the speed, and you will definitely pay to put your order at the head of their lists."

"I believe that Frau Simpson understands the concept of paying to expedite. Make your guess as to what is needed, and talk to this Lady Beth Haygood that Frau Simpson said will be her voice and hand. Get lots of silver, or drafts on the Abrabanels may be even better. Best send a couple of guards with Johannes, as well." Franz started to turn back to the table, paused, and added, "And make it a provision of each contract that for two years they will only produce 'merino' design violins for the Magdeburg orchestra."

"Better if you make it five or six years," Master Girolamo's grin was evil, "and let them bargain you down to two in exchange for lower prices and first place on the work lists."

"Listen well to that one." Master Hans matched grin with grin. "You youngsters have yet to learn that there is a time and a place for passion, and a time and a place for guile. Our Italian friend understands guile right well."

"As you advise, then," Franz said. "Just begin it quickly."

"Surely you will not gift these instruments to the players?" Friedrich asked. "I doubt that Frau Simpson would agree to that, regardless of how quickly she desires to see them provided."

"No," Franz responded. "The players will pay for them; will pay what we pay plus the cartage. If one has not sufficient silver, then a portion of his stipend will be withheld until the full sum is paid. Make sure that Frau Mary's voice and hand knows of this as well."

Turning back to the table, unaware of just how much he sounded like a general issuing commands, Franz said, "And do you have a 'merino' design for a viola . . . "

Grantville

Friday afternoon, January 6, 1634

Franz was surprised to see Maestro Giacomo Carissimi walking slowly ahead of him in the hallway of the high school. The gifted and well-known Italian composer had come to Grantville chasing the rumors of unique and remarkable music. He had found more than he had ever dreamed could exist.

In truth, Franz and his friends had come for the same reason as Maestro Carissimi. Franz had stumbled upon Grantville first, and had then summoned his friends and acquaintances from his erstwhile home of Mainz. Others had followed the rumors on their own—the brothers Josef and Rudolf Tuchman from Hannover and Hermann Katzberg from Hamburg. Because they had the advantage of shorter distances to travel, they were all in Grantville and soaking up musical knowledge like a sot guzzling wine weeks before the Italian had arrived. Franz had to admit that the maestro had made up for lost time since then. He was somewhat in awe of how quickly that quiet, soft-spoken, shy man had progressed to the place where he was beginning to write in new idioms.

Franz fell into step beside the Italian. "Good afternoon, Maestro."

The older man looked around at him with a shy smile. "Oh, it is you, Signor Franz. And a buon pomeriggio, or as you would say it, guten Tag. Shall we continue in German, or perhaps Latin?"

"No, maestro, no." Franz laughed, shifting his books to his other hand. "Let us continue to practice English."

"Hmm, a practice in which you have over me the advantage." The maestro looked faintly disappointed.

"But do not the physicians say that one must exercise weak muscles to strengthen them? So it is with languages, I have observed."

Carissimi laughed. "I must allow you the hit, young sir. Very well, let us together exercise. Perhaps my command of the English will improve, to the amazing of my English friend, Father Fitzherbert."

They were nearly to the double doors to the band room. Franz gestured to them. "Do you come here often? To the rehearsals, I mean?"

"Yes. Yes, I do, to steep myself in the sounds of these winds. We have nothing like them. They are so new, so different, so . . . challenging."

"Challenging?" Franz opened the door and allowed Carissimi to precede him.

"Yes. It is like a naturalist who goes to America, and finds there new kinds of animals. They may be beautiful, but he must study them to know what they live with, what they feed on, if they are of a temperament to be domesticated, to what work they can be put. So it is with these . . . I am the naturalist of music whose world has been turned . . . ah . . . piedi sottosopra . . . "

"Feet over head," a voice supplied from behind them. "We would say 'upside down.'" They turned to see Marla entering the room behind them.

Carissimi nodded. "Yes. Exactly so, upside down. And I must understand them before I can know to what use to put them. Good afternoon, Signora Marla. And let me say once again," with a slight bow, "i miei piu' sentiti ringraziamenti for the wonderful performing of my humble lamento done by you and your friends. I was at the end of my wit, molto frustrato, when I was told no orchestra was in Grantville. To have your friends play was a blessing, and to have your voice to sing was a gift from God."

A faint blush painted Marla's cheeks. "Maestro, you are too kind, and surely you exaggerate. Signor Abati could have done it much better, I am sure."

"Mmm, forgive me the disagreeing, but no, child, he could not. I have known Andrea, il Prosperino, for some time, and known of him for longer. He might, perhaps, have sung it slightly more correctly . . . " Carissimi checked a little as Marla looked away from him. "Forgive me. If I offend I regret. But, child, despite what you might have thought, you are not the world's only great singer. Andrea, he has been singing for over twenty years. His voice, now it is prime. The best in Italy he is, which means the best in the world. And I, Giacomo Carissimi, I say that he might have sung my lamento with a slight more correctness, but he would never have sung it with your passion."

Franz was surprised at the conversation occurring in front of him. Always before il maestro had been very shy with women, almost ill at ease. Today he spoke to Marla as he would to a respected colleague.

The Italian sighed, and said quietly, "Andrea . . . It is often so with the great ones when they reach Olympus so young. They have nothing to live for but the hope that some great work will require them and only them before they fade. I think that is why Andrea took the offer of the place in the court of Brandenburg—to do a new something, to go to a new place, to do something no castrato before him had done. But now, now he has found Magdeburg, and Grantville, and the music you have that is nowhere else. Now, I think, he has found his calling, found the challenge that will face him every day for the rest of his life. In his own way, he has found heaven on earth."

Carissimi turned and looked directly into Marla's eyes, something that he did more now than earlier in their acquaintance. "And you, child, Marla, you with the golden gift from God of a voice, you should study with him. He can teach you much that you need, if you will ask him. It will enliven him, and will help you."

Marla nodded slowly. "I will follow your advice, Maestro."

"Good. You will the better be for it."

At that moment, the door to the band room flung open, and they all jumped as Marcus Wendell charged through. "Hah! You're all here. Good!" He plopped a stack of paper down on a stool, and faced Franz. "So, you ready to try, Franz?" With a gulp, Franz straightened and nodded. "Good. Bring your score, and let's look over it one last time . . . " The school bell rang for the change of classes, and Marcus grimaced. "Sorry, too late. Here they come."

And indeed, there was a rising thunder of footsteps in the hallway. Franz and his companions pressed back against the wall, out of the way, as a seemingly endless tide of young bodies flung itself through the doorway and crashed on the chairs arranged around the podium as a breaking wave on shore. Within a couple of minutes every chair was full, and students were chattering away as they fitted instrument pieces together. It was amazing how well twenty-five teenagers sucking on clarinet reeds could at the same time carry on conversations with at least three other players sitting near them. Reeds began to squeal and sound, brass began to blare and blat, drums began rolling, tubas began thundering. Just as the cacophony began to overpower them, the class bell rang again, and Marcus stepped up on the podium. Within moments, there was quiet.

Franz watched intently as Marcus prepared the band, running them through various tuning exercises. At length, he cut them off and set his baton on the stand. "Okay, kids, listen up." They looked at him expectantly, with a few sidelong glances at the guests by the door. They were used to Maestro Carissimi—Mister C, they called him sometimes—listening in on their rehearsals, but Franz and Marla were new faces to them, at least in Mr. Wendell's domain.

"You've got a new piece of music in your folders. Or it's new to some of you. I think we played it a couple of years ago, so most of you probably remember it. Anyway, pull it out, because Mr. Sylwester here is going to take the baton in a minute and direct it."

"Mr. Wendell," called a voice from the tuba section over the excited whispers.

"What?"

"You didn't say what piece it was."

Amid the smothered giggles and snickers from the other kids, Marcus smiled. "Okay, Dane, you got me that time. Get out A Civil War Medley."

Paper rustled all over the room as Marcus stepped from the podium and motioned Franz over. The older man offered the baton across his left forearm as if he were surrendering a sword. Franz accepted it with no small amount of trepidation. Leaning forward a little, Marcus murmured, "They're good kids, and they won't mess with you. Just give them a good downbeat and keep the patterns going, no matter what. Go straight through it one time, we'll compare notes quickly, then you can work with them some."

Mouth dry enough to resemble a desert, Franz nodded again. The podium looked about five feet tall in front of him, but he managed to raise a foot and step up on it. He placed his copy of the score on the music stand, and adjusted it to his height. Fussing with the score, he placed it just so, then slowly opened the cover to the first page of music. He knew he was avoiding looking at the band members, out of simple fear deferring the moment when he would have to begin. It was the thought of Marla behind him that caused Franz to straighten up, throw his shoulders back, and raise his head to look at the . . . musicians. They might be only children, teenagers, but they were musicians, and he owed them his best. They sat quietly, instruments on laps, waiting on him.

Franz raised his hands, baton gripped in his right, and poised at the top of their movement. Instruments were raised all over the room. "Four beats," he said, after the manner of Marcus. The tip of the baton moved through three slight beats and raised high. As he brought it down, the music began.

Focused as he was on just getting the pattern started, the crash of music startled Franz so that he almost lost control. Marcus had given him the book on conducting and the score to the piece right after they returned to Grantville. He had read the book from cover to cover, calling on Marla to translate where he wanted to make sure he understood. Each picture and diagram was scrutinized to the point that Marla had laughed that he was wearing the ink off of the pages. From her own experience as a student conductor for Marcus, she was able to guide him in developing the patterns and the common practices of conducting. And then he practiced . . . over and over and over he practiced, to the point he thought his arm was going to fall off. But during all of his practice, he was hearing the music in his head, which by its nature is a quiet exercise. To actually hear the music, to hear the crash of cymbals, the roll of the drums and the crisp sounds of the trumpets nearly blew him off of the podium.

The first song in the medley possessed the odd name of Marching Through Georgia. It was a sprightly song, one that could have been played at a dance, Franz thought. His pattern was quick and brisk, in keeping with the allegro tempo marking. He managed to remember to turn the pages as those points were reached. The song passed quickly. Almost before he knew it the modulation to the second song was upon him.

Making his patterns broader and slower, he negotiated the change to When Johnny Comes Marching Home. He was gratified that the students had slowed in keeping with his changes. The new tempo was andante, and his pattern was in accordance with that instruction. Again, looking around, he was pleased to see the students—no, the musicians—were intent on their music, somehow keeping one eye on the pages and one eye on him. He sped up the pattern just a little, and the ease with which they matched his change fed him such exhilaration that he almost laughed.

The second transition was upon him, and again Franz led the band through another modulation to The Battle Hymn of the Republic, speeding the tempo up to match the alla marcia marking. This was his favorite of the three songs, and he poured himself into it. In the second verse, the legato rendition, he motioned to the clarinets to play softer, and they responded! In the third verse, the finale, he switched to a deliberate pattern. When the trumpets weren't strong enough to suit him, he forcefully beckoned to them to play louder. And they responded! Energized, he led them through the final chorus, slowing the tempo because of the ritard, to the great concluding series of chords alternating with cymbal crashes, to the final chord with its crescendo, held at length, and finally released with the final crash of cymbals.

Franz dropped his arms, dazed for a moment that it was ended. He looked over to where Marcus was standing against the wall, and saw him smiling, giving him the thumbs-up signal that in Grantville meant 'you done good.' Relaxing, he stepped down from the podium and met Marcus to hear his comments and suggestions.

****

During the conference, Carissimi leaned over to Marla. "This is one of the things I marvel at, this conductor. Never would it have occurred to me that there was a different way than having the continuo player, the harpsichordist, lead the performance. But to watch Master Wendell, and now Franz, I see a better way, a way for one man to be to an ensemble as a violinist is to the violin. Does it work that way? Does the skill and the talent of the conductor make as much difference to the orchestra or band as the skill and talent of the musicians?"

"Perhaps more so," Marla whispered back.

Carissimi sat back. "This bears thinking upon."

****

Franz stepped back up on the podium, noting in the back of his mind that what had seemed so high an obstacle less than a quarter-hour ago was now only a step. Keeping in mind the things that Marcus and he had discussed, he raised his hands to begin rehearsing the piece, the work of taking each section and hammering it until it was as near perfect as the musicians could produce.

At the end of the hour, after the final run-through of the piece, Franz reluctantly put the baton back down on the director's stand, and faced the band once more. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me learn to be a conductor, a dirigent we will call it in German, to learn with you." Giving them a slight bow, he clapped to them and for them.

"Let's hear it for Mr. S," came the irrepressible voice from the tubas, and the students stood and clapped for Franz, with cheers and whistles from all over and a cymbal crash from the drums. His face felt flushed, and he stepped from the podium and gave them the full bow, the one he would give to an audience that applauded for him.

Just then the final bell rang, and the band dissolved into the bustle of putting away of music and instruments. Many of the students spoke to him as they left. Finally, the room was empty.

Marcus came over to shake hands with him. Franz tried to return the baton to him, but Marcus said, "Keep it, Franz. You'll need it, and I have another." Smiling, he waved to the others and left.

Cradling the baton, Franz slowly turned and walked over to Marla and Maestro Carissimi. Marla looked at his shining face, his gleaming eyes, the grin that threatened to split his face and the way he almost danced as he moved toward them. She smiled in return. "Well?"

Franz turned and looked at the empty chairs for a moment, drinking in the moment. When he faced them again, he said quietly, "It was as if I had the wings of Icarus, only, unlike Icarus, I reached the glory of the sun."

Grantville

Saturday morning, January 7, 1634

The door in front of Franz opened to reveal the face of his friend Thomas Schwarzberg. ""Come in, my friend, come in." Thomas gestured Franz to a chair on one side of his work table. "And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" He sat down on the chair on the other side.

"To this." Franz handed him a sheet of paper with a list on it. Thomas took it, and raised his eyebrows at the contents.

"I take it these are the works you want notated from CDs for Frau Mary's concert?"

"Aye. In addition to those five, I have asked Maestro Carissimi to provide something, as well. He said that he would try, but that it might not be very long."

"Hmm. J. S. Bach's Concerto No. 3 in G Major. Is that not one of the so-called Brandenburg Concerti?"

"Yes." Franz smiled. "But perhaps in this time that is not the most fortuitous of names. Shall we re-christen it, then?"

A slow smile crossed Thomas' face. "I like that thought, Franz. I must admit to liking it muchly. So, have you somewhat in mind to rename it?"

"Perhaps. In truth, one or two."

"And?"

"I thought first of naming it 'Magdeburg' after the city where it will first be played in our time." Franz quirked an eyebrow.

His friend nodded, pulling at his chin. "'Twould be a good fit, I think. Brandenburg, Magdeburg . . . it rolls off the tongue in much the same way. But what was the other?"

"Vasa."

Thomas' eyes opened wide, and his chin dropped. Franz enjoyed the look of amazement, before the laughter began. The deep bass voice of his friend resounded in the room, his hilarity echoing from the walls. Finally, it dwindled away to mere chuckles while he wiped his eyes.

"Oh, Franz. It is too good! Oh, the thought of that story becoming commonly known . . . how the concerti were named Brandenburg in the up-time, but that they will now be known as Vasa in honor of the great king. How that will twist in the bowels of Elector George William! Would that I could be a mouse in the chamber when he hears of it!" Off he went, laughing again, with Franz chuckling in spite of himself.

Wiping his eyes, Thomas picked up the list again. His voice was somewhat uneven when he said, "So are there any other delights like the first in the list?"

Franz shook his head. "No. The Pachelbel Canon in D and the Albinoni Adagio will be comfortable to the ears of the patrons. And when you do the Adagio, if you will, voice it for all strings; two choirs of strings if you must."

Thomas nodded, and read down the list, humming a little. "Yes, yes, I remember the Adagio from Marla's teaching. Oh, my!" Thomas was looking at the last two works on the list. "You do believe in a challenge, my friend."

Franz smiled. "Can you think of two other 'modern' works that would speak to Frau Mary's patrons more than those?" Thomas slowly shook his head. "We will learn them. I will put the Barber work in the midst of the program, and the Vaughan Williams work at the end. And we will triumph, triumph indeed."

Cocking his head to one side, Thomas looked Franz in the eye for a long moment, then laid the list on the desk. "We named you to do this, so we will follow where you lead. 'Tis challenging, but challenge makes for excitement and interest. So, with these five and one from the maestro, you have six. Enough for a night's entertainment that Frau Mary can well be pleased by."

Franz reached inside his jacket. "And one more." He handed Thomas a piece of printed music. "This I have borrowed from the library of the choir of the Methodist church. I need the piano score voiced for strings, please, oh greatest of all scribblers."

Reading through the work, Thomas began to smile. "Oh, indeed. I see your intent. 'Twould be beautiful, indeed. Oh, yes."

Turning serious, Franz said, "Can you do this—all of it—by the first day of April?"

"Eleven, almost twelve weeks from now? Yes. With Master Wendell recently making known to me the printer who prints his blank staff pages so that I no longer have to draw my own staves, then yes, I can do it. Mind you, we will probably still be scribbling out some of the individual parts when the first rehearsal begins, but we have all done that before."

"I count on you, my friend." Franz buttoned up his jacket. "I leave for Mainz on Monday, so I leave this in your hands. Trusting you, I shall not worry."

"It will be done."

They clasped hands, then Franz was gone.

"Hmm," Thomas said. "I believe I shall need some more pencils."

Grantville

Saturday evening, January 7, 1634

Isaac Fremdling—after almost six years away from his people, it was how he thought of himself now—waited in the shadows of the back corner of the synagogue as everyone left after the service that concluded Shabbat. He stirred as the rabbi and the president walked up the room from the Aron Kodesh, the ark containing the holy scrolls, toward the doors. The shamash, or caretaker, was still on the bima platform, fussing about something.

"Shavuah tov, Reb Yitzhak." Startled at hearing his Hebrew name, Isaac turned to his right, facing a man walking toward him. The lamplight revealed him to be Don Francisco Nasi.

"And a good week to you, Reb Pinchas." Isaac immediately bowed toward the man who just might be the most important Jew in Europe—certainly the most influential—and in turn called him by his Hebrew name.

"Come, walk with me a while, of your kindness." Don Francisco linked his arm through Isaac's and guided him down the steps to the street. "It has been good to see you in the congregation these past few weeks. Have you found our Sephardic practices much different from those you grew up with?"

Mind reeling from the shock of having this man, a member of the famed Abrabanel family and the mano sinistra—the left hand—of Prime Minister Stearns, not just talking to him, but searching him out for a time of one-to-one conversation, Isaac mustered wits enough to say, "Some things are different, sir—the music is perhaps not as melodious, the Hebrew spoken is a little sharper—but the important things are the same."

"Hmm, yes, we can say something very like that about our history as God's Chosen People, can we not? Some things are different, some things change, but the important things remain the same."

"Yes, sir." Isaac's mind was spinning like a dreidel, slower now, settling, only to be sent flying again by his companion's next statement.

"Your family is doing well, in Aschenhausen." Isaac's jaw dropped. He stopped dead in the street and turned toward his companion.

"How . . . how . . . " Both his tongue and his mind were stuttering.

"Oh, come now," Don Francisco—he was so well known by that name that Isaac had trouble thinking of him by any other—smiled as he resumed walking, towing Isaac along beside him. "What kind of spy master would I be, Isaac Fremdling, Yitzhak ben Shlomo haLevi, if I could not find your name and your roots?" Isaac shook his head in bewilderment. "Your father is still rabbi of the congregation there. Your mother's hands hurt from the rheumatism more, but your sisters Devorah and Rachel are taking over more of the housework from her. Your younger brother Reuven is becoming quite a scholar, able to quote lengthy passages from Torah and Nevi'im by heart, and beginning to read the Talmud. There is talk of sending him someplace to study . . . perhaps to Rabbi Mordechai in Prague."

Isaac's heart sang within him. This was the first word he had had of his family since he had been disowned by his father over five years ago. They were all still alive! The girls must be big enough to be dreaming of marriage, and Reuven . . . why, Reuven must be almost thirteen now, preparing for his bar mitzvah! The old ache suddenly was made fresh again, stabbing to his core, eliciting a choked sob that he tried to muffle with his other hand. He was grateful when Don Francisco effected not to notice.

"I . . . thank you," he said finally. "That is . . . good news . . . indeed."

They walked together for a long moment. Finally Don Francisco spoke. "I know that the . . . manner . . . in which you left Aschenhausen left you feeling neither fish nor fowl, and that during your entire time at Mainz you did not seek a congregation because of your hurt and your uncertainty. I am glad that you are finally finding your way back to us. I will say to you that while your father may have named you dead to his family, and even his congregation, he did not do so to all of us. There is a place for Isaac Fremdling—for Yitzhak ben Shlomo—among the Sephardim, and we would welcome you to do more than just stand in the back like an unbelieving visitor . . . or worse, the shade of Shmuel. When you return to Magdeburg, they will make you welcome, help you to feel comfortable wearing the talit katan again." The absolute certainty in his voice reassured Isaac. In some faint corner of his mind, he wondered just why this greatest of his race was interested in his affairs.

"Thank you, sir. I will try to be . . . worthy of your kind support."

They turned a corner, and Don Francisco said, "As it happens, I am acquainted with someone in Aschenhausen."

Isaac managed a small laugh, little more than a hiccup. "As it happens, sir, that does not surprise me."

"Yes." Don Francisco laughed. "Well, as I said, I am a spy master. So, as you pass by Eisenach," after the other revelations of the evening, it was no surprise to Isaac that his planned journey was seemingly common knowledge, "you might go by way of Aschenhausen."

"And is there some small task or errand I may perform for you while I am there?"

"If it's not too much trouble," the other said drolly. "I would greatly appreciate your delivering a few pounds of coffee beans to the merchant, Joachim Arst."

Isaac laughed. "Willingly, sir, willingly. For, as you probably know, I owe a debt to Master Arst."

"Indeed. Someone will deliver the package of beans to you tomorrow. Simply carry them in your baggage until that time. And do be careful." Isaac nodded. They turned another corner. Isaac looked up to see the Thuringen Gardens in front of him.

"And so," his companion said, "having enjoyed our time together, I deliver you to the arms of your companions, for if I mistake me not, you are due to begin making music in a few moments."

Grantville

Saturday evening, January 7, 1634

"Finally!" Franz hissed. "Where have you been?"

"Sorry," Isaac whispered, taking the violin that Franz shoved at him. "Don Francisco wanted to talk with me."

"Don Francisco Nasi?" Franz was incredulous.

"Do you know another one?"

Franz opened his mouth to answer, then closed it as the Gardens' manager stepped up on the platform. He pushed Isaac over to where Marla and the rest of their friends waited—Marla with studied patience, and their friends with smiles. "Remember the program."

"And now," the manager boomed, "put your hands together for Marla and her friends." He jumped down off the platform, Hermann plucked a note on his harp, Franz snapped his fingers four times and they broke into song.

Now I've often heard it said from my father and my mother

That going to a wedding was the makings of another.

Well, if this be so, then I'll go without a bidding.

Oh kind providence, won't you send me to a wedding?

And it's oh, dear me, how would it be

If I died an old maid in the garrett?

This was one of the light-hearted Irish songs they had learned from Marla's mother's album collection. Marla was having fun with it. Already fingers and toes were tapping all over the Gardens.

Well, now there's my sister Jean, she's not handsome or good-looking,

Scarcely sixteen and a fellow she was courting.

Now, she's twenty-four with a son and a daughter.

Here am I at thirty-five and I've never had an offer.

And it's oh, dear me, how would it be

If I died an old maid in the garrett?

Although he had made great strides in rehabilitating his crippled left hand, Franz was still not up to the fast pace of many of the Irish songs. For this one he had found a tambourine and was just providing a steady beat behind the music.

I can cook and I can sew, I can keep the house right tidy,

And wake up in the morning to get the breakfast ready.

There's nothing in this wide world would make me half so cheery

As a wee, fat man who would call me his own deary.

And it's oh, dear me, how would it be

If I died an old maid in the garrett?

When Marla started the third verse, Franz moved up behind her and began to mug at her, bowing his legs, pooching out his stomach and holding air in his mouth to distend his cheeks. As she got to the wee, fat man line he waddled up next to her and offered her his left hand, to the laughter of the audience, all the while keeping the rhythm of the tambourine in his right hand going against his leg. Marla slapped at him, and he pretended to duck in fear.

So come landsman or come kingsman, come tinker or come tailor,

Come fiddler or come dancer, come ploughboy or come sailor,

Come rich man, come poor man, come bore or come witty,

Come any man at all who will marry me for pity.

And it's oh, dear me, how would it be

If I died an old maid in the garrett?

All through the fourth verse, Franz continued to mug at Marla, changing his posture and expression throughout the roll call, to constant laughter from the audience.

Well, now I'm away home, for nobody's heeding.

Oh, nobody's heeding to poor Annie's bleeding.

So, I'm away home to my own wee bit garret.

If I can't have a man, then I'll have to get a parrot.

And it's oh, dear me, how would it be

If I died an old maid in the garrett?

And it's oh, dear me, how would it be

If I died an old maid in the garrett?

They finished the song with a flourish. Marla joined hands with Franz to take a bow to loud applause. They stepped back, Marla picked up her flute from a stool behind her. Isaac laid his violin down on the same stool, then stepped forward. Franz snapped his fingers again.

It was another fast, funny song. Isaac led out in Finnegan's Wake. As he beat the tambourine Franz could see the audience just drinking this one in as well. Most everyone in the room could relate to everything in the song: workmates who loved their drink; the dangers of working on a construction site; sudden death; the wake being held in the home and the missus wanting to do her husband's memory proud with a feast; the free flowing beer and booze and the drunken brawl erupting (lots of laughter there, and several people pointing at others). Wild cheers erupted when the whisky spilled on Tim Finnegan's corpse and he revived.

Isaac picked up his violin, Marla stepped back out front, and they moved on to other songs. As the evening progressed, the Gardens got more and more crowded. Soon every chair and bench was occupied and people were standing around the perimeter of the room, elbow to elbow. There was scarcely room for the barmaids to squeeze through to pick up and deliver mugs. The Committees of Correspondence were well represented, their people having arrived early and claimed three tables near the front. Finally, the evening neared its end.

They finished an instrumental piece, and Marla stepped out front and held her hand up. The room quieted quickly.

"Thanks for coming tonight, everyone. I hope you've enjoyed yourselves." The room erupted into a roar of applause. She held her hand up again, and again the quiet descended quickly. "This will be our last performance in Grantville for a while. We leave Monday. I wish I could say we're taking this show on the road." The up-timers in the audience laughed. "But we're going to be doing some business, and when we get back we'll be in Magdeburg. But, if you get up that way, we sing sometimes at the Green Horse tavern. Stop in if you get a chance.

"We're going to do one more song for you, another old traditional song from the country we came from.

Franz reached down and picked up his violin. He was conscious of everyone looking at him as he stepped forward, which gave him a faint chill . . . playing in public was still a bit of a challenge for him. Raising his bow, he began the introduction to the final song. At the appropriate place the others joined in, and Marla began to sing.

The water is wide, I cannot cross o'er.

And neither have I the wings to fly.

Build me a boat that can carry two,

And both shall row, my true love and I.

A ship there is and she sails the seas.

She's laden deep as deep can be;

But not so deep as the love I'm in,

And I know not if I sink or swim.

The joy of playing with Marla, of making music with his wife, filled Franz. He abandoned himself to the music while she sang, seeking to meld his violin with her golden voice.

I leaned my back against a young oak,

Thinking he were a trusty tree;

But first he bended and then he broke;

Thus did my love prove false to me.

O love is handsome and love is fine,

Bright as a jewel when first it's new;

But love grows old and waxes cold

And fades away like the morning dew.

All the others dropped out. Franz and Marla did the last line together.

And fades away like the morning dew.

They stood together for a moment, then relaxed their posture as the patrons began applauding. They joined hands and—one mind, one heart—bowed in acknowledgement.

Movement II - Andante espressivo

Grantville

Monday, January 9, 1634

Franz looked at his traveling companions, and Maestro Carissimi. They were standing outside the office of Lady Beth Haygood, talking and waiting for Hermann. As Marla turned to ask il maestro a question, Franz smiled to himself. He remembered Marcus Wendell's reaction last Friday when he mentioned that he found it odd that an English noblewoman was serving as Frau Simpson's aide.

"Who are you talking about?" Marcus' brow had furrowed, indicating his perplexity.

"This Lady Beth Haygood," Franz had replied. His brow furrowed in turn, as Marcus had burst into laughter.

"Lady," Marcus had finally said, after his hilarity had died down, "is her name, not a title." Franz had looked very confused, he was sure. "Oh, yes, it really is. Americans sometimes name their kids the strangest things. I had a friend in college, a boy from Alabama, whose name was Colonel A. Johnson. He caught a lot of flack from the ROTC guys. Go slip Tom Stone a few beers some night, and see if he'll tell you what his sons' given names originally were." Marcus chuckled again. "Just say her name—ladybeth—really fast like it's one word."

Just as Franz was remembering his friends' reaction when Marla had shared the story of his confusion, Hermann arrived. Shaking off his reverie, Franz said, "Hermann is here, and he was the last. Let us discover what Frau Haygood has in store for us." Opening the door, he led the way into the small room. The woman at the desk, presumably Lady Beth herself, looked up as they trooped in. She was an older woman—older than Marla, anyway. Franz refused to try and guess at her actual age; most of the Grantville women wore their ages well, and he had embarrassed himself more than once when age had entered into conversations.

"Hi, Lady Beth," Marla sang out as she entered and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, Marla." Franz continued to study Lady Beth. He had probably been introduced to her at some point—if at no other time, then during their wedding reception, he was sure—but she was not familiar to him. He saw an oblong face, like so many of the Grantvillers, framed in shoulder length wavy dark blonde hair. She wasn't a pretty woman—with a strong jaw and a strong nose, perhaps the best that could be said was she was attractive—but her blue eyes and warm smile were welcoming on this cold Monday morning.

"So, what's up?" Marla asked. "We're supposed to be on the road pretty quick."

"Well, I think you're going to have to change your plans somewhat." Lady Beth looked around at the group. "Mrs. Simpson told me to work with you to set up some musician recruiting trips to Mainz, Stuttgart and Saxony. However, according to some information that Don Francisco provided to me this weekend, the Elector of Saxony's orchestra is not in Saxony right now."

Not in Saxony? Franz looked at the others, knowing that he probably looked as confused as they did. "If they are not in Saxony, then where are they?"

"According to Don Francisco . . . " Lady Beth picked up a piece of paper and read from it, " . . . the Elector's musicians, including Kappellmeister Heinrich Schütz, appear to all be in Copenhagen, involved in the upcoming wedding celebrations for Prince Christian of Denmark and Princess Magdalene Sybille, the Elector's daughter."

"Oh," was all that Franz could say. Nonplussed, he looked at his friends. They looked back, equally at a loss for words. They all knew of Heinrich Schütz, who was perhaps the preeminent musician in the German territories, but none of them had ever had any contact with him. If he himself had traveled from Dresden to Copenhagen, then it was certain that no musician of any capability had been left behind.

Surprisingly, it was Maestro Carissimi who broke the silence. "Meister Schütz, you say? But I know this man. Oh, do not mistake me," he hurried on, as the others looked at him. "We have sent letters only. He came to Venice some years ago and spent time with Maestro Monteverdi, who was kind enough to give him my name. He sent letters asking questions, I responded, but never we did meet. A gracious man, a gifted man, but so lonely in Dresden he was, with no one sharing his vision."

An idea flared in Franz's mind like a star shell bursting in the night sky. "Josef! Rudolf! You are from Hannover. Could you make your way to Copenhagen?"

The two brothers looked at each other. Rudolf shrugged. They looked back to Franz. Josef said, "We have never been there, but in Hannover or in Hamburg are plenty of men who have. No doubt we could find our way."

Franz spun to face the Italian. "Maestro, could you write a letter to Herr Schütz, inviting him and anyone else in his company to visit Magdeburg?"

"Si."

Franz felt a very large smile spreading across his face. "Josef, Rudolf, you will take the maestro's letter to Copenhagen."

"But what of Stuttgart?"

"It is not far from Mainz to Stuttgart; we will go to Stuttgart after we visit Mainz, which will free you to go north. So, while the maestro writes his letter, you shall write one for us to carry to introduce us to your cousin."

Franz saw a bemused expression on Lady Beth's face as she handed pens and paper to various hands. He chuckled a little. "Frau Haygood, we will take our leave soon and let your domain resume its calm."

"Oh, that's okay, Franz. This is a school . . . turmoil happens frequently. I just didn't expect you to find a solution so quickly, is all."

Marla laughed. "Best get used to it if you're going to work with us much, Lady Beth. These guys don't let grass grow under their feet much."

While the others were writing, Lady Beth beckoned. Franz, Marla, Isaac and Hermann grouped in front of her desk. She handed envelopes to Marla. "There are some vouchers for you to stop at the bank and get some traveling funds. There's also some authorization letters from the Abrabanels that will let you draw on any of their associates if there are any emergencies. Keep track of how much you spend, and be sure that both Mary and I will review the expenses."

Her no-nonsense tone sobered everyone immediately. Marla said, "Yes, ma'am."

Franz looked around. Josef and Rudolf were done with their letter, but the maestro was still writing. A thought occurred to him, and he turned back to Lady Beth. "Ah, Frau Haygood, Johannes Fichtold will probably be traveling to Füssen soon, on business for Frau Simpson."

Lady Beth's raised hand stopped him before he could continue. "Masters Zenti and Riebeck have already been to see me. It's all arranged." She smiled at Franz's surprise. "I don't let the grass grow under my feet, either."

Maestro Carissimi straightened. "It is completed." He handed the letter to Josef. "Another thought occurs to me. If we need musicians, perhaps I should send letters to the Jesuit collegia north of the Alps. My name might capture some interest."

"Please do, Maestro," Franz said. "At this point, I think we might even accept an Englishman, if he could play well." As Marla passed out the envelopes, he said to them all, "Well, my friends, we must be off. Take great care, and in no event be back to Magdeburg later than April 1."

"Last ones back buy a round at The Green Horse," Hermann called out. They trooped out the door in laughter.

Grantville

Late January, 1634

"Well," Thomas started, studying yet another list, "Frau Matowski . . . "

"Just call her Bitty," Marcus Wendell said. "That's what everyone calls her."

"Very well . . . Frau Bitty, then . . . has an ambitious turn of mind, has she not?"

Marcus chuckled. Lady Beth Haygood snorted. "That's our Bitty."

"Oh, come now, Lady Beth," Marcus said. "I'll grant you she's a perfectionist when it comes to the dancing, but aside from that, she's just fine."

"Uh-huh . . . except that right now she's eating, drinking, breathing and sleeping dance. Between convincing Mary that Swan Lake's not in the cards for 1634 and trying to review every ballet program she has recorded or has ever done or even has notes on so she can cobble some kind of program together, her nerves are worn down so far she's on her last one, and heaven help whoever gets on it."

Marcus grinned. "Speaking of Mary, how did Bitty take the news that you're in charge right now?"

"All things considered, I guess okay," Lady Beth said. "Mary met with both of us, and laid out the ground rules, which didn't take very long. Then she left, and Bitty and I came to an understanding." There was a hint of a grin on her face. "I also told her she'd best be careful about who's around when she refers to Mary as 'Her Ladyship' in that tone she gets."

Marcus looked at her. "There are those who would take offense?"

"Mary definitely has supporters here in Grantville now."

"What kind of trouble could they cause? Could they cut off her funding?"

"Well, I doubt that Mary would be that petty," Lady Beth said, "particularly since she does want the ballet to succeed. But no doubt someone like Laurie Haggerty would try to make trouble."

"Her." Marcus made a face. "She and I had a whole series of 'discussions' about my lack of perception when I didn't make her son Duane the first part first chair horn player in the junior high band. She couldn't believe that I would let little things like whether he practiced or not—not to mention his attitude—outweigh his 'obvious superior talent,' and she didn't have any trouble telling me about it—several times. Yeah, I'd believe most anything you'd tell me about her. But what's Bitty got to worry about with her?"

"Well, apparently they really locked horns during the rehearsals for Nutcracker, to the point that Bitty was muttering about the 'Ballet Mother from Hell.' Problem is, Laurie somehow managed to get an introduction to Mary, and made a slightly favorable impression. So, if I ever decide to leave, Laurie's name just might be on the short list to take over the arts management for Mary in Grantville."

"You're kidding!" Marcus looked aghast. "Aren't you?"

"Nope."

"I hope Mary's got more sense than that." Marcus turned back to Thomas. "Enough about Laurie Haggerty. Let's talk about something important. That's a pretty long list Bitty worked out with me for the ballet."

"That it is," Thomas agreed fervently, as he examined his copy of Bitty's list.

"The bad news is that she doesn't want just straight transcriptions on some of them . . . she wants some arranging done. The good news is the only things you should have to transcribe from recordings are Intermezzo, Lemminkäinen's Return, The Swan of Tuonela, and the first half of Lemminkäinen in Tuonela, all by Sibelius. A lot of it is already available to us in sheet music form." In response to Thomas' raised eyebrows, Marcus continued, "I kept all my college text books, including the study scores we used in music history, form and analysis, and orchestration. Because of that, I have miniature full conductor's scores for Borodin's Polovtsian Dances and In the Steppes of Central Asia, Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld, and the Ravel transcription for Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, which contains the Promenade and The Great Gate of Kiev that she wants to use. They just need to be copied out in full size.

"Then for the Light Cavalry Overture by Suppé and Finlandia by Sibelius, the high school music library has transcriptions of those for band. That means we've already got the music, we just need to reverse-engineer the transcribing to take it back to the original orchestration. A couple of my sharper band kids could probably do that."

He looked to Lady Beth. "That is, if Mary's funds will extend to paying them to do it. In fact, they could be a big help in general, even for the stuff that Thomas is doing for Franz, because they could take the full scores he produces and write out the original parts for the players, maybe even copy duplicate scores."

"Sure," Lady Beth said. "I don't see why not. But since they're not doing work at the same level as Thomas, I'm not going to pay them what he's getting, either."

"Sure. That's fair." Marcus stopped, deep in thought for a moment. His eyebrows raised. "You know, it just dawned on me that for this music to be possible this year, she's going to have to raid the band for wind players, and maybe percussionists, too. If she does, those kids are going to have to be paid, and I will expect them to be paid something approaching a union scale."

Lady Beth made some notes. "How many?"

Marcus counted on his fingers for a moment. "Probably about twenty, plus or minus."

She looked at Thomas. "And how many string players was Franz hoping to recruit?"

"He said he would settle for forty-five, but he wants sixty."

Lady Beth made some more notes. She set her pen down, and looked up with a serious expression. "I'd best get a message off to Mary. That amounts to more than she planned on, especially since Johannes Fichtold left several days ago for Füssen to dicker up some violin contracts."

Marcus shrugged. "Well, it may not be that bad. Bitty said one of her kids knew someone who still had their computer, with some kind of software that might allow them to take recordings and massage them into a soundtrack for her purposes, and then dump it to cassette tapes. If that's true, then she can do it with recorded music, which would be cheaper and a whole lot easier."

"I don't know." Lady Beth shook her head. "Mary was dead set on a live orchestra."

"Well, no reason to bring it up until we know if it can be done. It does mean, though . . . " Marcus turned to Thomas again, " . . . that those four Sibelius pieces can go to the bottom of your list." He grinned at Thomas' sigh of relief. "I almost hope they can't make the recording, though. Those pieces as the backdrop for Bitty's ballet would be an outstanding concert in its own right. I'd like to hear that, wouldn't you?"

"I might get to," Lady Beth said. Both men looked at her. "Jere's been wanting me to move to Magdeburg, but I didn't want to take the kids out of school here. Well, someone's working on the idea of starting a school for girls in Magdeburg, and it looks like they want me to head it up."

Marcus whistled. "That's going to leave a hole in things here."

"Maybe so. But if I decide to go, they'll deal with it, just like they've dealt with all the other changes. I'm probably going to be traveling to Magdeburg in a few weeks to look things over and talk to people before I make up my mind. If I decide to take it, I'll be gone by the end of March, probably."

"So who will take over as Frau Simpson's voice and hand?" Thomas asked.

Lady Beth made another note. "I don't know. That's something else that will have to be worked out."

Thuringia

Late January, 1634

Isaac touched Klaus on the shoulder. "Stop here." He climbed down from the wagon and caught his bag when Hermann tossed it to him. He looked up as Reuel drew the second wagon to a stop nearby. "Just wait for me here, please." Isaac waved at the nearby tavern. "It is no Green Horse, but it will do while you wait. This should not take long. I will be back in time for us to make it to Neustadt before dark." As the others began to dismount, he turned and walked down the streets of Aschenhausen.

The trip from Grantville had so far been uneventful. Klaus and Reuel had somehow arranged for courier duty to the Committees of Correspondence in Mainz and Stuttgart. As it turned out, they were both reasonably competent at driving wagons, which was a good thing, as that was a skill that none of the musicians had managed to pick up.

They had made their way through Halle, Jena, Weimar, Erfurt, Arnstadt, Wechmar, Gotha and Eisenach, as well as various small villages. At every stop they let it be known that a new orchestra was beginning in Magdeburg; one that would be the grandest orchestra in the world; one that would play the grandest music in the world. They mentioned that anyone interested needed to be in Magdeburg by 1 April, and they hinted that silver was in the offing. No one had yet jumped up and run out the door to scurry up the road, but Franz was satisfied that the word was being spread.

Now they were in Aschenhausen, and Isaac was walking down the streets he had run through as a child. When he was growing up, he had felt a pride when he looked at Aschenhausen. The houses of the important men of the town had seemed so large, so fancy with their carvings here and there and their painted doors. And the tavern had seemed so grand, had seemed to bustle all the time. Even after he had . . . left . . . his memories had still made Aschenhausen somehow seem special.

But now . . . now Isaac was walking those same streets with his stomach churning, almost six years later, having been in the wide world and seen Mainz, and Magdeburg, and even Grantville, the famous and infamous. He wondered if Aschenhausen's streets had always been this narrow, and if the houses had always been so small, and if everything had always been so . . . dingy.

He took a turn, leaving the main street—such as it was—and moved down a series of narrowing streets and alleys, until he finally stopped before a worn, unpainted door. He stood for a long time, hesitating, uncertain as to what he should do. His mind was whirling; his stomach was trying to climb up his throat. Finally, he slowly raised his hand and knocked. Shuffling steps could be heard, and the door opened to reveal an older man, stooped and gray-bearded. Knowing full well who he addressed, Isaac said, "I am seeking Herr Joachim Arst, the merchant. Are you he?"

The old man blinked. "Aye, that I am. And who might you be, young sir?" For answer, Isaac pulled one of the packages of coffee beans from his bag and handed it to him. Peering near-sightedly at the lead seal on the drawstrings of the package, the old man suddenly looked up sharply, grasped Isaac by the arm and swiftly drew him into the shop.

Holding up the package, old Joachim said, "This says you come from Don Francisco Nasi. Truth?"

"Yes, Joachim ben Eleazar. I do indeed come from that man." Isaac dug the other two packages of beans from his bag, and handed them over. The old man turned to set them on the counter of his shop, and turned back to Isaac.

"So, you are one of us. Good. I was not sure, since you wear neither the talit nor the Jew's badge." He flicked his own tassels and looked faintly disapproving, which melded into a calculating stare. "I do not think we have met, but I think I should know you." Before Isaac could respond, the old man's eyes opened wide. "It cannot be! You! Here . . . "

Isaac smiled at Joachim's surprise. "Yes, Reb Joachim. Yitzhak the stranger stands before you." It struck him that his nervousness had dissipated, once he had committed himself to action.

It was some moments before Joachim recovered his composure enough to speak. "Why have you come here? After so long?"

"It is not my doing, Reb Joachim. I do in truth serve Don Francisco, or rather, Reb Pinchas in this, and he it was who directed my steps here. I am . . . not sure of his motives, only that he has them."

Joachim snorted. "You may be certain not only that he has motives, but multiples of motives. That one has a mind so twisty that a serpent could tie itself in a knot trying to follow his thoughts." His expression was wry, but the tone of his voice was admiring. "So, for some reason he saw some advantage to sending you to the shop of the poorest merchant in Aschenhausen . . . besides bringing me a gift of coffee beans that could have been sent by any number of ways."

They stood silently for a moment, then Joachim pursed his lips and blew a burst of air. He looked up. "You have grown, young Yitzhak. Is it well with you?"

"It . . . is well, now. It was not well . . . when I left. I wandered, sore of spirit and aching of heart, and eventually ended up in Mainz, where I did indeed find the music that God put in me to desire, and I did indeed learn to play it. I found friends. But after what was said to me here, I . . . abandoned all outward sign of our people. I . . . could not bring myself to approach a congregation. And so it was until I moved to Grantville last year."

"Grantville, is it?" Joachim's eyes opened wide again. "So, you have seen that place, have you?"

"Yes, Reb Joachim. I have seen Grantville, and Magdeburg as well. And seeing Grantville, my sense of wonder awoke again, and I reasoned that if the Holy One, blessed be He, could work the miracle of that place, then perhaps He could somehow work another . . . the return of one from an exile which, if shorter than that of Babylon, was no less bitter."

"And did such happen?"

"Aye. I dared pass the doors of the Sephardic congregation in Grantville, and found that which proved to be the very balm of Gilead for my hurtful soul." As a hint of confusion passed over Joachim's face, Isaac was forcefully reminded that that passage from Jeremiah was not one that was commonly read in the synagogues. "And no less than Reb Pinchas told me with his own lips that I was welcome with the Sephardim of Grantville and Magdeburg, not just as a visitor, but as a member."

"Good." A smile appeared amidst the gray beard, and Joachim's eyes almost disappeared in the wrinkles of his face. "That is good to hear, and an answer to prayer." To Isaac's querying look, he responded, "Each day as I read the Amidah, I would also ask in my heart that The Lord of the World would remember you, keep his hand upon you, and draw you back to His chosen people. Blessed be He who gathers in the exiles."

"Amen." Isaac felt the familiar response come to his lips.

Just as the old man opened his mouth to speak, the door to his shop flew open, and a young woman, hardly more than a girl, whirled in and shut the door behind her, calling out, "Reb Joachim, Reb Joachim, Mama said for you to . . . " She stopped suddenly, obviously at the sight of the strange man standing in the shop.

Isaac was facing away from the door when it opened, and he stiffened at the sound of the voice. Joachim laid a hand on his arm, and he could feel the tension in the old man.

"Softly, Devorah, softly. You would not want our visitor to think we are uncultured."

"No, Reb Joachim. Sorry, Reb Joachim."

"That is better. Now, I dare say that your mother wants the sewing needles she asked me to get her, nu?" The girl bobbed her head. The old man shuffled behind the counter, searched for a moment, and placed a packet on the countertop. "Here they are." Devorah reached out, and a moment later the packet had disappeared into a pocket. She started to turn and leave, but was stopped by Joachim. "Devorah, give a good day to Yitzhak ben Levi, from Magdeburg, who brought me some of the fabulous coffee that we have been hearing so much about." Isaac schooled his expression to calm, and turned to face her.

Her eyes widened. She dipped her head as she said, "Good day to you, Reb Yitzhak."

"And this is Devorah bat Shlomo, Reb Yitzhak, the eldest daughter of our rabbi."

Isaac gave a very slight bow. "And a good day to you, Devorah. I have heard good things of your family."

She began to blush, and dipped her head again. Uttering a strangled sounding "Goodbye," she bolted from the store.

Isaac turned on Joachim, and hissed, "What are you thinking? How could you do that to her, to me?"

"Calm yourself, young man." Joachim raised a hand. "It has been almost six years. You are a hand taller and at least two stone heavier. She should not recognize you, but you recognized her, did you not?"

In Isaac's mind, the face of the young woman was set beside the face of the girl that had been in his memories for so long, and he felt wonder and joy at how she had grown, and become a beauty. "Yes . . . yes, I did." A moment later, "Thank you."

"They are well, all of them, even the rabbi, although he is changed." At Isaac's look of alarm, Joachim hurriedly said, "No, no, nothing is wrong. But after a . . . certain event . . . our rabbi was long cast down in his spirit. Eventually, however, his remaining children gave him ease, and he again found some joy in life. But we all noted, we who remembered . . . before, that he is a somewhat calmer man, now, less harsh, slower to judge."

Isaac swallowed, then swallowed again. "Those are good words to hear. I wish him only the best in life."

"From your mouth to His ear."

After a moment, Isaac asked in a harsh voice, "Why did you name me ben Levi? I am fatherless."

"Well, it is true that your birth father no longer acknowledges you. However, is not your bloodline descended from Levi through both your mother and father?" Joachim looked to Isaac, who was forced to acknowledge that truth. "Then you are a son of Levi just as much as Moses and Aaron. You can in truth be named Yitzhak ben Levi, can you not?" Isaac stared at him for a moment, feeling a knot in his chest begin to loosen, and then he felt a wide smile spread across his face.

The two men stood smiling at each other what seemed like an hour to Isaac. Finally, he sobered, and asked, "Are they in need for anything?"

"They are not destitute, but neither are they quite comfortable."

""Who is the president of the community now?"

Joachim smiled wryly again, and said, "As it happens, I am."

Isaac dug in his pocket, and pulled out a pouch, which he placed on the counter. "See to their needs, please." As Joachim opened his mouth to object, Isaac raised his hand. "Please. As I am not of that family any longer, this is part of my tzedakah."

"Is this works in secret, then, or may I tell the congregation so that prayers may be offered for your travels?"

"Secret," Isaac said. "Do not tell them where it came from." The old man nodded. "Send word if more is needed. For now, send it to Reb Pinchas, Don Francisco. I will get word to you somehow of where I eventually end up."

"It is good." Joachim set the pouch on the counter. After a moment, he looked up at Isaac, and asked gently, "Will you not go to him? Will you not try to reconcile?"

Isaac flinched. "How can I?" He threw his hat on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair, yanking at it as if he wanted to pull it out. "I am not just herem, shunned—he named me dead! How can I go to him?" The pain in his heart was so sharp he felt as if he had been stabbed. "He said Kaddish, did he not? No, no one told me, but I know he did. He even sat Shiva for me, I wager. He would not be the man he is if he had not performed the full mourning ritual." Joachim said nothing, but Isaac could see the confirmation on his face. "How can I face that? How can I appear before my mother and sisters and brother, only to be turned away? How can I hurt everyone like that?" Slower, softer, he said, "I could not bear it, Reb Joachim, to be turned away again. I am sorry that they grieve, but the wound he dealt me is deep . . . so deep I despair of it ever fully healing . . . so deep, I cannot chance another."

The old man looked at him, sadness on his face. "It will be as you will it, Yitzhak." Isaac flinched again as Joachim quoted back to him the phrase he had said to his father that night years ago. "You do him an injustice, though, I believe. Rav Shlomo is not the man he was then."

Isaac shook his head, and said in a very low tone, "I cannot . . . please, I cannot." They stood together in silence for long moments. Finally, Isaac regained his composure and picked up his hat. "I must be on my way. I am traveling with others who wait for me, and we must travel many miles yet today."

"For Reb Pinchas?"

Isaac said nothing, feeling slightly dishonest about letting the old man draw mistaken conclusions. He felt so drained at the moment, however, that he could not bring himself to explain. He moved toward the door. Joachim stepped in front of him, and grasped his arms.

"The blessings of God Above, who held His hand over Avraham, Yitzhak and Yakov as they wandered in the wilderness, go with you, Yitzhak ben Levi."

Isaac was flooded with emotion as he considered everything this old man had done for him. "And with you, Joachim ben Eleazar. And with you."

Moments later Isaac was walking back up the streets of Aschenhausen, hands in pockets, feet automatically following the right path. At last the tavern came into sight, where Reuel stood outside adjusting harness on his wagon team. He called into the tavern. Moments later the others trooped out. While the rest of them climbed into the wagons, Marla came to him and peered into his eyes.

"Is everything all right?"

Isaac smiled gently. "Yes."

****

The door to Joachim's shop flew open. This time it admitted a short, stout woman who wore an apron over her dress and a cloth that contained her iron-gray hair. She was followed by the young woman who had come to the shop earlier. He was surprised—not that she appeared; he had been half-way expecting that ever since Devorah left—but that she was dressed so . . . informally.

"Good day, Rebitzin Rivka . . . "

"Where is my son?"

"Who?"

"Play no games with me, Joachim ben Eleazar." She advanced on him, eyes aflame. Joachim was very glad that the counter was between them. "I may be the rabbi's wife, and you may be the president of the congregation, but forty years ago I gave you a bloody nose and kicked your shins black and blue when you pushed me in a mud puddle. I will do it again here and now if you do not tell me the truth! Where is my son?"

"Gone." God Above, she was in a towering fury. Grown men had been known to pale on the rare occasions that her ire was stirred. Devorah was backed into a corner, wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to stand there and weather the storm.

"I see that, you old fool! Where has he gone?"

"I know not." That stopped her in mid-tirade. "He said he was traveling with others, and that they were leaving Aschenhausen immediately." Joachim watched as the fire of the strong-willed young woman he had known all those years ago guttered out, leaving behind the gray-haired, arthritic matron who was the wife of his rabbi.

"Leaving? But . . . why? Did he not . . . could he not . . . "

"He was traveling on business of someone important." Joachim had his doubts about whether it was Don Francisco, but he let Yitzhak's story stand.

Rivka visibly collected herself, and looked up at him with naked pain shining in her eyes. "Did he not come here to reconcile?"

"No."

She flinched. "Nevertheless, I should not have heard about him from Devorah. Why did you not bring him to us, Joachim? Could you not do that for him, for us?"

"I tried, Rivka." Joachim sighed. "I attempted that very thing."

Now her face whitened. "He will not reconcile? God Above knows that I love my husband dearly, but he is as stubborn as an angry ox, and Yitzhak is his father's son, in that much at least. Will he not at least attempt to reconcile?"

"I would judge, rather, that he cannot." Rivka obviously did not understand. Running his fingers through his white beard, Joachim said slowly, "I believe he loves his father dearly. For that reason, the words that were said that night hurt him very deeply. Now, like a wounded fox, he is curled around the pain and grief and cannot reach out. He is afraid that if he tried, he would be rejected again. I tell you truly, if that happened, I would fear for his life."

Tears filled Rivka's eyes and spilled down her wrinkled cheeks. "All this time, we never heard from him, never heard about him. I was afraid he hated us, and would never return. And all this time he was bleeding from his soul, he was grieving. Oh, my son, my son!" She covered her face with her apron and sobbed brokenly. Her own grief and heartbreak caused Joachim to set aside the tradition that Jewish men would not touch another man's wife. He came around the counter and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Devorah stepped out of the corner and placed her arm around her mother's waist.

Finally the sobbing slowed, then stopped, except for the occasional sniffle. Rivka lowered her apron, exposing reddened eyes and nose. She dabbed at her face, then resolutely faced Joachim, who had retreated back around the counter again.

"So there can be no reconciliation?" Her voice was dead.

"I did not say that, Rivka," Joachim said gently. "I said that he could not begin it."

A light of hope dawned in her eyes. "You think if his father approached him . . ."

"A possibility only, but the only one I see." Joachim fingered his beard again. "But as you say, Rav Shlomo is somewhat . . . strong-willed."

The light of hope became a beacon of purpose.

"Yitzhak was born of this womb." Rivka laid her hands on her abdomen. Shifting them to her bosom, she said, "He nursed from these breasts. He is my son as much as he is his father's." She leaned over the counter, fiery gaze locked on Joachim's eyes. "And I will have my first-born back!"

Füssen

Early February, 1634

Johannes Fichtold watched as his brother Hans, having seen to wine being provided to all his guests, took a cup of his own and then came to stand beside him. "Let us not spend time in useless conversation," Hans said. That was so like his brother; if the talk was not about the crafting of lutes and viols, then it was time and effort that was misspent. "You all know that last summer the Italian, Master Girolamo Zenti, came through Füssen on his way north. He placed an order for woods to be delivered to him when he reached this Grantville that we have heard so much about. You also know that Johannes here," who almost staggered from the clap on the shoulder that Hans delivered, "went with him, to learn more of the Italian methods of crafting while working in his service. I am sure that you all wonder why Johannes is back in town. That story is his to tell." And with that, Han sat down.

Licking his lips, Johannes looked around the room at the men seated there: Matthias Gemunder, August Neuner, Ludwig Koehler, Christof Eichelberger. With the addition of his brother, Hans Fichtold, these were the senior luthiers and Geigenbauer in Füssen. These were the craft masters of the guild. There were other families that made instruments, but the families headed by these men made the best, and everyone knew it. These were the men he must convince to make the instruments desired by Frau Simpson and Franz Sylwester. He straightened his cuffs and pulled down on his waistcoat. Remembering Master Zenti's instructions to stand tall and look confident, he straightened to his full height and did his best to assume that air.

Hans cleared his throat. Johannes, realizing he had been woolgathering, began his speech. "I know that all of you have heard of this Grantville. The rumors of its appearing in the countryside of Thuringia had long been floating here even at the time when Master Zenti and I were here last year, as Hans said. I am sure that you have discounted most of those rumors, as had Master Zenti and I before we arrived there. We were wrong to do so.

"Oh, to be sure, there are no angels walking the streets of Grantville, and those streets are not paved with cobblestones of gold. But the people of Grantville are possessed of mechanical arts so advanced that many times our best efforts seem like child's play. They have other wisdoms as well. You know they have allied with Gustav Adolf, and they are spreading out throughout Thuringia, having become a force even in Magdeburg.

"When we arrived, Master Zenti discovered, to his chagrin, that this was often true of music as well. His companion, Master Giacomo Carissimi—yes, that Carissimi." Johannes paused in response to raised eyebrows. The masters obviously recognized the name of the renowned Italian composer. "Master Carissimi told me that he will be years learning of all the changes in styles and forms, that it will perhaps be his life work simply to amass the knowledge.

"I have seen with my own eyes trumpets and horns that can play diatonic and chromatic tones in all registers. I have seen transverse flutes made of metal that are capable of incredible sonorities in the hands of a virtuoso. And I have seen an instrument called the piano that overshadows the harpsichord and clavichord as the Alps overshadow the hills that cling to their skirts. Master Zenti has dedicated his life to building pianos. I will stay and learn of them with him, to return to Füssen at some point with that knowledge."

"If these Grantvillers are such paragons of artistry," interrupted Matthias Gemunder in a testy tone of voice, "then why are you here?"

"As it happens," Johannes said, glad of the question, "what they know of viols and stringed instruments in general is not far advanced over our knowledge and skills. Which is why I am here." He turned and picked up a leather case from the chair behind him. Extracting a paper, he handed it to August Neuner, the youngest of the men in the room. Unlike the other masters, he did not require spectacles to read. "Master Neuner, would you please read this missive aloud?"

Holding the page up in the best light, Master Neuner began.

"Royal and Imperial Arts Council

of the United States of Europe

on this 10th day of January, 1634.

"To whom it may concern:

"This is to signify that Johannes Fichtold is authorized to negotiate and sign binding contracts on behalf of the Royal and Imperial Arts Council with the Geigenbauer Guild of Füssen regarding the design, construction and delivering of instruments, including but not limited to violins, violas, violoncelli and contra-basses.

"This authorization will expire on the 30th day of April, 1634."

Master Neuner looked up and said, "It is signed by Lady Beth Haygood." He stumbled over the name. "With an additional title of Attorney-in-Fact, and is witnessed by Master Zenti and by a Master Hans Riebeck."

"Riebeck, Hans Riebeck," Master Koehler said. "I know that name. I thought he was in Mainz."

"He was," Johannes responded. "Last year he left his son in charge of their shop in Mainz, and brought his most talented journeyman and several apprentices to Grantville to learn of pianos and other innovations." That struck a note with the masters, he saw. It was one thing for an Italian, master or no, to chase after what might be a phantasm, but when one of their own hard-headed German brethren began pursuing the same goal, then they must take notice and examine the Grantville issue more closely.

"So," Master Eichelberger said, finally joining in the conversation, the last of the guild masters to do so. "At last we get to the heartwood. You are here because they want something from us, these not-quite-angels of Grantville. Something that we can produce faster or for fewer ducats than they can. So, enlighten us, ambassador."

Johannes did his best to ignore the sarcasm in Master Eichelberger's voice. "Such is not only my intent, it is my charge. I said the Grantvillers were not far advanced over we down-timers . . . " He paused for a moment as a variety of confused expressions passed over the masters' faces, then realized what he had done. "Your pardon, masters, let me explain. Since the Grantvillers believe they were sent back from the future, they refer to themselves as up-timers and to we native Germans and our neighbors as down-timers."

"And do they sneer when they do so?" Master Eichelberger's voice was sharp. "As if we are poor cousins, or beggars at the gates?"

"No." Johannes again managed to ignore the tone of the master. "Well, in truth, there are a few who do so, but I would say on the whole I have found them less arrogant than the Italians I dealt with when I first went south to study."

"Hmmph." Master Eichelberger sat back in his chair, only somewhat mollified. "That is not saying much." He said nothing more, and waved at Johannes to continue.

"Um . . . " Johannes tried to regain his thoughts. "Oh, yes . . . they are not far advanced over us in strings. Nonetheless, they do have advanced designs for viols. And, as Master Eichelberger has surmised, they desire instruments to be crafted for them according to those 'merino' designs." Too late, he remembered that Master Zenti had directed him to avoid the 'merino' label, judging that it would be confusing to the guild masters, perhaps even insulting if they made the connection to sheep. But in Grantville, the instrument crafters had all used that term almost exclusively when discussing the new designs. It had become second nature to him, so that it had just slipped out now. Johannes berated himself soundly, but was forced to drop the self-chastising when his brother, who had been silent so far to avoid any hint of collusion, spoke.

"'Merino'? Who is this 'Merino'?"

"Sounds Italian to me," Master Neuner said. "Did they steal it from an Italian master?"

Johannes thought furiously, and replied cautiously. "They never told me who this 'Merino' is or was, whether it was someone in their times or someone from our own." That much was true, he laughed to himself, remembering when Friedrich had used the name as a joke, one that turned out to be self-perpetuating. "But they did reveal to me that many of the refinements and innovations in the 'Merino' designs were originally made by Italians." The masters of Füssen reacted in various ways to the thought of stealing a march on some unknown Italian masters: sly grins from some, a couple of knowing nods, but no further comments. Johannes engraved in his mind the thought that he must tell the others in Grantville to never reveal where the name came from. Finally, he returned to the original topic.

"I have convinced them that you can safely craft these instruments and transport them to Magdeburg, despite the . . . current state of affairs between Bavaria and the USE. And they want enough of them that it will take all of you to satisfy them." Johannes could see the masters glancing at each other, all of them—even his brother—with what Master Ingram called 'dollar signs' of avarice in their eyes.

"Before we get down to details," Master Gemunder said, "what is your percentage for brokering this deal? What will we have to pay you?"

"My compensation is provided by the arts council. As Master Neuner read to you all, I speak with their voice. There will be no additional fees for you to pay once we have settled on the prices for crafting the instruments and transporting them to Magdeburg." Again the masters looked at each other, this time in somewhat astonished disbelief.

"None?" Master Gemunder probed.

"None." Johannes was quite firm.

The looks shared now were somewhat skeptical. Johannes couldn't blame them. It was unheard of for a broker of any kind to not take a cut out of any deal in which he had a part, no matter how small. Nonetheless, his position had been made quite clear to him by Lady Beth Haygood: there was to be no profiteering in this venture, and if he tried it and was caught, he would be booted out of Grantville so hard his feet wouldn't touch earth again until he reached the Alps.

"So," ventured Master Neuner, "what is their commission?"

Finally, Johannes thought to himself. The introductory stage was finished, and now the really interesting part of the evening began. "The initial contract," he said, "is for thirty violins and matching bows to be crafted according to the 'Merino' designs, to be delivered to Magdeburg no later than the first of May. They must be of high enough quality that you would personally sign them. Their quality will be judged by a committee composed of Master Zenti, Master Riebeck, their leading journeymen and Franz Sylwester. Only those instruments which pass their scrutiny will be acceptable under the terms of the contract."

"Who is this Franz Sylwester?" asked Master Eichelberger snidely. "I do not know that name."

Johannes stared him down. "You may not know it now, but you will know it. All of Germany, no, all of Europe will know the name of Franz Sylwester. He will serve as the first dirigent of the world's finest orchestra."

"Dirigent? What is this?"

"It has to do with leading the orchestra in performance. I cannot explain it more than that. You will have to come to Magdeburg in July to see it."

"The contract," Master Neuner interjected. "Let us not forget the contract." He looked around at the others. "I dare say that we can produce that many violins in that time, provided that the designs are not radically different from what we already know." Heads nodded around the room. "So, the question becomes, what do they offer to us to set aside our other work, set aside our designs which are well-proven, and undertake their commission?"

"I am authorized to offer two Amsterdam guilders per violin to confirm the contract and provide for materials. An additional ten guilders will be paid upon delivery and acceptance of the instruments, for a total of twelve guilders per violin." There was a moment of silence as each man converted guilders to the Imperial currency. Eyes lit up, some in anger, some in interest, some just in the fun of the negotiation, but before any of the masters could speak, Johannes held his hand up. "And," he declared firmly, "each of you will also execute an agreement that you will not build instruments utilizing any of the 'Merino' improvements for anyone except the Royal and Imperial Arts Council for a period of six years."

The room exploded—at least it seemed that way to Johannes. Most of the masters were on their feet, gesturing and expostulating at the top of their lungs. The gist of their comments was that if the arts council wanted to rob them, wouldn't it be easier to just send Gustav's Finnish cavalry to sack the town? He did hear one muttered comment that by its tone was probably highly vulgar, although he could not hear the words clearly. His brother sat back down, smiling slightly. Master Neuner had remained in his chair, viewing Johannes through narrowed eyes. Finally, all the others quieted and resumed their seats, albeit murmuring to each other.

Master Neuner cleared his throat. "Personally, for everything that this arts council is demanding, I could not see my way clear to accepting their commission for less than, say, 40 guilders. And I would not grant them more than a year of exclusivity." Heads nodded around the room.

Johannes remained standing to keep the advantage of looking down at them. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from rubbing them together in anticipation. Accepting the challenge, he began the duel.

Grantville

Early February, 1634

Marcus Wendell turned the corner in the hallway and came face to face with Lady Beth Haygood. She was accompanied by a man he didn't recognize, which meant he was a down-timer.

"Lady Beth." Marcus came to a sudden stop. "Just who I wanted to see."

"Hey, Marcus." Lady Beth and her companion stopped as well. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to see if you've heard anything about Marla and her friends."

"Nothing. Where they were going and as long as they've been gone, they're well out of the range of the telegraph now. We probably won't hear anything about them until they're back."

"That's about what I figured," Marcus said. "Just thought I'd check."

Lady Beth smiled. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know." She reached out and placed her hand on her companion's shoulder. "Marcus, this is Max Ohl. He's going to be filling in for me in the office for a couple of weeks. Max, this is Marcus Wendell. He's the band director at the high school."

"Nice to meet you, Max."

"I am happy to meet you also." Max said, bobbing his head. He was a young man, Marcus saw as they shook hands, looking to be about the age of Marla and her friends. His English was strongly accented, but precise.

"So." Marcus turned back to Lady Beth. "Are you going to Magdeburg, then?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving next Monday, be gone for two weeks. They really want me to take this school deal, so I'm going down to scope things out. If it looks decent at all, I'll take it. I want my family back together, and since we'd be starting a secondary school for girls, all the kids would have places in good schools. That was the main reason I held back from moving before."

"Well, travel safe, good luck, and let me know if you hear anything."

"I'll do that."

Aschenhausen

Early February, 1634

Joachim ben Eleazar accepted a cup of wine from Rebitzin Rivka. "Please, sit, Reb Joachim." Rabbi Shlomo ben Moishe gestured at a chair. As he did so, the rabbi sat as well. His wife chose to stand, although there was a stool nearby.

As the guest, Joachim knew he was expected to sample the wine and compliment it. Best to get it over with, he thought to himself. Rabbi Shlomo's taste was . . . undiscerning, to be kind.

As he expected, it wasn't very good. Since he had become parnas, president, to the community, he had suffered from the rabbi's tastes more than once. He suppressed his wince and said, "As good a cup as I have ever had." He made a mental note, as he had in the past, to acquire a few bottles of better Jewish wines to gift to his rabbi.

After several minutes of conversation about topics and issues that the two leaders frequently talked about, the rabbi set his cup on a nearby table, and folded his hands across his middle. At last, Joachim thought, we arrive at the purpose for tonight.

"My wife tells me," Shlomo said slowly, "that you have spoken with one who was once part of our family."

"It is true, I have had speech with Yitzhak, Rav Shlomo," Joachim agreed. "He was on the business of Don Francisco Nasi, Pinchas ben Yudah of the Abrabanel family."

"He has taken service with them, then?"

"Mmm, no, I would say not. Rather, he is briefly associated with them to pursue a common purpose."

"Ah." Shlomo nodded, then hesitated for a moment as a look of hunger flashed across his face. "Is he . . . well?"

"Yes, he is mostly well," Joachim responded. "He has matured into a handsome young man, tall and straight. He favors you to some degree, but I see traces of your wife's father in his face as well." He paused for a moment, then continued with, "My contacts tell me . . . ." The rabbi well knew who his contacts included. " . . . that he is known as Isaac Fremdling among the goyim, and has attained some reputation as a musician."

Rabbi Shlomo absorbed the double hit. First, that his son had named himself 'Stranger' to the rest of the world, and second, that music was still such a part of his life. It was the rabbi's objection to his son's passion for music that was the root cause of their estrangement. Joachim saw his face freeze. Nothing was said for a long moment. Finally, the rabbi cleared his throat. "I am not surprised by that." He stared at his hands for another long moment, then looked up at Joachim. "Tell me."

Joachim recounted everything that had passed between him and Yitzhak in their meeting several days ago. He included his perceptions of the young man's state of mind. The rabbi drank it all in, fingering his beard all the while. He turned pale when Joachim repeated the metaphor of the wounded fox which had touched his earlier conversation with Rivka. When the telling was completed, Rabbi Shlomo stared at the opposite wall, a very distant expression on his face, pain in his eyes.

Time passed. At last, Joachim spoke again. "Rav Shlomo, with all respect, you were wrong in how you handled the situation with your son. It is the nature of young men to be passionate about some things. It is also the nature of young men to sometimes be disobedient. And although the Proverbs of Solomon say to spare not the rod in disciplining the children, it says nothing about wounding them unto death.

"I was there that evening. I recall it well. I recall the president of our community, old Benyamin ben Yohannon, and myself and the other elders pleading with you to not say those words, to find some way to not cast him out so finally. You would not listen to us, and so your first-born has been sundered from your family for over five years. Five years of grief for you and Rivka, and Devorah and Rachel and Reuven. Five years of pain and exile for Yitzhak. Old Benyamin would not challenge you further, so we, the community, supported you through saying Kaddish and sitting Shiva."

Joachim stopped, and directed a stern look at his rabbi. "But now I, Joachim ben Eleazar, president of our community, I say to you enough. Yitzhak has not stayed away because of anger or hatred. He has stayed away because he was wounded to the heart, and so deep and so wide is that wound he cannot find his way over or around it. He must be helped to reconcile, and that help must come from you. As Torah says, 'compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness.' No other can reach him."

Rabbi Shlomo took that all in, unflinching, staring at Joachim. After the speech finished, he turned his head and looked at his wife for a long moment. She might well have been a statue, so still did she stand, so rigid was her face. Facing forward again, he sighed. "I must think on this."

Mainz

February, 1634

"You will come, Georg?" Franz was delighted. Their quest for instrumentalists had so far not produced many musicians who were willing to move to Magdeburg.

After going to Aschenhausen so Isaac could fulfill his charge from Don Francisco, the group had decided to change their itinerary, reversing the order of the cities they would visit. From Aschenhausen, it actually made more sense to proceed directly to Stuttgart, then proceed to Mainz, and finally return to Magdeburg via Grantville.

They had made good time. The horses had remained healthy, and they had only suffered two broken wheels so far.

The stay in Stuttgart had begun well. The letter from the Tuchman brothers had been delivered to their cousin, who was able to provide introductions to many of the musicians in the town. They were well-received, and had demonstrated some of the new music with some of the new instruments, such as Marla's flute and a violin that Ingram had purchased out of Grantville's attics, but no one was willing to commit to coming to Magdeburg, particularly on such short notice.

Slightly disheartened, they had driven up the road to Mainz, counting on making contact with the musicians who had been there when Franz and the others had left. To their dismay, when they did arrive, they found that Isaac's estimate of twelve to fifteen possible recruits was a serious overestimate. Three of the musicians they were counting on had died in the months that had passed since Isaac and the others had left Mainz to travel to Grantville at Franz's invitation. Another had suffered a career ending injury, and three more had left Mainz looking for better circumstances. As they had not been in Stuttgart, Franz only hoped that word of the invitation to Magdeburg somehow found its way to them.

Five of the musicians who had been part of the Prince-Bishop's orchestra when Franz had left were still in Mainz—six, if you counted Rupert Heydrich. Franz tried to forget about him. He was experiencing a recurrence of the nightmares he had suffered after Heydrich had crippled his left hand to remove him as competition. So far their group had not encountered Heydrich, and no one they met mentioned him. Franz didn't know their reasons for not doing so, but he appreciated their reticence nonetheless.

One of the five had given a definite "no." Since he was an old man now walking with a cane, Franz could understand why. Three of them had said they would think about it. That had left Georg Seiler. Franz really wanted to recruit him. Georg played the viola da gamba, the largest common member of the viol family, and the closest thing to a down-time version of the up-time bass. Having a feeling that the low strings were going to be the hardest to recruit, Franz had talked to him several times over the last few days, and finally tonight Georg had agreed.

"Yes, Franz, I said so, did I not?" Georg was blocky in size, with brown hair that constantly hung down over his face. The circles under his eyes proved that he had taken the death of his wife Mathilda of pneumonia during the days after Christmas very hard. "But only if I can ride back with you. I cannot afford to hire a wagon to cart my daughter and my instrument and my other things."

Franz looked over to where six-year old Odelia was showing her doll to Marla and Isaac. She was the very image of Georg's wife. Reuel stood by the door. "We have room, Georg." He looked around the bare room. "When can you leave? How much of this do you wish to bring with you?"

"Give me two days, Franz. I need the time to sell most of this worthless furniture and pay a few debts. I will want to bring Mathilda's bridal chest, and we will pack what few things we want to keep, like her dishes, in that. Other than that, our clothes and my viol are all we have that are worth bringing." Georg hung his head.

Franz leaned forward and placed his hand on Georg's shoulder. "Whatever you want to bring, we will find room for it. You are welcome with us, whatever your reason for coming." Franz squeezed his shoulder, then stood as a sign to the others that they should leave. "We will return tomorrow, to be what help we can." Georg just nodded his head, slumped in his chair.

After they tromped down the stairs of the rooming house and out into the street, Marla took his arm. "That's so sad."

"Indeed," Isaac said from her other side. "Mathilda was a lively woman, one who brought joy to all. And little Odelia bids to be much like her."

"I believe that is why Georg wants to move," Franz mused, "to remove them both from the place where Mathilda lived."

"Probably," from Marla.

"Aye," Isaac responded.

They walked in silence until they reached the inn where they were staying. As they entered, Marla said, "I need to go up to the room. Get me something to drink, and I'll be back down in a minute." Franz nodded. Reuel shadowed Marla to the stairs. Franz turned to the bar with Isaac.

He ordered a beer for himself, and a small cup of white wine for Marla. She preferred to drink no brewed or fermented liquids. Sometimes, however, there were no other choices, so she had learned to drink a little wine since she couldn't stomach beer or ale. Just as they were delivered to his hands, he heard a voice from behind him.

"So. The rumors are correct. The prodigal has returned."

Franz's shoulders tightened, and his head pulled down instinctively. The last time he had heard that voice, it had been hissing in his ear moments after his left hand had been crushed during a brawl at a tavern here in Mainz. It was burned in his memory. It haunted his nightmares. It was the dividing line between his youth and the rest of his life.

Slowly, he turned. "Heydrich."

If Rupert Heydrich had not spoken, Franz would not have recognized him. Prior to Franz leaving Mainz, his memory of Heydrich was that of a slim, reasonably good-looking young man, somewhat vain, who always dressed well, made a fetish of cleanliness, and carried himself with an air. The figure that stood—wavered, rather—a few feet away bore no resemblance to his memories. The clothing was filthy; the shirt was smeared with soot, there was mud caked on both knees, the boots were scarred and worn, waistcoat and hat were missing. His hair was unkempt, his beard was scraggly. But his face was the worst . . . Franz had been gone for less than two years, and what had been a smooth youthful face looked now as if it belonged to a debaucher of the vilest kind. There were lines graven around the eyes and from nose to chin, seams under the cheekbones, and the bags under his eyes were dark enough to have been painted there.

"Are you surprised to see me, little Franz?" The voice was rougher, but the timbre was still the same, still enough to send shivers up his spine. The vitriol that dripped from it, however, was even worse than he remembered, if that was possible.

"Aye," said Franz. "I had hoped that you would have the decency to avoid me if you heard I was in Mainz."

"Oh, I could not avoid hearing that you had graced our fair city with your presence. There are those in our streets who, upon sighting you, could not wait to rush to my side and spill into my ears the news that, all unbidden and unheralded, you had returned.

"I waited, Franz . . . waited for you to come to me, to speak with your old friend Rupert, to renew old ties and friendships. But you never sought me out, and I am wounded to the heart." Heydrich theatrically placed one hand above the organ in question. Isaac stirred. Franz grabbed his shoulder, urging him back.

"I remember the last time we talked, Rupert. You seemed to have no use for me then."

"Oh, I was in my cups, Franz. Surely you can't hold that against me?"

Franz would have been stunned by the apparent arrogance, but he could see Heydrich's face clearly, and it was obvious that there was no truth in the man. He held his left hand up between them. "And was this done in your cups as well, Rupert?" There was no answer.

Franz continued. "I despaired of ever playing again, Rupert, to the extent that I attempted to smash my violin. I wandered away from Mainz, hoping that I would die." Heydrich smiled.

"And no doubt I would have, but God in His infinite mercy guided me to Grantville." Heydrich's smile slipped away into his beard like a worm into loam.

"Yes, Grantville, Rupert. I found that city, and amidst the reality of it I found wise men and women of the medical arts who could restore enough use of my hand that I could learn to play again. And I found music, Rupert, music from the future, music grander than any we had ever heard or played for the Prince-Bishop."

Franz felt his voice swelling, felt himself standing taller, staring directly into Heydrich's eyes. "I found a place there, a place that Archimedes himself would envy, a place to stand, where with my friends we will move the music of the world with the lever of Grantville and its archives."

Heydrich snorted. "You rave."

"Do I?" Franz turned slightly and unbuttoned his coat. As he shrugged it off, he saw Marla coming back down the stairs. Shoving the coat into Isaac's arms, he hissed, "Go to Marla. Keep her out of this!" Isaac turned away, and he turned back toward Heydrich.

Under his coat, Franz had slung the case containing his violin and bow to keep it warm. Now he set the case on the top of the bar, opened it, and took out them out. "I will play you a simple song," he said, testing the tuning of the violin, "for that is all I can play as yet. A simple song from Grantville, from the future, and you will understand, I think."

Nestling the violin under his chin, Franz raised the bow and began to play.

****

Isaac hurried to reach Marla just as she reached the bottom step. He grabbed her arm, and looked to Reuel. "Franz says we must keep her here." Reuel immediately grabbed her other arm.

"What are you doing?" Marla twisted in his grip. "Let me go! What's going on?"

"Shhh!" Isaac hissed at her. "Marla, that is Heydrich he faces! The man is drunk, or mad, or both, and is dangerous as a mad dog. You must stay here, let Franz face him. If you intrude you will distract him, which just might get him killed."

"Listen to him." Reuel surprised him by his support. "I am charged with your protection . . . I will not let you go there. Keep quiet, and your husband will probably survive. Start fighting or screaming, and he will die for certain." Marla turned white, gulped, and nodded.

Isaac turned to watch just as Franz began playing. It was one of the Irish songs, the one called variously Londonderry Air, or Derry Air, but most commonly "O Danny Boy." Isaac had sung it before, and the words reeled through his mind as Franz played.

O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying.

It's you must go, and I must bide.

As Isaac sang the words of the song in his mind, Franz's violin sang the song without words, rich, sonorous, and somehow sad.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow.

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow.

O Danny boy, O Danny boy, I love you so.

Franz sped the tempo a little in the chorus, lifting and swelling the sound as the lines rose and fell, slowing again in the last phrase. Isaac matched him move for move in his mind, thinking in a back corner of his mind that they needed to perform it this way some time.

And when you come, when all the flowers are dying,

And I am dead, as dead I well may be,

You'll come and find the place where I am lying,

And kneel and say an 'Ave' thee for me.

The second verse was so delicate, it was almost musical lace. Franz's touch was so light it belied his frequent insistence that he was still a fumbler, still only hacking at playing because he was not fully rehabilitated.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me,

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be,

If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me,

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Again the sound swelled with the chorus, joyously, triumphantly, cresting in the third line. The tone was so pure, so sweet that chills surged up and down Isaac's spine. Closing his eyes, he abandoned himself to the music, as it began to ebb.

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Franz repeated the last line, slowly, softly, taking the final note up an octave and just seemed to hold it forever, letting it gently fade. As it disappeared, Isaac opened his eyes and looked to Marla. He was unsurprised to see tears on her cheeks.

****

Releasing the breath that he hadn't even realized he had been holding, Franz lowered his bow. He turned to the bar and set both violin and bow back in the case. Closing it, he pushed it toward the innkeeper, and motioned that he should set it behind the counter. The man nodded, and made an arrested motion with the cudgel in his hand, as if to offer it to Franz. Franz shook his head slightly and turned back to Heydrich.

"Rupert," Franz said. No reaction. "Rupert," he said louder. Heydrich started, and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Rupert, there is such music to be learned, such music to be played, that there is room for the two of us and many more. Can you not feel it? Can you not feel that tonight, perhaps tonight alone, we can make amends and enter this new world together?"

Heydrich said nothing.

Reaching back to the bar, Franz picked up the mug of beer he had ordered what seemed to be hours ago. "Come, Rupert," holding the mug out, "will you drink with me? Can we make amends?" There was silence for a long moment, then Heydrich's left hand snaked out and slapped the mug from Franz's grip. It bounced against the counter, and rolled across the floor.

"Make amends?" Heydrich spat. "Never! You have slandered me, making everyone think that I caused your injury. You belittled me, you took the praise that was my due, you were constantly stealing my place, you . . . you . . . It is all your fault! And now you come, sneaking back to Mainz, seeking to steal my place again, bringing with you Jew Isaac and some slattern. Who is she, some down-on-her-luck whore who can find no one better than a cripple and a Jew?"

Rage flared through Franz. He felt as though every muscle in his body was clenching, as if he was swelling in size to contain his wrath. Somewhat of that must have shown, for Heydrich fell back a step or two.

"What lies between us, Rupert," Franz said in a voice so cold it could have been the winter wind blowing from the mountains of Sweden, "is between us alone. You will not say these things to my wife." As Heydrich's mouth opened, Franz raised his hand. "You will not." His voice was no louder, but it was so hard it could have cut steel.

Heydrich was silent for a moment. "As you say, it is between us." His voice was shaking.

Franz lowered his hand, and when he spoke again, his voice was normal. "One last time, Rupert. I freely admit that I have wronged and hurt you in the past, just as you have wronged and hurt me." He held his hand out again. "Will you not take my hand and help heal this breach? Will you not make amends?"

For answer, Rupert spat at him

Filled with an unexpected sadness, Franz lowered his hand. "'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' By your own words and actions are you judged, Rupert. As you have rejected, so you are rejected. There will be no place for you in our world. Good-bye, Rupert. I shall not see you again."

Franz started to turn away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Heydrich yank something from inside his coat. Heydrich yelled, "Turn not your back on me, wretch! I will have your life's blood for the insult!" The next few moments were a blur. Franz could sense Heydrich lunging for him, no doubt with a knife in hand. He attempted to jump out of the way. Marla started to scream and the innkeeper began to bellow. His foot slipped in a puddle of beer on the floor from the mug that Heydrich had knocked from his hand earlier. Panic flashed through Franz's mind when he hit the floor—a flashback to the night Heydrich had crushed his hand. There was a loud thump behind him, and he rolled, cradling his hands between his chest and the counter, protecting them, expecting at any moment to feel Heydrich's boots crashing into him.

Nothing happened. The innkeeper stopped yelling. Marla stopped screaming. Then he could feel her at his side, pulling on him, saying, "Get up, get up! Are you hurt?" over and over again. He started to yell for Isaac and Reuel to come get her, to get her out of Heydrich's way, but a different sort of panic shot through him—Marla was in reach of Heydrich! He uncurled and shot to his feet instantly, looking around for his nemesis, and seeing . . . Reuel, bending over the huddled shape of a man on the floor. An unmoving shape. A shape wearing the coat that Heydrich wore.

Reuel stood, stuck his toe under a shoulder, and rolled Heydrich over. As his face appeared, Franz froze. Marla screamed again. Isaac said something that Franz didn't understand.

Heydrich would torment no one anymore. As he would have done, so he was done to. Protruding from his right eye-socket was a knife hilt, blood seeping out around it.

"Never seen anything like it," the innkeeper said, shaking his head. "The drunken fool was holding that little knife ham-fisted, and when he slipped on the beer and threw his hands out to catch himself, he would not let go of the knife. His head came down right on the point of the blade." The innkeeper kept muttering, even as he sent a pot boy for the guard.

Fortunately, when the soldiers of the guard arrived, they accepted the witness of the innkeeper and those few patrons who had not slipped out the back door as to what had occurred. Once they found out Marla was from Grantville, their questions were few and perfunctory.

The sergeant pulled the knife from Rupert's eye, revealing a very narrow and thin blade. "An assassin's toy," he grunted, snapping it in two with little effort.

Waving his men on, the sergeant exited, and the corpse of what had once been one of the finest musicians in Mainz was dragged out the door as if it were unwanted baggage. Other than the pot boy scrubbing the blood and beer from the floor, there was no physical evidence of the conflict that had just occurred.

Franz sat at a table. He was stunned, hands shaking, unable to speak, barely able to think. Marla sat to his left, both hands gripping his crippled hand, a worried expression on her face as she looked into his eyes. Isaac brought another beer from the bar and set it in front of Franz, but Franz was unable to grasp it.

Hermann had come down the stairs to find out what all the uproar was about, and had been demanding an explanation. Isaac finally sat him down and told him what had happened. "Good riddance to bad cess," was his verdict. Hermann sniffed. Then he went back up to the rooms.

Finally, Franz stirred. "That could have been me," he croaked from a mouth and throat dry enough to spit dust.

Marla brushed back his hair. "He never got close to you, dear heart."

"No. You don't understand." Franz was finally able to grab the mug and swallow a sip. Throat moistened, he continued, "I could have been Heydrich!"

Marla looked horrified. "What do you mean?"

Staring straight ahead, as if he were looking down a league of road, Franz said, "We were so much alike . . . in talent, in zeal, in passion, in goals. We were friends for a while, but then the competition to be best came between us. Neither of us could ever be happy that the other had done well, won some accolade, taken some prize. It poisoned our friendship, and we began to taunt, and goad, and bait each other. I was good at it, and more often than not, I won the battle of words.

"It was on a night of such a battle that he attacked me." He swallowed. "But I had dreamt of doing the same to him, of somehow causing the end of his career by some kind of injury. It was part of why I almost went mad, thinking that because I had been envisioning such things, God had visited them upon me."

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, Blessed be the Name of the Lord," Isaac said quietly.

"And that verse, my friend, is what challenged me, kept me thinking, and walking, and living until I got to Grantville." Franz was quiet again for a long time, but seemed to have shrugged off the shock. He finally looked at Marla with a bit of a quirk to his mouth, almost a smile. "Do you know, it was Heydrich that was responsible for our getting married?" Now Marla looked shocked. "Truly. If he had not done this to me . . . " Franz lifted his crippled hand. "I would never have gone to Grantville. I would never have met you that night. I would never have heard you sing, or play, or teach, or . . . anything." Franz paused. Then he spoke, softly. "God used Heydrich to humble my pride, and send me to you."

"Would you do it over again?" Marla quietly asked.

"To come to you?" His smile was blinding. "Oh, without hesitation, love. Without hesitation." She melted against him, holding his arm with two hands.

Silence.

"I wish he had taken my hand," Franz said. "I wish he had accepted my apology . . . I wish . . . "

More silence.

"Those who take up the sword," Franz said finally, as if pronouncing an epitaph, "by the sword will die."

Copenhagen

February, 1634

Josef watched as Heinrich Schütz, Kappellmeister to the court of John George, Elector of Saxony, finished reading the letter. He then started over at the beginning, and read it again. Johan assumed it said the same thing the second time as it did the first. Finally, Master Schütz set the letter down on top of the haphazard pile of music atop the table he sat behind, and looked for a long while at where the ceiling joined the wall on the far side of the chamber.

The Kappellmeister was an impressive figure, Johan had to admit. Heinrich Schütz was dressed in black with a broad white collar. He looked every inch the lawyer he had originally studied to be, before taking up music. His face was . . . striking, Josef decided. Schütz had gray hair swept back from his forehead, a prominent nose and strong chin. He looked to be a friendly man, but Josef knew that to have survived as the major musician of the court at Dresden, there must be some steel in him.

Dropping his eyes back down to look first at Josef and then at his brother Rudolf, Schütz smiled slightly. "So, my friend Maestro Carissimi bids me come to visit him in Grantville. This letter, uncharacteristically short though it might be for one from il maestro, is undoubtedly from him. I recognize both the hand and his elegant turn of phrase. He waxes eloquent on the subject of the music and instruments found in Grantville; from the future, he says. Did I not know him to be one of the soberest men alive, I would say that he sounds as if he fell in a brandy tun, and did not climb out until after he had drunk most of it." He folded his fingers together, and rested his chin on his thumbs. "But, as I said, he is a most sober man, and one not given to exaggeration, so I must give some credence to his writing."

Schütz fell silent, and stared steadily at the Tuchman brothers. The weight of that gaze became heavy indeed. Josef bit his tongue to keep from babbling in front of the preeminent musician of Europe north of the Alps. He felt Rudolf shift his weight, and knew that his brother was feeling it as well.

Finally, the master smiled. "Good. You are men of some substance. I like that." He sat back in his chair, crossed a leg across the other knee, and waved a hand. "Speak. Tell me of this Grantville of which I have heard so much, and why Maestro Carissimi speaks so highly of it."

Josef proceeded to do so, but all the while he was aware of that weighty gaze, as if he were a subject of a naturalist's study. He described the music they had studied with Marla Linder, the recordings that existed, the sheet music that they had seen, and the instruments—oh, the instruments! Josef considered himself a plain-spoken man, but he almost waxed lyrical as he tried to describe the brass and woodwind instruments from the future. Finally, he talked about the crowning glory of all they had seen, the piano. At last, Josef ran out of words, and stopped. He almost sighed in relief as that measuring consideration shifted to his brother.

"And you," Schütz asked Rudolf, "what do you have to say?"

Rudolf was silent for a long moment. Josef was about to jab him with an elbow, and sighed when he finally spoke.

"You are in their books, Master." Schütz sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "You lived quite a long life, and the books speak well of you." Schütz's mouth dropped open. "They call you the first great German composer, and the Father of German music." A very far-away look came over Schütz's face. "And it occurs to me," Rudolf said softly, "to wonder just what music such a man would write with the tools of the future in his hands."

Josef was unable to see the vision that was before the master's eyes, but he knew it was there. He had to bite his lower lip very hard to keep from gaping at his brother. Periodically he had to remind himself that although Rudolf was a man of few words, that did not mean he did not know how to use them, and most effectively, too. Tonight was one such time.

The master's gaze suddenly snapped back into focus, and he chuckled. "A story most well told, and not the least was the ending. But, outside of Maestro Carissimi's letter, what proof do you have that this is all true?"

Josef nodded to Rudolf. It was Rudolf who had insisted they needed something tangible in reserve, so to him went the honors of presenting it. Reaching inside a document case, Rudolf withdrew a large music book and laid it in front of Schütz, who picked it up.

"Hmm . . . Die Kunst der Fuge, by Johann Sebastian Bach. I know of some Bachs in Thuringia. Competent musicians, as I understand. But who is this Johann Sebastian, and why did he write of The Art of Fugue? A pretentious title, I fear."

"Just look at it, Master. You will understand."

Schütz did just that. He began turning the pages over quickly, but as he progressed deeper into the book, he began slowing down, until he was spending a minute or more on each page, scrutinizing the music intently. Finally, he closed the book, once more staring at the junction of ceiling and wall across the room from him. At length, he lowered his eyes to the brothers, a very sober expression on his face.

"The Art of Fugue, indeed. And this came from the future?" He shook his head as Josef opened his mouth. "No, I do not doubt you. This . . . this genius is not in our time. It could not be hidden." Pulling at his goatee, Schütz brooded. He looked back at them. "No, no jest is this. So, the question is, what shall the response be?"

Grantville

Late February, 1634

"Lady Beth!" Marcus Wendell said as he encountered her outside the school building. "I didn't know you were back from Magdeburg."

"Hey, Marcus. Yeah, I got back last night."

"I'm surprised you're not at home, crashed and burning."

Lady Beth snorted. "I'm a little tougher than that, thank you very much."

"So, how was it . . . the trip, I mean?"

"Once I got to Magdeburg, it was good. I saw everything I wanted to see, and had a couple of really long talks with Mary Simpson. She gave me some good advice."

"And?"

"You're looking at the new administrator for the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls." Lady Beth smiled.

"You took the job! Outstanding! Congratulations!" Marcus grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically. "So, when do you have to be there?"

"This school has to be created from scratch, so basically as soon as possible. I'm shooting to be in Magdeburg full time by the middle of March."

"Ouch! Sounds like you're going to be pretty busy."

"Yep. I've got to sell the furniture and most of our odds and ends, pack up everything we want to take with us, and hand over my jobs." Marcus' eyebrows rose. Lady Beth continued. "Max Ohl will take over my job at the Tech Center full time. He's really pretty sharp. If you have to do anything with him, you'll like him. I'll work with him another day or so; make sure he knows where all the bodies are buried and who to watch out for." She got a mischievous glint in her eyes. "And I got Mary to commit to a replacement for her arts program management stuff."

"Oh, please," Marcus groaned, "please tell me it's not that awful Haggerty woman!"

"Well, actually, her name did come up . . . " Marcus interrupted Lady Beth with a louder groan, " . . . but I managed to convince Mary that she really wasn't the best choice for that work."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! All right, already, tell me who it is!"

"Amber Higham." Marcus' relief was almost tangible, and Lady Beth chuckled. "Yeah, I convinced Mary that Amber's theatre background would help her manage the personalities and the programs."

"That it would. Plus, she's good people."

"As good as they come."

Copenhagen

Late February, 1634

Josef knocked on the door, a little diffidently, Rudolf standing behind him. "Come in," he heard, so he opened the door and entered the room, Rudolf coming behind and closing the door. Master Schütz waved a hand at the chairs, not looking up from where he was reading through Die Kunst Der Fuge again. "Be seated, meine Herren, if you please." Josef and Rudolf pleased to sit immediately, and watched the master as he slowly turned the pages of the masterwork of a man who would never be.

Finally, Schütz closed it and set it aside on the table, which was clear of everything that had cluttered it the last time they had been in this chamber. He sat back in his chair, and laid his arms along the arms of the chair, gripping the knobs at the ends. His presence was austerely dignified, almost regal, and Josef swallowed.

There was silence for some time. Schütz did not speak, and Josef and Rudolf could not bring themselves to break the master's silence. At last, Schütz focused on them, and said, "I have served the Elector of Saxony for almost half of my life—first as organist, then by his grace I was named Kappellmeister. I have written music, led performances and taught his students and musicians for all that time. And he has been a reasonably generous patron."

Josef began steeling himself for disappointment. This sounded as if Master Schütz was going to refuse them.

"He has been generous until recently, that is," Schütz continued dryly. "His recent . . . reversals . . . have forced him to adopt measures of economy."

Josef's heart began to rise, and he dared to say, "You mean . . . "

"Elector John George cannot pay my salary, nor that of my . . . his musicians." Josef felt a sense of elation at the frown on Schütz's face, only to have it collapse at his next words. "I have been offered a post here in the court of Crown Prince Christian, and I am certain that I would be allowed to hire my musicians." No question this time about whose musicians they really were.

Preparing himself to hear words of refusal from the master, Josef was instead startled to hear, "But . . . " Schütz said nothing more for several moments, then he picked up Die Kunst Der Fuge again for a moment, and said, "This has awakened a curiosity—nay, a hunger—in me that I cannot resist." A small smile appeared on the master's face. "I would come to Grantville to see the wonders of which Maestro Carissimi tells me, and to finally meet il maestro face to face. And then, perchance, to Magdeburg, to hear this concert you spoke of. How large an orchestra did you say you were trying to amass?"

Josef tried to speak and discovered his throat was almost paralyzed with surprise. He coughed hard, and managed to croak, "Franz Sylwester, our dirigent, wishes to have sixty string players, Master Schütz."

"So many . . . " A calculating look crossed the master's face, and then a smile of pleasure. "I have never heard so many. I look forward to it. And you may tell your leader that I will encourage my musicians to also come to Magdeburg." His smile widened to a grin with more than a hint of wicked humor in it. "After all, if Gustavus Adolphus has, ah, acquired dominion over the lands of the Elector, then it would be only fitting that he acquire the Elector's musicians as well, would it not?" Josef found himself nodding energetically, a smile on his face the equal of that on the master's.

Schütz lightly smacked his hands on the knobs at the end of his chair arms, and said, "Good! Now, I must stay here until the marriage celebrations of Crown Prince Christian and Princess Magdalene Sybille, the Elector's daughter, are completed, to ensure that the music is done as I specified. It took them some time to find a suitable date with no conflicting celebrations in the church calendar, but they finally decided, and the wedding will occur shortly on 2 March. We will all be required for various celebrations and gatherings after that, but I anticipate that I will be able to slip away perhaps a week or so later."

"Umm," Josef asked, "am I correct that the courts of Denmark and Saxony still calculate dates using the Julian calendar?" He knew the answer; he was setting up a problem for the master.

"You are."

"Master, the Grantvillers calculate dates using the new calendar of Pope Gregory." Schütz's eyebrows rose. "So their dates are ten days ahead of yours. In the new calendar, the wedding will occur on 12 March. That leaves about three weeks for your musicians to travel to Magdeburg in order to be there for the beginning of rehearsals in the first week of April."

Schütz waved a hand. "I can change the schedules somewhat. My men will be there." He smiled. "They will not fail me, not after I tell them what they are going for."

Movement III - Adagio Sostenuto

Grantville

March, 1634

" . . . and after seeing and hearing Master Ingram's uncle's violin, the masters were eager to get the new 'merino' designs. They agreed to make us thirty master grade violins for 20 guilders apiece."

Johannes Fichtold was positively beaming, Franz thought. Then something in Johannes' report registered.

"Merino? Did you tell them these were merino designs?"

The other young man's face fell. "Aye. It was a slip of the tongue while I was making the initial proposal to them." His face brightened. "But, it's all right—they think the designs were made by an Italian named Merino. You should have seen the looks they gave each other."

Marla burst out laughing. Everyone, Franz included, looked at her wide-eyed as she positively howled, drumming her feet on the floor and pounding her fist on the table. No one spoke—they were all somewhat shocked—Marla just didn't act like this. Finally, she subsided into gasping, "Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh, that is absolutely hilarious, totally priceless." She laughed a little more, giggled actually, brushing her hair back and wiping her eyes.

"Uh . . . Marla," Franz ventured, "I grant you that the masters of Füssen thinking the up-time designs were stolen from an Italian master is somewhat humorous, but . . . "

"Oh, come on, guys . . . can't you just see the passage in some future twentieth century music history textbook?" Marla's voice took on a dry, lecturing tone. "' In the middle of the seventeenth century arose the so-called 'Merino' refinements to the basic string orchestra instruments. It is commonly accepted that, as with so many other technological advances, this was due to the advent of Grantville in the Western European scene in the 1630's. The earliest documentation of the term is found in the guild records of Füssen in southern Germany, but by 1650 both the designs and the term were in common use throughout continental Europe, with England lagging somewhat behind. A number of very interesting rumors and theories exist as to the origin of the 'Merino' term, but it is generally accepted that it was the name of an Italian master who either initially produced the designs or from whom the designs were stolen. Periodically, an old theory is resurrected that the name has some connection to the merino breed of sheep, but no proof has ever been found, so it always retires back into the category of interesting fables.'"

Everyone in the room laughed, even Lady Beth Haygood, with Marla's voice skirling over them all. At length—a very long length—order was restored. "Yes, I think we can all take some pleasure on having played a joke on posterity," Franz said, his voice a little uneven as he tried to keep from laughing again. "But, for Johannes' sake and the sake of the joke, we must keep the secret to ourselves. No more slips of the tongue. Maestro Merino must be accorded his appropriate due." Chuckles sounded all around the conference table.

"So." Lady Beth looked up from where she was sitting beside Amber Higham, who was making notes. "Thirty master class violins at 20 guilders apiece, three guilders in advance, the balance on delivery in Magdeburg by 1 April. You did specify 1 April by the Gregorian calendar, I hope?"

"Yes, Frau Haygood. But that was really not such an issue since they use that calendar every day. It was just to make sure they did not try to claim we had expected delivery by the old calendar's date, ten days later." She nodded. Johannes continued, "All instruments produced from the merino designs by December 31, 1637, will be delivered to the Royal and Imperial Arts Council."

"You got over three years out of them!" Friedrich exclaimed. "I do not believe it! Master Hans knows some of those men, and he was skeptical that they would allow even one year."

"Yes." Johannes grinned. "Well, they quickly saw that having these designs would give them . . . what did Master Girolamo call it . . . ah, yes, a 'competitive advantage.' They might not know those words, but they know the concept. I could tell they were positively slavering to get their hands on the designs, so I held my ground. It took over a week. In the process they slandered me greatly and profanely more than once. If my brother was not one of them, I am sure they would have had things to say about my ancestry. In fact, Master Eichelberger as much as said that I was an altar boy when my parents were married." Johannes laughed. "But he took it back after the others remonstrated with him."

"A good job of negotiating," Lady Beth said. Johannes sat back, beaming. Lady Beth looked at Franz and raised her eyebrows.

"The initial part of our recruiting trip was very slow, but we had three musicians who traveled with us back from Mainz. Several more from Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt caught up with us on the way back. So, at the moment, we have twelve. If Josef and Rudolf have any luck, and if any numbers at all respond to the broadsides and letters sent out, we should have our minimum of forty-five players by the first week of April."

Lady Beth nodded. She waited for Amber to finish taking notes, then said, "Okay, folks. Like I told you at the beginning of the meeting, I'm leaving for Magdeburg tomorrow to stay. Amber here . . . " The pleasant woman with the gray-streaked hair smiled at them all. " . . . will be taking over the job of representing the Imperial Arts Council here in Grantville. I'll do the same in Magdeburg, in addition to my other work with the new school." She stood and signaled that the meeting was over. "I'll see most of you in Magdeburg in a few days."

They all stood as Lady Beth and Amber left. Friedrich looked at Franz. "The Gardens?"

"By all means."

****

They were all seated around a table in the Gardens: Franz and Marla, Friedrich and Anna, Isaac, Thomas and Leopold; all the initial group from Mainz that had gathered around Marla last year to learn about up-time music. Franz had just finished describing his final encounter with Rupert Heydrich. The revelation of Heydrich's death and the manner of it greatly shocked those who hadn't been there. Anna was absolutely ashen-faced. Friedrich, Thomas and Leopold were studies in various shades of incredulity and aghast-ness.

Marla had grasped his arm while he had haltingly related what had happened. Franz felt her shiver. On his other side, Isaac was withdrawn, with a very distant look on his face. Franz was reminded of something that had puzzled him off and on since that night.

"Isaac?" No response. "Isaac?" A little louder. That pierced Isaac's shell. He looked over at Franz. "You said something that night when the body was turned on its back and the knife was revealed, something that I did not understand. What was it?"

Isaac looked very disturbed. He took a long time to respond. Finally, he said in a low tone, "Baruch dayan emes. It means 'Blessed be the Righteous Judge.' It is . . . traditional . . . for Jews to say this when we hear of or see a death. It is a reminder of the sovereignty of God; that nothing happens outside of His awareness; that regardless of our grief, He is the King of the Universe and all things happen as He wills it. It is meant to be a comfort."

"For everything there is a season . . . " murmured Marla.

"Exactly." But Isaac still looked distressed.

After a moment, Franz said, "Was it his death that discomfits you?"

"Nay. I have seen death before."

"The manner of it?"

"Nay."

Franz leaned forward. "Isaac, you are as close to me as a brother. I would not see you suffering because of what was my problem. Tell me what oppresses you."

Isaac sat for a long moment, staring at his tightly clasped hands on the table top, obviously wrestling with himself. Finally, he gave a great sigh. "As you will." Another moment passed. "That night, when I realized what I had said, I well-nigh choked. Of all people I knew, the passing of Heydrich was not one that would have occasioned me sadness. I understood the waste of his talent, the tragedy of his life. But after all he had done, particularly after he so forcefully rejected your attempt to reconcile, there was an element of justice to his ending.

"But then you said 'That could have been me,' and . . . " Isaac swallowed. "That statement crashed through to my heart. I saw everything that happened that night in a new light. In Heydrich's rejection of reconciliation, that could have been me. In very truth, it is me. I must reconcile with my father—all our wisdom, all our tradition calls for it—and . . . I . . . cannot." Franz waited. "It is a blight on the life of my family, on my own. And if God, in His wisdom, calls for my life as he did for poor Heydrich's . . . " Isaac swallowed again. "I have not the courage to risk rejection again. Yet if I do not, I risk blighting my family for the rest of their lives." He looked up, with a desolate expression. "I wish to go to him so strongly, but I hurt so badly . . . it tears at me like a wolf, Franz. It hurts!"

Franz laid his hand atop Isaac's trembling clenched hands. "If you truly believe that God is sovereign, that all things happen according to His will, then trust Him. He will make a way. And until He does . . . " Marla laid her hand atop his, followed by the hands of the others at the table. " . . . you have here those who will help you bear your burden, just as they helped me bear mine."

One lone tear began to slowly trickle down Isaac's cheek.

Magdeburg

Early April, 1634

Franz watched as the various groups of musicians trickled into the large room. First came the group from Mainz, Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt that had returned with him from the recruiting trip, led by his friend Georg Seiler. Franz had helped Georg and his daughter find a place in a rooming house that Klaus and Reuel had sworn was clean and fairly priced. Georg was still quiet and gaunt, but seemed to be a little less despondent. Franz truly hoped that the move from Mainz would be healing for both Georg and Odelia.

Following on the heels of the first group were the various musicians that had drifted in by ones and twos and threes from various towns in Thuringia, as well as a half-dozen from one of the Jesuit collegia. Franz felt a little guilty about how many small towns had just lost their premier musicians, perhaps even their only musicians, but not enough so to tell them to return to their homes. The vision of an orchestra that drove him and his friends was a stern taskmistress. He had to take the musicians regardless of where they came from.

The final group that entered was the direct result of Josef and Rudolf's recruiting trip to Copenhagen; nineteen musicians sent from the hand of Kappellmeister Heinrich Schütz. They had arrived the day before, looking somewhat worn from the rigors of traveling so far so quickly. Master Schütz himself was not with them. He had not been able to leave with them. In any event, his itinerary had been different. Matthäus Amsel, the leader of this group, had informed Franz that the master would first visit family in Köstritz, then would go directly to Grantville to meet with Maestro Carissimi. Only after that would he come to Magdeburg. Franz could forgive him the delay, when he saw how many musicians had come in his name.

If his count was correct, even after sending the wind players on to Grantville to study at the high school, there were sixty-two in the room right now. Franz had hoped for sixty and would have been willing to settle for forty to forty-five. He had feared that there would be fewer than thirty. They had enough! Providing, that is, that they stayed.

Franz stepped up on the platform that had been placed at one end of the room. "Your attention, please!" He pitched his voice to carry over the buzz of conversations that filled the room. The musicians turned and moved toward him. The noise began to dwindle. "Thank you, my friends, for coming to Magdeburg, for accepting the challenge to be a part of something that has never existed before—a symphony orchestra." As he spoke, Marla, Josef, Rudolf and Isaac gathered to each side of the platform.

Someone in the crowd started to speak. Franz raised his hand. "Please, all of you, let those of us in front of you speak. After that, we will have plenty of time to answer questions." He lowered his hand. "Now, I assume that you have all heard of Grantville." Heads nodded around the room. "How many of you have been in Grantville?" Perhaps a third of the men raised their hands. "How many of you have heard anything about the music of Grantville?" Over half of the hands went down.

"Well, it should not surprise you that just as Grantville contains knowledge and mechanical arts that seem amazing to us, it also contains music and instruments that are equally amazing. I and my friends . . . " Franz spread his arms to encompass them " . . . have been studying the music of the future for almost a year, now. My wife, Marla, is a Grantviller. You will find she is a surpassing musician in her own right."

There were a few frowns and some definite muttering from the crowd. "Yes, you are skeptical. I, too, had masters who taught me that women would never make superior musicians. I tell you that they were wrong. I tell you that Marla has won the approval of both Maestro Giacomo Carissimi—yes, you know that name—as well as Signor Andrea Abati, il gentilhuomo premiere of Rome." The citation of the famous castrato evoked more whispers. "Her knowledge of what music became in their time is invaluable, as it will help guide us to learn it, to digest it, to make it our own, then finally to move beyond it."

The rest of the morning was spent discussing some of the fundamental changes that the musicians would have to adapt to, including the changes in tuning and tempering that had been adopted as universal standards in the future. Marla figured prominently in those, naturally, as she had already had to shepherd Franz and friends through the same issues several months previously. The piano caused quite a sensation when Marla demonstrated its tuning. The planned discussion was diverted for quite some time as the other musicians almost mobbed around Marla to see the piano and its workings.

Finally, Franz announced a break for lunch, requesting that everyone return in two hours. While the others thundered out the door in search of taverns and inns, he turned to Marla and gestured to Isaac, Josef and Rudolf.

"Were we that loud and opinionated?" He was answered only by her silvery laugh, and winced. "I was afraid you would say that."

Grantville

April 1634

Heinrich Schütz, one-time Kappellmeister of the Elector of Saxony, watched with interest as his carriage rolled through the streets of Grantville. There were many strange things, including the poles with cables strung between them which served no purpose that he could see, but seemed to connect all the houses and buildings. However, it was as Josef Tuchman had said; there was no gold paving the streets of Grantville. A pity. He could have used an ingot or two. A man with a mother and two growing daughters to support could always find a use for an ingot or two of gold.

Thoughts of his family inevitably led to recollections of Magdalena, which in turn evoked the pain of her loss. Even after almost nine years, longer than they had been married, thoughts of his wife still hurt. It was an old hurt, one that perhaps no longer stabbed but was now a familiar ache.

The hurt was a little stronger, a little fresher right now, after stopping in Köstritz to see his mother and his daughters. Each of the girls, in their own way, took after their mother. Seeing them had scraped the scab off of a wound that Heinrich feared would never heal.

After Magdalena's passing, he had taken his daughters to live with their grandmother. The Elector's court at Dresden was no place for a widower to attempt the raising of two young daughters. It meant that Heinrich only got to see them a few times a year, whenever he could beg leave from Elector John George, which wasn't as often as he wanted. Regardless of whether he could come or not, Heinrich sent a purse for their support as often as he could scrape together a few coins. Lately, the Elector's pay had been as infrequent as his allowing leave, which was why Heinrich was in Grantville.

After a time, they left the houses behind, coming in view of the . . . what had Johannes called it . . . oh, yes, the high school. Lukas Amsel pulled the horse to a halt in front of the building. Schütz exited from the carriage, while Lukas jumped from the driver's seat to hold the horse's head.

They stood together looking at the building. "Master," Lukas said, "are you sure that is a school? It looks more like a warehouse to me."

Heinrich looked over at the young man fondly. His parents, as so many others did, had named their children after prominent New Testament figures. By good fortune and the grace of God, all four of their sons had survived to adulthood. As they had been named in order of birth, Lukas was the third. His oldest brother, Matthäus, the lead violinist amongst Heinrich's musicians, was quite capable. Next oldest, Marcus, also played violin and was also numbered in Heinrich's company. Youngest brother Johan was a viola player who had joined his brothers just a few months ago, but was by no means the worst player in the ensemble.

Lukas, however, was not a musician. He was a personable young man, hardworking, reasonably intelligent and handsome. By rights and all expectations he should have been as fine a musician as his brothers. Alas, he was tone deaf and had an abysmal sense of rhythm. Heinrich recalled the day that Lukas had approached him, dressed in his finest clothing and holding his hat in hand, begging for any kind of position; anything, so long as he could work with the master like his older brothers and thus feel a part of their world.

Heinrich, pitying the boy, had given him a trial as a music copyist. To his great surprise, Lukas was both meticulous and rapid in his work. He soon became almost indispensable to the master copyist. As time passed, his responsibilities gradually broadened, first by taking over the responsibilities of Heinrich's secretary when that individual died suddenly of pneumonia, then by additional delegations from Heinrich. Lukas had accepted so many delegations, that he now served as factotum. All among the musicians—indeed, all at the Elector of Saxony's court—knew that when Lukas spoke in Heinrich's place, he was indeed the voice of the Kappellmeister.

Despite his rise, Lukas was still the same earnest soul that he was on that first day. Heinrich knew just how much work the young man did. He was indeed grateful for Lukas because of that. Above and beyond that, however, Heinrich was very fond of him. In his heart, Heinrich at times considered Lukas the son he had never had. If his daughters were older, he would have encouraged a match between one of them and Lukas.

"Aye," Heinrich said, clapping Lukas on the shoulder, "it does look like a warehouse with windows, but I am assured that this is an institution of learning like no other in the world."

Just then the most appalling sound blared forth, loud, assaulting the hearing, most discordant. If there was a sound that was the very antithesis of music, this was it. All three of them—Heinrich, Lukas and the horse—jumped at the sudden onslaught to their hearing. Lukas immediately turned to calm the gelding, whose eyes were wide and white-rimmed and whose feet were dancing as if the drive were suddenly hot iron. Thankfully, the noise lasted only moments.

Just as Lukas was getting the horse to settle, the doors in front of them burst open and out poured what seemed to be a very horde of youths, most of whom ran over to a variety of yellow and black contraptions that stood in a drive to one side of the building. Heinrich was stunned to see that boys and girls alike were dressed in trousers, some of them even cut above the knee! A few of them ran to a metal rack nearby in which strange wheeled devices stood, pulled them out and jumped on them. Heinrich felt his mouth drop as they all began moving their feet and somehow the devices began moving down the drive, their riders calling out to each other and waving to him as they passed.

All of a sudden the yellow and black contraptions all began making loud rumblings, which were shortly accentuated by grinding noises. The poor horse became very insistent that he did not want to be in this vicinity any longer. Heinrich felt as if he was almost of like mind when the machines began slowly rolling by themselves down the drive and out onto the road toward Grantville.

It was quite some time before Lukas had the horse quieted again. At last, the eyes were calm and the big head turned and lipped Lukas's hair. There was no hitching post in sight, so Lukas led him over to the metal rack and tied the reins to it.

"Well, Master Heinrich, that was exciting. I shall have to make sure that poor Blume receives some extra grain tonight, to compensate him for the fright he has just received."

Both men laughed. "And perhaps we should receive an extra dose of grain ourselves, eh?" Heinrich said. "An extra flagon of beer, yes?" He clapped Lukas on the shoulder again, urging him up the walkway to the door. "Those yellow and black . . . things . . . do not match the description in the stories and rumors of the APC machines, so they must be the other machines, the 'busses.'"

"I care not what they are, Master. And I am not at all certain that I want to find out, either."

"Oh, come now, Lukas. Where is your spirit of adventure?"

"I think it is driving Blume's spirit of adventure back down the road as fast as it will gallop." Lukas opened the door.

Heinrich's laughter echoed down the empty halls. Rich and fruity, loud and resonant, it sounded as if a Titan had suddenly entered the building. An Englishman had once told him that his laugh reminded him of a character named Falstaff in some play or other that Heinrich could not call to mind at the moment.

There was a doorway ahead over which hung a sign that was lettered "Administration." A woman appeared in it, obviously searching for the source of the laughter. She, too, was wearing trousers. Heinrich tsk'd, but at least hers covered all of her legs. Her interested gaze appeared to assess them.

"Can I help you?"

Her German was oddly accented and inflected, but understandable. Heinrich and Lukas looked at each other. Help?

"Can I be of assistance?"

Ah, that they understood.

"Yes," Lukas said. "This is Master Heinrich Schütz and . . . "

He broke off as the woman raised her hands and laughed. "Slower, please. I am still new to this speech."

"We are looking," Heinrich said slowly, "for Master Giacomo Carissimi."

"Ah, il maestro." She smiled. "I believe he has not left yet. Come this way, please." She led them down a hallway lined with metal lockers interspersed with doors. After turning a corner into another hallway, she stopped at the second door on the left. It was open.

"Maestro, you have visitors." She stepped aside and smiled at them as they entered. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway when she left.

Heinrich saw a youngish man in a black cassock look up from stuffing papers into a leather satchel. "Good day. I am Heinrich Schütz, and I am delighted to finally meet you." As one educated man speaking to another, he spoke in Latin.

"Master Schütz!" Carissimi stumbled in his haste to come out from behind the desk. "It is an honor to finally meet you, sir, in the flesh, as the Americans would say."

"The honor is mine, Master Carissimi."

"Please, please, call me Giacomo."

"And I am Heinrich."

The Italian was absolutely beaming. "Our letters give me some sense of you, Master Heinrich. Of course, Master Monteverdi has spoken quite highly of you, as well."

"As he did of you as well, Master Giacomo." Heinrich found himself returning Carissimi's smile; the man's enthusiasm was infectious.

"How did you know to look for me at the school?"

"We were directed first to your house, and met Master Zenti's apprentice, Johannes Fichtold. He advised us to come here." Heinrich frowned a little. "No sooner had we arrived than we were greeted by the most appalling clamor."

Carissimi had a quizzical expression for a moment, then he laughed. "Oh, you mean the 'buzzer.' They use it to mark the beginning and end of various study times. Yes, it is nasty sounding isn't it? Intentionally so, I'm afraid . . . it is designed to capture one's attention."

"It succeeds admirably in that." Heinrich shivered. "Even our horse took note of it." They all shared a laugh. "But tell me, Master Giacomo, what do you here in this school? Are you a choir master?"

Giacomo shook his head. "Oh, no. What do I do? Well, I teach a little Italian, I teach a little Latin. Sometimes, I teach what some of the other instructors call social studies or current affairs—I tell them about Italy—the cities, the rulers, the Holy Father—the tensions between all of them and between them and the other lands of Europe."

"What? You teach no music? No choirs?" Heinrich was thunderstruck. Here was one of the leading lights of music in Italy, doing the work of a mere pedant! Did no one know what they were wasting here? "I am outraged, sir. I am outraged that you are not given your due, not given the work for which God so admirably equipped you!"

"No, no, no, Master Heinrich" Carissimi said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "It is as I desire it. I teach what they need taught. In turn, I am a student."

"A student of what?"

"First of all, the English language. Already my English has improved dramatically since I first arrived. But more importantly, I study music, the course of music as it developed from our time to a future more than three hundred and fifty years from now."

"So, you believe their tale that they have come from the future?"

"Yes." Carissimi was quite firm. "What I have learned since I arrived leaves absolutely no doubt in my mind."

"But how? This has never happened in history. God has never done such a thing."

Carissimi smiled. "Master Heinrich, my friend, surely the God who can conceive of the universe that surrounds us—the turning of the seasons, the natural order that exists—surely that God could do such a work if he chose to. And the greatest works of God in his creation are only done once: the ark of Noah; the parting of the Red Sea; and the birth, death and resurrection of our beloved Savior. At one point in the history of man since Adam none of these things had happened. If someone before that point had said that because they had not yet occurred, they would never occur, would he have been right?"

"I understand your argument." Heinrich sighed. "But it is still hard to accept."

Carissimi laughed. "We are human. Of course, it is hard to fathom the power of God! Yet Grantville is here, a hard fact." He stamped his foot. "And unless you have fallen into the Manichaean heresy, what other explanation is there?"

"And is this what the pope and his college of cardinals believe?"

"I know not what decision the Holy Father will reach, but I am here. The music of Grantville is also here. I will learn it; I will master it if it takes the rest of my life." Carissimi was quite serious, Heinrich saw.

"If you judge it so, Master Giacomo, then make a place beside you, so that I may learn also."

"Then follow me, Master Heinrich, if you will."

The Italian master led them down the hallway to a large room. There was a sign on the door that said 'Choir Room.' When they entered, Heinrich saw that chairs stood on risers that formed arcs around the room.

"Please be seated."

Heinrich sat on the lowest level, motioning Lukas to sit beside him. They watched, somewhat mystified, as Carissimi walked over to some boxes on a table and touched them, to the accompanying sound of clicks. Then he dug into his satchel and brought out three small flat cases, which he set on the table.

"Once I heard that you were coming, Master Heinrich, knowing, believing that I knew what you came for, I did some small preparation. I am certain that you have heard that the Grantvillers possess some mechanical arts that are quite advanced." Heinrich nodded. "It is indeed the truth. Some of these arts, we of our time do not even have concepts of. This is one such, that by the small machines you see before you they can reproduce the performances of musicians from years ago, from many miles away, through what they call 'recordings.' This is an entirely different order of creation than the simple music boxes that we know of.

"The devices can be operated without knowing the arts to construct them. Witness that I will do so. I tell you all of this to prepare you, my friend. Do not be alarmed when you hear music seemingly from the air—it is only their arts."

With that, Carissimi turned and pressed on one of the cabinets. A small drawer slid open, into which he inserted a silver disk he removed from one of the small cases. He touched the cabinet again; the drawer retracted itself into its cabinet. Finally, he turned a knob on one of the other cabinets.

Despite Carissimi's warning, when the sound of massed trumpets and sackbuts split the air, Heinrich's eyes widened. He looked around for the brass, sure that somehow they had entered the room behind him. But there was no-one there. Then it dawned on him this was the very thing that Master Giacomo had just told him about. Forcing himself to relax and listen, before very many moments passed, he realized that he knew this piece! The Sonata Pian e Forte, by his old master, Giovanni Gabrieli! He had heard it performed in the Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice during the days of his youth, when he had studied with the master. He closed his eyes and relaxed, listening to the purity of the music. Almost, almost it sounded as if he were there in the basilica again.

All too soon it was over. He opened his eyes and raised his head. He spoke aloud the words he had written about his master several years before. "But Gabrieli, immortal Gods, what a man!"

"Indeed," Carissimi answered. "So, you know that piece. You will know this one as well, I believe." He retrieved the first disk from the drawer and inserted another one.

This time, the music was choral. Within an instant of hearing the opening "Cantate Domino, Cantate Domino canticum," Heinrich knew this was his work, his setting of Psalm 96 as part of his Cantiones Sacrae. So, Rudolf Tuchman had been right! The future from which Grantville came did remember him. Again, he closed his eyes and drank in the sound, this time listening critically. When it ended, he opened his eyes

"They pitched it too high by almost a step."

Carissimi laughed.

"That is something for another discussion, Master Heinrich. At least they have much of your music." He sobered quickly. "Very little of mine survived. I have read nothing of what they know of my . . . past, as strange as it feels to say, but Elizabeth has told me that I am remembered more as a teacher than as a composer. I know it was all written to the glory of God, but unworthy man that I am, I cannot help but feel some anger at the future princes of the church who let the works of my mind, my spirit, disappear without a trace." Carissimi spoke with an almost bitter tone.

"Who is this Elizabeth?" Heinrich was treated to the sight of Carissimi uncomfortable. Was the man blushing? Surely not.

"She . . . is one of the uptime musicians who have taught me much. When you go to Magdeburg, you will meet another: Marla Linder. We Italians have known that women can be good musicians. Marla and Elizabeth, they are proof that women can be more. They can be virtuosi."

Heinrich absorbed that without comment, but decided to let himself be the judge of that. "Enough of music that I already know. The young men who came to me in Copenhagen, the brothers Tuchman, brought to me a work from Grantville—from, as you say, the future. It was entitled The Art of Fugue, by one . . . "

"Johann Sebastian Bach." A dreamy smile crossed Carissimi's face. "Ah, yes, The Art of Fugue. Probably the greatest contrapuntal work by the greatest of the contrapuntalists." He focused again on Schütz. "There is a recording of it in Grantville, but I do not have it with me." Turning back to the table, he extracted a disk from the third case and placed it in the machine. "I do, however, have this by the man; the Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor."

For the third time, Heinrich closed his eyes and listened. The piece began with an organ playing a slow stately theme in the bass register. After eight measures it repeated as a basso ostinato with a new theme added to it. With each repetition of the bass theme, new themes were added to the work; so it grew in complexity. Then the rhythms began variations, but still that bass theme was heard.

The work was much longer than the previous two. Heinrich simply listened, listened with the ears of a master musician, as it built, as additional ranks of pipes were added and the sonorities became richer. It quieted to flute voices only as the various themes were delicately sounded.

Again additional stops were opened and the sonorities began to build, and build, and build, only to once more soften to passages of quiet dexterity and virtuosity. The piece was as much a test of the organ as the organist, he decided, displaying the consummate skill of the composer. The themes passed from register to register, but almost always that recurring theme was in the lowest voice. At last came a passage where the tempo slowed, followed by an outburst of rapid loud voicing, terminating in a thunderous, resounding terminal chord.

Heinrich felt chills chasing up his spine. The hair on his neck prickled. "God in heaven. To hear such work in my lifetime."

"Oh, Master. This is only the beginning."

Magdeburg

April, 1634

"Come with me, please." Franz led Isaac Fremdling and Matthäus Amsel to a small room to the side. As they entered the door, Isaac whistled.

"Greetings, Johannes. I take it these are the violins from Füssen?"

"Hello, Isaac." Johannes Fichtold nodded at his friend. "Indeed, they are. Freshly delivered from the master craftsmen."

"Matthäus," Franz said, "this is Johannes Fichtold, assistant to Master Girolamo Zenti, piano craft master in Grantville and brother to one of the luthier craft masters of Füssen. Johannes, this is Matthäus Amsel, principal violinist and leader of Master Schütz's musicians." The two men bowed to each other and murmured pleasantries.

Franz rubbed his hands together. "Right. Let us begin. Johannes, how many do we have here?"

"Of the contracted thirty, thirty were delivered in Grantville. Three of them were rejected by Masters Zenti and Riebeck and Journeyman Braun as being of inadequate quality. So only twenty-seven were shipped here to Magdeburg for your review. Here they are." Johannes waved a hand at the table.

Franz looked at Isaac and Matthäus. "We will all three inspect each of them. Then you two will play each of them. If any one of us votes 'no' on an instrument, it is rejected. Ready?" He opened the first case, and they began their inspections.

At some point in the morning the door to the room opened again. Lady Beth Haygood and Marla entered.

"Sorry I'm late, Franz," Lady Beth said.

Franz nodded, held up a hand to indicate they should wait and dove back into the conversation about the virtues and faults of the instrument Isaac was holding.

"This one is not acceptable." Isaac sniffed. "The neck is crooked, the varnish is unequally applied on the sides, and the tone is just . . . off."

"Agreed." Matthäus nodded.

Johannes shrugged and made a mark on his list. "Another one to take back to Grantville." He looked up. "That was the last one."

"Excellent!" Franz said. "So, what is the verdict of the judges?"

Johannes consulted his list. "We've rejected two more, leaving twenty-five to be accepted."

Franz turned to Lady Beth. "So, how soon can Frau Mary authorize payment?"

"Mary's out of town, remember?" Lady Beth smiled as Franz smacked his forehead. "But, before she left she gave me certain authorizations, including control over the accounts for the orchestra. I can authorize payment of the balances due under the contract."

Johannes handed him the clipboard. Franz borrowed Johannes' pencil to initial the first and second copies, then passed one to Lady Beth and the other back to Johannes.

"I'll take care of it." Lady Beth tucked her copy into her bag.

****

The young men turned back to the instruments and began discussing who should get which one. Lady Beth shook her head in amusement and followed Marla out into the hallway. "I declare, the only time I ever see Jere that worked up about something is if he can ride it, drive it or shoot it."

Marla laughed and linked arms with the older woman. "Musicians. Go figure. I've seen these boys argue about the merits of one varnish over another, or the different qualities of hair from different breeds of horses for their bows, just like my dad and his friends used to argue about which bait to try on that big catfish that used to lurk in the bend of the river."

When their laughter had subsided, Marla asked, "So, did you get everything worked out in Grantville?"

"Yep. We rented the house, furniture and all, to some acquaintance of Don Francisco. I loved that, since I didn't have to mess with trying to sell or store anything other than the knick-knacks. I packed up the kids and their clothes and their lessons for the rest of the school year. We left town pretty quickly after that meeting we had with you all last month."

"So you settled in here, yet?"

"Pretty much. Jere had already found us a place to stay, so it was just a matter of unpacking and finding places to stow everything. Most of the furniture is okay. The kids are pretty excited—it's still an adventure for them—but I do miss the electricity and the flush toilets."

"Tell me about it!" Marla laughed again. "So how's the new job?"

"Crazy. The Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls has a great future, but at the moment it's all potential. Elisabeth's father, the duke, has assigned the rents from a nearby village and its lands to provide a base funding for operations, but we're still scrambling to get it organized. We've lined up a few up-timers to teach, but we really need some additional teachers."

"Hmm," Marla mused. "What are you doing for humanities?"

"I don't know yet. They're still trying to pull together a curriculum and get it approved by the Abbess of Quedlinburg. She's the closest thing to a certification agency we've got at the moment."

"Well, you've got a lotof musicians in Magdeburg now. I can do choir, and voice lessons. There are a lot of string players; surely some of them can teach. Hermann Katzberg could teach harpsichord now and piano later. By next year, we should have some wind players who can teach."

Lady Beth brightened. "That's something we hadn't talked about yet. Great idea! I'll pass it on to the rest. I'd bet we'll take you up on that."

"I have an ulterior motive, of course." Marla smiled as Lady Beth raised an eyebrow. "I want public performances, public recitals. I want women musicians, darn it!"

"Of course! And with you leading the way, who would dare object?"

Grantville

April, 1634

Heinrich Schütz walked beside Giacomo Carissimi toward the "Band Room." He wasn't sure what the afternoon boded for him, only Giacomo insisted that he must hear what he referred to as a "band." And so, he was on his way to do that very thing.

Smiling, Heinrich looked over at the shorter musician. Once he got past his shyness, Master Giacomo was as voluble as most Italians. Today was no exception.

He had been talking without pause for the last few minutes.

"And here we are." Master Giacomo opened the door and ushered Heinrich inside the room. "This is where . . . ah . . . Marcus, you are here already. Good! Allow me the introductions to make. Master Heinrich Schütz, this is Marcus Wendell, the band director for Calvert High School, a master of music from the future." Heinrich nodded. "And Marcus, before you is Master Heinrich Schütz, Kappellmeister to the Elector of Saxony, now come to Grantville to learn of the great music you have."

Marcus held out his hand. Heinrich reached out to grasp it. "I am pleased to meet you, Master Marcus." His careful English was reasonably fluent, but the dialect of the Grantvillers was sometimes baffling.

"And I am honored to meet you, Master Heinrich, very honored indeed." Marcus was very sober. "Giacomo, I am not a master of music. Don't paint me to be something I'm not. I only earned a bachelor's degree."

"Pah!" Giacomo waved a hand in the air as if he had been taking lessons from his friend Signor Abati, the famed castrato. "Marcus, my friend, one can be a master of the art without being a Master of Arts, eh, Master Heinrich?"

"Yes." Heinrich cleared his throat. "Talent and skill cannot be denied."

"So, if we two declare you a master, a master you are. And if you wish for a piece of parchment to hang on a wall, no doubt at some time we can produce for you that very thing."

Marcus laughed. "No, thank you. If I'd really wanted a sheepskin, I would have gone back to school. I had plenty of opportunities, just never wanted it very badly." He turned and surveyed the empty chairs of the band room. "This is all I ever wanted to do, teach children to make music." He was silent for a moment, then said with quiet satisfaction, "And that is what I have done."

Heinrich looked at Master Marcus and nodded in approval.

Just then the 'buzzer,' that sound that almost had to have been first heard in the infernal regions, sounded its clamor. Master Giacomo caught Heinrich by his sleeve, drawing him back against the wall. Within moments students began pouring through the doorway, chattering as they came. It still astounded Heinrich to see boys and girls together in classes. He was not one of those who would voice the opinion that education was wasted on girls, but it definitely felt wrong to him for them to be in the same classes . . . especially at this age.

However, when in Athens, do as the Athenians do, so he attempted to look beyond that feeling and truly observe what was occurring. The . . . musicians, he decided he would call them . . . quickly took their places. And there were so many of them! He looked around. There must be almost one hundred young people in the room!

Despite what seemed to him to be an inordinate amount of conversation, loud and in places unruly, they were swiftly assembling and preparing instruments for performance. Within moments, musical sounds were issuing from all over the room.

Dazzled by the sheer size of the 'band,' it was some little time before something dawned on Heinrich. His eyes widened; he turned to Master Giacomo. "The viols . . . where are the violins, the violas, the . . . " Giacomo's grin stopped him.

"That is why we are here, Master Heinrich. There are none. This is a wind ensemble, the only one of its kind here and now. And most of the instruments are of the future, outgrowths of what we know today. What you hear today will make that clear." Just then, Master Marcus stepped up on the podium. "Shh. Watch and listen."

Heinrich was very impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. He watched attentively as Master Marcus carefully tuned the instruments and sections, taking his time until he was satisfied. Again, Heinrich nodded in approval—it mattered not how well-written the music might be, if the performers were not in tune it would fail in performance.

"All right. Today we're working on Finlandia." There was a rustle all around the room as music was removed from folders and opened on the various stands. Heinrich watched as Marcus looked around the room, catching the eye of every musician, then raised his hands. The musicians brought their instruments to the ready position. Marcus held a stick in one hand, Heinrich noted, wondering as to its purpose. The stick seemed to twitch suddenly, then it was raised on high. When it descended, the music began.

Heinrich couldn't say that he was surprised by the loud swelling chords from the low brass that began the piece, but it was an unusual sound to his ears. It was almost like listening to a grave chorale done by brass instead of organ.

The sudden transition to soft woodwinds did catch him off guard. He quit trying to anticipate what would happen and opened his ears and mind to whatever occurred. The chorale sound developed, until the low brass rejoined it with a loud five note theme. Immediately thereafter the tempo sped up. The trumpets and other brass began sounding calls that echoed back and forth above the woodwinds. It almost sounded like a battle in music.

All the while, Master Marcus stood on the podium, waving his arms. Heinrich's attention was periodically caught by that. He wondered what Marcus was doing, but always, always he was drawn back into the music.

After a great swelling chord, the higher woodwinds began a section that was almost a hymn in its simplicity and purity, the theme of which was absolutely gorgeous. Heinrich lost himself in the sound of it. When lower woodwinds joined in, it simply added to the richness of the sonority of the piece.

Suddenly the low brass came bounding back in, restoring the martial flavor of the work. It went crashing on, to shortly culminate in a series of loud brassy chords. Master Marcus lowered his hands; the musicians relaxed.

Giacomo gestured for Heinrich to follow him. As they slipped out of the room, Heinrich heard Master Marcus say, "Trumpets, you're still not clean on those attacks . . . "

Outside the room, Heinrich realized how wrung out he felt, as if he had been performing for hours. It had only been minutes he had been listening—hadn't it?

"Well. What did you think?" Giacomo started walking.

Heinrich gathered his wits. "It was . . . impressive. Nothing even in the Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice ever sounded like that. And the youths—all of them—seemed to perform well. The sounds, and the capabilities of the instruments—so strong, so rich, nothing like I'm used to. My mind is drunk with the sonorities." He pondered for a moment. "But the harmonies seemed . . . very dissonant at times."

"Exactly so, Master Heinrich! Their music can be very powerful, like a strong brandy, but it can taste rather harsh at times, so one must develop a liking for it. But one returns to it, again and again, because there is nothing like it—nowhere else in the world." Carissimi's Latin was starting to sound very Italian.

They came to the main door of the school, the one by which Heinrich had entered what seemed a lifetime ago. Heinrich blinked as they stepped into the sunlight. It was as if he was awaking after a dream. "Again, I must say it was impressive. I have much to think about."

"I understand. The up-timers have an expression that I believe fits: 'Been there, done that.'" The words in English jarred a little after all the Latin, but after a moment Heinrich absorbed the meaning. Carissimi's mouth quirked, then turned to a smile. "Master Marcus asked me earlier today to make sure that you also attend tomorrow. He said that he has a surprise he wishes to present you."

"Tomorrow, then." Heinrich exchanged a handshake with Giacomo and began to walk. He wanted to walk today. Walking had always aided his thinking. This afternoon he had much to think about, including what the 'band director' wanted from him . . . or rather, wanted to give him.

****

Carissimi was waiting at the doors. "Good afternoon, Master Heinrich. How was your evening?"

"My evening was quiet. My head was full of the thoughts that were sown yesterday. Even my sleep was crowded, or so it felt." Heinrich smiled a little. "I have decided that it is a good thing that your younger mind has led the way down this road, as it is comforting to know that the things I feel and think have probably already passed through your mind."

The Italian laughed. "Oh, be sure of it, Master Heinrich, be sure of it. I was so bewildered, so awe-struck, at times so horrified, that I am amazed sometimes that I arrived at a level of understanding and acceptance. If I seem blasé about it all now, rest assured there were many nights where sleep fled as my mind wrestled with all of it—Grantville, the new music, the new instruments—until it seemed I would go mad. And yet here I am, no madder than before."

"Indeed." They walked a few steps, then Heinrich said, "One thing I would ask of you now."

"Ask."

"Why does Master Marcus stand before his musicians and wave his hands in the air?"

"Ah." Carissimi smiled. "That is an innovation that seems perhaps to be simple, but is indeed profound in its impact. You and I, if we wrote a piece of some complexity, we would rehearse the performers beforehand. But in the performance we would play the harpsichord or clavichord and would provide some manner of direction as we played the continuo part to ensure that the players remained in unity as they played.

"But, as you no doubt noted yesterday, there was no keyboard in that music. That is overwhelmingly true of much of the great music of the future. So, you would say, you would play the violin or viola and provide the direction from there. And that might serve if the ensemble is small. But remember the size of Master Marcus' wind ensemble. And the size of the orchestra they are attempting to shape in Magdeburg. Such would not be possible with them.

"No, in their history, those who came between now and the future of the up-timers found a need for one to be the musician for the entire ensemble, to play the orchestra as a virtuoso would play the violin. A conductor, in other words, or dirigent as it is rendered in German." Carissimi turned to face Heinrich, serious and intent. "Such is Master Marcus. It is one of the new arts of which he is the master. And such is my friend, Franz Sylwester, becoming as he works with many musicians to create the first true symphony orchestra of our times, to the everlasting glory of God."

Heinrich was somewhat taken back by his fervor and passion. "The glory of God?"

"Yes, Master Heinrich." Carissimi resumed walking. "The glory of God. The more I learn, the more I can use to raise praises to the God who let me live in these times, to see but the fragment of what was possible to these people in their future. Speaking of which, you must attend at St. Mary's church on Good Friday to hear the Passion of Saint Matthew I have crafted."

Carissimi opened the door to the band room and ushered Heinrich in. Today there were only five students in the room, with Master Marcus standing before them. Each of the musicians was holding a brass instrument, all of which had the new innovation of valves. Heinrich had been mightily impressed with their flexibility. From their shapes two were trumpets, one was a variety of horn, and two were larger instruments for which he had no names.

Marcus waved at two chairs that were set back from the arc of the quintet. "Please, masters, be seated." After they did so, he continued. "This is a piece I remembered after I heard you were coming, Master Heinrich. We have prepared it just for you." He nodded to the quintet, then took a chair to one side as they raised their instruments. The trumpet player at the end of the arc counted softly, "Two, three, four," and they began.

It was a lovely piece of work, Heinrich admitted to himself, one that was obviously of his time or nearly so. Contrapuntal in nature, the voices flowed nicely, themes passing from part to part. It almost reminded him of the music of Gabrieli, but it was different somehow.

All too soon the piece concluded. The players lowered their instruments to their laps. Everyone looked at Heinrich expectantly.

"Very nice," he said. "Who wrote it, please?"

The first indication that something was not right was when the players gaped at him. Master Marcus, obviously very nonplussed, said, "Why, you did, Master Heinrich."

Heinrich stared back.

"No, that is not one of mine. It was nicely done, but I have never heard it before."

Marcus picked up a folder and extracted a printed page.

"But the publisher says that it is an instrumental arrangement of your motet So fahr ich hin, published in your Symphoniae sacrae collection in . . . " His face went white, and he looked up with a stunned expression, " . . . in 1647."

Feeling as if he had been bludgeoned, Heinrich stood. "I never wrote that. It is not mine." He began walking jerkily back and forth. "I did not write it. Now that I have heard it, how can I write it? This . . . this is impossible! How can I hear something that I wrote before I write it? How can you play something I wrote before I write it?" His thoughts were whirling madly. "I . . . I . . . this cannot be!" Unable to think, unable to express his confusion, his pain, his anger, Heinrich turned and bolted from the room.

****

Marcus stared at the door, shocked. He turned to look at Giacomo, who was wearing an expression that he was sure mirrored his. "I wanted to surprise him, to honor him. I thought the piece was published in 1627, not 1647."

Giacomo nodded. "I think Grantville's future just grabbed Master Heinrich."

"But what . . . why . . . "

"Imagine you were a writer, a good one. Now, imagine someone hands you a book with your name on it and told you would write it twenty years from now. How would you feel?"

"Umf." Marcus frowned. "I think I see what you mean. Even if it's good, how can you take credit for it? It would be like being a woman awaking from a coma and being presented with a baby that you don't remember but everyone assures you is yours."

"Si, something perhaps like that." Giacomo pursed his lips. "I think Lukas I must talk to. Master Heinrich is not . . . ah . . . comfortable in his mind, I think. Lukas must watch for him."

"Over him."

"Si, whatever."

Magdeburg

April 1634

Marla's voice died away on the last note of The Parting Glass. There was a moment of quiet in the common room of The Green Horse. It was only a brief moment, then applause roared out from the crowd. Franz noted that the room seemed very full tonight. In addition to the regulars and the Committees of Correspondence crew who always seemed to find tables whenever Marla and her friends were singing, many of the musicians from the orchestra had come as well. They all needed a break from the intensity of the rehearsals. Tonight was indeed providing that.

As usual, the songs they did were from the Irish recordings that Marla's mother had collected. They'd led off with Finnegan's Wake, following it with The Juice of the Barley and Nell Flaherty's Drake.

The middle part of the evening was marked by performing the sobering The Wind That Shakes the Barley and Only Our Rivers Run Free, those favorites of the CoC. Grim-faced men nodded as they were sung; fists pounded the tables when they were done.

The light-hearted tone was restored by Mick McGuire, Courting in the Kitchen and The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe. The performance concluded with Isaac singing Reilly's Daughter, followed by Marla's sweet rendition of The Parting Glass.

Franz placed his violin in its case, then wiped sweaty hair out of his face. The rehabilitation of his crippled left hand and retraining of his right hand to finger the neck of his violin had progressed to the point where he was able to play with most of the songs. It had been a long time since he had played that much in public. He was both exhilarated and winded.

"Well done, Franz, me lad." A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder, staggering him. He turned to look into the beaming face of Simon Bracegirdle, the Englishman who had come to Magdeburg as one of the musicians sent by Master Schütz. Simon played violin, and while he wasn't the best of the players, he was by no means the worst.

It was a frequent source of amusement to Franz to remember his statement so many weeks ago, that he would accept even an English musician if he would play in the orchestra. Simon had laughed robustly when he was told the story.

"Yes, Franz." Matthäus Amsel's face appeared behind Simon. "'Twas fine, indeed."

"My thanks to you both." Franz smiled. He looked at the two of them. After a moment, his expression sobered. "Since we are here, I am minded to ask you a question."

They looked to each other, then back at Franz.

"Say on," Simon said.

"How does the work progress? Are we indeed creating an orchestra as the Grantvillers would define it, or are we simply a mob of musicians all trying to play the same song?"

Simon started to speak, but Matthäus held up a hand and Simon gave way. "In truth, Franz, I know not how to answer. I have never seen this done before now. However, for what it is worth, I think the work progresses. The men all seem to understand what you and the others have been teaching. The violinists at least all seem to have adjusted to the new violins and bows."

"Aye," Simon interjected. "And this week I would say that we have finally caught the knack of following your conducting. At least I did." Matthäus nodded.

"That is comforting to hear," Franz said. "As you say, this work has never been done before in our time, or at least not at this magnitude. It seems to be going well, but it is good to know that you feel the same." He nodded, then stood and looked beyond them for a moment. "What am I to do with Herwin Vogler? His constant complaining and questioning about 'Why can we not do it as we always have done' has worn his welcome very thin indeed."

Matthäus' expression turned sour. "Do what you will. Master Schütz has more than once nearly discharged him. When he wants to play, he plays well. The question of whether having his skill is balanced by the price you must pay to have it is one that only you can answer. Myself, I long since lost patience with the man."

"Let me talk to him." Simon smiled. "Mayhap I can bring him to see that if he will accept the change instead of resist it, he can grow and improve, thereby becoming more valuable to future employers."

"Have at him," Franz responded. "If nothing else, make him see that he cannot continue to disparage Marla or other women who may become involved in our work." Both the other men raised their eyebrows. "I mean it. You have not seen Grantville yet, you have only had a small taste of their society. Women there are free to pursue their hearts' desires, much as men are. Whether they marry or not is their choice. They can indeed become just as accomplished as any man. Marla is a leading example. Frau Simpson is another—no man of sense would dare take her lightly. And I have heard tell of a Frau Melissa Mailey whose force of character is positively Amazonian. She was sent to England to beard the English lion in his den."

Franz stared at each man. "Grantville brings many changes. Just the existence of the place will be like a spring flood. We can fight it and be overwhelmed, or we can ride it and see where we land. One of those changes will be that women such as Marla will have a regular place in our world of music, gentlemen. It will happen. With women such as Marla and Frau Mary leading the way, it will happen."

Matthäus looked over to where his wife Elise was talking with Marla and Isaac. He slowly nodded. "As you say. I see it happening even now. For myself, after hearing Frau Marla sing and play, especially with the piano, I am convinced. Herwin, however, is of a more fixed opinion of the correct order of things."

Simon snorted. "You mean he is opinionated, rude, crude, slovenly and generally quite boorish, not to mention usually mistaken about any subject on which he wishes to declaim. It is only the fact that he plays a viola so well that has kept him from being throttled in the past."

"Do your best." Franz laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "I value his skills, but not at the price of his obstructions. He has one week." After a long moment of silence, Franz turned to Matthäus. "So, when do you think Master Schütz will arrive?"

"I know not. He was to visit his mother and his daughters in Köstritz, then go to Grantville to meet with Master Carissimi. I imagine that Master Heinrich is delighting in his time with Master Carissimi, which is good. He is truly a great man who so seldom has a chance to meet with anyone who would be a peer."

"Well," Franz said, "I truly hope he is enjoying himself."

Grantville

April 1634

Pastor Johann Rothmaler knocked on the door diffidently. No response. He knocked again, somewhat louder. That evoked a response.

"Go away." The tone was growled but listless.

The pastor looked to Lukas Amsel, who stood beside him. Lukas shook his head, and motioned energetically at the door.

Pastor Rothmaler cleared his throat. "Master Schütz, my name is Johann Rothmaler. I am the senior pastor in Rudolstadt. I . . . " He looked at Lukas, who motioned at the door again. "I must speak with you on a matter of some importance."

Silence from within the room, but after a moment footsteps dragged across the floor. Eventually the door was opened. The room was darkened.

"Come in, then, if you so desire." The voice retreated into the chamber. "You as well, Lukas. I know you're there."

"Might we have some light?"

More silence. Then a despondent, "As you will. Lukas?"

Lukas moved past Rothmaler. Within moments shutters were thrown back and the noonday sun poured into the room. Furniture and other obstacles seemed to be scattered around the room. Rothmaler picked his way carefully through scattered clothing, books, travel bags and empty wine bottles. Lukas bustled over and removed a cloak from the chair that sat across the table from where Master Schütz sat leaning and pressing his forehead against a dark green wine bottle. The pastor sat down. Long moments passed, moments during which Lukas quietly moved about the room bringing order to it.

Finally, Schütz spoke without opening his eyes. "Well, what is this so very important matter that requires you to intrude into my privacy?"

The despair and despondency in his voice was so thick it was almost tangible. Pastor Rothmaler looked at Lukas one more time; once more he was gestured to continue.

"Master Schütz . . . "

"Call me Heinrich."

"Master Heinrich, then. I . . . um . . . your assistant, Herr Amsel, came to me with an account that you appear to be suffering from some spiritual illness. He grew gravely concerned and attempted to find someone in Grantville to counsel with you, but to no avail. Finally, Herr Gary Lambert advised him to seek me out. And so I am here. I have heard what Herr Lukas has told me. I am here to help as I can, as God provides. Can you tell me what ails you?"

Schütz's eyes opened wide. Pastor Rothmaler almost recoiled. The whites were very red, which lent an almost demonic air to the disheveled appearance of the master musician.

"What ails me? What ails me?" Schütz straightened up, and for the first time emotion made an appearance on his face and in his voice. "Why, my good Pastor Rothmaler, Grantville ails me. The future ails me. God ails me." He lifted the bottle and finished the dregs it contained, then tossed it over his shoulder. Rothmaler winced, expecting it to shatter on the floor, but Lukas nimbly captured it in mid-air.

"Elucidate, please, Master Heinrich."

Schütz focused his baleful gaze on the clergyman. "Very well. At your insistence. Three days ago, I was suddenly confronted with evidence that music exists that I had written, yet I had not written—music that was supposedly written in the year of Our Lord 1647—supposedly written by myself. How can this be?" Schütz charged on, allowing no room for a response. Rothmaler schooled himself to patience.

"How can I already have written that which I have not written? How can I do the impossible?" Master Heinrich was almost raving. "But if I have, if all of my great music has already been written, then what is there for me to do in the future if it has already been done? Where is the worthy place for Schütz in that?"

Breathing heavily, Schütz paused for a moment. "I left the place of that revelation and wandered through Grantville. It was as if a gale blew through my mind. My thoughts were whirling, spinning, as a leaf caught in a storm. I know not how long I wandered, but eventually I found myself in front of a building named a library. For lack of some other profitable action to take, I entered. When an attendant approached, I asked if they had anything about the life of one Heinrich Schütz. He led me to a table where he opened what he called an 'encyclopedia.' Then he pointed to an account printed in it that purported to describe my life.

"My history was traced correctly, if somewhat briefly, until the present. My years in Venice studying with Gabrieli and Monteverdi; becoming the Kappellmeister for the Elector of Saxony; my marriage to Magdalena, the birth of my daughters, and her death. It even mentioned some few of the works I had written during those years.

"In truth, I was impressed that I was remembered by that much from a time supposedly over 350 years in the future. But then, it began to detail the further events of my life. It seems I am to die many years from now, serving the somewhat less than appreciative Elector until his death. My daughters will both die many years before I do. I will have no progeny. My only memorial will be music . . . music that has already been written by me, but not by me."

The master leaned over the table and asked in a dead tone, "Tell me, Pastor Rothmaler. You are a theologian. Are the Calvinists right? Is everything totally fore-ordained? Predestined? Are we all just actors treading the boards and reciting lines scripted for us by another? If so, of what worth are we? If my music has already been written, if my life has already been lived, then of what purpose am I?"

Rothmaler shivered. The master musician's monologue had distilled all the many issues that Grantville created for the theologians and philosophers of Europe, himself included. Many of them were affronted not only by the existence and claims of Grantville, but by the very tangible evidence that the town and its people did indeed come from a very different time and place.

But there was a fundamental difference between the objections of the philosophes and the raw pain of a man who was questioning whether his lifework, his art, his very existence, mattered in the face of Grantville's revelations. Rothmaler sat for long moments praying to God for wisdom to share with this obviously tortured man. "Master Heinrich," the pastor began, "it is pure hubris, the purest arrogance, to believe that we can fully know the mind of God. We can know as much of it as He has revealed in Holy Scripture, and perhaps a little more if He chooses to make a direct revelation to one of us. But the mind that can conceive of the world in its order; the mind that can contain the power to speak it into being; that mind is as far above ours as we are above the worm within the soil. So, we do not understand many things.

"Chiefest of these things is how and why Grantville is among us. We have no better explanation for their origin than the one they have offered since their first arrival, that they have somehow been ripped from the future and placed here. Why would God either direct or allow such disruption in the order of things? We have no answer. His word contains no prophecy about such coming to pass. Yet the very senses which God created in us, our taste and sight and touch and smell and hearing, they all testify to the reality of Grantville. The very ability to reason and deduce which the Almighty instilled in us takes the testimony of those senses and can arrive at no other conclusion than that Grantville is real, its people are real, its mechanics and sciences and, yes, its arts, are as real as our own. Real, but oh, so different in so many ways. And so, however objectionable the explanation, we are unable to propose one that is any more acceptable than what the Grantvillers say."

Pastor Rothmaler leaned forward and placed his own elbows on the table. He steeled himself to look directly into Master Schütz's eyes. "However, the Grantville men of science all say that the future from which they came is not the future that will be ours, that their very arrival will make so many fundamental changes in the courses of the church, of societies, and of history, that the future that will happen will be a very different future than the one recorded in their books."

Master Schütz's eyes widened, his eyebrows climbed. He puffed either in surprise or disbelief.

"Oh, yes," the pastor assured him. "And it has already started. With my own eyes I have seen in their books that in their history Gustavus Adolphus was killed six months ago in the battle of Lützen, yet all know that he is alive and facing his enemies. So the changes have already begun."

Pastor Rothmaler leaned back. "And what this means to you is the future of which you read may or may not resemble that which will grow from the life you are living now. The Grantvillers have a very odd term for the concept. They call it the 'butterfly' effect.' I do not pretend to understand their explanation—it seems foolish to me—but perhaps another image will serve.

"Herr Lambert told me once that Grantville suddenly appearing in our time was like a large rock being thrown into the center of a pond. Many ripples are sent out, which radiate to the banks of the pond and then bounce back, going back and forth and disturbing the water for a long time. Some of the ripples are quite large, such as Gustavus Adolphus surviving the battle. Some of them are very small, such as your reading the vita brevis about yourself from the future. But all of them, all of them mean change.

"Perhaps you will never serve the Elector of Saxony again. Perhaps, with some of the increased knowledge of healing the Grantvillers bring, your daughters will not die at such young ages. Of a certainty you will write different music. And none of it, none of it will surprise God. Live your life to His glory, and trust that at the end you will hear 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant.'"

Schütz sat—very still—for a long time, staring at the table. Finally, he looked up. "And the music?"

Rothmaler smiled. "Just consider it to have been written by a relative with the same name—an uncle, a nephew, perhaps a cousin. A different Heinrich Schütz wrote it, in a different time. Enjoy the beauty of it, admire the skill in it, learn from if you will, but do not consider it yours."

An expression of peace crossed the master musician's face. He visibly relaxed. "Thank you for your concern, Pastor Rothmaler, and for your wisdom. I will think on these things."

Movement IV - Presto Furioso

Grantville

April, 1634

Thomas Schwarzberg plopped a pile of manuscript pages down on the table in front of Amber Higham. "Done. That is the last of the pieces Franz desired for the concert—the full score and all the instrument parts as well." He rubbed at weary eyes. "I believe I shall sleep for a week." He pushed a smaller package over to Marcus Wendell. "And here is the second copy of the full score. Your student Dane was copying it as quickly as I finished the first copy, sometimes picking up pages even before the ink had dried."

"Good." Marcus smiled. "He's a good kid. I was glad to see him volunteer for this. From a music standpoint, too bad he's got to do the army thing. He could train up into a pretty fair musician, especially since he plays tuba." He looked to Thomas. "So, Franz is well into rehearsals now, I hear?

Thomas nodded. "Already Franz has adjusted his program. He has dropped the Albinoni Adagio, partly because the transcription for orchestra only instead of the original organ and orchestra did not work as well as he thought it would, but also in no small part because it is taking more time to rehearse the pieces than he thought it would." He grinned. "I think that our Franz feels the time running like sand through a glass."

"Forget Franz," Amber said. "What will Mary think?"

Marcus shrugged. "Nobody's tried to do what we're doing so quickly. We're making this up as we go along. Mary will have to accept what can be done for this year. We'll build on it for next year. Frankly, I'm surprised as all get out at what's been accomplished."

"So." Amber looked up from her notepad. "Is that the last of the music to be sent to Magdeburg?"

"No, please," Giacomo spoke up. He pushed his own pile of pages forward. "This is the work that Franz Sylwester asked of me. It should have been ready before now, but when Father Kirchner asked me for the Passion, this was put on the back burner. But here it is at last, the Variations and Etude on Geminiani's Concerto Grosso in E minor. It is not difficult. The players, they will find it easy."

Heinrich Schütz reached out and picked up the full score of the piece to leaf through it. "Nicely done. Arranging the concerto from a handful of instruments to the full orchestra, good work that is. It will sound well."

Giacomo felt a flush of pleasure at the praise from his peer. He nodded his thanks.

Amber reached out and made the two stacks of music in front of her into one. "Is that all of it?" Receiving nods from around the table, she continued, "Have Dane give me his timesheet, Thomas, so I can cut him a check. I'll cut yours and Master Giacomo's at the same time. Now, is there any other news that I should send to Magdeburg along with this?"

"Tell Franz that the wind instrument students are making good progress," Marcus said. "Especially the brass players. He may have some of them earlier than I guessed, maybe even by the end of the year."

The down-timer musicians—Master Schütz, Thomas, and Master Giacomo himself—all took notice. "That is very good news," Master Schütz said. "Good news, indeed."

"Even the woodwind players are starting to make progress, once they got over having to learn from Errol Mercer and some teenagers in the band." Marcus shook his head. "Bunch of prima donnas. Worse than horn players . . . and I can say that—I are one." Amber laughed, but nobody else got the joke. "I had to read the riot act to the players learning clarinet and saxophone about working with Errol. He was about to walk on me because they were complaining so much about being taught by someone they felt was not at their level." Marcus nodded at Master Schütz. "Once I invoked your name, sir, they quit talking and started practicing. They still may not be happy about the situation, but at least they're working at it now and not complaining."

There were smiles around the room as Master Schütz's mouth quirked. "I am glad to have been of service in your new world of music, Master Marcus."

****

Giacomo fell into step with Heinrich as they left the meeting room. "So, my friend. How are you faring?"

Heinrich looked at him soberly. "I believe I am well. Pastor Johann Rothmaler from Rudolstadt has spent much time with me, several conversations. His wisdom and compassion have led me through darkness, and I have found a means of accepting Grantville and everything it brings."

"It is not easy to confront the future." Giacomo nodded. "I know this as well as anyone. It is good to hear that you are at peace with it."

"I am not sure if I am at peace with it or in spite of it." Heinrich gave a slight smile. "But yes, my mind is settled now, and I am ready to move forward."

The two men talked for a moment more at the front door to the building, then Heinrich said good night. Giacomo watched his friend walk away, relieved to hear that his distress had been allayed.

Amber Higham stepped up beside Giacomo, surprising him.

"Frau Amber . . . I thought you had already left."

"No, I was right behind you coming down the hall." She paused for a moment. "I had heard some time ago that Master Schütz was having a little difficulty dealing with Grantville. I overheard your discussion with him just now. Is he all right?"

"Yes," Giacomo said, "I believe he is."

"Good." Amber gave a firm nod. "I like him."

Magdeburg

Late April, 1634

"No, no, no, no, NO!" Franz brought the rehearsal to a halt. "Violas, how many times must I say it? At the fourth measure after letter C, on the first beat, I want a down bow from all of you—a strong down bow." He looked at the players in question. Most of them nodded.

"I will explain myself one more time. This is for two reasons. First, because that note begins a new phrase, it needs extra emphasis. Second, because I want you all to be seen moving in the same manner. If we have bows going in all directions, the audience, the patrons, will think that you are country bumpkins pulled in from the fairs." The glare he directed at them, while it might not have ignited the wood of their instruments, should certainly have caused them to warm up.

"Again. From letter C."

Franz started the orchestra again from that point. At the appropriate time, he focused on the viola section. He was gratified to find that they all followed his instruction. All but one, that is. One lone bow was moving up while all the others were moving down.

Cutting the music off, Franz set his baton down on the music stand. He said nothing, standing in silence. Within a moment, everyone in the great room was still. No one moved. No one whispered. It seemed no one breathed. When he finally spoke, more than one individual jumped, although his voice was not loud.

"Herr Vogler."

"Yes, Herr Sylwester?"

The violist's tone was not exactly impudent, but one would certainly not call it respectful.

"I am glad to see that you are not hard of hearing." It took a moment for that statement to sink in. Just as Vogler started to open his mouth for an angry retort, Franz said, "Tell me, Herr Vogler . . . why is it that fourteen other violists—even young Johann Amsel, here—can play that phrase perfectly, in exactly the manner that I desire, yet you seem to never be able to do so?"

"I . . . " Vogler sounded a little flustered as he stammered, "I simply think it sounds better the other way."

"You think it sounds better the other way." Silence. "Tell me, Herr Vogler. If the composer of this piece were here, would you argue with him about it?"

"But you are not the composer, are you?" Vogler's tone was rather pugnacious.

Franz was suddenly weary. "No, Herr Vogler, but I stand in his place. I direct you as the composer would have done. And if you will not accept my direction, then there is no place for you here." A moment of silence. "You are discharged."

Vogler's shock changed to anger quickly. "You cannot do that! I am one of Master Schütz's best musicians! Matthäus, tell him. The master will be most angry."

Matthäus shook his head. "No, Herwin. About the music, he is right and you are wrong. You are right that the master will be angry, but it will not be Herr Sylwester that will face his ire."

With an expression of stunned disbelief, Herwin turned to another and said, "Simon? Will you let this happen?"

"Herwin, I tried to tell you. This is your own doing."

Franz could see that Vogler's hands were trembling when he placed his viola in its case and snatched up his jacket. "I leave this place. You cannot discharge me—I quit!"

"As you will. Your pay will be waiting with Frau Haygood tomorrow."

Everyone watched as Vogler stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. All eyes then turned to Franz. He looked back at them, catching each eye for a moment. "Gentlemen, I say again, I stand in the place of all these composers, these men who will never be but whose genius is still before us. I will not accept less than your best. It is our duty, and their due. If you cannot bear that stricture, then it would be best if you left now." Long moments passed.

Franz picked up his baton. "Again. From letter C."

Grantville

May, 1634

The Thuringen Gardens was moderately crowded tonight, Thomas thought. The OF Band was playing tonight. This had brought many of their followers in early to take the best places. The old men were up on the platform, tuning up and getting ready to start any moment. As he watched, they were joined by a couple of their wives.

There were some tables still open. He and Lukas Amsel followed Masters Carissimi and Schütz toward a table.

Thomas was somewhat bemused by Master Carissimi's choice of attire. He had set aside the black cassock he sometimes wore, even though he was not a cleric . . . at least not yet. Thomas had heard him say from time to time that he was truly considering entering orders. When not wearing the cassock, Master Giacomo normally wore the culottes—knee britches—ruffled shirt and coat of a gentleman. Tonight, however, when he took the coat off and flung it over the back of his chair, Thomas was astounded to see him wearing a t-shirt.

T-shirts were almost ubiquitous in Grantville. They were seen in all sizes and colors, including many colors not found in nature. Master Tom Stone's tie-dyed t-shirt came to mind, which occasioned a shudder on Thomas' part. That shirt looked like a hangover felt, as far as he was concerned.

Many of the t-shirts had pictures or words on them. Variations on the American flag were common. Out of all that he had seen, Thomas had two favorites, one serious and one comical. The serious one had a long quote on it: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. - Edmund Burke." The comical one had a much shorter quote: "I'm with Stupid," above an arrow that pointed to the right. In some fashion, Thomas felt that those two shirts captured the essence of Grantville.

The t-shirt that Master Giacomo was wearing fell somewhere in between those two extremes, being simply a bright pink shirt with a picture of a plaza and surrounding buildings rendered on it in exquisite detail. Master Giacomo saw him looking at it.

"The Piazza Navona in Rome." He held the front of the shirt stretched out between his hands. "I have walked it before, many times. It reminds me of home. Remind me some time to tell you how I found it here in Grantville."

Master Heinrich looked at Master Giacomo, then at Thomas. "Tell me . . . do you know if Frau Amber is married? I have not seen a ring on her hand such as the married women of Grantville wear."

Thomas' eyebrows rose involuntarily. He looked at Master Giacomo, who replied, "I believe I was told that she was married back in the time before the Ring of Fire, but that she divorced her husband for adultery. His adultery."

"She never remarried?"

"I do not believe so, no. In any event, it would be a moot point now. As I understand it, the consensus appears to be that all spouses not in Grantville when the Ring of Fire fell will be treated as dead. That would mean Frau Amber should be considered a widow." Master Giacomo looked at Master Heinrich with the same curiosity that Thomas himself felt.

After a moment, Master Heinrich, obviously feeling the weight of their gazes, said, "She reminds me of Magdalena . . . my wife. I find her . . . interesting."

Master Giacomo, Lukas and Thomas exchanged astonished looks. Before any of them could think of anything to say, the wine and beers arrived. Moments later, so did Signor Abati.

Andrea Abati had arrived in Grantville in December not long before Christmas. He was an acquaintance of Master Giacomo's, come from Magdeburg to visit the master and to learn more of the modern music.

Signor Abati was a castrato, or more politely, a gentilhuomo. This automatically made him a member of the musical elite of Italy. According to Master Carissimi, though, Abati was more than just a member of that group; he was the elite of the elite, probably the finest singer and musician of all the gentilhuomi. He was known as Il Prosperino among the patrons and musicians of Rome. The problem, from Thomas' perspective, was that Abati, at least when he first arrived, was fully in agreement with Master Carissimi's opinion. Despite the fact that he was taller than the Italian, Thomas had felt all too often during their first encounters that Abati was looking down his nose at all things German.

That had changed as Abati spent time with Marcus Wendell, Master Giacomo and Elizabeth Jordan. He had disappeared into the music libraries of the school and the various churches for days. From time to time, he would borrow a book from Master Wendell, only to return it in a few days and then begin to question everyone in sight about various issues until he had worked everything out and understood things—or at least as well as anyone in Grantville did.

Thomas had been around Abati quite a bit the last few weeks, particularly after Franz and the others had left on their trips. By that time, Abati had set aside most of his flamboyance. He was now so focused on the music that he rivaled Franz and Marla in intensity. Thomas quite approved of Abati these days. The thought surprised him somewhat.

"Good evening, friends." Abati plopped into the chair left open for him.

Thomas felt a moment of envy, for Abati's German was as melodious as his Italian. Then something registered with him at the same moment that Master Giacomo gasped. "Andrea, what have you done?"

"Oh, this?" Abati ran his fingers through his hair—his much, much shorter hair. "Yes, I have set aside the trappings of being Il Prosperino. I decided that to spend so much time on my hair and clothing was a distraction from the music. So, I simplified my life." Abati ran his fingers again through his wavy auburn hair again. It was no longer than the bottom of his ears, and his grin was almost salacious. "Then, when I let it be known that I wanted my hair cut, the proprietresses of the 'beauty salons,' seemed to almost come to blows over who would cut it. I finally settled on Frau Thelma Jean Agnes Jenkins at the 'Curl and Tan.'"

Abati paused long enough to give his order to the waitress. "I had at first thought of taking all my shorn locks and using them as favors for ladies in Italy to remember me by and for ladies in Germany to come to know me by." His grin was now several degrees past salacious. "But Frau Jenkins convinced me that I should allow her to sell them to a wigmaker. Even after her commission for the cutting and the sale, I pocketed more than a few coins."

"And your attire?" Carissimi quirked an eyebrow.

Abati shrugged a rather expressive shrug. "Long pants and a jacket. Life is so much freer, more comfortable. Velvet, of course. I have not given up all thought of style." His wine arrived as they were laughing. After taking a sip, he continued, "I got a pretty penny from the seamstress who bought all the brocade, as well." Another grin. "I think they will use the former owner of the hair and clothes as a selling mark." More laughter.

Just then the performers on the stage all faced out, obviously ready to begin. The noise level in the room began dropping. Within moments, the man with the tambourine could be heard. "Good evenin', folks. I'm Huey Jones, and we're the OF Band."

One of the women stepped up and said, "That stands for Old Fa . . . "

"That stands for Old Folks Band." The man glared a mock glare. The woman smiled sweetly at him. "Anyway, we're goin' to get started with an old favorite, She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain.

The band started off, led by the mandolin. The patrons of the Gardens started clapping immediately. Seeing that no conversation was going to be possible for a while, Thomas and the others began clapping, too.

One song followed another. Thomas recognized several of them from his studies with Marla as being 'hillbilly' music, related to the country and western style. He decided the musicians on the stage were not the most polished he'd ever heard, but they obviously enjoyed what they were doing. Some of that joy communicated to the audience, who enjoyed both the music and the performers.

The final song ended to loud applause. The OF Band waved goodbye as they stepped off the platform. Finally, the room returned to a state approaching normal, with a constant buzz of conversation in the background. The waitresses were scurrying around seeing to it that glasses and mugs were refilled.

"So," Giacomo said, "we were talking about Andrea before the music started. What are you going to do next, Andrea, besides break women's hearts and bankrupt the tailors of Rome? Have you learned all you came to Grantville to learn?"

"I have learned enough. I have not gained your depth of knowledge, Master Giacomo, but I have learned enough to know that the future is not here in Grantville. Yes, the archives of the future are here, but the future is in Magdeburg. Musical archives are useless if they are not performed, so I will return to Magdeburg soon, to ally myself with Frau Marla and Herr Franz. I will support their orchestra. I will teach, I will sing, I will preach the new music to all who will listen."

Giacomo smiled. "My. Such fervor. And what has won your conversion to the cause, Andrea? Was it Frau Marla's recital in Magdeburg last year?"

"Oh, that opened a breach in the walls." Andrea laughed. "But it did not win the final submission."

"Then what did?" Master Heinrich asked.

"Opera."

"Opera?" It was a chorus from them all.

"Opera." Andrea was firm. "Oh, not the opera of Monteverdi, or Peri, or even yourself, Master Schütz."

"Then whose?"

"Verdi . . . one Giuseppe Verdi."

"An Italian," Master Heinrich snorted, smiling. "I should have known that only another Italian could have touched you so."

"You laugh." Andrea smiled in return. "But the man is . . . was . . . will be . . . what is the right word to say?" Frustration entered his voice.

"I believe most everyone has settled on 'was,'" Thomas said.

"Thank you. Verdi was a genius. His lesser works are wonderful, but Otello . . .Otello is divine. Words fail me." But not for long, Thomas noted. "And then there is Boris Godunov, by Muss . . . Mussorgsky. Who would have expected a master work from Russia? The pathos of it."

Andrea gulped his wine down, looking somewhat haunted. "God is indeed fond of irony. Be careful what you pray for, my friends. For most of my career I have prayed to find great music, genius music, music that only those such as I could appreciate." His expression was now bleak. "I would die to sing Otello, to sing that part just once before an audience. But unless God the Father works a miracle in my body, it can never be." He brooded for a moment more, then forced a smile. "So, I must do the next best thing. I must help raise up the men—and women; I do not forget Frau Marla, Master Giacomo—who can fulfill my prayer."

"And you begin in Magdeburg?"

"Si. I mean, yes. It is the capital; it is where the patrons will gather. It is where Frau Simpson's arts league is centered. So, I will go there and begin. Perhaps with Frau Marla."

"Indeed." Giacomo took a sip of wine. "I have told her to study with you. Her voice, it is golden, but there is still much I believe you could teach her. And, perhaps, you could learn somewhat from her."

Andrea nodded.

"As it happens," Master Heinrich said, "I will be going to Magdeburg soon. I have heard much of what friend Giacomo has told me, but I am an old head—I need to see it and hear it in practice. So, I will go to see Herr Sylwester and his friends build this symphony. I think then I will truly begin to understand the new music, deep in my bones. Would you care to travel with me, Herr Andrea?"

"I would be delighted, Master Heinrich."

Aschenhausen

May, 1634

"Well?" Joachim ben Eleazar looked expectantly at his rabbi, Shlomo ben Moishe.

The rabbi looked sidelong at his wife, Rivka who sat next to him with a stony expression. Then he sighed. "Yes, I will go."

"Good, Rav Shlomo." Joachim clapped his hands together. "Very good. I will make arrangements."

A small smile of triumph crossed Rivka's face.

Magdeburg

June, 1634

Franz set the baton down on his stand. "Enough. We will resume after lunch with the Vaughan Williams. You have two hours, gentlemen."

After he'd stepped down from the podium, he found Marla talking to several men in the back of the great room. One of them seemed somehow familiar.

"Herr Franz, how good to see you again."

Franz stopped short, almost stunned, raising his hand by reflex. "Signor Abati . . . "

Abati laughed as he grasped Franz's hand and shook it. "Yes, yes, I know, I look different. But we stand at the dawn of a new age, so I decided to follow your example." He waved his hand first at Franz's trousers, then at his shorter hair.

"But what are you doing here?"

"Why, I have learned what I could from Maestro Carissimi. Therefore, I have returned to Magdeburg to begin to practice it. Master Schütz . . . " Abati waved to another of the men talking to Marla " . . . was kind enough to transport me in his carriage. And here we are."

Master Schütz! Franz had once accidentally received an electric shock in Ingram Bledsoe's workshop. The feeling that ran through his mind and body at hearing the esteemed German master's name was much the same.

Grappling his wits together, Franz bowed. "Master Schütz, it is indeed an honor to meet you. I have heard so much about you from the musicians you so graciously lent us."

"Hmm, indeed." Schütz fingered his beard. "I suspect, Herr Sylwester, that if what I hear of you and your goals is true, that the honor is as much mine as it is yours." He stepped forward and offered his hand. "In truth, I marvel somewhat at your boldness, to attempt to craft that now which took two hundred years to build in that other time."

Franz looked to Marla for a moment, then returned his gaze to the master. "I have no choice, Master Schütz. The music settles in one's very bones. It drives without remorse."

"Indeed," Abati murmured.

Schütz tilted his head and considered Franz for a long moment. "I believe I understand. You have my commiserations or my congratulations, whichever is appropriate."

Franz laughed. "On some days, it is both, but more often the latter than the former."

"Good, good. That is as it should be, then. Now . . . " Schütz smiled. "If I mistake me not, those musicians I have 'lent' you are about to descend upon me. I suggest you take your lovely wife and have your meal undisturbed whilst we have our reunion. I will endeavor to have them in their places at the appointed time."

****

Abati chose to accompany the others, leaving Schütz to face his men. They gathered around him, smiling. He called them by name and asked about their families.

Once the greetings were finished, he turned to where the four Amsel brothers were exchanging back-slaps and hugs. They immediately stilled when they felt his gaze. Matthäus sidled through the press to the front rank.

"Well?" Schütz asked.

Knowing full well what his master was asking, Matthäus responded, "The music is . . . different, Master Heinrich."

"Of course it is! But you can learn it, can you not?"

"Aye, master. We can, and we do."

Schütz fingered his beard again. "And Herr Sylwester?"

Matthäus looked around at the others, then back at his master. "He . . . it is very different, what he is doing . . . so many changes. But the more he leads us, the easier it is to both understand the music and understand his vision. He is . . . " The young man was obviously groping for a word.

"Formidable," his brother, Marcus, suggested.

"Yes, formidable." Matthäus seized on it. "He is formidable and unrelenting. He demands our very best. He accepts nothing less than that—his very words. But, he leads well, he is consistent, and he is fair."

Schütz nodded slowly, still running his fingers through his beard.

"He discharged Herwin Vogler," someone said from the back of the crowd.

"What?" Schütz frowned.

"The fool brought it on himself, Master Heinrich." Simon Bracegirdle stepped forward. "He started complaining on the first day and never stopped. He would not understand what was being taught. The new music distressed him. The thought of someone only half his age telling him that much of what he knew had to change in order to play the 'new music' . . . he would not accept that. Herr Sylwester talked to him, Matthäus talked to him, I talked to him, all to no avail. He would not stop resisting Herr Sylwester's leadership. Truth to tell, I would have sent him packing long before."

Schütz looked to Matthäus.

"He has the right of it, Master Heinrich. Herwin would not listen, would only half-heartedly play, would not even attempt to hear what Franz—Herr Sylwester—was trying to lead us to create." Schütz noted that Matthäus was on good terms with young Sylwester, good enough to use his first name.

Dropping his hand, Schütz sighed. "So be it. I perhaps let Herwin hang on too long, but he was one of the first players I ever hired, and . . . " He shook his head, then looked at them all. "Is the work worthy?"

Nods from all over, and a surprising response of, "Yes, Master Heinrich," from Johann Amsel, of all people. As everyone looked at him, the boy's complexion reddened, but he stared back resolutely.

"Good, good." Schütz smiled, then his face turned stern. "And make no mistake, my expectation is the same as Herr Sylwester's . . . your very best. While you follow him, it is as if you follow me. Nothing less is acceptable."

"Yes, Master Heinrich," came from all corners of the room.

Magdeburg

June, 1634

"Stop."

Marla stopped singing at Andrea's command.

"You are singing from the wrong place," he said, straightening from his slouch against the wall and walking toward her. "The voice, it does not come from here." He pointed to her abdomen. "Your breath must come from there, but not the voice.

"Nor does it come from here." Andrea touched her throat. As she opened her mouth to speak, he waved a hand. "Yes, yes, I have read of the vocal cords. But they are not the voice.

"Think of a violin, please. You play a violin by taking a bow to the strings, yes? But does the voice of a violin come from the bow or the strings?" Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "No. The voice of a violin comes from the body.

"In like manner, your diaphragm . . . " He pointed to her abdomen again. "Your diaphragm is the bow, and your vocal cords are the strings. But they are not where the voice comes from. The voice . . . " He leaned forward and placed a fingertip on her forehead. "The voice comes from the head. You cannot be lazy. You must relax your throat. You must place your tone in your head; sing from your head at all times." He turned back to his wall.

"Again, please."

****

"Cellos, you must follow me here. You must swell this passage." Franz tapped his baton against the podium. "Start softly. Then, as the theme rises, crescendo until it crests, then diminuendo to the end of the phrase."

Franz looked at his orchestra. "Start at letter F."

The orchestra began playing. Franz led them on. At the passage in question he began swelling his pattern, all the while looking directly at the cellists.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he exclaimed as they responded.

Franz waved them to a stop at the end of the passage. "Very good, gentlemen. That was exactly what I wanted. Now, do it again to prove it was no accident.

"Again from letter F."

****

Marla quit singing at Andrea's grimace. "What did I do wrong this time?"

"Your breath support weakened." Andrea stalked forward. "You let too much air out when you sing." He poked her abdomen with a finger. "You must control your diaphragm better."

Discouraged, Marla looked away. That cool soprano voice, so disconcerting from a man, seemed so dispassionate and yet somehow could cut so easily. She blinked her eyes as they started to water, only to feel Andrea's fingers take her chin and turn her to face him. "Marla, how many years have you studied voice? Not just sung, but actually studied?"

She counted in her head. "Seven. From sixth grade to twelfth grade."

"For seven years of study, you are very good—exceptional. But it is not enough for you to be exceptional. You will be the first woman musician in the up-time model, so you must be the best. I will teach you, and though I may seem stern at times, it is because I, too, desire you to be the best."

Andrea looked away. "You will be my legacy, my progeny. It is only through you that I will live on in this world."

Marla straightened and took a deep breath. As she let it out, Andrea looked at her with a crooked smile. "So, you will learn to control your diaphragm better, yes?"

"Yes, Master Andrea."

Inner fires stoked, resolution stiffened, Marla opened her mouth and sang.

****

Heinrich Schütz watched as Franz rehearsed the orchestra. He was sitting in the back of the great room between Frau Marla and Andrea. He had been doing so on a regular basis, ever since arriving in Magdeburg. Today, it seemed as if pieces of a puzzle that had been tumbling around finally fell into place. "Yes. Yes. I begin to understand."

"Understand what, Master Heinrich?" Andrea leaned forward slightly to ask.

"I begin to feel what manner of beast this symphony is. I begin to understand how to write for it. Master Giacomo tried to tell me, but I could not see it, could not feel it, not even with those CDs that he played for me, not even with the band.

"But now, listening to the orchestra here, listening to Franz rehearse them, I begin to hear it in here." Heinrich pointed to his head, then his heart. "Perhaps Schütz can learn new tricks after all."

****

Franz set the baton down on the stand. He looked at each of the musicians, one by one, taking his time. "Gentlemen, we are ready."

The applause started when he stepped down from the podium. Matthäus was first to stand and clap, followed a bare instant later by Isaac Fremdling and Simon Bracegirdle.

Franz's heart swelled. He stood there blinking, feeling as if he could hardly breathe. As the applause rolled, he bowed to the symphony, then straightened and raised a fist in the air. Amid the cheers of the players, he shouted, "To the Glorious Third of July!"

Magdeburg

July 3, 1634

Lady Beth Haygood stood near the door to the great room, watching and greeting as notables arrived. It still seemed odd to her for a buffet and bar—or at least that's how she thought of them—to be present at a concert. But then again, she supposed it wasn't really any different from what she'd heard about the skyboxes at some of the football stadiums before the Ring of Fire fell. The wealthy and influential would always insist on having their comforts, it seemed. The wine table was certainly receiving a lot of visits, anyway. Since this was an afternoon event, the food table consisted mostly of what Lady Beth thought of as party foods: hors d'oeuvres of various types, finger foods mostly.

Mary Simpson had developed some pretty detailed plans for how this affair was to be conducted before she left on her trip, which it now seemed was indefinitely extended. Lady Beth wasn't sure where Mary was now. Wherever she was, Lady Beth was beginning to worry about her. Be that as it may, since Mary wasn't here, it had fallen to Lady Beth to execute those plans. So, she had rolled up her figurative sleeves and done so.

Lady Beth thought Mary would have approved if she had been able to attend. With the help of advice from Eleonore Wettin, she had carefully crafted the arrangement of seating in the room, ensuring that every major noble house had its own block of seating which were marked off by ribbons of different colors. Then she had also carefully crafted the invitations, announcing the concert but also managing to let them know that this event would be somewhat different than anything else they had ever attended.

The response to the RSVPs had been almost unanimous. Anyone who was anyone and was in Magdeburg was attending. Lady Beth had been checking names off her mental checklist as they entered. More of them were arriving in very quick fashion. Apparently the hints that had been dropped that those who were 'fashionably late' would miss part of the performance had been taken to heart by most of them.

Lady Beth had to smile at the mixture of fashions she was seeing. Many of the older people were still wearing the styles that had been the equivalent of haut couture when Grantville appeared in 1631: wide skirts, bodices and high collars for the women; knee britches, long waistcoats and coats for the men.

Mixed in with them, however, were those who were trying to adapt some of the up-time styles. There were several women, mostly younger, who were wearing variations on the theme of the Empire style gown Marla Linder had worn for her concert last December. Most of them received passing grades from Lady Beth. Great day in the morning. The one coming in the door at the moment was way too short and stocky to wear that style. She looks like a bowling pin!

The young men had begun trying up-time influenced clothing styles some time before. Prime Minister Stearns—Lady Beth chuckled at the thought of Mike Stearns being a Prime Minister. Lord help us all! Mike had been their first example, but Signor Andrea Abati and his new mode had been like a rock in a pond. You could almost track the ripples of the style as you watched to see who talked to who when and who was wearing what next. It was a little more forgiving of physical makeup than the Empire style dress was, so most men were at least presentable in it. Signor Abati, of course, defined it. She had already heard several of the younger women—married at that—almost swooning over how romantic he looked.

And speaking of Signor Abati, there he was now with Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and Signor Girolamo Zenti. Lady Beth smiled at sight of that mismatched trio. They were all talking volubly in Italian, with waving of arms. She had grown quite fond of the maestro in Grantville. The other two, while they could be a bit outrageous—make that a lot outrageous, in the case of Signor Abati—were usually a lot of fun to be around.

The students she had drafted to serve as ushers were scurrying back and forth. They were leading people to their designated seats, making sure that everyone had a copy of the program, and collecting wine and plates of hors d'oeuvres for those who wanted them. The room was quite full, but there were still a few on Lady Beth's mandatory wait list who hadn't appeared yet.

Ah, there's one of them now. Master Heinrich Schütz was finally arriving, predictably accompanied by Lukas Amsel on one side. On the other side was . . .Heavens above! That's Amber Higham! Immediately all sorts of wheels began spinning in Lady Beth's mind. It was only a moment before a delighted smile broke out on her face. So, this was the man the few faint rumors from Grantville had attached to Amber's name. Good for her. It was time she started taking a little more interest in life. From all accounts, it was past time for Master Heinrich to do so as well. She waved to them, and Amber waved back.

It was but a matter of moments later that Princess Kristina and her companion, Lady Ursula, came through the door, followed by Wilhelm and Eleonore Wettin. Lady Beth mentally ticked them off of her list. She moved forward to greet them, then handed them over to the ushers to be led to the royal seating.

Finally! The last name on her list, Don Francisco Nasi, appeared with his guests. Once they were seated, she beckoned to one of the ushers, gave him a message, then took her husband's arm and headed for their seats in the royal space. One of the perks of managing the affair, after all, was selecting your own seats.

****

Franz watched from the side doorway as the screens that had masked the orchestra area from the rest of the great room were moved by the ushers. The orchestra had been seated for some time, their quiet talk and occasional notes masked by the roar of conversation happening in the main part of the room. They had lost three more players besides Herwin Vogler for various reasons, but the orchestra still numbered more than fifty-five string players, which was an amazing experience for them all. The largest orchestra Franz had ever heard of was the group that Master Heinrich had sent, some nineteen in all, but that had included at least four wind players. Tonight was going to be a first in the experience of everyone, performers and listeners alike.

Not for the first time, Franz wished they had a proper performance hall, like those he had seen in some of the videos that Marla had shown them last year. It frustrated him that for the first symphony concert they were having to make do with the biggest room they could find, which was not at all what he wanted.

Taking a deep breath, he banished those thoughts from his mind. He turned to Matthäus Amsel. "It is time."

Matthäus, who was serving as concert master, nodded. They shook hands, and Matthäus walked out the door.

Marla drew him away for a moment. She never said a word, simply took his hands in hers, smiled, and kissed him. Still smiling, she turned and walked down the hall. Franz had to force himself to turn back to the door.

Matthäus had reached the front of the orchestra. There was a smattering of light applause, as those who did not know what to expect responded to his appearance. Matthäus properly bowed to acknowledge the applause, then turned to the orchestra. Raising his violin, he sounded an A to lead the orchestra through the final tuning exercise. Once that was completed, he took his seat at the front of the violins.

There was a long expectant silence.

Franz felt a tension in his gut that was starting to build, a flame that was starting to burn. He checked for the fifteenth time to make sure the baton was still tucked up his left sleeve. Taking another deep breath, he stepped through the doorway and strode to the front of the orchestra. The applause was louder this time. He bowed to acknowledge it.

Turning, Franz stepped up on the podium and slid the baton out of his sleeve. Holding it before him in both hands, he took one slow look around the orchestra. All eyes were on him, awaiting his direction. Unsmiling, feeling the heat rising, he slowly lifted his hands. The instruments were raised to position, bows were poised. As the tension crested, he began.

****

Marla stepped into the back of the great room just as Franz straightened from his bow. She moved to one side, where a chair had been placed for her. One of the ushers held it for her as she sat. She rewarded him with a smile, only to see him blush.

Facing forward, she could see Franz with his arms raised. She held her breath, waiting for that first moment, the first public performance of Franz as a conductor. It had been a long road for him to get here, over three years in the traveling. Three years to go from crippled, embittered ex-musician to a leading light in the music of Germany. Well, soon to be leading light. She smiled. Today would light the flame.

The baton moved. The music began.

****

Giacomo Carissimi closed his eyes, the better to drink the music in. The Brandenburg—no, the Vasa Concerto No. 3 in G major by Johann Sebastian Bach. He and Andrea had nearly exploded with laughter when they had seen that listing in the program. The reasoning behind the renaming of the work was immediately obvious, but it was still a delicious thing to savor. This was a slap in the face of the Elector of Brandenburg, into whose employ Andrea had nearly gone. It was perhaps even the more savory because the Elector had yet to realize he had been slapped.

This concerto was one of the first up-time pieces that Giacomo had truly grown to love. Two driving allegro movements, linked by a bare two measures of an adagio movement. The last movement was absolutely one of the most joyous pieces of work that a string player could perform. The themes were passed from part to part as if it were a musical version of a child's keep-away game. Giacomo remembered reading that old Johann—which was how he affectionately thought of him—liked playing the viola. He could believe that, hearing this piece. The viola parts were just as intricate as the violin parts.

He abandoned himself to the music, immersed in it until the final chords.

****

Heinrich Schütz nodded slowly as the Vasa Concerto No. 3 concluded. Young Franz was indeed shaping to be what Master Giacomo had described him to be—a musician who played musicians. There was no doubt that the fifty or more musicians were gathered in his hands and played as if they were extensions of his fingers. To hear this—here and now—made up for the turmoil he had suffered weeks ago. This was the future. This was what music would look like from now on. Patrons and musicians alike would never settle for less after this. Historians of music would look back on this day and say, "Here. Here is where it changed." He marveled to be here, to be part of it in some way.

The program stated that the next work was by one Johann Pachelbel. Another name he did not know, so obviously one from the future. A Canon in D. Good, it would be a form he was somewhat familiar with, then. Perhaps from not so far in the future.

The baton was raised. Once more music sounded.

The canon started quietly, a slow statement of the theme in the cellos, and then began to build, phrase by phrase, theme by theme, section by section. It was light, it was airy, it floated. Heinrich floated with it. It almost seemed like musical lace, he thought. He admired Herr Pachelbel's delicate touch at writing the music. He also admired Franz's equally delicate touch at leading the performance of it.

The music built and swelled, ebbed and flowed. Finally, it began a slow diminuendo. The concluding phrase was a final quiet restatement of the first theme.

As the applause swelled around him, Heinrich nodded. Yes. This is the future and I will—I must—be a part of it. My name will be known for more than the music brought back with Grantville. God willing, I will make my place. And a far different one it will be than that of that sad man I read about in the encyclopedia article.

****

Andrea Abati, an old hand at reading programs—this was his second—glanced at it quickly to see what the third work was to be. Hmm, Adagio for Strings, by Samuel Barber. An Englishman, or more likely an American with an English name. This was not one of the men he had read about in his weeks in Grantville. Nor had he managed to hear this one in rehearsal since he returned to Magdeburg. Nonetheless, he trusted that Franz Sylwester had selected only superlative pieces for this concert. Certainly, the first two works had been excellent. Ah, Franz has raised his stick, or baton, as Master Giacomo called it. Andrea sat back in his seat, anticipating.

The beginning was very quiet, even more so than that of the canon. The sound seemed to seep into the room, a moving line over suspended chords. The theme was minor in intonation. It evoked a sadness in Andrea's heart, especially when it was joined by another line in a very free polyphony over the chords. He began to hear it as a mournful aria, perhaps as a mother crying for her children.

The music tore at him, shattering the walls he had built in his mind ever since he had read the future's judgment of him and his brethren. All the glory and the beauty of his art, of the music created by the gentilhuomi, treated with pity, sadness and more than a hint of condescension. He was used to men in Italy and Germany considering him unnatural, but that the future judged him so . . .

The orchestra sang, a song without words. Andrea poured his grief out into the music, letting the dark places in his soul flow, the grief in his heart matched by the sorrow of the music. How . . . how did this . . . American, this . . . up-timer—how could he know of Andrea's sorrow? How could he write this, this passion for Andrea Abati and his brothers, when he never knew them?

The cellos picked up the theme and carried it, sounding darkly, then restated it, climbing, climbing, joined by the other strings, sounding now as a choir of angels mourning. Andrea listened, heart swelling, as the music crescendoed, circling, climbing, carrying him along, building, building, building, building, one peak after another, until it finally crested. His mouth opened in a silent scream, every muscle in his body clenched, every tendon rigid.

The music stopped.

Slowly, slowly, it began again. In his mind's eye he could see the mother laying her child down. So, as the orchestra sang the final lament, he, too, laid down the grief he had not even realized he was carrying.

When the final note was released, Andrea opened his eyes, unsurprised that they were teary, unsurprised that his cheeks were wet; unsurprised that he was shaking a little.

Master Carissimi leaned over. With concern in his voice, he asked, "State bene?"

Andrea took a moment to respond. "Si. I am all right." And as he smiled at the master, he realized that he was.

****

Franz turned, stepped off of the podium and bowed to acknowledge the applause. He then walked out of the room to allow for the small intermission that was planned in the program.

He leaned back against the wall in the hallway and wiped the damp hair out of his face . . . or at least, he attempted to. Realizing that he still held the baton in his hand, he tucked it back into his left sleeve, then completed the action with his hair.

"Franz!" Marla hurried to him. She arrived with a thump, threw her arms around him and gave him a ferocious hug and a kiss that left him dazzled. She stepped back at arm's length. "It's going great, Franz! It sounds wonderful, the guys are playing wonderful, and you're doing wonderful!" She hugged him again.

"But the hardest part is yet to do."

"Bah! What's left may be longer, but I think the hardest one was the Barber, and you did fine with it."

Franz contemplated her words, and a sense of warmth began to build. She was right, he thought. The Geminiani/Carissimi piece was relatively simple, and the Vaughan Williams, although longer, was no more complex than the Barber. A new feeling of confidence settled on him.

****

Thankful that the third work was completed, Girolamo Zenti picked up his program. He stared at it without seeing it for a moment, settling his mind. The Adagio had been a little disturbing; dissonant, even harsh at times, yet it had in some way moved him. A sudden chill chased through him; he shuddered.

Focusing on the program, he saw that the next work was the piece that his friend Master Giacomo had contributed to the program, Variations and Etude on Geminiani's Concerto Grosso in E minor. Although not a musician himself, Girolamo perforce had to know something about music in order to be the master craftsman that he was. He found his friend's work interesting. He had taken a work originally written for a group of solo instruments and harpsichord and had re-voiced it for full orchestra.

There was a stir as Franz walked back to the podium, once again bowing to the applause. Girolamo settled himself to listen.

The initial movement was a largo, played slowly. The principal theme was built around a dotted, almost syncopated, stuttering rhythm. The cellos played a strong ground line, the other parts layering above them. He looked over to see Master Giacomo nodding, a small smile on his face.

An allegro with a fast triple rhythm followed. The violins were prominent. Girolamo found his foot tapping. It sounded something like a song he used to hear at the harvest festival in his home town.

In the following adagio, the sections entered one by one over the sustained cello notes. The movement was marked by the descending figures of the first violins in the opening bars and the ascending chord of the violas in the final measures.

The final movement, another allegro, was the most complex. The violas assumed prominence in it, first using an imitative violin entry and triple stopped chords, then using contrapuntal entries that were answered by the first violins, the seconds and, finally, the cellos.

When the piece concluded, he leaned over to Master Giacomo. "That was nicely done."

"In comparison to the others, it is not so much." Giacomo smiled amidst the applause. "But it does provide a bit of a comfortable sound, does it not?"

****

Matthäus rested his violin on his thigh, glad for the brief break. They had done well, he thought. Franz had prepared them well. In return, they had proven their mettle for him.

The climax of the evening was at hand. The piece they were about to play, while not as jarring as the earlier Adagio, could almost have come from the same school. It definitely had its intense moments, as well as being considerably longer. He was to play the lead violin part in the quartet in the central portion of the work.

Striving to focus, to not let down, Matthäus took several deep breaths. Feeling a little calmer, he looked to Isaac Fremdling who sat next to him and was to play the second violin part in the quartet. Isaac was looking back at him. They shared a brief smile before looking to the podium where Franz stood.

****

Franz looked down to where he held the baton in both hands. He took a deep breath and uttered a brief prayer before he reached inside himself and opened wide the door to the fire that burned within. As the flames roared forth, he raised his arms and began the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

****

From the opening movements, the brief introductory theme, everyone in the room was captivated. The musicians were the most enthralled, but even the most casual listener was caught up as pure musical passion seemed to fountain from the orchestra. Flames of music seemed to wave from the baton of Franz Sylwester, seemed to sometimes erupt from his figure as he reached out with his crippled hand and molded the flow of the themes.

****

Never, never before had Franz felt so much at one with a work. He became the music, bending, gesturing, flowing from one sound to another, leading the players in the great dance, evoking more from them than they—or he—had ever dreamed could be drawn out of them. God Above, if this was anything like what Lucifer had felt while leading the choirs of angels in praise, no wonder he rebelled!

****

Marla was frozen. All her being, her very soul poured out in response to what Franz was shaping, the glory of sound that was coming forth from the players. Unnoticed, unbidden, tears flowed.

****

Tears also glittered in Andrea's eyes. He felt lifted on wings as the Fantasia poured into those places that the Adagio had scoured clean, filled him and provided a healing balm. Andrea had often joked of singing like an angel. Now he felt surrounded by them.

****

Heinrich Schütz was stunned. He had heard this work in rehearsal, but to hear it now, performed flawlessly with such an overwhelming passion, was almost unbearable. All he could do was whisper over and over again, "My God, my God."

****

Giacomo Carissimi sat, eyes closed and a beatific smile upon his face. Such must have been the song in Heaven when the world was created. He whispered, "Soli Deo Gloria."

****

The music ebbed and flowed, now cresting, now receding, now brighter, now darker. Through it all, Franz moved like a beech in the wind, still leading, still calling forth just that little bit more of passion from the musicians, just that little bit more of fire that surprised them, imbuing even the softer passages with intensity.

As the Fantasia drew to a close, Franz gently led them to the final chord. Sustaining the tone with his baton, he held his left hand up, then began to lower it, bringing the players into a gradual diminuendo. Finally there was only a thread of sound left. He closed his fist, and it stopped.

****

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Applause erupted. Everyone was on their feet, clapping. "Bravo, Bravissimo, Bravo," was heard loudly over and over again from the Italian sector of the room. It was picked up by others. Shrill whistles could be heard every once in a while.

Franz put the baton down on the stand and stepped off of the podium. He kept one hand on the music stand, however, because his knees were so wobbly he was a little uncertain he could bow without falling. He was successful in his bow, though, and in the several that followed.

Straightening from the third bow, he stepped to one side and waved to the orchestra, motioning them to stand. Matthäus looked at Isaac. They both shrugged. As they stood, the others followed. After a moment, Franz stepped back onto the podium, holding his hands up for quiet. It took some little while, as a couple of rowdy Italians were still shouting, but he finally achieved it.

Before he could say anything, Odelia Seiler, Georg's little girl, jumped up from a seat in the royal area and trotted forward. Franz looked at her in bemusement. She stopped in front of the podium, gave a curtsey, then offered him a white rose from behind her back. Startled, he reached for it. When his fingers touched it, he began laughing. It was brass! Franz knew exactly who had put Odelia up to this . . . this was 'payback,' as the Grantvillers called it, for his offering Marla a brass rose at her concert in December.

Odelia trotted back to her seat as he made a show of sniffing the flower, then tapped it with a fingernail. Chuckles sounded from the audience, most of whom were present when he started the joke. Finally, he set it aside.

"We . . . " Franz extended his arms to include the entire symphony " . . . want to thank you very much for coming to this, the first concert of the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra. These men have come together, many of them strangers to each other, with one goal: to perform the best music that can be found. They have worked very hard in the last three months. They, more than I, are deserving of your applause." He led the audience in another round of applause.

Holding his hands up again, he received the desired quiet much quicker than before. "I realize that we have reached the end of the printed program, but we have a small surprise for you. Please, be seated."

Stepping down from the podium again, Franz went over to the door to the hallway. Marla was waiting, eyes gleaming. Taking her by the hands, he asked, "Ready?"

She squeezed back. "Ready."

As they appeared hand in hand, the audience began clapping again. They stopped in front of the podium and bowed together. Franz stepped onto the podium and picked up the baton. Marla stepped a little to one side and turned slightly so she could see Franz. He looked at her; she nodded. Raising the baton, he began. After a short introduction, Marla poured out her voice.

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon Deutschland's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God

On Deutschland's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the countenance divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here

Among those dark Satanic mills?

Heinrich and Giacomo were struck by the power of the song, the power of the text, but even more so the power of Marla's voice. Andrea, on the other hand, simply smiled. He had known what was coming. The sheer beauty of Marla's singing was the perfect cap to the concert in his mind.

The orchestra played an interluding instrumental verse. Marla opened her mouth again.

Bring me my bow of burning gold,

Bring me my arrows of desire!

The tempo of the music slowed a little. Marla's performance became slightly more deliberate.

Bring me my spear! Oh, clouds unfold!

Her voice swelled and crested in the second part of the line.

Bring me my chariot of fire.

She held up her hand to the heavens. More than one person wouldn't have been surprised if she had been answered.

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Marla sang no louder, but the intensity grew.

Till we have built Jerusalem

In Deutschland's green and pleasant land!

The orchestra played the final concluding chords. Franz was watching Marla, and they cut off together.

Once more applause resounded within the room. Once more shouts of "Bravo! Brava!" were heard from some irrepressible Italians. Once more Franz and Marla joined hands and bowed, then separated and waved to the orchestra. Finally, they joined hands again and bowed one last time before leaving the room.

****

Once the applause died down and the patrons began to mill around, Franz and Marla quietly re-entered the room. They spent some time among the jubilant musicians. Franz congratulated everyone, gave them two days off, and told them to report to rehearsal on the following Thursday.

Franz carried his white 'rose.' Accompanied by Isaac, Simon, and Matthäus and his brothers, he and Marla began to mingle with the audience. Congratulations were showered on them from left and right. Franz's bemusement returned when he was asked to autograph programs. Isaac had a pencil in his pocket, which turned out to be very convenient.

After a few minutes, they encountered Master Heinrich and Amber Higham, who were wearing bemused expressions of their own. Lukas Amsel was with them, and he was not only not bemused, he was so excited he was about to burst.

"Matthäus! Marcus! Johann! Simon! You will never guess what has just happened!" Without giving them a chance to even begin to guess, Lukas blurted out, "Princess Kristina just asked Master Heinrich if he would become the Kappellmeister for the court here in Magdeburg."

Exclamations of surprise and joy sounded all around. Matthäus turned to his master. "Did you accept, Master Heinrich?"

"Well . . . um . . . actually, I asked them for a little time to think about it."

Exclamations of surprise and "What?" sounded all around. Amber Higham said, "But he's going to accept it, aren't you, Heinrich?"

Master Heinrich shrugged, but a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth told the truth.

Franz and Marla congratulated him. They wandered on, Isaac in company, speaking to all and sundry, until suddenly Isaac stopped. "I do not believe it."

They looked in the direction of his gaze. Don Francisco Nasi was approaching with three older people; two men and a woman. They wore the Jewish mark on their clothing.

"Ah, good day to you, my friends." Don Francisco's voice was expansive. "A remarkable event, yes. Truly remarkable."

Franz and Marla thanked him. All the while Isaac stood as still as a statue, staring at those who accompanied Don Francisco.

The taller man, who had a truly impressive beard, stared back until he was forcefully nudged by the short woman who stood beside him. He looked at her, then looked back at Isaac. Finally, he spoke. "Yitzhak, is it well with you?"

Isaac opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it, coughed, then squeezed out, "Yes."

"Good, good." The older man nodded. "It is mostly good with us. It could be better, but it is good enough that I cannot complain." He fell silent, still nodding, only to receive another nudge from the woman. His look to her this time was a glare, which seemed to have absolutely no effect on her.

Franz and Marla watched in fascination.

The man spoke again. "Er . . . Yitzhak . . . " He hesitated, then finished in a rush. "Will you come home to us?"

Isaac turned white, starting to waver. Franz reached out and grasped his elbow to steady him.

The other man looked concerned. "Yitzhak, I have wronged you. I . . . was so certain that I was right in my plans for you. I was furious when you would not obey me. I was blind to see that I could not make you be anything other than what the Holy One, Blessed be He, had shaped you to be. I thought you were rebellious, and on that night . . . I was infuriated. I said words that no father should say to a son." The man, obviously Isaac's father, looked down at the ground, then back up with an earnest expression on his face. "As the greater fault was mine, I acknowledge that fault. I ask your pardon." He opened his arms. "Will you be restored to your family, my son?"

Isaac was trembling under Franz's hand. Slowly, he moved forward. Then, with a sudden rush he fell into his father's arms. "Avi, Avi."

His father folded his arms around Isaac in a fierce embrace, closed his eyes and bowed his head to lean against his son's, whispering softly to him. The woman, who must have been his mother, smiled a tender smile and rested a hand on Isaac's back. The other member of the group exchanged a smile of satisfaction with Don Francisco.

After a moment, Isaac straightened and pulled away. "My friends, I would like you to meet my father, Rabbi Shlomo ben Moishe of Aschenhausen, my mother Rivka, and Joachim ben Eleazar, the president of our community. Father, these are my very good friends, Franz Sylwester and his wife Marla."

"So," Rabbi Shlomo said. "You are musicians, yes?"

"That's right, sir," Marla replied.

The rabbi looked surprised at her response, but cleared his throat and continued. "Is my son a good musician?"

"Absolutely, sir." Franz smiled. "One of the best."

"Good, good." Rabbi Shlomo turned to Isaac. "But you should be the best, nu?"

Isaac laughed. "Yes, Father. I will try harder."

****

Franz watched as another stranger approached. The young man had diffidently entered the room after the concert was over and hovered around, walking a few steps one way, then back. After talking to one of the ushers briefly, he had focused on Franz, once or twice starting toward him but then pulling back. Franz judged him to be about thirty, maybe a little younger. He was dressed reasonably well, but certainly not as a member of the Hoch-Adel. He was now obviously determined on talking to them, so Franz stopped and waited for him.

"Good day, Herr Sylwester."

"Good day."

"I have heard of your offer for musicians, and I have come to find a place with them, if I may." The man stood straight, and looked Franz in the eye.

"There are a few places left. Where are you from, and what do you play?" "Most recently from Schweinfurt, although I have played in several of the towns of Thuringia. As to instruments, I play all of the common stringed instruments with some level of skill, but my best is the king of instruments, the organ."

He certainly seemed to not be burdened with false modesty. On the other hand, there was no air of braggadocio . . . he apparently was reciting what he considered to be fact. Franz could accept that.

"And you are?"

Now the stranger was flustered. "I am sorry; I have left my manners at home. You must think me very rude. My name is Bach, Johann Bach."

Franz and Marla looked at each other, and smiled.

Hallelujah!

Magdeburg

July, 1634

"It's here! It's here!"

The three men looked around as Marla Linder burst through the door. Next moment, she laid an oblong package on the table in front of them.

"What is here?" Franz Sylwester asked his wife. The inevitable smile crossed his face as he looked at Marla.

It seemed a lifetime since he had sat, pfennig-less, in the Thuringen Gardens and listened to her sing for the very first time, yet it had only been two years ago. It still amazed him that she had agreed to marry him. As an up-timer, she had had so many options open to her, but she had "fallen in love", to use the up-time phrase, with him, a crippled vagabond who had once been a musician. And it was from her support that he had fought his way through therapy in Grantville to reclaim his musicianship, and more.

Others might find flaws in Marla; Franz knew that. Indeed, some of his friends would mutter about "Minerva in jeans" sometimes after an episode of Marla's strength of will being displayed. And objectively, he knew she wasn't perfect. But when he looked at her—lustrous black hair, unbound and flowing over her bosom; blue eyes, capable of a gamut from flaming passion to piercing iciness, now sparkling with excitement; red blush shining through her translucent skin—all he could see was beauty. God Above, how he was blessed, and not just because of her appearance. Marla's passion for music equaled his own, and that was no small thing.

Franz's attention was drawn back to the moment when Andrea Abati asked, "So what is it?"

Marla finished unwrapping the package, almost bouncing in her excitement. When she folded back the last of the paper, a large book was revealed. It looked to Franz to be about eleven inches by fourteen inches. The worn cloth binding was a dark blue, closer in hue to navy than royal. Printed in gold on the front cover was the following:

HANDEL

MESSIAH

FULL SCORE

"This," Marla declared, "is our Christmas concert for this year." She definitely bounced after she said that. "I knew that Marcus Wendell had this on his shelves, and asked him to lend it to me. He hemmed and hawed a bit, but finally agreed to let me borrow it."

Christmas already, Franz thought. They had just finished their huge concert not two days ago; Bitty Matowski's production of her new ballet A Falcon Falls was to begin that night; yet already Marla was thinking about Christmas. Once again he had the feeling that he was running as fast as he could just to keep up with her.

"So, again I ask, what is it?" Andrea was smiling. As usual, Franz noted, Marla's enthusiasm was infectious.

Franz reached out and opened the book, turning the pages carefully. The sight of printed music drew the attention of all three men. Heinrich Schütz drew the book in front of him. Andrea adjusted his chair to sit at the Kappellmeister's right hand to observe the turning pages.

"A full orchestra conductor's score." Franz's surprise was evident in his voice. "By what miracle do you present this?"

Marla bounced again. "I was looking at my vocal parts copy, wondering how long it would take Thomas to reconstruct the orchestra parts from one of the recordings in Grantville, when I remembered seeing this in Marcus' office a year or so before the Ring fell. I thought it was so cool then, especially when he told me that it was the work that his conducting teacher used to introduce him to instrumental conducting. It still has all of his notes and cues penciled in."

"Does it now?" Franz muttered, his interest definitely caught by that last statement.

"It is an oratorio, yes?" Heinrich asked in his careful English. "A good one?"

Marla looked to the man who was the preeminent composer in the German states in 1634. "Yes, Master Heinrich, it is an oratorio. It was written in 1741 in twenty-four days by a German named Georg Friedrich Handel." Heinrich looked intrigued. "And it is arguably the greatest oratorio ever written; certainly the most famous in the up-time. One of the choral pieces from it is one of the two or three most widely recognized musical works in the up-time culture."

Master Schütz looked back to the score with an avid expression and patted a page with satisfaction. "So . . . Handel . . . a German, one who has much to teach me. I can handle this." He smiled as the others burst into laughter.

After her laugh ceased its pealing, Marla said, "Oh, Master Heinrich, that joke was so old up-time it had whiskers."

"Ah, but you are not in the up-time now, are you?" Heinrich's smile grew even broader. "It is a new joke here, now."

"As you say, Master Heinrich," Franz chuckled. "As you say." The sight of the usually somber composer indulging in a bit of humor was enjoyable in itself. Franz had the impression that Master Heinrich had not laughed much since his wife Magdalena died several years earlier.

"So," Franz turned to Marla, "you already had a copy of the vocal parts, and now we have the full score. Knowing you, you have a printer in mind to make copies."

"Yep. Herr Zopff."

Marla's smile lit the room up again. This time, however, Franz's heart did not respond with its usual leap. Instead, it descended to the region behind his belt buckle.

"Tell me you jest."

"Nope."

"Marla, the man is utterly outrageous!"

"I know, but he does good work."

"He will not deal with you!"

"I know, but that's okay." Franz's dumbfounded state increased as Marla's smile grew even brighter, if that was possible. "I know someone who's even more outrageous that I can turn loose on him."

Franz watched as Marla turned her smile on Andrea Abati.

****

Franz trudged along beside Andrea Abati. The day was warm enough that he wished he had left his jacket behind. Dust hung in the air, stirred up by wagons that trundled by with some regularity. The most recent wagon had rolled through the dung deposited in the street by preceding teams of horses. Andrea, on the outside, had nimbly avoided the splash, but his muttered response was both expletive and description of the matter.

Franz grinned in sympathy. "You are getting quite proficient in vulgar German, you know."

"It is the low company I keep," Andrea responded with a dry smile. "On the other hand, as an Italian, I have a certain standard of decadence I must live up to." That quip evoked a laugh from Franz.

True to her word, Marla had left the dealing with the printer Zopff to Andrea, who had promptly drafted Franz to accompany him to beard the lion in his printer's den. Now Franz pointed ahead.

"There . . . there is Herr Zopff's place of business. See the sign says 'Zopff and Sons.'"

"At last," Andrea sighed dramatically. "Let us fulfill our charge, so that I can return to the warmth of my rooms."

"Warmth?" Franz said incredulously. "How can you be cold, man? The sun is high and warm, summer is in full bloom."

"Ah," Andrea gave a bit of a shiver, "but you are not from Roma. Trust me, this air would be considered chilly, there."

And with that, they arrived at the door to the shop. Franz held the door open out of respect, allowing Andrea to enter before him. He turned from closing the door, to see Master Agamemnon Zopff stepping forward to confront—that was the only word that came to Franz's mind—his companion.

Herr Zopff was—impressive, Franz decided. He had seen the man at a distance before, but never up close, and never in his working dress. With a coat on, Herr Zopff appeared to be stocky. Without a coat, with his sleeves rolled up and his printer's apron strapped on, the printer was revealed to be barrel-chested and heavily muscled. True, his belly did indicate a fondness for the fare of the taverns, but Franz would not have wanted to trade either blows or handshakes with the man.

His thought of a lion earlier was also somewhat on pitch, Franz decided. Herr Zopff's hair was thick, and flared out like a mane where it had pulled loose from being tied back. His steps, despite his size, were not ponderous. And there was a definite glint to his eyes, not unlike a carnivore sizing up his next prey.

"And what can Agamemnon Zopff do for you distinguished gentlemen?"

Zopff's voice completed the leonine resemblance as it rumbled out of his big chest. Despite being low, it was smooth, not gravelly or hoarse. Franz saw Andrea tilt his head a little to one side as he appreciated the timbre of the printer's voice.

Franz found Zopff's habit of referring to himself in the third person somewhat pretentious. That was, however, in keeping with the man's reputation, along with his scorn of all other printers in Magdeburg. He was, unfortunately, almost as good a printer as he thought he was, so Marla was right selecting him to print the music of the oratorio.

"I am Andrea Abati, and this is Franz Sylwester. We have a proposal for you to print—or I should say reprint—some music from Grantville," Andrea began.

Franz saw Zopff blink as Andrea's soprano voice registered with him. The printer's eyes widened and his lips parted as it dawned on him that he must be talking with the famous Italian castrato that had been the talk of Hoch-Adel society for several months now.

After a moment, the printer said, "Come, then, and let Zopff see it." He turned and beckoned to a younger man who was cleaning a press in the rear of the room. "Patroclus, come."

Andrea waved Franz forward to the desk that Zopff led them to. Franz opened his satchel and laid out both the full score and the vocal parts book that Marla had given him. Then he opened both of them, to display the music printed within. Both Zopff and his associate leaned over the pages, avidly drinking in the music printed within. The young man, who from his appearance must have been one of the advertised sons, wiped his hands on a cloth several times, then turned pages in both books by barely touching the edges. The two men examined the books carefully, spending almost as much time looking at the paper and the bindings as they did the printing. Zopff definitely sneered when he saw the paper binding on the vocal parts book. At length the two men straightened. Franz saw the younger give a slight nod in response to Zopff's querying look.

"So, what is it you want?" the printer's voice rumbled again.

"For immediate use," Andrea responded, "five copies of the large score and one hundred copies of the parts book."

"Bah! That is not enough to make it worth Zopff's effort!" The printer smacked his chest, evoking a sound not unlike an ax blade sinking into a tree trunk. "You insult Zopff! Zopff, who once printed for the Elector of Brandenburg himself!"

The young man laid his hand on the printer's arm. "Father, hear them out." Grumbles resulted, but Zopff calmed down.

"For immediate use," Andrea repeated, an edge to his tone. "But we anticipate that this will sell many, many copies. This is the first of the great Grantville works to be printed here and now, and musicians from Moscow to London, Stockholm to Madrid and Naples will want copies of this." He paused to let that sink in. Franz saw the eyes of both the printer and his son take on a faraway look. "Thousands, no, tens of thousands of copies," Andrea resumed, "all of which can come from your presses." A smile began to grow on Zopff's face. "All under the auspices of the Royal Academy of Music."

The smile disappeared.

"Who is this Royal Academy of Music?" the printer thundered. "Zopff is the printer! Zopff is the publisher! Zopff, who once printed for the Elector of Brandenburg, determines what is good, and what is not!"

Franz almost smiled. Despite the noise, the printer at that moment bore a strong resemblance to a character from one of the Grantville cartoons who had stuck his finger in one of the electric sockets. His hair was bristling, his arms were wide-spread, and his eyes were almost alight.

Andrea was manifestly unimpressed with the claims of past glory. "That, as the Grantvillers would say, was then. This is now. Who have you printed for lately?" Zopff turned red and seemed to swell up. "Whoever we settle on will print for the Royal Academy of Music, founded by Gustavus Adolphus Vasa. There are other printers in Magdeburg; Septimius Schneegasse, for example." Zopff's complexion now verged on purple. Andrea waited a moment. "And the last we heard, the Swedish king has a score to settle with your precious elector."

Once again the son laid a hand on his father's shoulder. Zopff stood tense for a moment, then deflated. Patroclus turned to the others.

"You are saying that we would become the exclusive printers for this . . . Academy of Music?"

"Yes," Andrea nodded. "Provided the quality is high." Zopff started to turn red again, but the son squeezed his shoulder.

"And this is just the beginning?"

Franz laughed out loud. "Only the veriest beginning. There is 350 years' worth of all kinds of music to be printed, much of which will be in immediate demand."

Patroclus looked at his father intently. Finally, Zopff gave a grudging nod. He faced back to Andrea.

"Printers, now, music is a . . . a sideline. We print books. Sometimes those books contain music, most times they do not. It takes special fonts to print music. It can be very costly." Andrea nodded. "And the fonts we use do not look like the fonts in these books."

"True," Andrea nodded again. Now that the initial breakthrough had occurred, his voice was much warmer. "But we will insist on new fonts that match those in these books. This will become the modern style, and you will be the . . . how do the Grantvillers say it . . . you will be the leading edge. You will have an advantage."

Both printers' eyes lit up at that. They understood the concept of competitive advantage very well.

"And," Andrea interrupted their reverie, "there will be books as well, books that need some music printed amidst text. There will be treatises about music to be printed that will be in demand in every court and church and collegium in Europe. But you will need the new fonts for that work as well."

Zopff rubbed his hands together, smiling an acquisitive smile. "Zopff will do this."

"We have yet to negotiate prices," Andrea warned.

"Bah! We will do this."

"And we will have very strict standards about accuracy."

"Bah!"

Franz was starting to chuckle, watching the bombastic printer wave away the remaining obstructions as if they were nothing but the paper he printed upon.

Patroclus closed the books and set the vocal part volume on top of the full score.

"Can you leave these with us? The full score is about a quarto size, and the parts book is about an octavo size, but we must count pages and plan how they would be printed to tell you how much they would cost to print."

Andrea looked to Franz.

"Take great care," Franz conceded. "The full score is irreplaceable."

"As if it is a royal treasure," Patroclus affirmed, "for that is what it is."

The four men shook hands.

****

"Come in, come in." Franz opened the door to admit Patroclus Zopff. "Come, meet the others." He led him to the table. "You have already been introduced to Master Abati. Now meet Master Giacomo Carissimi, master of the Royal and Imperial Academy of Music; Master Heinrich Schütz, Kappellmeister to the Vasa court in Magdeburg; and my wife, Marla Linder." Heads nodded around the table as names were called. Zopff had sufficient presence of mind to return the nods, but his eyes were a bit wide as Franz concluded with, "Everyone, this is Herr Patroclus Zopff from the printer's establishment that we approached." Franz gestured Patroclus to a seat, and took his own.

Marla giggled. Everyone looked at her. "I'm sorry, but . . . Patroclus?" She giggled again

Patroclus' face twisted into a wry expression. "Yes, well, you have to understand that my family is from Berlin." He sighed. "My grandfather, Conrad Zopff, was a leading printer in Berlin, often printing works by or for the Elector's family. The Hohenzollerns would often name their children with classical names, sometimes from Latin, but just as often from Greek. Grandfather, I suppose thinking to imitate or flatter those whose coat skirts he rode, named his children Agamemnon, Ajax and Penelope. And likewise, my father named me Patroclus, my brother Telemachus, and my sister Eurydice."

"Oh, the poor girl," Marla gasped, trying to suppress yet another giggle.

"Indeed." Patroclus smiled. "My son, however, is named Conrad." There was a general laugh at that statement.

After a moment, Franz said, "Well enough. What is your response to our proposal?"

Patroclus laid the original scores on the table, then consulted a small notebook he pulled from his pocket.

"The large book, the . . . full score, you called it: it has 421 pages of music, plus another six pages of associated introductory material, for 427 pages total. It is a quarto size, so that would require 54 sheets to print."

Marla looked confused. "Sheets?"

"Paper is made in a large sheet," Heinrich explained from his end of the table. "The size of a book is determined by how many pages are printed on the sheet and how many times the sheet is folded." He pantomimed in the air. "A quarto page is folded twice, so that the pages are one-fourth the size of the sheet . . . hence quarto."

Light dawned in Marla's eyes. "And an octavo . . . "

"Would be folded one more time." Heinrich smiled.

Patroclus held up the vocal parts book. "This is about the size of an octavo." He laid it sideways on top of the full score book. "And you can see that it is about half the size of the quarto."

"So a quarto sheet will have four pages on it," Marla concluded triumphantly.

"Um, no," Patroclus said. Marla looked confused again. "It will have eight pages printed."

Light dawned again. "Oh, front and back." Marla thought for a moment. "How do the pages line up next to each other, then? I mean, the folding . . . "

Patroclus laughed. "That is my job, to make sure the pages are arranged in such a way on the sheet that when they are folded and combined with other sheets they are in the right place." He looked back to his notebook. "So, as to the paper . . . " he pulled samples out of his pocket and passed them around, "the price varies with the quality, of course."

Marla looked at a brownish piece, and shook her head. "This almost reminds me of the old paper towels the school used to use, the kind that would take all the skin off your nose if you tried to blow into them."

Patroclus looked mystified at her comments. "Ah, that is the cheapest. It runs around 4 florins per bale."

"Bale?"

"That is our standard measurement of paper. I would expect your proposal to use at least this paper." He pointed to a cream colored sample in Heinrich Schütz's hand. "That one will run 5 ¼ florins per bale. And this grade," he pointed to the sample held by Giacomo Carissimi, "this is 6 florins per bale. This I would recommend for your presentation copies."

"Presentation copies?" Once again Marla looked confused.

"The special copies a musician gives a patron, or a prospective patron," Heinrich responded.

"They are usually printed and bound to the highest degree of quality and presentation," Giacomo added.

Marla sat back and tapped her lips with her forefinger. Franz remembered seeing Mary Simpson doing the same thing. He smiled a little at the thought of Mary, wondering where she was and if she was safe. He prayed so, as she had meant so much to both himself and to Marla.

"We'll do presentation copies," Marla announced, then grinned. "But we'll do them with a twist. We'll do a superb one for the king and princess, then we'll do a few that are just a little less superb for the patrons. Then we'll tell them that the first ten or so who contribute so much to the support of this performance, including our printing costs, will receive one of these presentation copies, complete with autographs by the soloists and the conductor." She pointed to Franz. "That ought to interest them, bring out the excitement."

The discussion from there descended into the depths of printing operations and costs. Schütz proved to be very knowledgeable about the business of printing. But then, Franz reminded himself, the master had managed the printing of several of his own works and collections over the years. Printing costs per sheet or per bale; how many pages to the sheet; how many sheets to the signature; how many signatures to the book; the question of whether engraving should be done instead of typesetting; the costs of creating the special fonts for music and text for both books; all were discussed at length. Franz choked back more than one yawn before the final agreements were reached. Both Schütz and Carissimi were satisfied, so Franz was certainly not in a mind to object.

Hands were shaken all around. Patroclus leaned back in his chair, almost as if in relief. He looked around at the others. "Who will do your binding?"

Once again Marla looked surprised. Poor Marla, Franz thought to himself. She was certainly receiving an education in the down-time printer's world. Nothing was as simple as she thought it would be.

"Ah, I forgot to ask if you handled the binding as well." Schütz shook his head.

Patroclus sighed. "If you ask my father, he will say that we do. He looks to the past, still. When the family was in Berlin, we were indeed publishers. We would print and bind and sell, both our own work and that of others. But today, here, now, we are printers only, with but enough work to keep two of our three presses busy. The war, you know, has been very hard on printers." There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "So, no, we do not bind. I can recommend to you Friederich Mappe. His work is very good."

After another round of polite conversation, Franz escorted Patroclus to the door. When he returned to the table, they all looked at each other.

"So," Marla broke the silence, "we are on our way."

"Indeed." Schütz agreed. "But as I sat here this afternoon, it occurs to me that the dissemination of the uptime music, if you want it to be in your hands, you must take steps to acquire it."

The resulting discussion lasted until late in the evening, and Franz didn't yawn once.

****

Lady Beth Haygood looked up at the knock on the door.

"Oh, hey, Marla. Come on in." She reached over and moved a stack of papers off the nearest chair. "Have a sit."

"Thanks, Lady Beth." Marla took a seat. Lady Beth observed to herself that married life really seemed to agree with Marla. She looked more . . . settled, somehow, than she had since any time after the Ring fell. But she was still wearing her favorite jeans, so she hadn't changed all that much. "So," Marla asked, "what did you need to see me for?"

"You remember that conversation we had a few weeks ago?"

"The one about the girls' school?"

"Yeah. You remember you said if we needed a music teacher to call you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, if you meant that, the job's yours."

Marla's face lit up. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Cool! Wait until I tell Franz!" Marla stared off into space for a minute or so. Lady Beth waited until she came back into focus. "So, what will my responsibilities be?"

Lady Beth searched in front of her for a particular piece of paper. "Where is it . . . ah, here it is." She looked over the top of her glasses at Marla. "We don't know how many students we'll have this first year. There's been a lot of interest shown, and we have over thirty girls enrolled now. We think the enrollment will top out at around seventy, maybe a little more."

"Wow." Marla looked impressed. "That many, huh? Great. And how many of them will be involved in music?"

"All of them." Lady Beth smiled in response to Marla's surprise. "It's going to be a required part of the curriculum. In this day and time, music is looked on with almost the same favor as sports was in our time. Every parent who enrolled or is thinking about enrolling a student has asked questions about music, and about who would be teaching it. In fact, your name actually convinced some people to go ahead and enroll now, when I told them we were going to ask you to teach the music."

Marla now looked a bit taken aback. "Umm . . . seventy girls, huh? I know that people here and now take their music seriously, but I still wasn't expecting quite so many." She shook her head, then straightened up. "But that's great. Nice big choirs I'll have. Do you have an age breakdown yet?"

"We're going to run the equivalents of fifth through twelfth grades. Today, our guess is forty to fifty in fifth and sixth grades, with the rest spread across the higher grades. That balance will even out in a year or so, I expect."

"Okay, that's two, maybe three classes. I'll dig out some of my children's choir material from church."

Lady Beth chuckled. "Marla, dear, you're going to find that a lot of these girls are already pretty musically proficient. They all participate in their church liturgies in the congregations, so they all can sing—some of them rather well. And most of them, the older ones anyway, can play an instrument to one degree or another."

Marla shook her head. "There I go again, assuming that because I'm the up-timer I know everything and I'll have to start at square one."

"Well, you might have to in one respect," Lady Beth said. "I doubt that most of the girls, even the ones who play an instrument, are musically literate to any great extent. Most of them learn by rote, from what I can find out."

"So, I'll have to teach them at least some theory in the first few weeks," Marla concluded. She smiled in relief. "Good. I have some Kodaly materials I can use with the younger kids, and I'll just work the older kids through one of the basic theory sections of my theory book. By the time we get through those, I should know everyone and their abilities."

"Good." Lady Beth picked up another piece of paper. "I've been to the town house we're using until the school buildings are finished, and there's a harpsichord there. For other instruments, the girls will have to provide their own. So, what else do you need?"

"Blank staff paper, from one of the printers. Check with the Zopffs. Pencils . . . preferably some of those imitation #2 yellows that showed up in Magdeburg this year. Something to use for erasers. Books, when I can get them printed." Marla thought some more. "And a piano." Her gaze at Lady Beth was most direct. "It doesn't have to be a grand. In fact, it probably shouldn't be. But I need a piano."

Lady Beth smiled. "I already thought of that. Casey Stevenson is teaching here now. In fact, she and Staci Matowski are working with the girls we've already enrolled. Anyway, Casey's mom had a piano."

"Sure," Marla interjected. "A pretty good Baldwin console, if I remember right."

"Well, Casey said we could 'borrow' it, since there's nobody at home to play it anymore."

"Great." Marla smiled. "You and Casey send a wire to Ingram Bledsoe and tell him to get it shipped up here. Tell him it's for me, and he'll make sure you get it as soon as possible and in the best shape."

"I didn't think of Ingram." Lady Beth jotted a note.

"I was going to recommend that you wire him to buy one, but if you've got one for free, that's great."

Lady Beth finished her note, then looked up with a smile that could only be called sinister. "Another thing—how's your Latin?"

"Latin?" Marla looked perplexed. "You know me, Lady Beth. I took French in high school, and learned a bit of Italian and modern German from all the art songs I sang in my voice lessons. Since the Ring fell, I've spent most of my time trying to learn the various dialects of the nearby Germans. When have I had time to learn Latin?"

"Well, you'll have to learn it. Abbess Dorothea, who's the closest thing to a certifying agency here and now, says that all instructors must be fluent in German, Latin and at least one other language. French, now," Lady Beth dived for another paper, "yes, we're covered. Madame de Farge, one of the Huguenot French, has agreed to teach. So you're off the hook." Another evil smile at Marla.

"You're not serious . . . are you?"

"On the Latin, absolutely."

Marla heaved a sigh. "Well, I learned German in two years; I suppose I can learn Latin as well. Master Giacomo and Master Andrea can probably help me."

"I'm afraid not." Lady Beth turned serious.

"What? Why not?" Marla was starting to get peeved, Lady Beth realized, so she held up her hands.

"Calmly, calmly. It seems Latin comes in two flavors . . . "

"You mean Latin has dialects?" Marla demanded. "I have to learn how many versions of this stupid dead language?"

"You only need to learn one. But it can't be the one that the men from Italy know. The pope's Latin, it's sometimes called."

"Aha. Political correctness rears its ugly head." Marla settled back.

"Yep. And the pope's Latin has been very influenced by Italian speech patterns. No, you'll need to learn from one of the northern Germans. Their version is called 'humanist' Latin. It has the advantage that it sounds more or less the way it looks on the written page. You can't say that about the pope's Latin."

"Great. So all I need to do is find my choir materials, find a Latin teacher—for me—and figure out how I'm going to teach seventy kids who may or may not be able to play and sing, but probably don't read much music."

"I'd say you've got it." Lady Beth nodded in affirmation. "Although you can talk to Casey and Staci about the Latin, find out who's been helping them. For that matter, they can probably get you started. You've got a bit of an ear for languages from all your training, you know, and knowing French and a little Italian should help."

Marla stared off into space again for a moment, obviously thinking. Lady Beth clasped her hands and waited for the train of thought to arrive at the station. After a moment, Marla's gaze focused back on her immediate surroundings.

"Do you have class size limits?"

"Well, we're going to try and hold the line at twenty pupils per teacher in the regular classes."

"Will that apply to me?"

"Does it need to?"

"Um, for choir, no." Marla was tapping her lips with her forefinger. "But for the theory classes, yes. I can't have fifty kids in a class. That's at least three, maybe four classes. At an hour a class, that's the max I can take in one day. In fact, that may be more than I can handle. You may need to think about having Casey available to at least help with the younger grades, maybe even teach them."

Lady Beth focused a very direct gaze on Marla.

"Why?"

"Because," Marla sighed. "Lady Beth, I'm a professional musician. I have a reputation. You said yourself that the mention of my name had convinced people to sign up for the school. But being that professional musician places major demands on my time. Just practicing on piano, voice and flute takes at least six hours out of my day."

"Good Lord, woman," Lady Beth exclaimed. "How much sleep do you get?"

"Enough. Fortunately, I've never needed as much as some people. But the thing is, that's my priority. I have a lot of repertoire to learn." Marla looked down for a moment, then directed her gaze to Lady Beth, locking eyes with her. "I almost went crazy when the Ring fell and I lost the chance to do this in our time. God's given me another chance, and I'm grabbing it with both hands. Right now I'm one of the elite in Magdeburg. I may not be in Andrea Abati's league—yet—but I will be. I'm riding the crest, and I need to stay there as long as possible. I want to shape the future for other women in music, which means I've got to be prominent for a long time."

"So what does that mean for the school?" Lady Beth asked. "I can't afford to pay you just for your name."

"I know that. I will give you as much time as I can, but I can't be a full time teacher. There's not enough hours in the day. I've got to have at least one assistant now for the younger kids. And if the enrollment's going to build like you think it will, then there may have to be more than one."

"Maybe, just maybe, I can squeeze a few hours of time a week from Casey's schedule," Lady Beth muttered, looking at the teachers' schedule she had pulled out of a drawer. "Staci's is out of the question." She looked up. "But where am I supposed to find more than that?"

Since it had been something of a rhetorical question, Lady Beth was a bit surprised when Marla responded.

"I really want to use the Kodaly methods here. Send wires to the choir directors of the Grantville churches. Find out who's been leading and helping with the children's choirs in the churches, and what methods they use. That's where I got my training and a lot of my material, when I was doing that in high school. Maybe one of the helpers can be lured to coming to Magdeburg for a job in a prestigious girl's academy."

"Hmm." Lady Beth made another note. "That's actually not a bad idea. Marcus Wendell may know of someone, too."

"If no one is available, then look around locally and find someone who teaches children to sing in churches or schools and hire them away. I can teach the Kodaly methods to other teachers if I have to."

Lady Beth jotted that recommendation down as well.

"You can say that the music program is directed by Marla Linder," Marla offered. "That would be true. If you want my name, reputation and cachet associated with the academy, that's the best I can offer."

Lady Beth set her pencil down again.

"I think we can work with that. So when could you start?"

Marla thought for a moment. "I have to find my Kodaly material and begin refreshing myself on it. Say, next Monday?"

"Could we meet on Friday to talk about scheduling?"

"Sure."

"Deal. I'll see you then."

Marla rose to go, and turned toward the door. Lady Beth dropped the little nugget she had saved for last. "One last thing." Marla looked over her shoulder. "You'll have to wear a dress in the classrooms."

A wry expression crossed Marla's face. "Yeah, I figured that would be the case. I guess I'd better look up that seamstress that Mary hired to make my recital gowns." Her hand ran up and down the seam of her jeans. "I probably wouldn't get much respect as a teacher in these." She gave a lopsided smile to Lady Beth. "But that doesn't mean I'll like it."

Lady Beth started laughing as the door closed.

****

Marla looked up from the letter when Franz walked in the front door and walked over to where she sat to place a kiss on her forehead. She raised her face for a proper kiss.

Some time later, Franz pointed to the letter. "What is that?"

Marla finished settling her hair and picked it up. "A letter."

"I can see that much." Franz's grin took the sting out of his sarcastic tone. "Who is it from?"

"Marcus Wendell."

Franz grew serious. "What does he say?"

"It's a copy of a letter he sent to Masters Carissimi and Schütz, where he talks about the stuff we discussed a few weeks ago.

"The matter of publishing the up-time music?"

"Yep."

Franz moved Marla's feet over on the footstool, and perched on the edge. "What does he say?"

"The gist of it appears to be that they are going to found something called the Grantville Music Trust." Marla flipped through the pages of the letter, looking for a particular section. "The lawyers are still looking into what the best legal form will be, probably some kind of corporation. Everyone who contributes music will be given shares in the trust, but they're still trying to figure out the formulas on how those shares will be calculated. You and I and Masters Carissimi, Schütz and Abati will all have an initial share, plus anything else we can develop. The trust will try to gather as much up-time music as possible, both printed and recorded, in order to publish it on a regular basis."

She looked up from the letter to see a smile growing on Franz's face. "This is good." He took her hand in his. "This is very good. It means that we do not have to feel like it is our responsibility alone to see this work done."

Marla smiled back as she squeezed his fingers. "You're right. And I do feel as if a burden has been lifted."

****

"Come in, friend Patroclus, come in." Franz opened the door wide for the encumbered printer to step through.

"Thank you, Franz. I am here with the first set of the . . . " Patroclus was obviously searching his memory. After a moment, his face brightened. "Ah, yes . . . the 'proof' pages as Frau Marla called them."

"Then you had best come this way, for she is waiting your arrival with great anticipation." Franz led the way to the table where Marla sat. She smiled as the men stepped through the door. Patroclus almost tripped, Franz noted, when she turned her gaze fully on him. It was good to know, he thought to himself with a small smile, that he was not the only man she affected so.

"Ah, Patroclus, you brought the proofs. Gimme, gimme." She held her hands out like a small child begging for a treat.

The printer set the wrapped books carefully on the table, then opened his very large leather folio to take out several pages. They were of the cheapest grade paper, what Marla had called "paper towel brown."

"The music fonts have all been identified and designed." Patroclus had a faint air of pride. "You will receive a bill for the jeweler who did the work. We have cast and finished enough to do three pages of the full score, which I have with me."

"What of the text?" Marla's forehead creased.

"There we were most fortunate, as the font used in your books is very like the fonts my grandfather used to print Latin works when we were in Berlin. My father is unable to dispose of anything from what he thinks of as our family's days of glory, and so I found the type stored in a shed behind our shop."

"Good." The creases smoothed out as Patroclus spread out the proof pages.

"We know that this idea of printing proof sheets for us to review before you do the actual printing is a new thing to you." Franz made sure his voice was warm. "But after hearing the stories from Master Schütz and Master Carissimi about how many times they and others had to manually correct printed books because of serious printing errors, this has to be done. The presentation of these works to, not just the Hoch-Adel, but the entire world, is too important for any preventable errors to be allowed."

"I understand," Patroclus sighed. "And in truth, their criticisms were fair. But you must understand that for most printers, music is a very minor part of our business. We do not have literacy in music, like we do words. We must just try to place symbols on the page, and sometimes it is not so easy."

"Musical literacy, huh?" Marla remarked. "Well, I hope you have your best people working this project, because by the time they're done, they will be very musically literate. If you think it would help, however, I can give quick lessons to your typesetters so that they will know enough about the music they're looking at to understand what they are doing." She grinned at Franz. "After all, if I'm going to be teaching basics at the school, I can do it for them as well."

"School?" Patroclus looked interested.

"I'm the new music director at the . . . let me make sure I get this right . . . " Marla took a deep breath. "The Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls." The school name all came out in a rush.

"Ah," Patroclus responded. "I have heard of this school. There is much discussion in the city about it. There are those who see women such as yourself," he gave a nod of the head that was almost a short bow to Marla, "and think that perhaps they will avail themselves of this for their daughters. You will be a part of it? You think it will be that good?"

Marla snorted. "It will be that good whether I'm a part of it or not. I know the people who are setting it up and getting it rolling. They're good people. The school will be great."

"Ah." Patroclus absorbed all of that. "My sister, Eurydice, reads and writes well—a printer's child, you see—and she can do some arithmetic, but there is more she should know. She is fourteen, so it is not too late. I will talk to Papa."

"Do that. It will be good for her," Marla said.

They all focused on the pages Patroclus had laid out. "You do understand that when these music books are set in type, you can't take them apart to reuse the type," Franz cautioned. "We expect these to be in demand for years."

"Generations, even," Marla offered.

"That was mentioned in our discussions some time ago." Patroclus was not smiling. "You are paying for the fonts, so that is not an issue. It is the storage that is a problem—that, and the frames. It would take over 200 frames to set and hold all the type for the pages of both the full score and the vocal parts book. We do not have that many. There may not be that many in all of Magdeburg."

"Can you build more frames?" Marla asked.

"Given time and money, of course we can. But even if we had the frames, we have no place to store that many." Franz opened his mouth, only to be overridden by Patroclus. "And you are not paying us enough to move."

"What do you suggest?" Franz got his question in.

"There are two things you need to consider. First, you—we—will not have exclusive editions of whatever works you publish forever."

"What do you mean?" The creases were back in Marla's forehead.

"Once they see the demand for them, other printers will copy your works and produce their own editions. I agree that the music font will be a problem for them, but they will do it. They will not be as good as ours, naturally." Patroclus smiled. "But they will find buyers."

"And this is legal?" The creases were now valleys.

"Yes. Oh, it is not considered ethical by many, but it does happen. Once the war is over and some measure of prosperity returns for both book readers and printers, it will happen more frequently."

"Copyright laws," Marla muttered. "Gotta get ahold of Mike Stearns or Ed Piazza and talk about copyright laws."

"You mentioned two things?" Franz asked

"Yes. The second is to determine now how many copies you wish to print. Printed signatures can be stored easily, particularly if they have not been bound yet. And the more we print, the less expensive the per copy cost becomes as the setup costs are spread across the total number of copies."

Franz looked at Marla. She looked at him. They raised their eyebrows at each other. "We will talk to the others about this," he said after a moment. "Meanwhile, we should finish the proofs, so that you may return to your shop." They all looked to the table again.

"This is the title page, about which I have two questions." The printer looked at them, and Franz motioned him to continue.

"First, who is this Carl Fischer, Inc. who is mentioned at the bottom of the page?"

"Actually, that was the up-time publisher who produced the full score," Marla replied. "And it wasn't a person, it was a company."

"Ah. So the G. Schirmer, Inc. on the vocal parts book is also a publisher?"

"Correct."

Patroclus pulled a pencil out of his pocket, and made a note on the sheet. "So, we can replace their names with ours."

"And the Royal Music Academy, and the Grantville Music Trust." Marla made sure those weren't left out.

"As you say." Patroclus made more notes, then looked up. "There were two publishers for the same work?"

Marla laughed. "Oh, yes. Remember, in the up-time, this was over two hundred and fifty years old. Handel and his family were no longer around to care. There were probably more publishers than that who printed this work. These were just the publishers of the copies in Grantville."

The printer thought about that, then shrugged. "As you say. My other question is, exactly what was the name of the composer? The full score and the cover and title page of the vocal parts book say Handel, but the introduction to the vocal parts book says Händel. Those are two very different words in German." Patroclus jotted them on a blank space on the sheet, but Franz had definitely heard the difference.

"Umm." Marla put her finger to her lips for a long moment. "I read something about that. Oh, yeah . . . if I remember correctly, Händel is the correct name, but he changed it to Handel after he settled in England. Seems like the English kept forgetting to include the umlaut when they printed his name, and outside of the royal family most of the English didn't know how to pronounce it. I guess he gave up fighting it. Made a virtue out of necessity, maybe."

"So, how should we do it now?"

"He was German, right? We're in Germany, right?" Both men nodded. "Then it's Händel." Patroclus penciled more notes on the title page. "Something small we can do right the second time around."

And with that, they began reviewing the music pages.

****

Lady Beth looked down at the class schedule she and Marla had just finished creating. "Okay, so you're going to teach one class of choir for now, one class of senior theory and one class of junior theory, all scheduled before noon. Casey will take the other two classes of junior theory. Hopefully by the time the enrollment grows enough to stretch those classes past the limits, we'll have some answers back from Grantville about someone taking us up on our job offers. I got some names from Wendell and sent some telegrams off right away."

Marla started gathering her notes. Lady Beth took advantage of the break in the conversation to change the subject. "Have you started your Latin yet?"

"Amo, amas, amat." When their laughter was done, Marla looked to Lady Beth. "One last thing . . . I've already been approached by families wanting private music lessons for their daughters. What's the school's policy going to be on that?"

Lady Beth leaned back in her chair, ran her hands through her hair—catching the pencil as she dislodged it from behind her ear—and sighed. "The school doesn't have a policy, because I haven't given it much thought. What do you suggest?"

"You can either count it as an elective within the curriculum, charge the fees and pay me, or you can let me arrange things directly with the families and they can pay me."

"Hmm . . . I think for now let's have them connect directly with you. As time goes by, we can incorporate that into the formal curriculum if we want or need to."

"Fair enough," Marla replied. She started to stand, only to settle again when Lady Beth raised a hand to stop her.

"Are you planning to give the lessons at the school?"

"Yes."

"Hmm . . . " Lady Beth hummed a lot when she was thinking. "That means you'll be using school facilities, maybe school supplies, school piano. I think the school needs some slight compensation."

Marla looked a bit wary. "I might agree to that. How much are you thinking of?"

"Twenty-five percent."

Wariness gave way to another frown. "Nope. Too much. I might go five."

"Twenty."

"Seven."

"Fifteen."

"Nine."

"Twelve."

"Ten, and no more, or I'll teach them out of my house." Marla's tone was rock solid.

Lady Beth smiled. "You always were the most stubborn girl I knew. All right, agreed on ten percent, based on your receiving the payments from the families. How many of the girls will you take?"

"I can give an hour a day per week. Figuring a half hour lesson, which is all that most of these girls would have the stamina for, that's ten girls. However, if you want to let our agreement stand as a model, Master Andrea could take quite a few more, maybe up to twenty a week."

Lady Beth whistled. "You don't plan by halves, do you, my dear?"

"I told you my goal—I want women in music, and I want it in this generation. This is where I'm going to start."

"Agreed. And if we're going to allow adjunct private music lessons, we really ought to offer more than voice. What do you recommend?"

"There's no reason why the same model wouldn't work for all the music tutors. I could take a mix of voice and piano, maybe modern flute as well. Hermann Katzberg could teach piano, harpsichord, and possibly the lap harp. I'm sure that Franz could provide a list of men from the orchestra who would teach the various strings." She quirked her mouth sadly. "I wish we had someone to teach guitar."

Lady Beth let the silence grow for a moment. It was obvious that Marla still missed her brother Paul. "If you'd ask Franz, I'd appreciate it," she said at length.

Marla took a deep breath and nodded. Once again she gathered her things and this time she stood. Lady Beth stood as well, holding out her hand.

"I'll see you Monday morning, and we'll get you started." Marla shook hands with her, and started for the door. "And Marla . . . " The younger woman looked back over her shoulder. "I'm really glad you're going to be working with us."

An expression of pleasure crossed Marla's face.

"Thanks, Lady Beth. I'm really glad to be here."

October, 1634

"Marla!"

On her way out of the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, focused on her afternoon schedule, Marla Linder at first didn't react when she heard her name called. When it did register, she turned and waited for the woman who was approaching her.

"Hi, Amber. What are you doing here?"

Amber Higham stopped beside Marla and looked up at her. "I had several items of business in Magdeburg, so I got a substitute teacher for my classes and made the trip."

"So what have you accomplished so far?

"I took a look at the plans for the new opera house to see if I could see any problems from a performing point of view."

Marla grinned. "Yeah, that's exciting. I can't wait for that to be done. They promised sometime next year." She laughed for a moment. "Notice me not holding my breath, though. I remember when the builders ran so long with the addition to the high school my freshman year. So, what else?"

"I just sat in on a discussion between Abbess Dorothea and Lady Beth. The Abbess let it be known she is pleased with the progress the school is making."

"That should make Lady Beth feel good. How long are you going to be in town?"

"I leave tomorrow—I have to be back for homecoming and stuff."

"Ah, yes. Can't miss that."

Amber cocked her head. "So, how are you doing? I hear you're pretty busy these days."

The two women turned and started toward the door.

"Busy . . . that's too mild a word, I think." Marla snorted. "I thought I had a pretty good idea of what this school stuff would be like, what kind of demands it would make. I mean, I had assisted with children's choir at church, even taught it some. I had worked with Mr. Wendell as a student conductor, so I thought I had some idea of how to prepare for that. I had the training to be a teacher after the Ring fell. And I walked that bunch of hard-headed Germans through the history of up-time music last year." The two women shared a smile at that, since the "hard-headed Germans" were Marla's husband Franz and several of their best friends. "But having three sets of preparation to do, plus teach the lessons, plus work on my own repertoire, has turned out to require more time than I thought it would. I've got to spend more time on the Reinecke piece, or I'll never be ready to play it next year."

"Is that the Sonata "Undine" that Heinrich mentioned?"

"Aha! The truth comes out. You came to see Master Schütz." Marla smirked at Amber, who wrinkled her nose back at the younger woman. "Yeah, that's the one." Marla opened the door, and they stepped out into the brisk autumn air. "I only have the music to it because my flute teacher had lent me his copy just before the Ring fell. I heard him play it once, and just absolutely fell in love with it. But it is so hard. I've been practicing for months, and still haven't got the first movement right."

Amber shivered, wrapping her coat around herself. "I think I've heard it done. As I recall, it sounded like a bear. Can you learn it in time?"

"I will do my dead-level best. If I can't play it, it won't be because of lack of trying." Marla tried to calm her doubts with outspoken assurance.

"Then you will succeed." Amber's matter-of-fact acceptance gave Marla a lift. "So, how do you like teaching?"

Marla smiled in a grand way as the two women started down the steps. "Oh, I love it, even with the demands on my time. I've got over fifty girls in the choir now, and it's so much fun. They're still learning to read music and to follow my lead as a conductor, but they're making real progress. We're working on music for a Christmas concert."

"That's good," Amber responded. "How are you voicing them?"

"Soprano and alto, for now. After the first of the year, I'll go to soprano I and II and alto. And my poor alsos, as well."

"Alsos?"

Marla could hear Amber's eyebrows lifting, even though she wasn't looking at her as they walked along. "Yes, the girls who can't sing soprano or alto. They just sing also. I have one girl that seems to be a hopeless monotone, and two, no, three who haven't learned how to sing what they hear." She shuddered. "It's actually worse when they're almost on pitch than when they're not. At least when they're wandering they might accidentally stumble on a harmony."

Amber reached over and patted her on the arm.

"I'm sure you'll do fine, my dear."

"I'll have them for several more years, so maybe I'll get through to them before they leave."

They stopped at the door to Amber's carriage.

"Can I give you a ride anywhere?"

Marla pushed her sleeve up to look at the man's wristwatch strapped to her arm. "Well, actually, I'm running a bit late. If you could drop me by the Academy's building, I'd appreciate it. I really don't want to hear Master Andrea being sarcastic about my being late—again."

"Heavens, we wouldn't want that." The two women shared a smile. "Let's go, then."

It only took a moment to settle in their seats and start the carriage rolling. Marla was enjoying being out of the wind when Amber said, "I meant to tell you, I really enjoyed the performance of Master Giacomo's Lament for a Fallen Eagle the other night. I think his new arrangement of it is even more powerful than the original that you did last year."

"Mmm." Marla closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. "Oh, yes." She opened her eyes again and looked at Amber. "Mind you, I'll always have a fondness for the original solo version, since that was basically written for me. However, having the full orchestra accompaniment and getting to sing with Andrea . . . that was as close to heaven as I've been since the day I got married."

"I suspect Master Giacomo was pleased as well."

Marla laughed. "He was like a kid taken to an ice cream shop and told he could have whatever he wanted. I've never seen a grown man almost giddy, before." She laughed again. "It was really funny during rehearsals. He kept trying to be serious, but then the smiles and chortles would leak out."

The carriage ran over a particularly large bump, which stopped the conversation for a moment.

"So," Amber started again, "I hear you're working on Messiah. What's your progress?"

"Good. Our printers, the Zopffs, have finished printing the vocal parts books that we require. They've passed them to Mappe the binder, who's finished binding Franz's copy of the score and should finish binding the choir copies next week. Then he'll start binding the presentation copies of the score and part book."

"That's very good. Maybe Mary's music account will stop hemorrhaging silver after that." Amber smiled at Marla's stricken expression, reaching across to pat her arm again. "That's one of the things that Lady Beth and I needed to talk about. It's not that bad, dear. And your idea of having the nobility bid on the autographed copies of the first edition has fed a lot of silver back to us."

The carriage pulled to a stop. Marla exited, then leaned back through the door. "Forgot to tell you. Andrea's pretty much done with the vocal auditions. We start rehearsing as soon as the vocal parts books are ready."

"Now there's cause for a hallelujah."

****

Marla opened the door of the house that was the temporary quarters of the Royal Academy of Music, Franz standing behind her. This admitted Friederich Mappe and his journeyman, followed by Patroclus Zopff, all of whose arms were filled with bundles of books.

"We have arrived, Frau Marla," announced the binder, "with the last of the parts books."

"Great! Bring them over here, please." She supervised the placing of the bundles on a side table, then picked one of the books up to examine it. Pages were flipped through, printing was examined randomly, paper binding was tested. The book passed muster with flying colors, and she placed it back in the bundle.

"Good job, both of you. Thank you for a job well done." They shared a moment or two of additional conversation, then the binders excused themselves, leaving Patroclus behind.

"Herr Franz, Frau Marla," Patroclus began, "we have not been so busy working on your order that we have not heard rumors of new printing machines." He raised an eyebrow.

"So have I," Marla replied. "But those rumors are all I know. I suggest you drop in at the Freedom Arches." Patroclus looked surprised. "Hey, those folks will know everything there is to know about what's happening in and coming out of Grantville. If they don't have one to show you, they'll be able to tell you who to contact."

"Hmmph." Patroclus did not look particularly pleased with that recommendation.

"Is there a problem with that?"

"My younger brother, Telemachus, spends every free moment at the Arches, to the neglect of his work."

"Telemachus," Franz mused. "He is the tall youth who was working the press the last time I was in your shop?"

"The same. And when he does come in from his visits, after turning an unhearing ear to our father's remonstrations he will yammer on about what great work the CoC is doing and how important the new printing devices are, all the while making the most elementary mistakes in setting type. I was almost forced to bar him from working on your commissions altogether." The printer shook his head. "He is my father's despair and our family's burden."

"I would say pray for patience," Marla said, "but scripture says that patience comes from trials. I won't wish that on you."

"Thank you. My poor father reads the wisdom of Solomon daily, but finds little that encourages him."

Marla was about to continue her sympathy when a thought struck her. "Patroclus . . . about the new printing devices . . . " He looked to her with interest. "Your brother is not wrong about those. You might talk to Lady Beth Haygood at the school. She said something about purchasing a mimeograph machine for the school. If that's true, she can tell you who to talk to."

"True." Patroclus nodded with a faraway look in his eye. After a moment, his gaze focused on Marla again. "My father and I, we have decided to print another one thousand full scores and five thousand part books."

"Wow." Marla was impressed. "So you're going to go for it, huh?"

"To quote Caesar, 'The die is cast.' Or it will be as soon as we start printing."

"So, what made you decide to commit to this?" Franz asked.

"The timing." Patroclus pulled at his beard with ink-stained fingers. "The next Leipzig book fair will be Easter of next year. By then, the account of your performance will have swept Europe. I will go. Mappe will bind some copies for us, and we will sell either bound copies or unbound signatures." He grinned suddenly, rubbing his hands together. "We will sell many copies, and many printers will want to become our friends." They returned his smile.

Marla expression changed as a thought crossed her mind. "A moment, please, Patroclus." She turned, dug a book out of her portfolio and thrust it in his hands. "This is the next thing the Grantville Music Trust wants you to publish."

Patroclus stared at a garish lavender binding with an unusual font splayed across the front cover. Marla watched as he deciphered the text and sounded out the words.

"Elementary Harmony. Second edition. Robert W. Ottman." He opened the cover and flipped through the pages. "A treatise of some sort, I take it?"

"Exactly," Marla responded. "This is the distillation of musical art from the up-times. I—we—expect this book to be even more influential than Messiah. You want to set this up and start printing lots of copies. Take it to your Leipzig fair. You'll sell a lot of copies of this one."

"One wonders," the printer closed the book, "since this volume is entitled Elementary Harmony, if there is a companion volume devoted to, shall we say, advanced topics?" He looked sidelong at Marla.

"Of course there is," she laughed. "And next year we'll ask you to print it. But we want this one to set the stage and tempt people to buy it. It will make an even bigger splash."

"Indeed." Marla didn't miss the glitter in Patroclus' eye. "We shall endeavor to, ah, splash with fervor." They shared a moment of laughter.

Patroclus stopped smiling. "Umm." He was obviously hesitant about whatever it was he wanted to say, but worked himself up to speaking. "About Eurydice . . . "

"Your sister," Marla prompted.

"Yes." The printer started to pull at his beard again. "Is she . . . you have selected her . . . my father . . . "

Marla started to smile again. "Your father is concerned about the propriety of your sister singing in the community choir for Messiah."

"Yes." Patroclus sagged in obvious relief that he hadn't offended one of their best recent customers.

"You tell your father that Gerde Drechsler is also singing in the choir."

The printer's eyes widened. "The daughter of the goldsmith?" A very well-to-do and influential man in Magdeburg, Herr Drechsler was.

"Yep. You think that will make your father a little more accepting?"

"I believe so."

"Of course, I can talk to him, if you think it would help."

"Oh, no, Frau Marla, that will not be necessary," Patroclus hurried to say.

Marla bit back a grin.

****

The fuze was lit the next evening.

Franz followed Marla and Master Andrea into the room where the choir would rehearse, his precious new copy of the full score of Händel's master work under his arm. He took a seat to one side as Andrea called everyone to order.

"Attention, everyone!" Andrea's voice cut through the clamor rather well, Franz noted, without becoming shrill. "Please sort yourselves out . . . sopranos to my left, then altos, tenors and basses."

There was the sound of shuffling feet as places were adjusted. The noise level dropped to whispers after everyone found their group.

"Welcome. As you know, I am Andrea Abati, one of the two vocal leaders for this work. And this, as most of you know, is Frau Marla Linder, the other vocal leader."

Franz watched as Marla stepped forward.

"Right. Call me Marla. We're all here to do the first performance of a masterwork of a great up-time composer. You have been chosen as the best singers available at this time and place. You will work very very hard. All of us will. You will learn notes, you will learn to pronounce English clearly, you will sing and rehearse until you are ready to drop from exhaustion. We all will. But make no mistake about it—we will do our very best." The expressions on some of the faces that Franz could see were mixed. Some were smiling in anticipation. Some were confused. A few were frowning. "And when we are done, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have participated in something truly historic. In years to come, you will be able to brag to your children and grandchildren that you sang in the first performance of Messiah."

A hand went up in the midst of the group of tenors.

"Frau Marla?"

"Yes?"

"When will we perform this?"

"The week after Christmas."

"Then why are we starting so early? I mean, it is a long work, but even something like this would only get maybe three weeks rehearsal time in the Elector's court."

Franz saw Marla start to respond, but she stopped when Master Andrea looked at her and raised his eyebrows. She nodded, and the Italian master faced the questioner. "And what type of performance was produced from that rehearsal?" His cool soprano voice was straight toned; no sarcasm was to be found, which surprised Franz somewhat. Andrea possessed a tongue that could be razor sharp at times. "Was it perfect? Was it powerful? Or was it only acceptable?"

There was a moment of silence, before the other man was heard to say, "Acceptable."

"This I have observed from watching Herr Sylwester work with the orchestra." Andrea bowed slightly in Franz's direction. "Every performance benefits from as much rehearsal as possible. Our goal is not to make acceptable music. Our goal is to make great music. To make great music requires great commitment. We call you to that now."

"What he said," Marla added when Andrea turned to her. "Now, we are going to hand out the part books. You will be responsible for their care and protection, and for having them here at rehearsals." She looked at them from under lowered eyebrows. "And heaven help you if you lose or mangle your copy. As much as these cost, I will not be happy." Although Marla bared her teeth in what appeared to be a grin, Franz didn't see anyone smiling back at her. It appeared the singers had assessed her attitude and were taking her seriously. That was a good thing in this venue . . . conducive to continued good health and longevity of life.

The next few minutes were occupied by numbering books and assigning them to singers. At length Marla placed the assignment sheet in her portfolio, then turned to where the singers were assembled. Franz watched as she scanned them.

The forty-eight singers were arranged in their sections as Master Andrea had directed them initially. Franz smiled a little—the mixture of boys and women in the sopranos and altos would probably generate some little comment. He remembered Andrea saying that he would accept a pig for the chorus if it could sing to his satisfaction. Well, apparently a pig had not tried out, but there were three boys in the upper parts, as well as a woman standing with the tenors, trying to ignore the sidelong glances she was getting from the men.

"Master Abati tells me that you all can read music to some degree. I know that the style of the notes will be somewhat strange to you, but I promise it will not take long for you to get comfortable with them.

"I will be directing the choir rehearsals, and Master Abati will be working with the soloists. Those of you who are interested in singing solos should speak to him after tonight's rehearsal."

Marla looked around again. "Right. Let's get to it, then. Open your books to page 16. We will begin with the chorus And the Glory of the Lord."

Franz already had his full score open to that selection—page 19, in his book—and had his pencil and paper ready to take notes. He had already faithfully copied the penciled notes from Marcus' original score to his; all the little instructions about who to cue for an entrance and when, comments about tempo and dynamics, even the circles around some of the printed musical directions. Having done that, he was now ready to begin developing his own additions to those notes from watching Marla work with the choir. Once the singers began working with the orchestra, they would be following him, not her, so they needed to see the same approach.

True to her word, Marla worked them hard, first taking each vocal section through their notes several times with Hermann Katzberg playing their parts on the harpsichord. Toward the end of the evening, she finally had them try it all together at a tempo rather slower than the Allegro called for in the music. Even so, Franz could see widened eyes among some of the singers as they began to feel how this chorus should sound with the contrapuntal entries passing back and forth, leading up to moments of true chorale structure, then returning to the counterpoint. The grand forte choral entrance of "And the glory, the glory of the Lord" in the middle of the piece was so together, so strong, that the hairs on the back of Franz's neck stirred. And no sooner had those hairs settled down than they started standing again as the lower voices thundered "For the mouth of the Lord, the mouth of the Lord . . ." and were joined by the higher voices in the fortissimo "Hath spoken it."

Their eyes were glued to Marla, who held them there with her hands for a long moment. Finally she dropped her hands, to the sound of sighs and breath whooshing out of lungs as the singers released their tension. Franz relaxed along with them

"Good job, folks. That's a good start. We've got a fair amount of work to do on it before it will be ready, but that's not bad at all for one night's rehearsal. We will see you in two night's time." The others began stirring around, only to stand still as Marla spoke one more time. "And remember, you don't own those books. You really don't want to know how upset I can get if you lose one."

Franz watched Marla wave at Patroclus, come to walk his sister home, then turned away as the singers picked up coats and headed for the exit. The four of them—Marla, Franz, Andrea and Hermann—walked around, blowing out lamps and snuffing candles. Franz could see that evening rehearsals could get a bit expensive. When he voiced that thought, Andrea replied with, "Three of our singers are students in Marla's academy."

"Not mine," she interjected. "That's Lady Beth's school."

"Very well, the redoubtable Frau Lady Beth Haygood's academy, then. And several of the men work during the day. Dieter, for example, works as a weaver. So we must accommodate them."

"Dieter?" Franz asked, intrigued by the tone of Andrea's voice.

"Dieter Fischer . . . the man in whom I may have discovered the voice that can do Iago."

Franz and Marla rolled their eyes at each other. Once the ground had been broken several weeks ago for the Royal and Imperial Opera House—more familiarly known as "Mary's Opera House", because Mary Simpson had done the initial planning and raised the commitments for the funding—Andrea's obsession for a staging of Verdi's Otello had become, well, obsessive. He had managed to convince those who had a say in the matter that it would be the premiere work for the hall. Now he was searching for voices, and in the process was at times driving his friends to the brink of uncontrollable urges to commit mayhem.

"Dieter Fischer—the big hulking guy on the right?"

"The very one."

"He is that good?" Hermann asked.

Andrea shook his head. "No. He is at the moment very little more than raw talent that has learned to make a note or two. But he could become that good." He gave a slow smile. "And I will see to it that he does so."

Franz looked to Marla and Hermann. They all shrugged in a unanimous show of commiseration for the soon-to-be-harried Dieter.

****

Franz looked up from his conversation with Matthäus Amsel as Isaac Fremdling entered the orchestra rehearsal room. Seeing Isaac brought a smile to Franz's face. Isaac was second only to Matthäus as a violinist, which meant that Franz had included him as part of the orchestra draft for Messiah. He opened his mouth to greet his friend, but closed it as Isaac's expression and lack of instrument registered.

"Where is your violin?" Matthäus asked the question that was foremost in Franz's mind.

"At home," Isaac answered. "Franz, I will not be able to play for you in this work."

Matthäus started to expostulate, but ceased when Franz held up his hand. "Why not?" was his simple response.

"Franz, who am I?"

"Isaac, one of my very best friends." Franz wondered where this was going.

"And?" Isaac was looking at Franz with expectation.

"One of the finest musicians that it has been my very great pleasure to know, hear and play with."

"And?"

The light finally dawned in Franz's mind.

"You are your father's son."

"A Jew, not to put too fine a point on it."

Franz nodded slowly.

"I cannot play or sing in this work. I am sorry." And from the expression on his face, Isaac was indeed regretful. He looked to say something else, but shrugged instead and looked to Franz with a bit of nervousness in his expression.

Franz stood for a moment, then held out his hand for Isaac to grasp. "As you will, my friend. There will be other music to play. Until then."

Isaac wrung Franz's hand strongly, opened his mouth as if to speak, then shrugged again. He touched a hand to his forehead, then turned and left.

Franz and Matthäus stared after him. After a moment, Matthäus stirred.

"Will you let him return later?"

"Of course." Franz stared at his other friend.

"Many of the other musicians will mutter and criticize him and you."

"They have not the right." Matthäus started to object, but Franz held his hand up again. "You know his story. I know you do, for I told it to you." Matthäus nodded, remembering the story of a son declared dead. Remembered, too, how he had shivered when he heard it. "Until the others have paid the kind of price Isaac paid for his music, they have not the right to complain or criticize." Franz quirked his mouth. "And besides, religious toleration is the rule now, remember. Isaac has the courage to stand by his convictions. We should have the courage to respect that."

****

Marla looked out at her girls. "Right. Now that you can read music reasonably well, the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls choir is going to have a Christmas concert." That started a buzz in the ranks. "You're going to learn a lot of new songs, and you'll like most of them." She pulled a sheaf of paper out of her portfolio. Here's the first one."

The next few moments were taken up by the whisper and crinkle of paper being passed. Here and there a giggle punctuated the process.

"Take good care of those pages." Marla hid a grin as she noticed the girls rubbing at the ink on the paper and sniffing it. She'd always hated mimeographed stuff when she was in school, but now that she was on the other side of the teacher's desk she was ever so thankful that Lady Beth had managed to score one of the precious new machines. It had arrived just in time to speed up the music preparation for the choir process quite a bit, and right now she needed every edge she could get. Her already maxed-out schedule was now officially over the line into insanity, what with conducting the Messiah choir rehearsals four nights a week.

One of the girls held up a hand.

"Yes, Albreda?"

"This song is in Latin, Frau Linder."

"Yes, it is. And it won't be the last song you see in Latin, either. For that matter, we'll learn songs in French and Spanish for this concert, as well."

"But I'm not very good at Latin, and I don't know French or Spanish at all!" Albreda was looking a little panicked. Marla remembered that she was one of the scholarship girls. Her father was a mere accounting clerk for one of the master weavers, and she probably hadn't been exposed to other languages much.

"Ah, but you are taking Latin," Marla responded. "So that will help. And for those of you taking French or Spanish, singing songs in those languages will help you learn them. It won't be hard. Promise."

Albreda settled down somewhat, although her eyes were still a bit wide.

"Okay, everyone sing the melody this time through." Marla played an introduction on the piano, nodding where she wanted them to begin. The voices were unsure at first, but after a couple of beats they all came in.

"Adeste fideles

Laeti triumphantes

Venite, venite in Bethlehem . . ."

****

Franz looked to Ralf and Emil. "You are the lead trumpeters. Do you want to play this with the new instruments or the old? I care not, so long as you can play it in the right key."

The two men looked to each other for a long moment. Ralf, the older of the two, finally shrugged. "Let us try it with the new. If need be we can revert to the old valve-less horns, but I would rather have the valves and tuning slides."

"Then get ready, if you will."

The two musicians walked back to their seats. The rest of the orchestra ceased their conversations almost immediately, waiting expectantly. Franz waited until Ralf and Emil were seated and had their instruments in their laps before he stepped onto the podium.

"Section 12, if you please." He waited for pages to finish turning, until he could see everyone's eyes. Once he had their attention, he raised his hands. Instruments were raised to the ready at that signal. The tip of his baton gave very small movements as he counted, "Two, three, four . . . "

The broad downbeat of the Andante con moto beginning of For Unto Us a Child is Born sounded, and Franz led them onward.

****

"No, no, no!" Marla stopped the chorus with a jerk. For a moment, she looked around for something to throw, but by the time she found a pencil her self-control had reasserted itself. "That's not right. It's got to be lighter than that." She searched for an example until a mental light came on.

"How many of you folks saw A Falcon Falls when the ballet company staged that three months ago?"

Most of the almost fifty Messiah chorus members raised their hands.

"Good. You know what you sound like?" Heads shook across the front of the choir. "You sound like those clog dancing soldiers, all heavy feet and no bounce." That got a bit of a laugh.

"You remember how the ballet dancers danced, how they seemed to just barely touch the floor. That's how you must sing right here. You must dance this line, dance it lightly. There will be a time later to be strong, but right here . . . dance it with your voice." Faces showed comprehension, which encouraged Marla. She raised her hands. "From the beginning."

She gave the downbeat for Hermann on the piano, and on the second off-beat the sopranos entered, as lightly as ever she could have wished.

"And He shall purify,

And He shall purify . . ."

"Yes!" She surrendered herself to the flow of the piece.

November 1634

"Thus saith the Lord . . . "

"Stop." Andrea Abati closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Dieter Fischer was still looking at him with that same placid but confused expression he'd been wearing all evening. Andrea scrubbed his hands over his face, then took a deep breath.

"Dieter, you are not singing a ballad to a girl you want to romance." Dieter nodded, just as he had in every conversation they'd already had this evening. "You are the prophet of God here. You are the voice of Haggai. You need to sound like that prophet, not like some love-sick swain mooning after a bit of skirt." Dieter's expression moved toward a frown—or at least as much of one as Andrea had ever seen on his face.

The voice master was beginning to wonder if all the world was playing a practical joke on him. Here, finally, he had found a voice that could sing part of his beloved Otello, and the man could not take direction! It was enough to send him to a monastery—well, maybe not that bad, but still . . .

A thought occurred to him.

"Dieter, have you ever known a stern old priest or pastor with a big voice?"

The confused expression was back, but Dieter nodded. "We lived in Rostock until I was fourteen. Pastor Johannes Quistorp was like that."

"Did he ever give you a fiery scolding?"

"No."

Andrea wanted to scream.

"Did you ever see him scold someone like that?"

A smile dawned on the big man's face, and he nodded. "My uncle." It was apparent he remembered the event well.

"I want you to sing like that scolding, with that kind of scorn and fire. Can you do that for me?" Dieter's eyes lit up; he nodded with fervor. "Good. Hermann, if you please."

Andrea closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall as the harpsichord sounded the introductory measure, waiting for Dieter's entrance.

"Thus saith the Lord,

The Lord of Hosts:

Yet once a little while,

And I will shake . . ."

The voice master's eyes snapped open at the first note. It was rich. It was resonant. It dripped fire and sternness. It was not the least bit romantic. Andrea listened as Dieter completed the recitative, almost spitting out the words and taking the moving lines at a run.

". . . saith the Lord of Hosts."

Dieter's final phrase was stately, proud, and forceful enough that Andrea almost thought he was hearing one of those old prophets. Whoever that old pastor was must be a veritable Elijah, that the thought of him inspired Dieter to this level. Andrea muttered a quick thank you prayer to God for that man.

"Good, Dieter. That is the sound we want." Dieter's smile was back. "Now, let us make it perfect."

****

Despite the cold weather outside, Marla was sweating by the time the evening's rehearsal was over. Part II of Messiah was the longest of the three parts, containing twenty-three sections to part I's twenty-one and Part III's nine.

The first half of Part II was definitely not happy music. And it didn't help that five of Part II's eleven chorus sections occurred in the first seven sections of Part II. By the end of the first two, Behold the Lamb of God  and Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs , Marla's arm felt almost numb from the effort of dragging the singers along. They kept making the basic mistake of allowing the slow sad sections to droop in tempo.

Fortunately, the third and fourth chorus sections, And With His Stripes We Are Healed  and All We Like Sheep Have Gone Astray , were somewhat livelier. The choir did much better with those; enough so that by the end of the rehearsal Marla's mood had improved and her arm felt better. They still needed work, obviously, but a good start had been made tonight.

She dropped her hands from the final cutoff, allowing the chorus to relax.

"Okay, folks, that's it for the night. Look at your music before next rehearsal. Especially the ones we looked at tonight, the ones that seem so slow. We have to do better than we did tonight. We start practicing with the orchestra in a little over three weeks. You have to know your parts by then—all of your parts." She waved at them. "Go home."

Franz came up and set his hands to rubbing her shoulders. She started to melt.

"You are tight tonight."

Marla looked back at him. "What did you expect? You heard them. It was all I could do to keep them within eyesight of the correct tempo for Behold the Lamb of God, and Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs was even worse." She sighed, and leaned back into his arms.

"Do not be so hard, Marla. They do well." She snorted—a ladylike snort, but it was definitely a snort. "'Tis true. At least you've not had to fire any of them."

"True." The thought of what Franz had had to go through with Herwin Vogler made her pause for a moment. It was true; the chorus rehearsals had not had anyone as recalcitrant as the violist that Franz had finally discharged from the orchestra not long before the big concert last July.

Marla's mood mellowed more as the last of the knots were worked out of her neck and shoulders. She turned back to her husband, who brushed sweat-soaked tendrils of hair back behind her ears. "The revolution progresses," he said.

"Yep. But meanwhile, I'm tired. Take me home."

"As you command, my dear."

God Above, she loved that man.

****

Marla answered the knock. She opened the door to reveal a young man carrying a bundle. His family resemblance to Patroclus Zopff was so strong that this must be the storied younger brother Telemachus. Franz stepped up behind her and set a hand on her shoulder as she said, "Yes?"

"Herr Sylwester? Frau Linder?"

"Yes?" This time from Franz.

"I have . . . you must . . . my brother . . . "

Marla bit her lip to keep from giggling as the young man, obviously flustered, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, opened his eyes and started again.

"My name is Telemachus Zopff. I am come from my brother Patroclus Zopff."

Marla had to suppress another giggle as Telemachus rattled that small speech off and released a small puff of breath at the end.

"Come in, then," Franz replied. They stepped out of the doorway to allow the young printer to maneuver his bundle into the house. Marla cleared a space on the table that was serving as a desk. A moment later, Telemachus was unwrapping the bundle.

The first thing the printer held up was a familiar lavender book. "Patroclus says to say that we have completed the setting of the treatise." He handed Marla the book with a flourish. "And here is the final set of proof pages." Telemachus laid his hand on the stack of paper tied with twine.

"Good!" Marla resisted the itch to immediately untie the proof stack and get to work. It would be a bit rude, after all. She smiled at Telemachus, and was rewarded by a shy smile in return.

"Will you take some ale, Herr Telemachus?" The young man nodded vigorously in response to Franz's question. While Franz stepped out of the room to fetch the ale, Marla gestured to the nearby seats, and gathered her skirts to sit. Telemachus followed suit just as Franz reappeared with two mugs of ale for themselves and one of water for Marla. She accepted it with thanks. She still hadn't developed a taste for beer or ale. She probably never would.

"So, what other word do you have from Herr Patroclus?" Marla watched as Telemachus hurriedly swallowed the mouthful of ale he had just taken in, choking a moment or two before the ale decided to descend by its proper passage.

"He also said to say that he has ordered one of the Vignelli duplicating machines." Telemachus' smile flashed again. "Speaking for myself, I am glad he has done so. I think we can make good use of its speed to do broadsheets and pamphlets. And I thank you for mentioning Frau Haygood to my brother, because she it was who convinced him that we should buy it." The smile soured somewhat. "Of course, he says nothing of my suggesting months ago that we should get one."

"Hmm." Franz cradled his mug in his hands. "A not uncommon problem. Scripture says something about a prophet not being honored by his own."

"'For a prophet is not without honor save in his own country.' Matthew chapter 13 verse 57," Telemachus responded. He grinned at their surprise. "It is a favorite verse of the Committees of Correspondence. Not that we . . . they . . . at all compare themselves to Jesus, but we . . . they . . . have a message of truth for our people that seems to be facing similar rejections."

"So you know something of the committees?" Franz asked. Marla had an idea that Telemachus knew rather more of the CoC than his brother suspected, or would approve of.

"I spend time with them," Telemachus said with a defensive air. "I hold to their beliefs, even if Father and Patroclus do not agree. I help at the Freedom Arches when I have some time of my own, which isn't often."

"Why do you support the committees, in the face of your family's disapproval?"

"Because of my family," the young man replied. "Not because I reject them, but because of our history." Marla felt her eyebrows go up, but she said nothing. After a moment, Telemachus continued.

"You know, of course—you must know—my father ensures that everyone knows—that the Zopffs were once the favored printers and publishers of the Elector of Brandenburg." Marla nodded, echoed by Franz. "But do you know why we are no longer in Berlin? Did Father or Patroclus tell you that part of the story?" Telemachus snorted. "Of course not. They never speak of that, to spare the family some form of embarrassment or shame. As if it matters now, twenty years later and across half the Germanies." A large amount of ale was drained from his mug.

Marla waited. She'd been curious for some time as to why the Zopffs were no longer in Berlin.

The story had simple bones, to hear Telemachus tell it. The Elector of Brandenburg was Lutheran prior to 1613. Conrad Zopff, being desirous of pleasing the Elector, made it plain that he and his house were Lutheran as well. He was so much a Lutheran that he would seek out books and pamphlets to print that would assail both popish beliefs and what he would label the 'misguided Calvinists'.

That changed in 1613. The Elector became a Calvinist. Unfortunately, it had not come to the Zopff family's attention that this change was in the wind. Literally two days before that change was announced, Conrad published a particularly harsh, critical and venomous anti-Calvinist pamphlet. Almost overnight the patronage melted away.

"This was before my birth," Telemachus fumed, "but I've overheard enough late night conversations between my father and Patroclus to know the family tried to keep going for two years, hoping that the passage of time would soothe feelings. But the old Elector had a long memory. They were finally forced to leave Berlin before the last of their silver melted away."

Telemachus brooded for a long moment.

"I was born in Erfurt. Countess Anna Sofie Fürstin von Anhalt-Zerbst und Dessau, the wife of Count Karl Günther von Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, heard of our troubles and extended an invitation to my father and grandfather to settle in their lands. We stayed there until the rebuilding of Magdeburg began.

"All the time I was growing up, I heard how the Elector's rejection crushed my grandfather's spirit, how we had come down so far in the world. And even as a lad it made me angry that our lives had been almost ruined because of one man's whim about which church he wished to believe in. I despise the Hohenzollerns, root and branch." The angry glint in Telemachus' eyes was almost enough to be a fire.

"So I work with the committees at every opportunity. Someday that will be my lifework, to help change the world so that such things don't happen again."

****

"Los peces en el rio

Pero mira como beben

Por ver al dios nacido

Beben y beben

Y vuelven a beber

Los peces en el rio

Por ver al dios nacer"

Marla held the last note out, listening to hear if the girls wavered in tone, but they held true. Finally she had mercy on them and cut off the note. There was a melodramatic "Uhhhh" of inhaled air from the front row. "Knock it off, girls." She didn't even look up from her music as she spoke.

There were giggles scattered around the choir. Marla's mouth curved a little as she remembered her junior high days. It still amazed her sometimes that some of the things she'd done in choir hadn't gotten her in serious trouble. Like the time she and Becky . . . well, that didn't bear thinking about.

"Okay, ladies, that was good." Eyes brightened around the room and everyone stood up straighter. The girls had learned that whenever Marla called them "ladies", she was pleased. "The French song next." That drew groans. French wasn't as easy as Spanish or Italian or Latin, and the girls always hoped Marla would overlook that song during choir rehearsal. She never did. You'd think they would have learned.

Marla looked up and raised her hands. The girls snapped to, all eyes on her. Marla hummed a pitch; the girls hummed it back to her. She gave them three small beats, and they began.

"Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle,

Un flambeau, courons au berceau

C'est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau,

Le Christ est né, Marie appelle,

Ah! ah! que la mère est belle,

Ah! ah! ah! que l'Enfant est beau! . . ."

****

Franz set his baton down carefully before looking around at the orchestra. Silence grew as he stared at them, moving from section to section, saying nothing. Bit by bit the smiles of the musicians faded away. At length he spoke.

"Gentlemen, that was almost pathetic." There was iron in his voice. No one would now meet his gaze. "We played this section, this Pastoral Symphony from Messiah, in our concert only four months ago. And we played it well. That is why I left it until now to rehearse again, thinking that you would have retained that work. But now, now we sound like . . . like . . . " Words failed him, and he looked down.

The breathing of over forty men was muted. Someone coughed, sounding like an explosion in the silence.

Franz looked up again, to find every eye now on him. "You are better than this." His voice was quiet but was heard by every ear in the room. "You know that. I know that. Do not shame the name of Master Händel like this." He closed his score.

"I will not accept your complacency. Decide tonight what you will do." Franz gathered his jacket, score and baton, then walked the length of the room to the door.

****

Matthäus Amsel stood and watched as Franz left. The others gathered around him. They all looked at each other as the door closed—all but Matthäus, who continued to stare at the door.

"Will . . . will he tell Master Heinrich?" That was his youngest brother Johann, Matthäus knew. There was muttering among the others.

"No." The lead violinist did not turn around. "He will do no such thing. He would not think of it, unless we drive him to it." Now he turned, and everyone, even his brothers, stepped back. "And that we will not do. We will not fail Master Franz."

It was the first time that any of them had called the young conductor 'Master'. All of them noted it; none of them objected.

"I told you," Matthäus looked around the group, "I told you what he said of Master Abati's words at the choir rehearsal, about the call to greatness. That man . . . " Matthäus pointed to the closed door, " . . . that man has the vision to lead us, to mold us, to make us more than we ever dreamed of being . . . to lead us in making the greatest music that our world, our history, has ever known. And if we will not commit to greatness, he will leave us and find those who will."

There was no sound. Everyone but Matthäus was staring at the floor, clutching instruments and bows in white-knuckled hands.

"This will not happen again." The lead violinist's voice was weighted. The others felt the words as much as heard them. "We will not do this again. Before God, gentlemen, we will never again come to a rehearsal unprepared, or unready to offer less than our very best." There were mutters of agreement. His voice grew colder. "Mark me well, gentlemen. You will answer to me if you do. This will not happen again."

The agreements were louder this time. Matthäus looked around. Everyone caught his eye and nodded.

"Good. Now, there is daylight left. Learn your parts anew."

Simon Bracegirdle stepped to his side as the others took to their chairs and began practicing with fever, fervor and focus. The two of them turned away from the seats and took a few steps towards the door.

"I do not know about them," Simon nodded back toward the others, "but you have convinced me of your intent."

"Good." Matthäus snorted.

There was a moment of silence between them, then he saw the Englishman look to him with a sideways glance. "His gaze marked you as well, then?"

"Oh, aye." Sigh. "Not simply marked, but pierced to the innermost. I almost felt the very Judas in that moment, Simon, almost as if I had betrayed him by being less than the music required. I would rather he had screamed and thrown things." Matthäus' right hand fisted into the palm of his left, again, and once more. "I will not abide that look from him again. And if that means I must belabor you and our fellows, then so be it." He smiled slightly, but the look he turned on his friend had more than a touch of steel to it.

Simon tugged on his forelock in a display of false servility. "Yes, sir, absolutely, sir, without delay, sir."

That sparked a brief laugh in the lead violinist as they turned back to pick up their own instruments and add to the general cacophony within the room.

****

Marla listened as the girls sang the old carol. No way around it, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel just sounded more impressive in Latin than in English—but then, it was originally a Gregorian chant, so it should. The girls were doing a good job, even the ones who a couple of months ago couldn't pitch match for anything.

Ingram had really come through for her when he'd found the two pieces of semi-circular 3 inch PVC pipe. Putting one end by the singer's ear and the other by her mouth really helped each girl to hear what she was singing and how it was different from the others. They would never be world-class singers, but at least they were able to blend in now. The girls thought it was due to some miracle of the plastic. Marla didn't disabuse them of the notion, but she knew that a length of hose or even a similar construct of wood would have done just as well.

The poor monotone, Frieda—such a pleasant child—alas, was still a monotone. Her speaking voice was a little unusual in sound, as well, so Marla wondered if she was a child who had often suffered from ear infections. She'd heard from Aunt Susan that the medical staff had already noted how prevalent some degree of hearing loss was among the down-timers because of the childhood illnesses that were suffered without antibiotics.

It was fortunate that Frieda's voice was soft and didn't carry beyond an arm's length. Stationed in the center of the choir, with strong voices surrounding her, she was not noticeable.

They finished the song and Marla cut them off with a circular motion of her hand. "Very good, ladies." She almost laughed as the girls preened a little. Such vain creatures they were, but so much fun.

"Gerde, pass out the new song." As the mimeographed sheets were being passed amidst murmurs and the rustle of pages, Marla continued. "This one's in Italian. Most of you have had enough Italian or Spanish to have a good guess at how the words should sound. We'll go through it once to get a feel for it, then we'll start working notes and words. Ready?"

The girls nodded, caught the pitch that Marla hummed to them and hummed it back. She gave them the preparatory beats, and they began.

"Tu scendi dalle stelle

O Re del Cielo

E vieni in una grotta

Al freddo al gelo

E vieni in una grotta

Al freddo al gelo . . ."

****

The Green Horse was in full form tonight, Isaac decided as the noise poured out through the doorway. He stepped around a man who was leaving, made his way to the bar and ordered ale.

"It is good to see you tonight, Herr Fremdling." The tavern owner set the mug on the bar. "I miss you and your friends playing."

Isaac looked around the crowded room, and laughed. "It does not look as if you miss us much."

"Oh, aye, I've the custom," the other man shrugged. "But I miss the music. Especially the Irish songs. Frau Marla could make a stone weep or a cripple dance."

"Aye, that she can. But, as the Grantvillers say, she and the others are up to their eyebrows in other work. I would not expect to see her much before January, my friend. But I will remind them of our promise to play here. They will come."

The tavern owner was called to another customer. Mug in hand, Isaac turned to face the room. He hadn't expected to see anyone he knew, but standing there across the room was Lucas Amsel, waving at him. Isaac waved back and made his way across the room to the table, where he found Lucas fulfilling his role as Master Schütz's attendant, companied with his three brothers and a man he did not recognize.

"Isaac," Master Schütz said in his rich and resonant voice. "Be welcome. Do you know Herr Patroclus Zopff?"

From the ink on his hands, this must be one of the family of printers. Isaac knew of their connection with Marla's projects, which explained why the man was known to the master musician.

"I have not had the pleasure, master." The next few moments were spent in introductions. Lucas and Johann Amsel squeezed together even more to make room on their bench for Isaac.

"So, young Isaac, how goes it with you this season?" Master Schütz focused his interest on Isaac.

"Well enough, sir. I participate in the orchestra rehearsals that do not involve Messiah." Master Schütz, of course, had heard of Isaac's decision. "I play at weddings and parties and teach violin to students, one or two of which may become passable players if they exert themselves even a little."

"Ha! That is always the problem, is it not—the exertion. As others have discovered recently." Master Schütz directed a sidelong glance to the other players at the table. Isaac was surprised to see Johann blush and Marcus and even Matthäus look somewhat discomfited. He looked to them with expectation. "Go on. Tell him."

"We, ah . . . the orchestra grew lazy, and came to rehearsal a few days ago with most of us unready to play the selection scheduled for work."

Isaac whistled. "Oh, my . . . " He almost choked to avoid saying the name of the Most High. "Not a good idea, my friends."

"So we discovered." Matthäus looked down at his mug. "I have not felt so flayed in years."

"But he was so quiet," Johann spoke up, himself barely audible in the noise of the common room. "He did not rant, he did not shout, he was not mean at all. Yet I felt so horrible after he left."

"There are those who can do that," Schütz chuckled. "You would not think it of him, but it is the quiet ones who will most surprise you. And it is their criticisms that hurt the most . . . especially when they are well-deserved."

"Truth," Isaac said. "He stands in Frau Marla's shadow so much, it is often surprising to know just what our Franz is capable of. You see her, you overlook him." Heads nodded around the table. "Yet consider this . . . for all that Frau Marla may be strong-willed, resolute and . . . intense, shall we say . . . for all of that, Franz is her equal. Our friend Rudolf once said that her spine is fashioned of sword steel. I tell you that Franz is as strong, if quieter.

"They are so alike in so many ways, not least of which is their passion for the music; they will tell you the truth as they know it, no matter the cost to themselves; and what they say, they will do."

"That is comforting to hear." Patroclus waved at a passing barmaid and handed her his mug. "For I tell you that I have wagered the future of my family on what they say."

"The printing for the Leipzig book fair?" Master Schütz questioned.

"Aye, but even more than that, the tying of our business so closely to them. We turned down work to complete the music printing projects. I fear we may have lost customers. The trip to the Leipzig fair will drain most of our funds. If things do not go well, we may be forced out of business."

"Fear not. They have, if anything, understated the impact of this music and the treatise. Your fortune will be made from these, and the other things they will bring you to print."

The refilled mug appeared on the table. Patroclus lifted it, looking at Schütz over the rim as he took a long pull. He seemed to find reassurance in the lined face of the older musician.

"Truth," Isaac repeated. "Just as Grantville cannot be ignored in the areas of the mechanical arts, in politics and in philosophy, so she cannot be ignored in music. Herr Patroclus, ere long every musician of any note will know of the up-time music. There are those who will try to ignore it—they will not succeed. There are those who will try to fight it—they will be no more successful than those who ignore it. There are those who will try to take control of it—they will also fail. But those who embrace it—ah, they are the ones who will write the music of the future.

"My friend, the bell of the universe has been rung. The reverberations will resonate for generations. Everything will change, just because Grantville is here. There is no escaping that. But those of perception, who have the courage to grasp an opportunity when it presents itself, those folk will prosper."

"Well said," Master Schütz declared. "Wisdom indeed, Herr Patroclus, if you will hear it." The printer gave a slow nod, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The conversation turned to lighter things for some time. At last, both Herr Zopff and Master Schütz claimed a need to prepare for the morning. They left, Lucas trailing in the master's wake.

Isaac and the remaining Amsels called for one more round of ale, then spent some time talking about the orchestra rehearsals. Isaac was hungry to hear how things were progressing. He knew when he made the decision that not playing for Messiah would be difficult to bear. It had proven to be difficult indeed. But he would not back away from his choice to honor the faith of his fathers.

That conversation wound down at last.

"I leave you with one last thought, my friends." Isaac prepared to go. "Franz was annealed in a very hot furnace indeed, and the blows of the smith were hard. 'Twould be wise to not stand against him."

"Funny." Matthäus gave a wry grin. "He says much the same of you."

December 1634

The rehearsal was going well, Franz decided as he paused between sections for a breath. It was the first of three planned complete run-throughs of Messiah before the first performance. The orchestra had risen to his challenge and begun producing the sound they were capable of. The chorus had been practicing with the orchestra for the last two weeks. Marla had turned the directing responsibilities over to him with some show of relief, taking her place in the rear ranks of the soprano section along with Master Andrea. The resulting increase of soprano sound had served as a challenge to the other sections, with the result that the entire chorus was singing both better and, when needed, louder.

They had completed Part 1 without incident and had moved on to Part II. Franz guided the musicians through the opening sections. He was gratified that the chorus in particular had taken to heart Marla's instructions in "Behold, the Lamb of God" and "Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs" and was keeping to the tempos he set. And the chorus had produced a stirring sound in And With His Stripes We Are Healed.

That brought them to one of Franz's favorite sections, All We Like Sheep. He raised his hands. It took longer than usual for everyone to settle and focus on him. The male voices in particular seemed a bit restive. Well, that was to be expected the first time through a full performance. All the previous rehearsals had been broken up by the stops called by the directors to address flaws and weaknesses. Not tonight. It was full steam ahead—whatever that Grantville expression really meant—with only the shortest of pauses between the selections. It required standing still from the singers and focus from everyone.

When the desired calm and focus arrived, Franz began. He cued the chorus entry right after the second beat. Two statements of "All we like sheep," and the parts were off on their contrapuntal chases of each other.

The performers had not progressed far into the piece when it happened. Twice the chorus had returned to the theme "All we like sheep." After the second time, the tenors and basses were supposed to sing a moving line of "have gone a-stra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay." What was sung was "Baa-baa-baa-baa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa."

Franz was looking to the cellos and basses at that moment, preparing to give a cutoff. It took a beat or so for the sound to register. His eyes cut to the chorus, and his baton froze in mid-air. The chorus and orchestra faltered to a halt a moment or two later . . . and everyone dissolved in laughter.

There atop the heads of every grinning tenor and bass were constructions obviously meant to be rams' horns. That on Dieter's head was truly impressive. He had somehow contrived to craft a set of horns out of paper that did a full curl, with the tips jutting out past his mouth. His "fleece" was more noteworthy as well; where the others had used curled wood shavings or strips of cloth or paper, Dieter had made his out of many short scraps of yarn, obviously acquired from the cloth manufactory at which he worked. The many colors produced an odd but still impressive effect. And somehow he had managed to blacken the tip of his nose with charcoal. Yes, there was no doubt that Dieter was the alpha ram of the flock.

After the initial moment of shock, Franz's first thought was that Marla had set up another joke. He shot a glance at his wife, to find her leaning on Master Andrea. The two of them were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down their faces. Marla caught his look and, reading his expression, shook her head.

Franz looked back to the men, and as he did so noticed that his hands were still suspended in the air. Chuckling, he lowered them, set his baton down and began to clap. Within a moment, the orchestra and the sopranos and altos had followed suit.

The applause lasted for some little time. It finally dwindled and faded away, replaced with chuckles, giggles, and the flourishing of handkerchiefs all over the room as people dried their eyes and blew their noses. After a moment, Franz held up his hand for their attention.

"Well, I see that we have been visited tonight by Brillo and his gang of scruffy, rascally rams, come from Franconia." Laughter welled again, and Dieter stuck his thumbs under his suspenders and beamed. "Well done, my friends. You have given us a moment to laugh together. I also declare that you are probably the slyest bunch of japesters I have encountered in some time, surpassing even Simon Bracegirdle." Simon adopted an expression of mingled shock and hurt after hearing his name slandered, which caused a moment of laughter in the orchestra.

"We have had our moment of fun, friends." Franz got serious again. "Now let us return to our work." He shot a mock glare at those who were doffing their ram hats. "And if I hear another 'Baa', someone shall become a wether instead of a ram."

"If it would make us sing like Master Andrea," Dieter rumbled, "it might be worth it, Master Franz."

Andrea straightened from where he had been whispering to Marla. "Actually, boys, I believe my surgeon is still practicing. I am certain I could arrange for him to come to Magdeburg." The women laughed to hear the rapid negative expostulations from the men.

Franz rapped his baton on the music stand. "Tenors and men . . . " He gave a grin and lifted his hands. "Measure 19—where we left off before the sheepish interruption." He gave the downbeat and they were off again; this time with the right words.

****

"Are you sure you did not put them up to that?"

Marla laughed in response to Franz's question after the rehearsal. "No, love, I didn't. Although I might have, if I'd thought about it."

Franz looked to Andrea, who held up his hands. "Nor did I. I wish I had. The expression on your face was beyond all price." The three of them shared another quiet laugh.

A thought occurred to Franz. "Master Andrea, if my comment concerning wethers and rams offended you in any way, please accept my apologies."

"None needed, my friend." Andrea waved a hand as if to brush something away. "What you said was nothing compared to the quips and gibes we of the gentilhuomi make among ourselves." He chuckled for a moment, then grew serious again. "No, I, ah, 'came to grips' with what had been done to me years ago. And though there are times when I still wonder what I would otherwise have been, on the whole I am content, even in the midst of this barbaric wasteland."

Andrea smiled to take the sting from the last comment, then continued. "No, the only deprivation I really felt was the lack of a successor. My brothers carried on the family name, but I had no one to follow me . . . until I came to Magdeburg. Now, in Marla, Dieter and others, I have my legacy. I am content."

Thursday, December 21, 1634

The Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle

Marla looked at her clothes laid out on the bed. She had decided several weeks ago that she wouldn't dress in one of her performance gowns for this concert. This was the girls' night, not hers, so she had selected clothes that were good but not ornate, in order that most of the attention would be focused on them.

She smiled as she thought of working with Frau Schneider the seamstress to create clothes she could wear for teaching. She didn't want more of the Empire gowns. They would have cost too much. Fortunately, the good Frau had been working on new designs of divided skirts, one of which was very close to what Marla had been looking for. In a few days, she had taken ownership of several ankle length skirts that, while not as full as a down-time dress, did have something of a flow to them while she moved. They weren't jeans, but they did qualify as pants . . . sort of.

Most of the skirts were of durable, serviceable material . . . things that would wear well and hold up under the stress of a school teacher's work day. The day she ordered them, however, Frau Schneider had a piece of velvet that was the shade of claret, or maybe merlot . . . a dark wine, anyway. Marla hadn't been able to resist ordering one skirt in that fabric, and now it lay on the bed.

Marla reached out a hand to stroke the blouse that lay beside it. Alison, her mother, was a good two and one-half inches shorter than her daughter, and had generally worn her skirts above the knee, so after the Ring fell there was nothing in her closet in the line of dresses, pants or skirts that would fit Marla. Above the waist, however, they were very close in size, and Marla had drawn several shirts, blouses and sweaters from that closet when she moved to Magdeburg. The best of them lay on the bed with the long skirt.

It was a white silk blouse, with long sleeves and a tall collar. Marla's vision blurred as she remembered how much her mother had loved wearing it. Slow tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled the memories of the last time she had seen her mother in it, laughing, on the way to a Christmas party with her father. Three and a half years later, it still hurt to think that she'd never see them or her brother again.

"Stupid," she muttered, wiping her face with sharp movements. "She'd want you to wear it."

A few minutes later, just as she was ready to put the finishing touches on her ensemble, Franz entered the room. "Marla, it is almost time to . . . " He stopped dead in his tracks. After a moment, he smiled. "I thought you said you were 'dressing down.'"

"I am." She twirled in place.

"My dear, you will capture the eye of everyone in the room; the men with admiration, the women with jealousy."

"Piffle. Help me with this, please." She handed him the ribbon that matched the hue of her skirt. Mounted on it was the only piece of jewelry she had from her mother.

Alison Linder hadn't possessed much real jewelry, and most of what she did have was on her person the day the Ring fell and she was left up-time. But she had left behind in her jewelry box a Victorian-era cameo that had belonged to Alison's great-grandmother Dorcas, the one she had always said was half Black Irish and half Cherokee. It was ivory, somewhat yellowed with age, but Marla had mounted it on the new ribbon, wanting to wear it for the sense of connection it gave her. Between the blouse and the cameo, she felt as if somehow these women would know what she was doing, what she had become.

Franz stepped behind Marla, looped the ribbon over her head and drew the ends together, fastening the hook and eye. Marla turned to face him. He shook his head.

"Hopeless."

"What?" Marla looked at him with a bit of suspicion.

"No one will look at the girls."

Marla slapped his arm. "Stop it." She looked at her watch. "Yikes! We've got to go!"

"That's what I was saying." Franz followed her out of the room.

****

Where has the year gone? Lady Beth wondered. It seemed like only last week that she had moved to Magdeburg in the spring to assume the administration of the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, yet here it was only a few days before Christmas. She settled back in her chair next to Casey Stevenson at the rear of the pack of patrons, families and teachers, waiting for the first annual DESSSFG Christmas Choir Concert to begin.

Casey, who had been looking around, now leaned over toward her boss. "Quite a crowd we've got here. More than just parents."

"Yep. As soon as word started getting around about this concert, I had patrons and parents and prospective parents sending notes and requesting seats. It looked for a while like I was going to have to ask Marla to schedule two performances, but at the end we didn't need to." She looked around the very full great room of the townhouse that was the temporary location of the school while their permanent buildings were under construction. The Zopffs were to her right; the Drechsler family was ahead and to her left. "But it was close. We might could squeeze two or three more people in here—but maybe not."

At that moment the side door opened and the girls—sorry, the young ladies—walked in and arranged themselves on the three rows of the risers that Marla had commissioned. Lady Beth smiled a little as she remembered Marla's adventures in getting the risers built. First there was the problem with the design: she wanted them to fold up for portable use. It took some work with a carpenter to achieve that. Then she wanted them carpeted on top to muffle footsteps—until she saw the cost of the cheapest carpet available. After that, a good dark stain was fine. Lady Beth still wasn't sure where they were going to store the risers after the concert, but she knew there had to be the odd nook or cranny around a house like this.

A disturbance sounded behind them, and both Lady Beth and Casey looked over their shoulders. Lord Above, it was Mary Simpson and Princess Kristina coming in the door! Lady Beth stood and moved to greet them, asking herself what they were doing here. A moment's thought told her the answer was pretty obvious. From the footsteps behind her, she knew that Casey was following.

"I'm sorry," Mary whispered after Lady Beth made her quick curtsey to the princess. "Princess Kristina just heard about the concert a little while ago." Mary gave a small shrug.

The young princess stared up at Lady Beth. "Frau Haygood, I would really like to hear this concert." Her face had a composure that seemed beyond her years.

Lady Beth thought for a moment, "Princess, you can have my seat, and two of my teachers will give theirs up for Mrs. Simpson and Lady Ulrika." She cast a quick glance over her shoulder to Casey, who read the message and swiftly moved back to their row to get Staci Matowski out of her seat as well.

"My thanks to you," the royal daughter replied. Mary Simpson mouthed "Thank you" over the head of the princess.

Lady Beth became aware of rustling and murmuring behind her. She turned to lead the princess and her companions to their seats and was faced with the sight of the entire audience standing. That took her aback for a moment, until it dawned on her that the princess was a member of the royal family and this was a formal occasion. No one would be seated while she was standing.

Casey hurried back to Lady Beth's side. "We can't put them in our seats in the back row," she whispered. "We moved three chairs down front and made the front row that much wider. They have seats in the middle, right next to Duchess Sofie and her parents."

"There was room?" Lady Beth hissed.

"Barely."

Lady Beth straightened and turned to the princess. "If you'll come this way, Your Highness." She led the way to the front of the audience, then gestured to the empty seats. Princess Kristina seated herself on the center chair, wiggling a little to set her back against the back of the chair. She looked around with aplomb, feet not quite touching the floor. There was another rustle of movement as the audience resumed their seats.

Mary Simpson stepped to Lady Beth's side as Lady Ulrika sat to the princess' right. "I owe you one," Mary murmured.

"Too right you do." They exchanged small smiles as Lady Beth passed some programs over, then Mary took her seat as Lady Beth returned to the rear of the room and joined Casey and Staci standing against the rear wall.

"I thought you said there were two or three seats left open," Casey muttered.

"I guess I was wrong." Lady Beth straightened up as the side door opened again and Marla stepped through. "Oops. Here we go."

****

Marla closed the door almost all the way after her girls walked out, leaving it open just a crack to peer through. She waited for them to arrange themselves on the risers, waiting for her moment to walk out. Just as she was about to do so, three people came in the back of the room. A moment later, Lady Beth and Casey were up and talking to them. Marla's jaw dropped as she recognized who the late visitors were. She spun from the doorway.

"Franz!" Marla hissed. "It's Mary and Princess Kristina! What are they doing here?"

Franz stepped over and applied an eye to the crack. "Well, at a guess, it appears the princess has come to hear the concert, bringing Frau Mary with her as a companion."

Marla backed up, wiping her hands on the jacket she was wearing. "Nobody told me they were coming."

"Mm-hmm." Franz was still looking through the crack. "From the looks of it, no one told Frau Lady Beth either. Some of the teachers are moving chairs down to the front row."

"That's not fair," Marla muttered.

Franz turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You have performed before her before."

"But that was different."

"In what way? You sang, and played your instruments. Remember how Maestro Giacomo described conductors—we are those who play the musicians. There is no difference between using your hands to evoke music from the piano and using them to evoke music from those girls. Now go," he slipped the jacket from her shoulders, "go and make music."

Marla took a deep breath. Franz was right—there was no difference. It didn't matter who was in the audience; she was ready, the girls were ready, it was time to sing. She turned and gave him a kiss. He touched her nose afterwards and she wiggled it in reply, bringing forth the smile it always did. Bowing, Franz opened the door. She squared her shoulders, and stepped forth.

****

Lady Beth watched as Marla strode out to stand in front of the risers. In the soft light of the great room, wearing the deep red skirt and gleaming white blouse with long black hair falling past her shoulders, the young woman looked very stately as she took a bow in acknowledgment of the applause.

"She looks just like she knows what she's doing," Lady Beth murmured. She didn't realize she'd said anything out loud until Casey leaned over to her.

"She does," Casey whispered. "Mom was one of her first teachers, so I've kind of kept up with what she's been doing over the years. She's very good."

"Yeah, but being good yourself doesn't mean you can teach it. How many mechanics or flat-picking guitarists have you seen that know how to do the work but couldn't put it in words to save themselves?"

"Ssh. She does. Watch."

****

Marla turned to face her girls. Everyone was in their best dress, faces were scrubbed clean, and most of them were smiling. A few looked nervous, but most were smiling. She looked at them all, gathering their eyes with her own. When they were all focused on her, she touched her chin with her index finger, the signal that she was ready to begin. Smiles disappeared as the girls seemed to lean forward a little, watching her intently. Marla hummed a pitch; they hummed it back. She raised her hands, gave the subtle movements of the right hand that gave them the beat, and began.

****

"Veni, veni Emmanuel!

Captivum solve Israel!

Qui gemit in exsilio,

Privatus Dei Filio.

Gaude, gaude, Emmanuel

Nascetur pro te, Israel."

"She's not using music," Lady Beth hissed.

"I told you," Casey whispered back, "she's good."

"Veni, Veni O Oriens!

Solare nos adveniens,

Noctis depelle nebulas,

Dirasque noctis tenebras.

Gaude, gaude, Emmanuel

Nascetur pro te, Israel.

Veni, Veni, Rex gentium,

Veni, Redemptor omnium,

Ut salvas tuos famulos

Peccati sibi conscios.

Gaude, gaude, Emmanuel

Nascetur pro te, Israel."

Lady Beth joined in the applause. She didn't understand the Latin very well, but she had heard the English words in her mind, and 'O Come, O Come, Emmanuel' was one of her favorites. What the girls had sung was absolutely beautiful—a unison sound, so pure it was almost perfect, quiet enough that it seemed hushed, loud enough that everyone in the great room could hear it. Chills ran up her spine and the hair on her neck tingled.

She leaned back over to Casey. "Okay, she knows what she's doing.

****

The rest of the concert held true to the spirit and sound of that first selection. And what impressed Lady Beth was all were sung without accompaniment, yet the young voices were true.

Adeste Fideles—also in Latin, of course. O Come, All Ye Faithful, to Lady Beth.

Joy to the World in English.

Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle in French. Lady Beth kept singing 'Bring a torch, Jeannette, Isabelle,' under her breath until Casey poked an elbow into her ribs.

Greensleeves in English.

Los Peces in el Rio in Spanish. Lady Beth didn't recognize it.

Coventry Carol in English. She sort of knew this one.

In Dulci Jubilo in Latin and German. Lady Beth knew it as 'Good Christian Men, Rejoice.'

Tu scendi dalle stelle in Italian. Another one Lady Beth didn't recognize, but very pretty nonetheless.

Marla had made short little introductions to each of the subsequent pieces of the concert, repeating some of the information in the printed programs. True to form, she turned and spoke to the audience again. Lady Beth admired how polished her German had become.

"For the last song on the program, we will sing a song written in the up-time by a German pastor, Johann Grüber. Those of you who heard my recital last year heard this song then. I trust you will enjoy it."

Marla turned back to the girls. A moment later, her hands were in the air, and they began.

"Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

Alles schläft, einsam wacht

Nur das traute, hochheilige Paar,

Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh'!

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh'!

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

Hirten erst kund gemacht

Durch der Engel Halleluja

Tönt es laut von fern und nah:

'Christ, der Retter, ist da!'

'Christ, der Retter, ist da!'

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht

Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund,

Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund'.

Christ, in Deiner Geburt!

Christ, in Deiner Geburt!"

Lady Beth had a good vantage point from where she stood in the back of the room. She watched as Marla's expressive hands shaped the music coming from the fifty-plus girls on the risers. She listened to the purity of the voices, to the sound of love expressed, and was brought to the point of tears. It wasn't a bravura performance of what was to her a beloved old carol, but it was one of the most beautiful she had ever heard.

There was a hush after the song ended. It stretched for a moment, until Marla dropped her hands and stepped to one side. Then the applause erupted. Marla waved to the girls, and they took a bow as the applause continued. Finally, as the applause began to wane, Marla held up a hand and stepped to the center again.

"Thank you. On behalf of the girls, thank you for your support." She looked back over her shoulder at the girls, then looked back with a mischievous grin on her face as the girls started to giggle.

"Uh oh." Lady Beth wasn't sure what was coming next, but she was certain that it was going to be something unexpected.

"As it happens, we have one last song to sing tonight, even though it's not in the program. It's a fun song, so we hope you enjoy it as well."

Lady Beth sagged back against the wall with visions of the girls singing 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus', or something equally inane. She watched as Marla raised her hands again and launched the girls into song.

The melody was very familiar. She recognized it in the first measure of the song. But the words—they weren't what she expected. It wasn't until the first phrase was completed that Lady Beth realized what she was hearing. She clapped both hands over her mouth to keep herself from laughing out loud until she could gain control of herself. Once she thought she could trust her voice, she dropped her hands and leaned over to Casey, who had a hand up to cover her face as her shoulders shook.

"Tell me . . . " Lady Beth had to stop and force down a giggle that was trying to climb out of her throat. "Please tell me that isn't 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer' in Latin."

"I can't . . . " Casey whispered back, " . . . because it is."

"Where . . . how . . . "

"Marla showed me the music. An up-time church music director named Philip Brunelle did it. I don't know where she found it."

"You knew about this?" Implied was, "and you didn't tell me?"

"Mm-hmm. She wanted it to be a surprise."

Lady Beth forced more giggles down. "Oh, it is that."

The song finished a moment later, amidst the chuckles and guffaws and clapping of the parents and patrons. As she joined the laughter and applause, Lady Beth decided that not only was the concert a success, but so was Marla.

Monday, January 1, 1635

The Feast of the Solemnity of Mary

Master Giacomo Carissimi looked around the great room. In front of him he could see Admiral Simpson and Mary, returned from her adventures. He could see a few other naval uniforms in the room. With Mary and the admiral were Jere and Lady Beth Haygood, Mary's voice and hand for the arts programs in Magdeburg. The two women were looking at the program and chattering away. Giacomo smiled when he noticed that both husbands looked to be a bit bored.

Giacomo's friend Girolamo Zenti sat to one side. To the other was Master Heinrich Schütz with Amber Higham on his arm and accompanied by his assistant Lucas Amsel.

He was ready for the Royal and Imperial Opera Hall to be completed. This time next year the concerts would perhaps be held in a proper hall, not just in the biggest room that could be found.

Conversations washed around him as he thought about that: about the stage where operas –including his own Brutus, completed earlier in the year— and ballets and concerts would be staged, about the organ to be built, about the oh so many details that had to be worked out with Kelly Construction and then monitored. A lot to do . . . but when it was done, what a pleasure it would be!

"Master Giacomo!" Girolamo's voice was quite loud.

He was startled. "Yes?"

Everyone laughed.

"See?" Girolamo said. "He was off in paradise, thinking about something undoubtedly to do with music. What was it this time, master, the treatises to be published?"

"No," Giacomo replied. "If you must know, I was thinking about the new opera hall." His expression was sober, but when everyone laughed he laughed with them.

At that moment, as if by signal, people all over the room began standing. Within a moment, everyone was standing, including Giacomo and his friends. He watched as the royal family, King Gustav and Princess Kristina, proceeded to the royal seating area, followed by the Stearns family and Don Francisco Nasi. Once the king was seated, everyone sat.

Giacomo leaned forward a little with anticipation.

****

Franz stepped through the door of the great room and strode to the podium. He already knew the room was filled to the bursting point. Marla had already told him that up-time fire-marshals (whatever they were) would have prevented the performance on the grounds of too many people in the building. There were more people here than for the July concert, more glittering dress, more jewels, more . . . everything. Some of that was due to Mary Simpson being present in Magdeburg again, spurring her arts league cohorts to achieve her goals. But even more of it was due to the two people present in the royal seats tonight. He came to a stop beside the podium, laid his hand on the music stand and made two bows: one directly to the presence of Princess Kristina and her father, Gustav Adolph II, King of Sweden and Emperor of the United States of Europe; the other to the audience in general.

****

Marla was so excited she was almost vibrating where she stood next to Master Andrea in the front row of the soprano section. This was it! Tonight! The first performance of Messiah in this universe, this history, this Europe, the first of several performances this week. She was sure that the audience of nobility and influential burghers would accept it. But to her, because of the work of the Zopffs, this was the first step in bringing all of the up-time music to Europe. Tonight!

Master Andrea leaned toward her ever so slightly, and whispered from the side of his mouth, "Stop bouncing!"

****

Franz stepped onto the podium and drew his baton from his sleeve. Holding it in both hands, he looked around the performers gathered before him; the orchestra on the floor, and the choir of fifty voices on the risers behind the instruments. His gaze ended on his wife, almost luminescent in her blue gown, and he touched a fingertip to his lips for her. Her smile broadened as he thought he saw her nose wiggle in reply.

He looked down at the baton held before him in both hands and took a deep breath. When he raised his head again, he found all eyes on him, waiting expectantly. With deliberation he raised his hands. Instruments were lifted to the ready positions. Vocalists focused on him even more intently.

With a slight lift of the baton, he led them into the wonder of Messiah.

****

Master Heinrich Schütz closed his eyes and let his chin rest on his chest. His statement at the beginning of the Messiah adventure that he had expected to learn from Master Händel had been nothing but the truth. He had studied the music until he almost had the full score—he had copy number two—memorized. He had been present in as many of the rehearsals as he could manage, including two of the full dress rehearsals. But tonight, tonight was when he would put the capstone on his learning, here in the audience as it was performed for the first time. Here where he would feel the feelings of the audience.

Schütz had learned much of the man Johann Sebastian Bach, had read and heard much of his music. There was no question in his mind that of the two, Bach and Händel, Bach was the superior musician. His music was often exquisite, often powerful, and always so very well done. As a contrapuntalist, in particular, Händel could not be compared to Bach. Yet Schütz in many ways preferred Händel's music—there was a quality to it, a . . . a vivacity in most of it that was sometimes lacking in Bach's. And so, tonight, he was to hear the masterwork of Georg Friederich Händel.

The opening chorale section of the opening section, the Sinfonia, sounded, forte and deliberate. It was indeed a stately piece, and Schütz soaked it in. It repeated in a piano dynamic, almost as if there was a quiet echo in the room, concluding in a sustained chord.

He opened his eyes to watch as Franz gave the cut-off for the chord, then literally in the next moment gave the attack to begin the fugal section of the Sinfonia. The violins carried the opening line alone, until four quick measures later Franz cued the second violins to their entrance, followed four measures later by the violas, cellos and basses. There had been several discussions, Heinrich remembered, as to what tempo this section should be played at—the slower tempo that was the score's direction, or the faster tempo that was more traditionally used. He was glad to hear that Franz had settled on the latter.

Eyes closed again, Schütz listened as the string parts chased each other through the fugal section, now forte, now mezzo-forte, now forte again, until they reached the concluding chords.

****

There was something in the air tonight, Marla decided; something that conducted excitement. The choir had reached that fine point where every person was so focused, so poised, so ready for what was coming that the air almost sizzled. Her brother would have said they had their game on.

The tenor soloist stepped forward. Archard Daecher looked like a walking skeleton, but the young man had a voice that in its own way was nearly the equal of Dieter Fisher's. Marla could see heads nodding in the audience as he sang the opening words of the arioso Comfort Ye, My People.

****

"The voice of him

That crieth in the wilderness,

'Prepare ye the way of the Lord.

Make straight in the desert

A highway for our God.'"

Master Giacomo Carissimi sighed as the tenor arioso ended with that declamation. Such a strong voice. Such precision in the singing. His friends Master Andrea and Frau Marla had done well indeed in preparing the singers if they were all up to this plane of musical offerings.

****

Mary Simpson smiled as the tenor launched into the air Every Valley Shall Be Exalted. Oh, how she had missed this music. It had been part of the annual cycle of great music that had once been part of her life as the Lady of Pittsburgh. Every Christmas and Easter, all or part of Messiah was being performed somewhere in town, and she almost always managed to attend at least one performance. She hadn't realized how much she had missed it until she made it back to Magdeburg after her adventures and discovered that her arts league had marched on without her. Did they ever! First the July orchestra concert, and now this staging of the greatest of oratorios, which did a lot to fill a void in her heart.

She was glad that Marla wasn't so traditional that she staged the work in the original voicing and instrumentation. Mary had never been fond of the massive performances that had been so common at one time—three hundred voice choirs, and the like—but she did like something larger than the sixteen singers and twenty instrumentalists that were what Handel—no, Händel, must get that right—had used in the original performances. The fuller sound was appropriate.

Mary shook her head. Enough thinking, woman. Listen to the music. She abandoned herself to the sound of the finest of the tenor selections of the work, letting the sheer beauty of it drive every thought from her mind.

****

The evening progressed. The opening chorus And the Glory of the Lord was received well by the audience—as it should have been, Master Giacomo decided. The voices were so together as to sound as if they were produced by one throat. Hearing the music like this had so much more impact and beauty even than the recordings that he had heard in Grantville. No matter how beautiful the sound of the recording, it was not the same.

This was the future! This was what he was working for, why he had accepted the challenge from the royal family of establishing the Royal Academy of Music—to bring this music to the world.

****

Dieter Fischer stepped back into the ranks of the men. His basso had been appropriately profundo on Thus Saith the Lord, the Lord of Hosts and But Who May Abide the Day of His Coming. His huge voice had almost made the audience's curls wave, Franz thought to himself. No wonder Master Andrea had worked so much with him.

The chorus And He Shall Purify the Sons of Levi went well, with the appropriate parts light and dancing as Marla had drilled into the singers. He smiled a little as he led them, having a brief flash of the rehearsal where she had compared the singers to heavy-footed dancers.

Wilmod Eichelberger, the twelve year-old boy who had earned the contralto solos—much to everyone else's surprise—stepped forward to sing O Thou That Tellest Good Tidings to Zion. Some of the women in the alto section had resented that choice at first, but by now all were behind him. Franz suppressed a wince when he recalled what Andrea Abati had said about the boy: "If young Wilmod had been born in Italy, he would have been a gentilhuomo of some note." That was high praise from the sometimes acerbic Italian; high praise, indeed. But it still hurt to think about.

Franz caught Wilmod's glance, raised his baton, and cued the orchestra for the beginning of the recitative and solo.

****

" . . . the Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace."

Marla took a deep breath as the choir released the last note and the orchestra finished the conclusion to For Unto Us a Child Is Born. So far everything had gone well. Next up was the Pifa, or Pastoral Symphony. After the opening Sinfonia, it was the only purely orchestral selection in the work. Its placement in the work was fortunate, coming as it did after the longest choral section. It gave all the singers a chance to catch their breaths, especially she and Andrea, who would be singing solos after the Pifa was done.

The orchestra was doing a superb job on this, she noted with a slight smile. But then, if there was any one section that they should play perfectly, it should be this one. When Franz had told her of what happened on the day when the players had tried to slough their way through the Pifa, she hadn't known how to react. Did she go strangle some players, did she remonstrate with Franz for being so harsh with them, or did she chew her nails about something like that coming up so late in the rehearsal process? In the end, she had settled on feeling very proud of how Franz had handled the whole thing. It showed a mature grace that she wasn't sure she could have measured up to.

Oops, that was the end of the Pifa. Time to sing again.

****

Mary almost licked her lips in anticipation as the performance progressed. There was a cluster of soprano recitatives and ariosos after the Pifa. Andrea stepped forward to sing them. The last of the soprano ariosos led directly into the chorus Glory to God in the Highest, one of the brightest of the choruses that was just full of energy. With a bit of a musical joke, the chorus stopped several measures before the end, and the orchestra parts dwindled to just a few short chords played pianissimo.

Andrea and Marla exchanged places. The orchestra played the introductory measures and Marla began Rejoice Greatly, O Daughter of Zion, one of the two greatest soprano airs of the work. She had done it during her recital last year, but as Mary just bathed in the music, it seemed as if this performance was even more . . . she searched for a word . . . brilliant, perhaps, like a jewel that had been cut and polished to its finest potential. There was no doubt in Mary's mind now that Marla would be a force in the music of Europe for years to come.

This performance was undoubtedly bravura, and when it came to an end Mary clapped along with the others.

****

And so the evening went. Master Carissimi was almost enthralled as the various choruses, airs, recitatives and ariosos followed one another through the course of the performance. He drank it all in, rising with the music until he felt as if he were floating. After an intermission of a few minutes, they moved steadily through Part II, of which he thought the high point was the very fine performance of the air Why Do the Nations so Furiously Rage by the young bass Dieter Fischer. He found the nature of that particular text more than a bit ironic given the times, which drew a bit of a smile from him. Still, it was now very apparent why Andrea truly wanted to take this man under his wing.

****

Marla took a deep breath as Archard finished the air Thou Shalt Break Them With a Rod of Iron. She had organized this performance of Messiah along traditional lines, omitting the handful of sections or portions of sections that were not usually performed even during 'full' performances of the work and keeping to the traditional order and sequence of the sections. However, she had made one significant change: she had moved the Hallelujah chorus from the end of part II—directly after the solo that Archard was even now completing—to the end of the entire work. She had her reasons, which were based on something she had told no one. She suspected that Mary Simpson might guess.

There would be another short intermission, then it would be time for her to step forward again to open Part III.

****

Master Carissimi closed his eyes as Marla began to sing.

"I know that my Redeemer liveth,

And that He shall stand at the latter day

Upon the earth."

The purity of her tone always amazed him, just as the timbre of her voice always enraptured him. If ever there was a golden voice, if ever God had so blessed someone, it was this voice, this young woman. La fiamme sacre—the sacred flame, that was all he could call it. The touch of God on her.

". . . and He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth, upon the earth."

Here was no showpiece. Marla sang with some intensity, true, but it was a quiet intensity. There was a slight smile on her face, Giacomo noted, but her voice floated effortlessly. It was almost as if music was simply arriving in the air by Divine providence.

"And though worms destroy this body,

Yet in my flesh shall I see God,

Yet in my flesh shall I see God."

Ah, Giacomo thought to himself. He understood something now, tonight, which he had not observed before. Here and now, Marla was singing not just words, not just a song, but her belief as well. How beautiful, to hear someone—even though a Protestant—sing in such a way that everyone who heard knew without a doubt that she believed what she was singing.

"For now is Christ risen,

For now is Christ risen from the dead,

The first-fruits of them,

Of them that sleep."

The air came to an end, Marla's voice finally concluding as it floated over the strings. They carried on for a few more measures to finish in a quiet chord. Marla stepped back into her place, the audience quiet in its place, subdued by the quiet piety they had just experienced. Giacomo opened his eyes again with a beatific smile. La fiamme sacre indeed.

****

Mary listened as the performance approached its conclusion after Marla's exquisite performance of I Know That My Redeemer Liveth. Section followed section. That amazing young bass hammered The Trumpet Shall Sound. Moments later, the boy alto—where did Andrea Abati find these people?—teamed with the tenor to sing O Death, Where is Thy Sting?. That in turn led directly into the chorus But Thanks Be to God, another of those joyful choruses which Händel was so adept at crafting.

Speaking of Andrea, he sang the final soprano air, If God Be for Us, and did superbly—of course.

Chorus followed chorus followed chorus, until they at last arrived at the final section of the work: the Hallelujah chorus.

Mary gripped her hands together as the orchestra began. The custom she had known from up-time was not valid here in Magdeburg, but she though she knew what was in Marla's mind. Only moments were left to see if her thinking was good.

****

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah! . . ."

The end was in sight for Marla. It had been a long evening; almost three hours since they began, at least two and one-half hours of performing. Fortunately, none of them had been singing that entire time, but it was still hard work. Now if only . . .

****

"For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth . . ."

It might be just the setting, Mary thought, but this was one of the most stirring performances ofMessiahshe had ever seen. The chorus was incredibly powerful for no larger than it was. There was no perhaps to it, she was being touched by tonight's work as much as she had ever been.

Despite water in her eyes, she was watching an area in the seating that Marla kept glancing at.

****

"The kingdom of this world is become,

The Kingdom of our Lord,

And of His Christ . . ."

Master Schütz was sitting straight now, eyes open, listening to the great work as if it was a word from God . . . which, in one form or another, it was. His original expression of determination had changed over the course of the evening, moving through pleasure and joy to one that verged on awe. The up-time books had called him the Father of German music, so in a way what he was hearing, what was pouring through his body, was a child of his work, crafted somehow 120 years in his future, and brought to him by Grantville from a time over twice that again. His eyes filled with tears.

****

"And He shall reign forever and ever . . ."

Marla had made sure that her position in the chorus allowed her to watch a portion of the seating without losing sight of Franz. The song was almost half over, and nothing.

The tenors came in with their heroic entry in this section, followed by the altos, who were in turn followed by the sopranos.

"King of Kings, and Lord of Lords,

King of Kings, and Lord of Lords . . ."

The sopranos were beginning what Marla had always thought of as climbing the ladder, repeating the King of Kings line over and over, raising the pitch a step every time, unison with the high trumpet.

The movement, when it happened, was so slight she almost missed it. It took a moment to dawn on her that Princess Kristina was standing. Standing!

The sopranos continued to climb.

"King of Kings, and Lord of Lords,

King of Kings, and Lord of Lords . . ."

Higher they climbed, sounding with the trumpets and supported by the lower voices.

" . . . and Lord of Lords . . ."

Finally, on the last rung of the climb, it happened.

****

Mary gasped when she saw Gustavus Adolphus stand to his feet. It had happened! She shot to her feet, followed a moment later by the rest of the audience. Mary was smiling at what had just happened. A correlation between a future German who was undoubtedly butterflied out of existence now, George II of England, and the master of northern Europe, Gustavus. Oh, sure, the story of George being so moved upon hearing Messiah's Hallelujah chorus that he stood was probably apocryphal, but it was such a lovely legend. And here, now, it was fact, not legend . . . with the note that it was the princess who led her father.

****

Joy shot through Marla when she saw the king climb to his feet and set his hand on his daughter's shoulder. He stood there, tall and straight, a sober expression on his face, as the chorus continued praising the God that he claimed to serve.

Marla's mind was so full of happiness that she almost lost track of the words. She did kind of hiccough one, which earned her a sidelong glance from Master Andrea. He would undoubtedly have words for her about that one at her next lesson.

The king stood!

It was a seal on their work. It was a seal on the up-time music. It was the capstone of everything she had been trying to do, and it meant that all of it, music, women musicians, now had visible royal approval. Suddenly, the future looked both brighter and easier.

Marla abandoned herself to the music with elation.

"And He shall reign forever and ever,

Forever and ever, forever and ever,

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,

Hal – le – lu – jah!"

Motifs

To the most revered and accomplished Maestro Girolamo Frescobaldi,

City of Florence

Maestro

It is with the utmost presumption that I write to you. All the world knows of your skill, of your art, of your place as the musical jewel in the setting of Florence and the court of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Against your demonstrated skill, sir, my efforts do seem feeble indeed. But, nonetheless, I write to you as a fellow musician, presuming upon a recent acquaintance which we have in common, that is, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi.

I, having known of the young maestro's renown for some time, was recently provided the privilege of meeting him in flesh and truth in the midst of the most unusual habitation of Grantville. It was from him that I learned that you had paid a brief visit to Grantville while you were traveling to Magdeburg at the invitation of the royal family of Sweden to perform a selection of your excellent toccatas for harpsichord. It distressed me greatly to learn that you had been so near and I knew it not, for I would have borne any hardship to come to your presence, shake your hand, and discuss with you your very intriguing thoughts and theories upon the proper performance and notation of tempi in your published works.

Alas, I was at the time serving at the court of the Crown Prince of Denmark, so you will perceive the difficulty of learning of your presence. I have since left the prince's employ, and such news had not arrived at the court before I left. I am "at loose ends", as the Grantvillers would say. A curiously brusque and hasty folk they might be, but their epigrams and figures of speech do strike the ear in a notable way that is most memorable.

Much the poorer for not having had the opportunity to hear you perform your finest works, and for not having had the opportunity to converse directly with you, I find myself writing to you because I most emphatically desire to hear your thoughts, opinions and theories concerning the music that has been found in Grantville. I am intrigued and disturbed at the same time, and truly wish to hear your perceptions and learn from your wisdom. If you could find the kindness to respond to my poor missive, I will be among the most grateful of men.

With the greatest of respect,

I am your most humble servant and admirer.

Heinrich Schütz

11 day of April, 1634

Grantville

****

To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Dearest Mother

Enclosed find a small sum that I have been able to save for the provision of young Anna Justina and Euphrosine, along with scarves for them and yourself.

The provenance of the scarves is Grantville, so judge for yourself whether they can be worn or must be preserved. I found the bright colors and smooth finish to be most attractive. They are made of something called nylon. I have yet to determine exactly what beast or plant nylon is derived from, but it almost rivals silk in its lightness. I have been in Grantville for several days now, and it is a remarkable place, yet not so remarkable as the rumors perhaps would have it be. I have, however, discovered some most amazing music here.

I assume you received my letter where I informed you of my decision to leave the employ of Elector John George. I would not speak ill of my former employer, but it is a well-known fact that of late his love of splendor is exceeded only by his tight grasp on those few coins that should have been paid to those who support him.

I was for some time after that in the employ of the Crown Prince of Denmark. I have left that position as well, and at the moment am not provided for anywhere, except for a small stipend provided by something called the Royal and Imperial Arts Council in Magdeburg, where I shall be going soon. I have hopes of finding some type of position with the royal family of Sweden, perhaps through the offices of this Imperial Arts Council. King Gustav does have a better reputation for paying those who serve him.

I will remain in Grantville for some little time yet before I go to Magdeburg, so you can write to me here if you will do so soon; else send your missive to Magdeburg.

Tell Anna Justina and Euphrosine that their father loves them, and that I hope to come to visit soon.

Your dutiful son.

Heinrich

12 day of April, 1634, Gregorian style

Grantville

****

To the most revered and accomplished Maestro Girolamo Frescobaldi,

City of Florence

Maestro

I thank you for your swift response to my previous letter. By some serendipity or grace of God, it was received in less than three weeks after you wrote it.

I am flattered by your taking the time to write to me with your own hand. Yes, I am the same Schütz who studied with both Maestros Gabrieli and Monteverdi, so it seems that we have more acquaintances in common than Maestro Carissimi.

During the time between the sending of my first letter and my receiving of your letter yesterday, I confess to suffering a spiritual crisis caused by hearing music supposedly written by me in 1647. I spent several days in a most crazed state of mind, and was brought back to my wits only by conversation with a most learned and compassionate pastor, Johann Rothmaler.

As a result of my experiences, however, I am more convinced than ever that the music of Grantville must be studied and made known. Whether Grantville did indeed come from the future, as the inhabitants claim, or whether it is a whole new creation of God, I care not. Let others debate the theology and philosophy, the sciences and mechanics, the language and the behavior. We should learn their music, which is like nothing I have ever seen or heard.

Again I request your wisdom and knowledge be shared with me, that I may properly judge what I hear. I leave soon for Magdeburg. If you find it within your grace to write to me again, send it thence.

With great respect,

Your most humble servant and admirer.

Heinrich Schütz

26 day of May, 1634

Grantville

****

To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Mother

This is a short note to tell you quickly what is happening. Since my previous letter, I have been ill, but am better now. Young Lucas Amsel, whom I am sure you recall from my last visit, has been tending me as well as ever you would wish.

I did receive your last letter, as I have not left Grantville yet. I am pleased that you and the girls like your gifts. Take care that you do not tend them with a hot iron; I have learned that great heat can ruin the nylon, which I have still not learned where it comes from. Too many other things on my mind, I am afraid.

I have not forgotten the ladies in my life. Enclosed are two garments for the girls, of the style called 't-shirts' by the Grantvillers. I confess that I do not know the meaning of the English phrase "Drama Queen" which is in some strange manner embossed upon the shirts, but these were much to be preferred than the ones upon which I saw a creature called "Pok-E-Mon." Although the Grantville children laugh about it, I fear that the pastors of Weissenfels would not so readily accept something that appeared so demonic.

Enclosed for you is a simple brooch. I am assured that the metal is a silver alloy, and that the green stones in the circle are glass, so there is not a great deal of value to it. You are safe to wear it as you choose. Knowing your delight in things that are green, I could not pass it up when I saw it. Remind me to tell you some time of the Grantville custom of 'garage sales.'

I will be traveling to Magdeburg on the morrow. When next you write to me, address the letter there, if you will.

With much love,

Your dutiful son.

Heinrich

27 day of May, 1634, Gregorian style

Grantville

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To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

Frau Amber

Behold, I am so bold to write to you without first ascertaining as to whether such correspondence would be welcome to you. I much presume upon your grace, which you have shared with me many times in the last weeks of my stay in Grantville. Thank you for your kindness. I also thank you for the basket of food you provided for our trip to Magdeburg. The ham sandwiches and the deviled eggs—which should be called angelic, instead—lasted through two days of the trip, after which we were forced to rely on local food acquired from taverns and farms along the way. Before the very throne of God I would testify that your food was superior!

Signor Andrea Abati proved to be a most engaging traveling companion, other than he arises in entirely too cheerful a frame of mind each morning. I, on the other hand, with the wisdom gathered along with my gray hairs (all twenty of them), know that mornings are a time when strength must be conserved, in order to be at one's best later in the day—particularly if one has had one too many cups of wine the night before. Such wisdom made no impression upon the good signor, however. His store of jokes and scurrilous Latin songs is seemingly inexhaustible. The popish influence, no doubt. But by the end of the trip, all he had to do was say "Did you hear the one about the cardinal . . . ", and Lucas and I would start chuckling. Even Blume the horse would swivel his ears around when Signor Andrea spoke. The man's voice is seductively attractive, I will admit.

Lucas and I have found a place here in Magdeburg, and we are keeping busy by attending the various rehearsals in which my musicians are involved. I still think of them as mine, although most of them now seem to have accepted young Franz Sylwester as their leader. That young man impresses me. His fervency and dedication to his art is undeniable, and his ability to draw others in his train cannot be denied. Fifty or more string players from all over the Germanies, and he has all but welded them into a single being. I have not seen the like in all of my experience. Though I am almost twice his age, with perhaps my best years behind me, I admit to some form of jealousy to see my own players look to him with such dedication. It is unworthy of me, I know, but then I never admitted to being a saint.

And now, lest I squander the courage I have spent the last several days mustering, I must be even more shamelessly bold and tell you that I greatly desire your presence and company for the day of the first symphony concert. That will be the third of July by the new calendar, the so-called Gregorian. I will pay your way and find respectable lodging for you, of course. If you are unable to attend, I will understand, but I would be among the happiest of men if you would grace my life with your presence for those few days.

With the greatest of respect and sincerity,

Your most humble servant.

Heinrich Schütz

7 day of June, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Honored Mother

Your most recent letter has found me in Magdeburg. Thank you for your news of the health of Anna Justina and Euphrosine. As I have told you many times, your ability and willingness to take them to your bosom and rear them in my Magdalena's place has been a gift as from God. The court at Dresden is no place for young girls to be left without a mother, and the court in Denmark is even worse. Knowing that they are safe in your arms has enabled me to sleep at night with some degree of peace. I am sorry that I have been unable to consistently provide more for their support. I still have hopes that the Emperor, Gustav Adolf, will find some position for me. The fact that I was once the Kappellmeister for the Elector of Saxony may carry some weight. It is said that the emperor derives great satisfaction in taking away everything that once belonged to the elector.

I am sorry that my warning about the hot iron did not reach you in time. Perhaps you can salvage part of your scarf as a small kerchief, or such like. I will try to find another, but since I am now in Magdeburg, it may not be possible for me to replace it.

The music that I have seen in Grantville still continues to astonish me. Preparations are under way to have a grand performance here in Magdeburg of many wonderful works from the future. And yes, I have finally accepted that they are from the future—or perhaps a future. In any event, over fifty strings will be participating in a grand performance. That is more players than I was ever been able to bring together, given the elector's parsimony. I so look forward to hearing this event.

Tell Anna Justina that I said she cannot wear the t-shirt to church or to school. It is only to be worn at home, or under other clothing if she goes out. And if she acts in a contrary manner, remind her that what I have given, I can also take away.

I still have hopes of coming to visit, but I cannot tell you when. Please take care of yourself.

With all respect,

Your loving son.

Heinrich

22 day of June, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

Frau Amber

Your missive has arrived, containing your acceptance of my invitation. I was so certain that you would be unwilling or unable to come that I made Lucas open it and read it for me. When he announced that you were indeed planning to come, I grabbed the letter out of his hands to see for myself that he had made no mistake. You have made an old fool glad.

No, you have chastised me that I cannot call myself old. And by the standards of Grantville, I am not, it is true. Yet I have felt old for so long, for the eternity that has been the nine years since the death of Magdalena, mother of my daughters. There has been so little joy or happiness to interrupt the tedium of my life that I have felt as if I were some ancient covered in the dust of the grave who simply had not had the sense to lie down in the tomb.

When I fell ill, with my mind all crazed and wit-loose, one of the reasons I did so was that I read the vita brevis of my life in the great encyclopedia, which indicated that in your world that was I had lived almost another forty years. The thought of spending that much more time in the darkness of the past nine years was almost more than I could stand. I thank God for the wisdom of Pastor Rothmaler, who drew me from the maze in which I was lost.

But although the good pastor drew me from the maze, it was your visits, more than any, which encouraged me and gave me light. I will boldly say it now, that although I would never be foolish enough to compare one woman to another, in this one thing you and my poor Magdalena are alike: that you can by the grace of your own life lift up those who stumble and fall under the burden that life sometimes becomes.

I will send this letter by way of one who will ride the train for the army, in the hopes that you will receive it in but a few days. You have said that you will arrive in Magdeburg on the first day of July. Unless you somehow advise me differently, I will look for you then.

With the greatest of boldness I am

Your most affectionate servant.

Heinrich Schütz

23 day of June, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Dearest Mother

Your letter has arrived, but before I can answer it I must tell you the most wonderful news. Four days ago, after the grand concert I told you about in my last letter, Princess Kristina, daughter and sole heir of the Emperor Gustav Adolf, King of Sweden, told me that her father desired me to become the Kappellmeister of the court in Magdeburg. It was such a great shock, after months of hoping, that I stuttered and told them that I would think about it. Fortunately, my thoughts required only a few moments, and I quickly returned to her and accepted the royal offer with great thanks.

My young friend, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, has at the same time been named to become the head master of the newly established Royal Academy of Music, to be founded and built here in Magdeburg. It is to be a school of music based on the model of what the Grantvillers call a conservatory. I do not envy him the challenge.

My responsibilities are to provide music for the royal court when it is present; to support the symphony orchestra, the grand assemblage of strings that I mentioned in my last letter; to assist Maestro Giacomo if he desires my presence or help; and to otherwise do what I can to spread the knowledge of up-time music, the music brought back from the future in Grantville. That alone is a challenge that will require the rest of my life.

I have already received the first portion of my stipend, and enclosed is a portion of it for the support of the girls. If they are growing as quickly as you say, then I am certain that they need new shoes, at the very least, if not new clothing of all types. Let me know what other needs exist, for I am now in a position to provide more than I have in the past. The emperor was most generous in the amount of the stipend, as well as providing quarters in the palace for the near future. Lucas and I are very well provided for.

Tell Euphrosine that Blume now has a stall of his own in the royal stables, and is very well cared for indeed. He has become a favorite of the stable boys, and will without a doubt become spoiled, fat and lazy if Lucas does not arrange for constant exercise.

I know that you grieved over the death of Magdalena, Mother, almost as much as I did. And I also know that you have tried to tell me again and again that such things happen; it should not be the end of the world or of my life. For long I did not understand what you said; indeed, I grew angry at times that you had said it. Be glad to know, then, that I have at long last emerged from the valley of the shadow of death. I embrace life now, rather than endure it. I will write more on that later.

With all love,

Your son.

Heinrich

7 day of July, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

My dear Amber

It is with relief that I welcome the news that you have arrived in Grantville safely and in good health. My sleep has been disrupted with visions of your rail carriage being involved in some catastrophe—fifteen miles an hour is a totally insane speed of travel. Now that you have completed your journey, my heart and mind can be at rest.

I thank you with all my heart for coming to Magdeburg. The three days I spent in your company have been some of the happiest of my life; or at least of my recent life. The joy of my new position in life was made even greater because you were present to hear the announcement and share it with me.

You observed the reluctance I had for your leaving. Well I know that you have responsibilities in Grantville that you must fulfill, so I did not try to hold you, or at least not greatly. It did surprise me, however, just how much of a void I have felt in my life the last few days.

I have therefore attempted to throw myself at my new work. My duties are still somewhat undefined, but I do know that I will be responsible for music for the court when it is in session, as well as promoting the up-time musical knowledge to be found in Grantville. To that end, I am already dwelling upon which means or several means to use to do so. I may need recommendations from you or Master Wendell if I determine there is a need to contact a Grantville attorney.

Behold how selfish I am, that no sooner have you left Magdeburg than I am already asking you to return when you can. There must doubtless be some time ere long at which you can spare some days to travel here and shine some light in the lives of myself and Lucas. Not forgetting Blume, who misses the way you scratched around his ears. Every time Lucas goes to check on him, he reports that Blume seems most disappointed you did not come with him.

With greatest affection, I am

Your obedient servant.

Heinrich Schütz

9 day of July, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Mother

The news provided in your most recent letter both distresses and angers me. That Anna Justina has become such a trial so quickly is out of reason, and her demands of you are intolerable. She has obviously come under someone's influence, and it would be well for us if you can determine who it is.

You have my authority, of course, to apply the rod if you deem it necessary. She is but thirteen, and is not beyond the age where her bottom cannot be warmed enough to prevent her sitting comfortably for a day, or even two.

You may tell her from me that we are not a family of the Hoch-Adel, that silver Groschen do not drip from my fingertips, and that she will not get an ermine hand warmer, a hat with a peacock feather, thread of gold ribbons, or any other such nonsense. She will be dressed soberly and sensibly as long as she lives under my provision.

It sorrows me that you must deal with this. I leave it to your judgment as to whether I should come to Weissenfels to address her.

With love,

Your son.

Heinrich

12 day of July, 1634

Magdeburg

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To the most renowned Maestro Girolamo Frescobaldi,

City of Florence

Maestro

Just as the vagaries of chance allowed your previous missive to find me in three weeks, your most recent letter has just arrived, some two months after you signed it. I look forward to the spreading of the postal services that I am hearing about, where letters will travel at such speed as to arrive at their destinations within two weeks of their being written.

Maestro, your letter concerns me. I had hoped to receive a balanced judgment of the music available in the libraries of Grantville, music from a time far advanced over ours. Your musical knowledge is regarded so highly, that I felt you would be one of the best sources of such a judgment. It sorrows me that you feel you were treated shabbily at the hands of the Americans. I have met most of the people you mention, I have come to know and admire them, and I tell you that it was not their intent to denigrate you in any manner. Although I have been unable to meet with Frau Mary Simpson, the patroness who brought you to Magdeburg for that concert last December, I am assured that she has only the highest respect for you.

In particular, maestro, Frau Marla Linder—who is now married to young Franz Sylwester, the violinist who accompanied her in one of her songs—is much more than you describe. Your depiction of her as one who would tear you down in order to build herself up is, I am afraid, based more on your anger than on the events of that evening. I find her to be a young woman of grace beyond her years, who would in no way have ever desired to harm you or your reputation. Indeed, she respects you greatly, both for your work and for the ways in which your work helped shape the future of music as the Grantvillers know the art.

As to your charge that there should be no place for her or her kind, allow me to say that even in the Germanies we have heard of Francesca Caccini, La Cecchina, who is the songbird in the court of the Medicis. Young Marla bids fair to be another such as the renowned Signora Caccini. Even now her repute is growing.

I beg you to set aside your antipathy with the people, maestro, and consider the music. What is your judgment of the music of Grantville?

With great respect,

Your most humble servant.

Heinrich Schütz

2 day of August, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Dear Mother

It is good to hear that Anna Justina has ceased to be so contentious. On the other hand, it provides no surprise that you were forced to use the rod. She is my daughter, after all, and I do seem to recall some occasions in my early years where my own stubbornness—yes, I admit to it—caused painful corrections to be applied to my own posterior. We should thank God, by all means, that Euphrosine the Younger seems to have inherited the mild temperament of our good Magdalena. It is to be hoped that she will be a calming influence on the family and on her older sister in particular. If not, recalling my own youth, I foresee stormy times ahead.

Enclosed are a few silver pfennigs to be used to provide for the girls. Tell them that their father loves them. I still hope to come to Weissenfels soon.

With love,

Your son.

Heinrich

4 day of August, 1634

Magdeburg

****

To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

Dearest Amber

Behold me, acting like the veriest lovesick swain. I wait each day for the arrival of a letter, and if none appears, I mope and pout. Pens are broken, pages are crumpled and tossed aside, furniture is kicked. Indeed, I leave a very trail of destruction in my wake. Young Lucas bears the brunt of my ill humors, and will no doubt testify to my behavior.

But today, today your letter appeared. It is as if the sun has broken through the clouds, illuminating what had been shadowed.

Dearheart. To read that written in your own hand sends a wave of feeling through me. You have remonstrated with me before that I am neither old nor a fool, but I know not what else to call myself, feeling as I did when as a youth I first stole a kiss from the daughter of my father's friend. I am giddy, and people make jokes of old men acting as they did when they were but youths. But at the advanced age of 49, I have decided I no longer care what people think. You are my dearheart, my own, and that is sufficient. God is good, to bring we two together, and I daily provide Him thanks for that grace. And grace it most certainly is, for I have certainly done nothing to merit it.

Please provide my thanks to Master Wendell. The documents concerning the foundation of the Grantville Music Trust have arrived, and for the most part have proven to be both reasonable and satisfactory. Those of us here in Magdeburg have but a few observations and recommendations to make concerning emendations. Without a doubt, they will be on their way to Master Wendell before too many more days have passed.

Frau Marla says to say Hi to you from her. Her observation of the proposed work of the Grantville Music Trust is that the work should ordinarily be ordered by the medium in use. The tapes should be notated first, then the LPs, whatever they are. She is concerned about deterioration, if I understand her correctly. Only after those are done should someone begin working the CDs—which I have heard, and are indeed a marvel. I hope that the knowledge and skills to make those have been preserved. It would be a grievous loss indeed if they cannot be carried forward. Please convey these thoughts to Master Wendell and the others involved in Grantville.

Also, please make my thanks known to young Thomas Schwarzberg for the work he has been doing. I trust that he has been training others to also notate the music from the recordings. The Trust will need more than one person to do this work. It is not that young Schwarzberg is less than adequate; indeed, he has proven to be a most worthy amanuensis for the future. But I find that I want to hear music from his pen and heart, inspired by his muse; music that only he with his experiences of the last year or more can write. Give him that charge from me, if you will.

I still hunger to see your face again, and hope that you can find some way to come to Magdeburg again soon, even if it is only for a day or two. A small bit of bread can keep a man alive for a long time, and so I find in glimpses of you the very life that I need.

With devotion, I am

Your humble servant.

Heinrich

7 day of August, 1634

Magdeburg

****

To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

My Dear Amber

Once again I am lifted to the heights upon receiving your most recent letter. I think that it would not even matter what you wrote; that you could copy verses from the Bible or passages from the great encyclopedia, for the mere sight of your hand on the page fills my heart with joy.

It is good to hear that things continue to be well with you. We are well here, of course. The musicians have for the most part embarked upon a performance of the great oratorio, Messiah, by one Georg Friederich Händel. Frau Marla has commissioned the printing of the music by a local printer.

Printers tend to either be arrogant or seditious. This family has managed to be both. The father, one Agamemnon Zopff, takes bombast to its utmost, perhaps to match that of Falstaff in your beloved Shakespeare. The younger son, Telemachus, I hear has ties to the Committees of Correspondence. It is fortunate that the older son, Patroclus, seems to be a man of good sense.

I cannot tell you the joy that is mine to hear that you will be able to come to Magdeburg in October, even if it is but for a few days to consult with Frau Haygood about the new school. Not all your time will be consumed with that responsibility, and I trust that there will be time for the two of us.

Until then, my dearheart.

Your devoted servant.

Heinrich

2 day of September, 1634

Magdeburg

****

To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Honored Mother

I have such good news to share with you and Anna Justina and Euphrosine. I am to be married! I am at this moment delirious with joy, but I must calm myself and attempt to answer the questions I know you all will have.

Her name is Frau Amber Higham. Her surname is pronounced hei-am. She is, as you may have already assumed from her very name, a Grantviller, one from the future. How do I describe her to you? I will attempt it, but it will no doubt be a poor reflection of the reality.

She is tall, as most Grantvillers are, not slender, but neither is she corpulent. Her hair is a brown color, not as short as many Grantville women wear theirs, but not as long as yours is, either. She wears hers trimmed to her shoulders and brushed back from her face. There are wings of silver in her hair at the temples.

I never before realized how difficult it is to describe someone else so that you can see them. I persevere.

Her mouth is wide, her eyes are brown, and she has the most engaging laughter, which sounds often. Indeed, her sense of humor is lively.

As with many of the Grantvillers, she is a well-educated woman, at a level that would equal a university degree in our time. She has been teaching, but her muse is the theatre.

She is a mature woman—indeed, some years older than myself—and a most gracious woman as well, yet one who is also filled with the wisdom of having lived over fifty years. You need not worry as to her ability to withstand my stubbornness. She is capable of making even me see reason.

We will be married in December here in Magdeburg. I would that you and the girls come to be a part of it, and to stay during the holidays. Afterward, Frau Amber and I are in agreement that Anna Justina and Euphrosine should come to live with us, to make a family. I have been without my daughters for too long. They have grown up without a mother, and with little evidence of a father as well. It is time that they join me, or I should say, us.

Lest you be concerned about the girls, mother, let me assure you that this is as much Frau Amber's desire as it is mine. And they will be well provided for here. There is a school for girls here in Magdeburg, the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls. I will enroll them there, where they will be taught by some of the finest of both the Grantvillers and the Magdeburg teachers, among whom is Frau Marla Linder, who, although she is a woman, is also one of the very finest singers I have ever known.

We do not want to take the girls away from you, mother. Come with them, stay with us. We will provide you with your own rooms, where you can rest as you desire, yet still be involved with Anna Justina and Euphrosine.

It would gladden my heart if you will come.

With all love and respect,

Your humble son.

Heinrich

8 day of October, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

Dearheart

To know that you are once more safe in Grantville gives me the greatest of reliefs. I thought that my sleep had been broken the previous time you traveled. It was nothing compared to what I felt this time, night after night, until your letter came.

I wake up each morning afeared that it was all a dream, that your agreeing to marry me was but the delusion of a fevered mind. For that reason I keep your letters by my bed, and each morning read them anew until I reach your most recent page, wherein you talk of the wedding plans. My heart is so full, it is as if I were an old wineskin overfilled and about to burst. How can one man's life contain so much joy? How can God have seen his way to bless me so much?

Each day is begrudged its span, that its cycle of light and dark will occupy so much time and thus only slowly draw me nearer to December. Even when my life was in darkest shadow, never did time seem to proceed so slowly.

I know that you must fulfill your commitments in Grantville. I would not want it said that you had broken your agreements. But my rebellious heart is aboil, bubbling, until I sometimes feel that I must shout or scream.

My reputation as a sober, staid man I fear is somewhat tattered. I smile, and whistle, and hum the day long. Frequently I catch Lucas looking at me with the oddest of expressions. The dear boy knows what is happening, but he does perceive that I am not the Schütz he has served for these past years, which does surprise him, and others as well, I must admit.

As we had discussed, the quarters I was allotted in the palace will not suffice for our entire family, so I have undertaken to find others. The palace rooms will remain my work rooms, my studio, where Lucas can reside as well. By the time it is needed, a home will be provided.

Come as soon as you can, my dear.

With all my love.

Heinrich

12 day of October, 1634

Magdeburg

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To Frau Euphrosine Biegerin verw. Schütz

In Weissenfels

Dearest Mother

Yes, plans for the wedding are proceeding apace. We will say the vows on the fifteenth of December, with the banns posted at the appropriate times before then.

Neither of us desires some grand and elaborate event. At our ages, it would be but foolish. So it will be done in one of the chapels of the Dom, with only a few family and friends in attendance; perhaps thirty or forty in all.

Set your protestations aside, Mother. It is the desire of our hearts that you come to us and live with us. Please do not disappoint us. I have found a townhouse to rent for all of us, in which I think you will be most comfortable.

It pleases me that Anna Justina and Euphrosine are excited about coming. Do not let them become so excited that they neglect their studies or their other responsibilities.

I have made arrangements for you to travel with a group of merchants. They expect to be at your door around the fifth day of December. It is only about one hundred miles from Weissenfels to Magdeburg, so that should allow adequate time to travel and still arrive before the wedding.

It is the prayer of my heart that you will come to love my Amber as much as you did my Magdalena. Although she cannot be the same person, Amber is as much in love with life and with me as Magdalena ever was.

I look forward to your arrival.

With all love,

Your son.

Heinrich

5 day of November, 1634

Magdeburg

****

To Frau Amber Higham

In Grantville

Dearest

The time fast approaches when you will begin your travels here to Magdeburg, to stand at my side. Lucas despairs of holding my attention for any task, as within moments my thoughts return to you. He says that he will be beyond glad when the wedding is concluded and I will once again be able to focus my thoughts on my responsibilities.

I will not say that I am doing nothing. I have begun sketches for new works: a fantasia, in the manner of Vaughan Williams; a passion, which I will base on the Gospel of St. Luke, I believe; and two or three other works. They are but the merest hint of what is to come, yet I find that in all of them is some thread of you, some essence of your light, that makes me smile, and laugh, and at times almost weep. In the future that will now be, rather than the one from which you came, I believe that scholars will look at the corpus of my work and will place their fingers on December, 1634, with the note that here the inspiration of the man Schütz elevated to another plane. I hope that they will note our wedding's date, and realize that the best of me came from you.

Make what haste you can. I await you with singing heart.

With all my love.

Heinrich

1 day of December, 1634

Magdeburg

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Grantville News

Wedding Announcements

Tuesday, December 19, 1634

Higham – Schütz Wedding

Amber Dunn Higham, late of Grantville, was joined in wedlock with Heinrich Schütz, the noted composer, on Friday, December 15, 1634, in Magdeburg. The couple will make their home in Magdeburg, where the groom is employed by the emperor as Kappellmeister of Magdeburg and the bride intends to become active in theatre.

****

A T & L TELEGRAPH

BEGIN: GVL TO MBRG

TO: FRAU EUPHROSINE BIEGERIN VERW SCHÜTZ

ADDR: SCHÜTZHAUS MAGDEBURG

FROM: HEINRICH SCHÜTZ

DATE: 26 DEC 1634

MESSAGE: MOTHER

AM IN HEAVEN BUT MUST COME DOWN TO EARTH

WE WILL BEGIN RETURN TOMORROW, ARRIVE HOME 30 DEC

LOVE TO ALL

HEINRICH AND AMBER

PS: TELL GIRLS BEHAVE OR NO TREATS FROM GVILLE

END

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To Maestro Girolamo Frescobaldi,

City of Rome

Maestro

I see from your most recent letter that you have removed yourself from Florence and resumed your post as organist at Saint Peter's in Rome. I trust that the relocation was harmonious and the travels were easy.

I am sorry to appear so delinquent in responding to your letter, but it appears that it spent a great deal of time on the road. You signed the letter on the third of September, yet it was not placed into my hands until the twenty-seventh of November. I have no explanations as to why, of course, only to note that it did.

Unfortunately, I was at that time very occupied by plans for my wedding, which occurred on the fifteenth of December, as well as my involvement in a great musical performance produced for the King of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus and his daughter, Princess Kristina. With that event having occurred, I can now take the time to respond to your writings in an appropriately respectful manner.

It dismays me, maestro, I must admit, that you so vehemently reject the music to be found in Grantville. I cannot deny your charge that much of the music is dissonant and discordant. Yet note that the world around us is filled with dissonance and discord. It is those qualities that make the moments of consonance and concord to be so prized and appreciated. Certainly, even prior to the appearance of Grantville, my own works had received the occasional accusation of being dissonant. But how else are we, as composers, to create and release tension in our works, to create more than musical pap, if the tools of dissonance and discord are not available to us? Certainly, the giants of the music in Grantville, wherever and whoever they truly were, have much to teach us of this aspect of our art. I think in particular of an Englishman named Ralph Vaughan Williams, whose string music is enough to wring the heart of a statue. God Above knows that he has wrung mine.

I caution you, maestro, to take care of how you express your displeasure with Grantville's music. To accuse it of being the work of the devil treads perilously close to the Manichaean heresy. The Adversary has no creative ability—all the church fathers agree on that. He can only twist and pervert that which is already created. In this one thing we mortals shine above even the angels; in this one thing some spark of the Divine Godhead still seems to linger in us; that we can create music that upon rare occasion would not be out of place before the very throne of God. I have found such in Grantville.

It grieves me, Maestro Girolamo, that my judgment of Grantville and its music is so at odds with yours. But I can trace your hand, and my hand, and the hands of Gabrieli, Monteverdi, and so many others, throughout that music. It was formed from the tools we made, from the seeds that we planted, from the works that we shaped. We have an opportunity to take from it, to learn from it, to stand on the shoulders of the giants who at once came after us and also before us, to write such music as will harmonize with the music of the spheres and even resound before the throne of Heaven; but only if we do not turn our backs on it.

Maestro Carissimi stands with me. We have entered into correspondence with Monteverdi, Melchior Frank, Johann Crüger, Samuel Scheidt, and others. It is our endeavor to bring the music of Grantville to the world.

This is the future of music. On this I take my stand. God help me, I can do no other.

With respect,

Heinrich Schütz

Kappellmeister of Magdeburg

4 day of January, 1635

Magdeburg

The Sound of Sweet Strings:

A Serenade in One Movement

Grantville

December 1633

The music came to an end. Atwood flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.

“And that was the beautiful Nimrod movement from Variations on an Original Theme for Orchestra, Opus 36, called the Enigma Variations, by Edward Elgar. That was a foretaste of things to come. We will play the work in its entirety some time next month. I think you will like it.”

Atwood had a smooth bass voice, and he had put it to use over the years from time to time serving as a radio disc jockey. He’d never expected to be doing it in this situation, however, over three hundred years before he had been born. But he’d been assured that there were plenty of crystal radios out there in Thuringia to tune into his show, so he’d agreed to do it.

He looked down at his notes. “To close out this evening’s program, we’re going to play a very different piece of music in a very different musical style. It’s what we call ‘bluegrass’ music. Those of you who listen to Reverend Fischer’s morning devotionals have already heard music like this. This particular piece features an instrument that wasn’t invented for close to another two hundred years, called the banjo. This is Foggy Mountain Breakdown.”

Atwood cued up the CD. After a moment the music began to sound. He leaned back and just listened to Earl Scruggs’ picking. Atwood could play the banjo, but it wasn’t his best instrument and he enjoyed hearing it played by a master.

All too soon the music was over, and he leaned forward again. “That was Foggy Mountain Breakdown, and I hope you enjoyed it.

“Thank you for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I look forward to joining you next Sunday evening.

“I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”

A few weeks later

Lucille Cochran turned from the front door’s peep hole. “It’s for you, dear.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, there’s only one of him, he’s a down-timer, and he’s carrying something that looks like one of your old gig bags. He doesn’t look like a lawyer, so I don’t think he came to see the probate judge. That leaves you.”

Atwood levered himself from his recliner, muttering something about people coming around on Saturday evening when a man should be able enjoy some peace and quiet. He opened the door. “Yes?”

“Herr Cochran?” The man on the doorstep was short, dark-haired, dressed in reasonably fine but not new clothing, including a large hat with a bedraggled feather. And he did have what looked for all the world like one of Atwood’s old soft-sided guitar gig bags on his back. Atwood guessed it had a lute in it. The man appeared to be in his forties, and by his accent he was not from the Germanies.

“That’s me.”

“I am Giouan Battista Veraldi. I was in Magdeburg when I heard your radio program with the music of the…banjo?” He pronounced the last word with care, as if he wasn’t sure how it should sound.

“Come in, Signor Veraldi.” Atwood opened the door wider. The Italian beamed at the up-timer’s recognition and stepped through the door. Lucille appeared in the door to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dear, this is Signor Giouan Battista Veraldi…did I get that right?” The still beaming Italian swept his hat from his head and made a very courtly bow to Lucille. “Signor Veraldi, this is my wife, Lucille.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, Frau Cochran.”

“So, at a guess you would like to know more about the banjo.” Atwood’s curiosity was piqued.

“Yes, please.” Veraldi’s smile widened.

“Come with me, then.” Atwood led the way through the kitchen and opened the door into what used to be the garage. Veraldi sniffed in appreciation as he passed by the stew simmering on the stove. Atwood followed his guest down the step into his studio.

The late afternoon light flooded through the windows at the end of the room. There were posters of famous guitars and famous guitarists on the walls. The room was furnished with a couple of stools and music stands, plus a table under the windows and another at the other end of the room. There was a black cabinet in one corner, and leaning up against it were several odd-shaped cases.

“Where are you from, Signor Veraldi?”

Atwood gestured to one of the stools, but the Italian stood looking around with eyes wide. After a moment, he started and replied, “As you guessed, I am from Italy originally, but I was a lutenist at the Swedish court for a number of years. I left not long ago. The pay was good, but the weather…” He shivered, and they both laughed. “I have been working my way back to Italy. I’m not in a hurry, but it will not be long now before I am back in the land of fine music and olives. I miss olives…”

Veraldi’s German was better than his own, Atwood decided. His accent gave it a lilt that neither up-timers nor native down-timers gave it. “It is always good to return home,” Atwood said.

“True; and I have been gone for a long time,” Veraldi replied. His eyes had by now gravitated to the open case lying on one of the tables. “Such a large vihuela I have never seen,” he breathed.

“ Vihuela?” Atwood asked.

“Do you know guitarra, or guiterne?” Veraldi replied without looking around.

“Oh, guitar. Sure. It’s a classical guitar.”

Veraldi caressed the guitar with his eyes, then turned to Atwood. “May I…”

Atwood gestured in reply. Veraldi set the instrument bag he was carrying down on the table and picked up the guitar. He held it up to the light and peered at it closely, then ran his hand all over the body. At last he plucked a string, and his eyebrows rose at the strong resonant sound. With a sigh he replaced the guitar in its case.

“Very fine vihuela; very fine guitar.”

“Thank you. Please, have a seat.” Atwood waved at one of the stools and sat on the other. Instead of doing so, Veraldi opened his bag and took out a lute, which he handed to Atwood.

Atwood hadn’t handled a lute since a class in Renaissance instruments during his college days. He received it gingerly, holding it in his two hands as if it were a baby. It was a beautiful instrument. The spruce sound board was unvarnished and had darkened a bit from its original white. The ribs of the bowl-shaped body gleamed with a satin patina. And the neck—now there was a joy. The neck was short and wide, supporting ten courses of two strings each. The head bent back from the neck at right angles. He plucked a string, and nodded at the sound. Not as deep and resonant as the guitar, but louder than he had thought it would be.

All in all, it was an excellent example of the luthier’s art. And it was a living instrument with signs of use on it, but nonetheless lovingly cared for. Veraldi’s pride in it was obvious.

“Very fine lute,” Atwood said, handing it back.

“Thank you,” came the response. “It was made for me by Master Matteo Sellas, of Venice. The Sellas family are the finest luthiers in Italy.”

“It is a fine instrument,” Atwood repeated. “Would you like to see the rest of mine?”

Veraldi nodded with eagerness, wiping his hands on his pants.

Atwood started pulling cases out of the stack and opening them up in the tables. “Steel string guitar, twelve string guitar, and of course,” opening the final case with a flourish, “the Gibson Les Paul electric guitar.”

His guest looked around with a dazed look on his face, not understanding what he was seeing.

“Sit, sit,” Atwood said, pointing to the stool. Veraldi sat. The up-timer picked up the classical guitar, and thought for a moment about what to play. After a moment, the perfect song came to him. He wrapped himself around the guitar, and played the opening bars to Hotel California.

Veraldi was intent, watching Atwood’s fingers, drinking in the sound. The delicate tapestry of the music wove through the air of the small room, seeming to bring light with it. Atwood stopped at the place where the vocals would have begun.

The Italian sighed. Then he pointed at the other instruments. “Please?”

Atwood smiled. “Sure.” He set the classical back in its case and picked up the steel-string guitar. He settled back onto the stool, then played the same piece of music. Veraldi’s eyes widened at the difference in timbre between the two instruments, so similar in size and shape.

The performance was repeated with the twelve-string guitar. This time Veraldi’s eyes closed, but Atwood could have sworn he saw the man’s ears twitching in time with the music. He smiled a little at the thought.

Once again the excerpt drew to a close. Atwood set the twelve-string back in its case and turned back to his guest.

“You will not play the other guitar?” Veraldi pointed to the Gibson.

“Later,” Atwood laughed. “That one takes a different song. But there is one more for you to see.” He closed a couple of cases, then set another on top of them and opened it. “This is a banjo.”

Atwood picked the banjo up and handed it to Veraldi, whose eyebrows immediately shot up to their limit at the sight of the round flat body. He turned it this way and that, peering at it closely as he took in all the details. After several minutes, Veraldi sat back. “I do not know what I expected to see, but it was not…this. This almost looks like the bastard child of a vihuela and a tambour.”

“You’re not far off,” Atwood laughed. He took the banjo back, and cradled it in his arms. He’d already decided what to play here, so he took off with “Herod’s Song” from Jesus Christ Superstar. The rollicking beat made it a fun song to play.

When he finished, he looked up to see Veraldi smiling. “Yes,” the Italian said, “that is what I heard through the radio in Magdeburg. That sound; that very unique sound. How can I get a banjo? I must take one back to Italy with me.”

“Well,” Atwood replied, “I won’t sell mine. And there’s not very many of them in Grantville. However, Ingram Bledsoe might have one or two. I’ll check with him tomorrow.”

“Then may I return tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, certainly. Say, middle of the afternoon.”

Veraldi stood from his stool and held out his hand. “I will return then,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Herr Cochran. It was very good to meet you.”

Atwood ushered his guest to the front door, where they shook hands again and exchanged good evenings.

“Well,” Lucille said, coming out of the dining room, “dinner’s ready. What did your Signor Veraldi want?”

“Mostly to talk about instruments,” Atwood said. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be seeing a lot more of him. I suspect he’s going to want to drain me dry of everything I can tell him.”

****

Giouan muttered to himself all the way back to the hotel. Mother of heaven, what he had just discovered. The banjo alone would be a prize to take back to Italy, but the up-time vihuelas! The sounds they could make. He knew he had had only a taste tonight. He must hear more. He must learn more. He must find a way to take these things home with him.

The next day, Sunday

Atwood opened the door. “Signor Veraldi, come in.” He led the way to the studio. He turned the stereo down, then waved at one stool as he took his seat on the other one. “So, how has your day been? What do you think about banjos now?”

“My day has been good,” Veraldi responded. “And I would very much like to have a banjo. Have you been able to speak to your friend Herr Bledsoe?”

“Yes, I have. The good news is that he has two banjos, a four-string and a five-string. He says he might be willing to sell the four-string. The bad news is it’s somewhat beat-up and he wants three hundred dollars for it.”

“Three hundred dollars.” Veraldi pulled at his mustaches. “How much is that in pfennigs or groschen?”

Atwood thought for a moment. “About a hundred and ninety pfennigs, maybe. You’d have to convert them at the bank to find out for sure.”

The Italian’s mouth twisted. “He is proud of his banjos, Herr Bledsoe is.”

“To be fair, I was surprised he had any. As of right now, I only know of four in the entire Ring of Fire. I have one, Bucky Buckner of the Old Folks Band has one, and Ingram has the other two. There might be one or two more in closets in town, but I wouldn’t count on it. Banjos weren’t very popular up-time. People thought they were hard to learn to play. Ingram’s going to keep one to be a model for the designers and workers in his factory, so that leaves exactly one to sell. I’m really surprised some musician hasn’t come along and bought it from him. If I had anybody wanting to learn banjo, it would probably have sold already.”

“You teach, then?” Veraldi cocked his head to one side.

“Oh, yeah.” Atwood laughed. “I teach music at the junior high school. I taught in another town before the Ring of Fire. Afterwards, it was just natural for me to keep teaching here. Plus I give lessons on guitar. Anybody under the age of thirty-five in this town who plays guitar probably learned from me. That’s why I have the studio.” He waved his hand around at the room.

Veraldi pulled at his moustaches some more. “Do you teach…older students?”

“Like yourself?”

Veraldi nodded.

“Sure. I once had a sixty-year-old grandmother who wanted to learn the guitar. I think I can teach you.” Atwood smiled, and saw it returned.

“How much do you charge?” Veraldi asked.

“Fifteen dollars for a single half-hour lesson, monthly rates available.”

Veraldi spent a moment in thought. “So, perhaps ten pfennigs. And how many lessons could one such as I have during a week?”

“Well,” Atwood began, “I normally do one lesson a week for each student, but for you, at least two, maybe three, possibly even four. You would rate as a really proficient student.”

“Thank you.” Veraldi frowned. “I would like lessons on both the banjo and the guitar. Please tell Herr Bledsoe that I would like to buy his banjo. I simply must determine how I can pay for it.”

Atwood thought that if Veraldi didn’t stop pulling at his mustache, it was going to come out in his hands.

“Are there guitars that can be bought? Up-time guitars, here in Grantville?”

“Probably,” Atwood said. “I’ll look around for you. They’ll be easier to find than banjos, that’s for sure. Now, when do you want to do your lessons? Sunday and Wednesday night are out. I have commitments with the church and with the Voice of America Radio Network. Saturday I need for myself. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, your choice.”

“Twice a week, you said,” Veraldi responded. “What about Monday and Thursday evenings, then?”

Atwood pulled out his schedule book. “That will work. What about seven in the evening both nights?”

Veraldi nodded.

“Good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night, and I should have something to tell you about guitars then as well.” Atwood looked up at the clock. “Oops. Gotta go. I need to get to the radio station. My program goes on in an hour.” He stood and shook hands with Veraldi.

****

Three hundred dollars! Giouan almost beat his head. That wouldn’t take all his money, but it would take enough that he wouldn’t be able to stay long in Grantville. If he took lessons as well, that would shorten the time available even more. But if he got the banjo, he would need the lessons in order to get the best out of the instrument.

Giouan walked along, kicking at rocks on the sidewalk. Three hundred dollars. One hundred and ninety pfennigs. He stopped, and took a deep breath. Did he want the banjo and the guitar if he could get them? Absolutely. That desire went to the bottom of his soul and curled around its foundations. The question now was how could he get everything he needed if he bought the instruments?

That question occupied his mind for hours that night. He wrestled with it non-stop—explored every possibility—and in the end there was one way he could think of, one path open to him: the last resort of any good musician. It tore at his heart, but he saw no other way to get what he wanted.

Monday

Atwood looked up from his guitar when Lucille ushered Veraldi into the studio. “Ah, good, right on time.” He continued playing until Veraldi sat on the stool opposite him, then set the guitar aside.

Veraldi looked like a wreck. There were deep bags under his eyes, which were bloodshot. From the looks of it, he was either hung over or he hadn’t had much sleep the night before.

“You’ve probably already learned that we Grantvillers are a pretty informal people,” Atwood began. “Since we’re going to be working together pretty closely for some time to come, I’d like you to call me At, and if I may I’ll call you John, which is what your name translates to in English. All right?”

Veraldi’s eyes opened wide. “That is…improper for a master and student.”

Atwood snorted. “I’m not a master, John. Oh, I’m a good guitarist, and a passable amateur singer, but I’m not a master, not in the sense of your meaning, and not in the standards of our people either. I’ll teach you as much as I can in the time that you have, okay? But leave that ‘master’ stuff out of it.”

“Okay,” Veraldi responded, “but if I call you Master At, please do not berate me. This is a hard habit to break.”

“I think I can live with that, John. So, where do you want to start?”

Veraldi swung his bag off of his shoulder. He held it in his hands for a long moment, then looked up at Atwood. After a hesitation, he said, “Master At, do you know anyone who would be willing to buy my lute?”

Atwood was shocked. “John! You can’t sell your lute.”

A determined expression came over the Italian’s face. “I do not want to. She has been my life and livelihood for years, a part of me.” He swallowed. “But lutes are common, Master At. Banjos and up-time guitars are not. I must seize the opportunity before me. To do so means that I must sell my lute.” He looked down again. “As much as I have taken this instrument for granted over the years, I find that the thought of losing her is very painful.” He squared his shoulders and looked up. “Nevertheless, it is what I must do. I have been to your bank and have learned about money here in Grantville. I think she is worth five hundred of your dollars—a fair price for a master class instrument made by the Sellas family.”

Atwood’s thought whirled. “I see. Let me make a phone call.”

After a couple of rings, the phone on the other end was picked up.

“Hello, Ingram? At Cochran here. You know that four-string banjo we talked about? Well, consider it sold. My new student John Veraldi has an excellent lute that he’s going to sell and he’ll buy the banjo out of that.” There was a burst of conversation from the other end. “Yeah, it’s really fine. Made by the Sellas family in Venice. Supposed to be top-drawer craftsmen.” More conversation. “Yeah, you talk to old Riebeck and see what he says. I imagine we can work something out. Okay. Good. See you soon.” Atwood hung the phone up and turned to the Italian.

“Okay, John. Here’s the deal. I’ll buy that lute from you for your price. I’ll give you three hundred dollars cash, plus in exchange I’ll give you a month’s free lessons and this.” He opened a closet door and pulled out a guitar case. It wasn’t as nice as the cases his personal guitars were in, but from the look on Veraldi’s face it didn’t matter. He set it on the table and flipped the lid open. Veraldi slid off his stool and reached for the guitar with hesitation, but at length grasped it with a firm hand and took it out of the case.

“That is a classical guitar, John. It belonged to a student of mine who was left up-time. I was making a small repair to the tuners when the Ring of Fire happened.”

Atwood looked at Veraldi, trying to hold the guitar in the way he had seen the up-timer hold his. “This type of guitar was a standard design in the up-time.” Atwood picked up his own guitar. He held it up beside the one the Italian was holding. “See, almost identical in size.”

“Is yours a better guitar than this one?” Veraldi asked, looking at his guitar with hungry eyes.

“Yes, it is.”

“It is fitting that the master have a master class instrument.”

“Well,” Atwood chuckled, “mine isn’t exactly master class.” Veraldi looked at him with questioning eyes. “The real master class instruments up-time were made by hand using techniques almost identical to those used by down-time luthiers today. It takes a long time to make an instrument that way, and their very best instruments commanded prices in the tens of thousands of dollars. Only the true master performers could or would afford those kinds of prices.” He sat down and cradled the guitar. “No, this was assembled in a factory, using a lot of hand labor, true, but the goal of those making it was not perfection, it was ‘get it as good as you can for the material we use and the time we let you spend on it.’ I’d call it maybe high journeyman work. This was made by the Takamini company, and it cost me about eight hundred dollars several years ago.”

“Are all your guitars like that?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“If these sound so good, it is to be wished that a true master class instrument could have come back with you.” Veraldi sounded wistful. “I would really like to hear such.”

“Sorry,” Atwood chuckled again. “Nobody in the Ring of Fire—including me—would have dreamt of spending as much on a guitar as they would have spent for a car or a house, even if they’d had the money to spare.

“As I was saying, this is a classical design guitar. Almost anything that can be played on a guitar can be played on this one, but it was customary to play certain types of music on the classical and other types on the other guitars.

“So, shall we get started?”

****

Giouan felt as if he were walking on air. He had a guitar, and he would get his banjo tomorrow, after meeting Master Atwood at the bank at noon. Things were working out so well.

It indeed pained him to leave his lute behind, but if he had to leave her, he was glad that Master At had taken her. In the master’s hands she would be safe and valued as she should be.

He looked down at the guitar case he was clutching. In his own hands he held the future. With this guitar, and with the banjo, his fortune and his reputation would be made in Italy.

****

Days passed. Giouan had a facile memory, and his speed of learning surprised Atwood, who kept giving him more and more information and more and more music to study and learn. Veraldi acted like a man dying of thirst and hunger who had just been placed at a feast. Atwood didn’t focus on just musical technique in his teaching of Veraldi; he also spent some time on musical theory. Every bit of musical knowledge Veraldi was presented he consumed. He even parted with some of his precious silver to have some of the high school students copy music for him, music that he didn’t have time to learn right then. But above all, he practiced.

****

Giouan would always remember the smile on Master At’s face that day.

“This is not only a good piece of music, it’s also incredibly fun. It was originally written for solo guitar with an orchestra interlude by a man named Mason Williams. Another guitarist named Edgar Cruz arranged it for solo guitar only. I love it, and I want you to learn it. It’s named Classical Gas, and it’s a bit of a showpiece, as you’ll see.”

And yes, Giouan saw. It was indeed a showpiece, one that he also fell in love with at first hearing, watching Master At’s fingers flash on the strings. When it was over, he heaved a deep sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Master At asked.

“Yet another piece that I must learn,” Giouan replied. “One more piece in the list.” Then he smiled.

****

Atwood wasn’t sure how many hours a day Giouan practiced, but he knew it was more than any other student he had ever known, even when he was in college.

****

Giouan watched as Master At connected a cable between the Gibson Les Paul guitar and the black cabinet in the corner, then flicked a switch on the cabinet. Master At was going to show him what the electric guitar could do. A slight hum filled the room. “This is a little piece called Pipeline,” the master said. A moment later, he flicked a string and a howling tone was generated that went sliding in keeping with the master’s hand on the neck of the guitar, sliding down to an almost thunderous low pitch. He began plucking a fast rocking rhythm, then began overlaying a strident melody atop it. The song didn’t last that long, but Giouan was breathless by the time it was over, feeling as if he had just run up a tall mountain.

****

Veraldi’s skill progressed by the week, sometimes seemingly by the day. Atwood knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The man was an accomplished musician, after all. It was not long before he reached a level where Atwood wanted him to begin performing in public. He hinted at it, only to find his hints ignored. He put forward stronger hints. They were politely declined.

Atwood was bothered enough by this that one Thursday evening he forced Veraldi to accompany him to the Thuringen Gardens.

“Here, take this.” Atwood placed a mug of wine in the Italian’s hand. “Let’s find some place to sit down.”

They wandered through the Gardens, looking for chairs, but the place was busy. It wasn’t until Marcus Wendell hailed them that they found seats at the table he was sharing with Giacomo Carissimi.

Atwood had seen to it that the two Italians had been introduced some time ago. Even in Sweden Veraldi had heard of the composer, and he had been very glad of the introduction. They chattered back and forth for a few minutes while Marcus and Atwood discussed a school program. The two conversations dwindled down at about the same time, and Atwood seized the opportunity.

“John…”

Veraldi hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of wine and set his mug on the table, looking to Atwood with expectation.

“John, you know you’re doing well. You’ve learned a lot of notes in the last few weeks. I think you’re ready to play some of that music in public. You could play with some of the other musicians here in town. You could even play here in the Gardens and make some more money to pay for your stay. But every time I mention it, you put me off. Why?”

Veraldi said nothing for a long moment, just looked down at his mug and ran his finger around the rim over and over. “Master At,” he said finally, looking up, “the fourth day I was in Grantville, I went to the library. When the attendant asked what I was looking for, I gave him my name and told him that I wanted to know what the books from the future said about me. Several hours later, I had my answer.” He lifted his hand from the mug and snapped his fingers. “Nothing. To the future, I am nobody, nothing. I, Giouan Battista Veraldi, who have played before kings and been rewarded by them, I am not worthy even to be mentioned in any of the books of the future.”

Atwood watched as Veraldi resumed circling the rim of the mug with his finger. “I already had my guitar and banjo by then. But that night I resolved that the future that was would not be repeated. I will be more than a memory that fades from the air when the people who know me die. So my plans take on more urgency—I will take the banjo and the up-time guitar to Venice.”

“Venice, huh?” Atwood responded. “What’s in Venice?”

“ Maestro Monteverdi, and Maestros Matteo and Giorgio Sellas, the leading composer and luthiers in Venice, in all of Italy. To them I will bring what I have learned, in the hopes that they will take that knowledge and advance the cause of music in Italy. I will beg Maestro Monteverdi to take up the banjo, to write music for it that will catch the ears of the patrons and make a place for me. To the Sellas family, I will offer the opportunity to measure and analyze the instruments, to make more and make them popular. I will go down in history as the man who brought the banjo to Italy, maybe even to the world.”

Atwood could see Carissimi nodding. He understood what his countryman was saying. “Okay, I can understand that. But what does that have to do with not playing here in Grantville?”

“I am a professional musician, Master At. Setting aside all humility, I am probably the best performer in Grantville right now.”

“Right now,” Marcus interjected, “that’s true, but only because our best performers have moved to Magdeburg.”

Veraldi made a seated bow to the band director. “Yes, I know, but my point is not that Grantville is deficient in performers, but rather that I am very proficient. I do not need the practice of performing in public. I have been a performer for well-nigh thirty years now. I know how to perform. Nor do I need the practice of performing with other performers. Again, that has been part of my life for thirty years.

“What I need to be is focused. What I need to be is committed. What I need to be is single-minded. I will learn everything I can possibly learn in the time I have left. If I take an hour to perform here at the Gardens, then with the time to walk here and walk back, the time to talk to others, the time I would spend in preparing myself for the performance, I would lose at least three hours. That is enough time to learn over a minute’s worth of music. I begrudge that time. I will not spend it thus. And I will especially not repeatedly spend it thus.”

Atwood absorbed everything his student had said. “But can you learn what you need without having to earn extra money?”

“I think so. If not…” A very Italian shrug. “…I will do my best.”

Maestro Carissimi leaned forward. “Master Atwood, you will not change his mind. I recognize this…mind-set, I believe the word is. It would take an act of God to bend him from his purpose.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Atwood said. He turned back to Veraldi. “John, from now on, no payments for your lessons.”

“But Master At,” Veraldi exclaimed. “It is not right to do this. The master is worthy of his fees.”

Atwood laid his hand on the table, palm up. “I don’t teach guitar and banjo to make money. Truth is, most of the time I’d be happy to do it for nothing, just to watch kids learn to play and know that I had a hand in it. But I have to charge something, or they won’t think the lessons are worth anything. So I set the fees just high enough to make the kids feel like the lessons are worthwhile, and to make them work at it because they’re paying for it.

“But you, you’re the kind of student every teacher wants to have, a talented student who wants to learn. So think of it as my contribution to your dream. Who knows, those few dollars may just make the difference in you achieving your goal.”

“Your master gives you a gift, Signor Veraldi,” Carissimi said. “Be gracious in your acceptance of it.”

Veraldi stood and made a formal bow. “As you say, Master Atwood, so shall it be.”

“I have a gift as well,” Carissimi added. “When you are ready to leave, advise me, and I shall give you a letter of introduction to Maestro Monteverdi.”

Veraldi stammered. “Th-thank you, Maestro Carissimi. That is very generous of you, and will be of inestimable value to me.”

Carissimi waved a hand. “It is nothing, mere words on paper. If it helps you on your way, it is worth it. But see here,” he pointed a finger at Veraldi, “if, despite the generosity of Master Atwood, you find yourself short of silver, come to me. You are from Venice, I am from Rome, but we are both Italians, and we must stick together in these cold northern countries, eh?”

The evening ended in a round of laughter.

****

More time passed. Atwood, true to his word, made no more attempts to get Veraldi to play in public. And he was also true to his word in that he refused to accept lesson fees from his student, even though Veraldi tried to press them on him several times.

It was both inspiring and humbling to watch Veraldi, Atwood decided. He had never personally worked that hard at anything, not even when he was in the air force orchestra with a solo in an upcoming concert tour. The only person he’d ever seen work as hard as Veraldi was one semester when he was an undergraduate—he’d had a friend who was a Ph.D. candidate who had both a dissertation defense and a doctoral level recital scheduled in the same semester. He swore the man lived on coffee that semester. He knew he lost enough weight that he looked unhealthy.

Veraldi didn’t seem to be losing any weight, but he was definitely burning the candle at both ends. Some days his eyes seemed to be peering out of tunnels bored deep into his skull.

****

Giouan counted his silver frequently, even though he knew to the pfennig how much he had. At least once each week he recalculated how long he could stay, how long he could continue learning, when he would have to leave.

That day finally came.

Giouan knew he had to leave. He didn’t want to, not by any stretch of his imagination. He wanted to stay at Master At’s feet until he had learned everything the master had to teach, and then stay some more just to work with the master. But it wasn’t possible. He had to leave, he had to get home to Venice, for only there could his knowledge create the reputation he needed, only there could he build the relationships that would help bring the new music to his land.

It didn’t take long to leave on Saturday. Giouan had already collected his letter of introduction from Maestro Carissimi. He packed his clothing that morning, and slid the instrument cases into the oilcloth bag he had had made for them.

He paid the hotel keeper for the last time. His horse was waiting for him when he arrived at the stable, where he tipped the stable boy generously for taking excellent care of his mount. He tied his packages onto the back of the saddle, then headed for the familiar house of his master.

****

“So,” Atwood said, “the day has arrived when you have to leave. I’m sorry to hear that, John.”

“I’m sorry to have to say it, Master At. But my money has dwindled to the point where I dare not stay any longer. I have enough to make it to Venice if I start now, but if I stay much longer I won’t.”

Atwood saw the resolution in his student’s eyes, so he didn’t try to argue. In truth, he was surprised Veraldi had stayed as long as he had.

“Do you have everything you want?”

“No. Nor do I have everything I need. But I have enough to begin. If God allows, I will return.”

Atwood held his hand out. “Good luck, John. Go with God. Write to me when you can, come back if you can.”

“I will, Master At.” Veraldi took his hand, then snatched him into a close embrace. A moment later, he was walking down the sidewalk.

****

Giouan swung up and settled his feet in the stirrups. He looked around one last time, felt a lump rise in his throat for Master Atwood, then reined the horse around and nudged it into motion.

****

Coda

From The Fall of Fire: The Coming of Grantville and the Music of Europe

Charles William Battenberg, B.A., M.A., Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music, Schwarzberg Chair of Musicology, Oxford University

1979, Oxford University Press

Chapter Eleven—There Came Sweet Strings

Not all musical advancements from the knowledge of Grantville were made via the road to Magdeburg…the knowledge of the advanced mature instruments, as has already been noted, began to spread out very soon…

With the exception of the piano, no other stringed instrument made as great an impact as the banjo…considered a humble instrument by the up-timers, in the hands of Monteverdi and others it quickly joined the ranks of concert instruments along with the mandolin and guitar, which had supplanted the lute in much quicker fashion than it apparently did in the up-time…down-timers had no knowledge of the banjo, as it had been developed well after the Ring of Fire period of history…

The rise of the banjo was due in no little part to the efforts of one Giouan Battista Veraldi. Little is known of the man. By his name, musicologists assume that he was born in northern Italy, but exactly where has not been determined. It is known that he was a lutenist in the royal court of Sweden for some time. But he enters the Ring of Fire stage in 1634, when he became the student of Atwood Cochran. Therein began the partnership that lifted both the mature guitar and the unknown banjo…

…Veraldi arrived in Venice with guitar and banjo in hand, and addressed himself to Maestro Monteverdi and to the masters of the Sellas family, foremost luthiers in Italy…saw the innovation immediately…Monteverdi’s “Sonatas for Banjo and Continuo” were published within the year, and swept through Italy and southern Germany almost by storm…The literature for banjo began to expand almost exponentially…Veraldi’s “Etudes for Solo Banjo” are part of the standard repertoire…

The Sellas family had received an almost incalculable advantage…samples of the mature instruments were in their hands for weeks as they measured…far in advance of the Voboams and other luthiers of France and Spain.

After a few years, Veraldi began returning to Grantville to visit his teacher. Before long, he was bringing other students with him…a school developed…students from all over, but especially from northern Italy…Master Cochran was the head, but il primo Veraldi was the driving force…The journals of several musicians who later became of note record seeing Master Cochran in his eighties playing together with Veraldi…loved a piece named Dueling Banjos, and played it with great glee…significance of the title is unknown, since by all accounts Master Cochran would play a guitar in these performances…unfortunately the music has been lost in the passage of time…

Elegy

Magdeburg

April 1635

Andrea Abati moved down the hallway with a light step. This was one of Marla Linder's lesson days, and he didn't want to be late.

Working with Marla was such a joy to him. As a gentilhuomo—or castrato, as he and those like him were more vulgarly known—his life in Italy had been one of performances mixed with adulation, a certain amount of scheming in the papal court, and frequent dalliances with ladies—often married—who enjoyed both his notoriety and the fact that an unanticipated pregnancy would never complicate their lives. In his early thirties, his voice fully mature and in the prime of his singing life, he had not yet begun to teach. But then he came to Magdeburg and met Marla Linder.

Andrea's friend, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, called Marla's voice golden. Andrea thought that the maestro was guilty of an understatement. The young woman's voice surpassed his own in range, and was fully the equal of his in timbre. What she lacked was technique. And she awoke in him the hunger to teach, the desire to take a younger musician in hand as a gardener might take a sapling, to nurture the raw talent, help to shape it and grow it, until full maturity was reached. And as that hunger grew, Andrea's life began to change.

Il Prosperino, Andrea had been called in Italy. The name literally meant "The Prosperous One," but was usually meant to say "Little Prospero." It had actually been bestowed on him because in his early days in Rome he had been somewhat of a protégé to Prospero Orsi, an artist and fellow citizen of Norcia, Andrea's home. Some wit had said, "Look, here comes Prospero and his Prosperino," and the name had stuck. He hadn't minded—in truth, he had been a bit smug about it. The name was appropriate, because he had indeed prospered in almost every way.

If musical talent was the cornerstone of Andrea's fame in Rome, flamboyance had certainly been the keystone. Flamboyant speech, flamboyant dress, and definitely flamboyant liaisons with the ladies. Yet here in Germany, exposed to the music found in Grantville, the uptime instruments and works and harmonies, bit by bit the flamboyance began to drain from him. That alone had shocked him when he realized it was happening. But to find it replaced with a desire to teach, when he had always looked down on teaching as the refuge of those who either could not perform to his high standard or those who were past their prime, that had been an even greater shock. But before long, Il Prosperino had been replaced by Master Andrea.

Andrea smoothed a hand down the front of his short-waisted black velvet jacket, and grinned to himself. Of course, he had not given up all culture and appearances, but now it was somewhat different. Now he did not seek to shock or titillate or over-awe; he demonstrated instead . . . what was the French phrase Marla had told him . . . oh yes, savoir-faire. Andrea was now a "class act."

Marla had been his first student. He had many more students now, including several girls from the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls. He enjoyed teaching every one of them, but Marla was still his favorite. He smiled. Her passion for the music may not have exceeded his own, but it was certainly equal to it.

Music wafted down the hall; piano, then flute. Marla must be practicing the flute piece for the concert as well. Andrea opened the door just a moment after the music stopped in mid-phrase.

"It still doesn't sound right." Marla sounded determined. Andrea smiled. Determination was a frequent state of mind for Marla.

"I think it sounds fine." Hermann Katzberg spoke from where he sat at the piano.

The Steinway grand that Marla had escorted to Magdeburg in late 1633 was still the reigning queen of keyboards in the city. It had somehow become the property of the Imperial and Royal Academy of Music in Magdeburg. Andrea still wasn't sure just how Master Carissimi, the head of the academy, had managed to bring that about, but he had. In addition, no less than three of the Bledsoe & Riebeck pianos, built with hardware salvaged from old up-time pianos, had made their way from Grantville to Magdeburg in the last two years. The academy had managed to acquire one of them, which was now the principal practice piano.

"It's not right," Marla insisted again.

"What's not right?" Andrea asked.

"This passage." She pointed to the music on the piano.

Andrea studied the passage in question, then straightened.

"Play it again."

Marla raised the flute, licked her lips, and nodded to Hermann. He began the accompaniment part; she entered moments later. Andrea listened attentively, but also observed Marla's physical actions.

At the end of the phrase, she stopped, making a face as if smelling something rancid. She turned to Andrea and waited.

"You are breathing in the wrong places. You don't have enough diaphragm support."

"But that's where my flute teacher told me to breath!"

Marla sounded somewhat offended. Andrea looked at her with his best Master Andrea frown. "Marla, breathing is breathing, whether you play a flute, a pennywhistle, one of those molto grande tubas, or sing. I know breathing. And I tell you, you are breathing in the wrong places."

He pulled a pencil from his jacket pocket, leaned over the music, and made two marks. "Breath here and here, and firm your diaphragm, just as if you were singing the high notes."

Her expression skeptical, Marla raised the flute and played the phrase again, Hermann following her lead. Andrea listened with head cocked to one side, nodding. She finished with a bit of a flourish, then gave her teacher a nod.

"You were right, Master Andrea. It does sound better that way."

"Don't sound so surprised," he growled. He was unable to keep the smile from his face as her skirling laughter filled the room. "As Franz would say, play it again to prove you know it."

Again the flute notes sounded; again he observed.

"Excellent!" Andrea applauded. "Now, can we begin the songs we are supposed to be rehearsing today?"

"Yes, Master Andrea."

Magdeburg

May 1635

Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, the head master of the Imperial and Royal Academy of Music in Magdeburg, settled into his seat next to his good friend, Girolamo Zenti, proprietor and master craftsman of the instrument crafting firm of the same name.

"Good evening, Girolamo"

"Good evening, Maestro."

Giacomo wanted to shake his head. Even though they had been friends for several years now, Girolamo would always speak to him with utmost respect in public. He started to chide his friend, but in the end just sighed and held his tongue. They had had this conversation before. He doubted that anything would change if they rehearsed it one more time. He looked at the program instead.

Franz Sylwester, the dirigent—or conductor, as the Grantvillers would have it—had established a theme of "Songs Without Words" for tonight's concert, declaring that only up-time works would be performed. There were six works on the program: three orchestral works, two voice solo works accompanied by the orchestra, and a flute solo accompanied by piano. Giacomo ordinarily would have attended most of the rehearsals, but his schedule of late had been so burdened that he had been forced to set that pleasure aside. As a consequence, he was truly looking forward to tonight's performance.

The orchestra had quietly been warming up for some time. Matthäus Amsel, the concert master, now strode out to the front of the orchestra. He bowed to the polite applause from the audience, then proceeded to tune the orchestra. Once they were tuned to Matthäus' satisfaction, he took his seat.

This was the first concert of the year for the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and everyone who was anyone in Magdeburg was present. Giacomo had seen Hoch-Adel by the dozens when he entered, as well as members of the government and various influential members of the community. Even the Committees of Correspondence were represented . . . or at least he thought he had seen Gunther Achterhof in the back of the room. And of course, Mary Simpson and her coterie of ladies he had heard Marla refer to as the "music mafia" were present in full force.

Franz Sylwester strode through the side door and out to the podium, where he bowed to the audience. Giacomo watched as his friend stepped onto the podium, gathered the eyes of the orchestra, and raised his baton.

The soft flute opened over the ripple of the piano chords; Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on Greensleeves was begun. The strings came in singing the melody in the lower strings with a descant in the violins. So simple, yet so beautiful.

Giacomo would always have a fond spot in his heart for Ralph (pronounced "Rafe" for some unknown English reason) Vaughan Williams. Despite the fact that the man was a professed atheist, he had written some of the most beautiful hymns and songs Giacomo had ever heard. And his orchestral writing! Remembering the performance of Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis from last year's summer concert, Giacomo shivered.

This other fantasia, he had to admit, was much lighter, although still exhibiting Vaughan Williams' deft orchestrations and lush string sounds. He knew that Franz regretted having to substitute piano for the harp part, but there just had not been time to have craftsmen experiment in building a full concert pedal harp from the descriptions and pictures found in various books in Grantville.

Ah, here was the transition of the piece, where for contrast the composer brought in another air, another folk song from England entitled "Lovely Joan." Melodically darker, moving somewhat quicker, written in what was almost a driving style, until it grounded out into the solo flute line again, and returned to a final statement of the original theme. So light, so airy, almost as if it were sung instead of played. The violins lilted the final statement of the theme, and quietly decrescendoed to fade away.

The audience was rapt for a moment, then applause broke out. It was more than simply polite, but not as fulsome as Giacomo expected to hear later this evening. Franz took a bow, then left through the door.

In the resulting moment of quiet murmuring, Giacomo quickly perused the program. Yes, his memory had not failed him. The flute solo Marla was to perform came next. Marla and Andrea had talked of little else for days, until they were both happy with both the notes and the musicianship.

And speaking—all right, thinking—of Marla, it was as if she had been summoned. She appeared in the side door, holding her silver flute as if it were a standard, and marched to stand in the curve of the grand piano which was placed in front of the orchestra. She bowed to acknowledge the substantial applause—it was no secret that she was the darling of the patrons of Magdeburg—as Hermann Katzberg settled himself at the keyboard. Marla nodded to Hermann. With a single chord from the piano she launched herself into what sounded as if it were a tour-de-force.

According to the program, this was the Sonata "Undine" by Carl Reinecke, a composer who was not extremely well-known in the up-time. Marla said he had written some lovely pieces, and this sonata was apparently well known among flutists.

The first movement had a passionately stated theme that passed back and forth between the flute and the piano. The piano part was so lush it was almost made the work a duet. The tone darkened momentarily, flute and piano both working as if under a cloud, then returning to the lighter tonality.

The second movement was an allegretto in a most vivacious manner. Marla played incredibly rapid passages. Just as Giacomo began to worry about her ability to breathe, there was a brief interlude where the piano played solo, but all too soon the flute returned to recapitulate the original theme of the movement.

There was a very brief pause for a spurt of applause and a buzz of whispers in reaction to the bravura performance of the second movement. The audience hushed as Marla raised her flute again.

The third movement was aptly marked andante tranquillo. Tranquility was indeed its hallmark, and even more than the first movement this was a duet between the two instruments, calling back and forth to each other, then meeting to harmonize, then fading away.

The fourth movement was the most passionate of the work. You could hear the passion in the music, but you could also see it in Marla. That tall, almost regal figure in a white Empire gown—her favorite style—was bending and swaying—now slightly, now slowly, now deeper, now faster—in time with the music. Much as one of Frau Bitty's dancers would move in the dance on stage, so Marla moved in the dance of the music in the air. Even Hermann was caught up in it, hunching forward as his hands rushed up and down the keyboard in places, in others leaning back almost languidly.

The ending was a complete surprise, as all of the storm and passion seemed to fade away to a calm, almost placid theme, with both musicians playing lightly, lyrically, to a final soft chord.

Applause began as soon as Marla lowered her flute. She stood, smiling that brilliant smile that lit every corner of the room. After a moment, she bowed two or three times in response.

Giacomo could see that his friend was breathing deeply. Despite her apparent facility with the instrument, she had worked very hard to play this piece. To his perceptive eye, it showed.

Marla waved her hand to Hermann. He stood at the piano keyboard to take his bow. She bowed one final time, and together they left.

Once again there was a brief moment between the performances. Giacomo leaned over to his friend. He had no need to glance at the program; he knew well what the next work was.

"Wake up, Girolamo."

"You slander me, maestro, if you think I would dare to doze off now."

The side door opened again. Their mutual friend Master Andrea Abati strode forth confidently—as if he could walk any other way—followed by Franz Sylwester. As Franz assumed the podium, Andrea bowed to the applause. The corners of Giacomo's mouth bent upwards in a smile. Despite his changes in outward appearance and demeanor during the last year or so, Andrea still bowed as if he were a king acknowledging the fealty and praise of his subjects. Some things might never change.

Andrea looked to Franz. The music began.

A vocalise, Giacomo remembered from the conversation with Marla when the concert program was developed, was a vocal exercise sung on an open syllable. But when Marla or Mary Simpson said "the vocalise", they referred to a work by one of the greater composers of the up-time twentieth century, a Russian named Rachmaninoff. It was titled simply Vocalise and was on the program tonight at Mary's personal request. In fact, it was the first piece chosen, thus determining the theme.

After two chords from the accompaniment, Andrea opened his mouth and the melody began. Within six notes of the beginning he had everyone's rapt attention. Quiet, contemplative, not quite mournful, the sound of his voice lifted quietly, ebbing and flowing.

Giacomo closed his eyes, listening to one of the two finest voices in Germany—in the known world, for that matter. Andrea's voice had always had that classic castrato silkiness, a timbre that just wasn't found in a woman's voice. Tonight, however, without words to get in the way, without the baroque ornamentation that pre-Ring of Fire music required, he was free to pour all of his art, all of his passion, all of his being into realizing a powerful melody. It was as if he was a living flute, equal to that which Marla had played early, but warm with life, fountaining song forth from his heart and soul.

To Giacomo, Andrea's pride had always been forgivable. To be able to sing with that voice—ah, what a gift.

He opened his eyes again and watched as Andrea sang, his hands before him, body and hands moving slowly as if in a dance. As Marla had done before him, the passion of the music flowed through Andrea as well. It could well have been a study for the ballet, watching the minimal movements of that tall slim figure clad in black velvet that nonetheless evoked so much in partnership with his voice.

Chills chased up and down Giacomo's spine as he listened to trills that were so fast they seemed indeed to be played on a flute. He seemed to float like an eagle, soaring higher and higher, riding currents of song until a final pinnacle was reached where for a timeless moment he seemed released from the bonds of earth.

After the barest of pauses, there was a slow descent to a final syllable that faded to infinity. Franz closed his hand—the orchestra stopped. Andrea was frozen in his final position. No one moved—it seemed that no one breathed. Giacomo watched as Andrea, timing by an internal clock, finally broke his position, which instantly triggered a massive applause from the audience. Hoch-Adel were on their feet, clapping as fervently as any of the burghers and guildsmen. Some of the stolid Germans were roaring as loudly as the excitable Italian standing to his right.

Andrea gave bow after bow, grinning widely. At length he stood to one side and waved to the orchestra. Franz stepped from the podium to give a bow. In turn, he gestured to his players. As one, they stood to receive their just acclaim.

Franz stepped forward once more. Joined by Andrea, they gave one more bow, then exited through the side door.

Giacomo and Girolamo dropped back into their seats.

"God and all his angels." Giacomo mopped his brow. "I am as limp as a wet rag, my friend."

"Not me, maestro," Girolamo declared. "I quiver like a bell that has just been sounded."

"Well, it is a good thing for both of us that we have reached the Intermissio. Perhaps we can regain our composure before they begin again."

"We had better," Girolamo intoned. "Marla has yet to sing. Mind you, I don't see how she could do better than Master Andrea. But by all that is holy, if she equals him, I will be in a state of grace for weeks."

Giacomo laughed. "I somehow doubt that the Holy Father would agree that hearing heavenly music will forgive your sins and pay your penance. Not that I disagree with your opinion of the quality."

"Well, he should. I think he would if he only heard what we will hear tonight."

"Enough! You border on sacrilege." Giacomo's smile belied his words. "If you would earn merit, go find me a glass of wine, for I am as dry and dusty as the Via Appia in high summer."

"At your command, maestro. Just see to it that you mention this to Saint Peter."

The intermission concluded just after Giacomo received his wine. Ushers walked through the throng waving gold and silver fans on high, signaling everyone to be seated.

Girolamo settled at his side with a sigh, and whispered, "When do we hear Marla sing?"

"Shhh. After the Pastorale. Minutes only."

Franz returned to the podium and took his bow. The orchestra began the performance of the Pastorale from Messiah, by Georg Friederich Händel. An international program indeed, Giacomo thought, with works by an Englishman, a Russian and two Germans having been played, and works from a Frenchman and a German of Jewish descent yet to be heard. Hmmm, no Italian. How had that slipped by him? He'd have to have words with Franz about that, he thought with a smile, before returning his attention to the music.

The Händel piece was almost soothing. It came from a time not too far in advance of their own, and by now should sound familiar to the audience, as it had received two other performances in the last ten months. It opened with a very formal stately theme, almost a processional, which came to a moment of pause, then entered into a fugal section that had a joyful feel to it. The various string sections passed themes back and forth with a verve and élan that was . . . refreshing, Giacomo decided. All too soon, the Pastorale was completed. There was reasonable applause from the audience, after which Franz left the room again.

Giacomo waited, knowing what to expect but still scarcely daring to breathe. Finally, Franz reentered from the side door, his wife Marla on his arm. The applause began the moment she was seen, and crested as he handed her off to stand before the audience alone. She bowed again, smiled that illuminating smile of hers, then stood expectantly. Giacomo sat immediately, going so far as to lay a hand on Girolamo's arm to encourage him to sit also. The remaining audience caught on. Within moments the room was almost as still as a mausoleum. Marla looked to Franz. He caught the regal nod, and began.

It was Andrea's idea, actually. After agreeing to perform the Vocalise, he had insisted that Marla should sing also. Giacomo put it down to the master teacher being protective of his stellar student. Of course, when that student was as popular as Marla, not including her might have caused a riot. Passionate music lovers had done stranger things, he had learned from the history of the future.

But it was also Andrea who suggested what she should sing, something a little on the radical side. He recalled an up-time orchestral piece that evoked in him some of the same feelings as the Rachmaninoff, insisting that Thomas Schwartzberg arrange it as a vocalise. And then he drilled her on it, over and over and over again, until she reached even his standard of acceptability.

The low strings began their pizzicato plucking of strings. After two measures the beautiful melody of Gabriel Fauré's Pavane was heard in the room. Marla's golden voice was almost sirenesque in how it reached out and enticed everyone to follow her in what was truly a dance. Lilting, soaring, at times leaping, everyone danced with her—orchestra, patrons, guildsmen, burghers and all. As she swayed on the stage, they swayed with her—as her voice rose and fell, they would sit taller or relax. More than a few of them, from what Giacomo could observe, would unconsciously move their hands slightly in imitation of her arm movements.

It wasn't a long work; it soon began to slow. It was as if the dancers were dropping out one by one, leaving Marla and only a few attendants to complete it. Gracefully, gracefully, she sang the final phrases, holding tones out for what seemed like an impossibly long time, to the last few notes—the last steps of the dance, as it were.

Hers was not the bravura performance that Master Andrea had delivered, Giacomo decided as he stood and applauded with everyone else. But her warmth, her style, her grace had involved everyone in the room in a way that made them feel a part of the music. Andrea had performed; Marla had given them a gift of love.

Giacomo quit analyzing and shouted "Brava! Brava!" along with Girolamo. He beat his hands together until they hurt.

The final work on the program was almost an anticlimax: The Hebrides overture, by Felix Mendelssohn. It was a new work for the orchestra. Of course, as new as the orchestra was, almost everything was a new work for them, Giacomo admitted.

It was a lyrical work, in some ways, working the string sections very melodically, especially the low strings. He closed his eyes again to listen. Images of the sea were evoked. He remembered trips to the shore in Italy, watching the waves rolling in without ceasing, sun glinting from the blue water.

The following section was laden with brass and was more tumultuous, as if a brief storm had blown across the sea. The storm was indeed brief, and the music returned to the lyrical mode.

As he rode the waves of sound, Giacomo mused. The wind players were continuing to improve, he noted. Marcus Wendell, the Grantville band director, had estimated it would take a year for down-time musicians to grow proficient with the new and changed wind instruments: the metal transversal flutes, the clarinets, the saxophones—all new forms. Oboes and bassoons, vastly different than their ancestors. The valves available for the trumpets and their cousins, the very different mouthpieces. Yes, it had taken every bit of twelve months for the players to first learn their instruments, and then to learn to play together. But the result . . . oh, the result was well worth Giacomo's wait and their travail.

To hear this music in a hall, with the ambience and the harmonics unfettered, that was bliss. To hear the players proving that they could measure up to standard of the up-time music was emboldening. And to see young Franz—Giacomo blithely ignored the very slight difference in their ages—a down-timer himself, leading them in their work with style, grace and panache was a confirmation. Now, now he knew for certain that the music he was beginning to hear in his head would be realized.

The music began to grow in intensity, drawing Giacomo from his thoughts. The final section began to echo the themes and treatments of the storm. The rush to the finale was on.

The orchestra arrived at a grand chord . . . and then Herr Mendelssohn played his little joke. Just as everyone was prepared for the piece to end, the clarinet restated the opening theme—surprise!—making the audience think that there was more to come, just before it died away.

The moment of silence that followed had an air of uncertainty, of "are they really done with it," but finally the applause began. Giacomo was smiling as he began clapping his hands. The more he considered the composer's little prank, the funnier it became, until he started laughing. Noticing that Girolamo was looking at him with a quizzical expression, he shook his head.

After Franz had shaken his hair back and taken his bows, and after the orchestra had taken their bow, voices began to be heard calling from the audience.

"Die Sänger!"

"The singers!"

"I cantanti!" came from burly Girolamo at Giacomo's side.

The calls grew both in volume and in frequency, until after a few moments there was a constant roar above the applause. Franz held both hands up in surrender. Smiling, he beckoned to the side door.

The room erupted as Marla entered, followed by Andrea and Hermann, who was carrying . . . a chair? Now Giacomo was truly intrigued.

The two singers arrived in the center, joined hands and took a bow. Andrea then held up his hands and motioned for everyone to hush and be seated, while Marla beckoned to Franz to come join them. He did so with a very bemused expression on his face.

"Thank you for coming tonight," Marla said to the audience. "We had hoped you would enjoy our offerings enough to ask for an encore." Laughter sounded all around the room. "And indeed, we have one planned. However, there has been a slight change in the plan." More laughter as Franz's expression went from bemused to surprised to suspicious in that many moments.

"Today is my husband's birthday." Applause. "He has reached the advanced age of twenty-seven." Laughter and applause. "And so, with the connivance . . . I mean the cooperation of our friends . . . " Marla turned and waved at the orchestra, who waved back. "I have a song I would like to sing for Franz."

She tugged on Franz's arm. For a brief moment he resisted, a mutinous expression on his face, but only for a moment. Then he smiled—a bit forced, Giacomo judged, but graceful nonetheless—and suffered himself to be led to the chair that Hermann had placed at the front of the audience.

Marla returned to the center, and clasped her hands in front of her. "The song I'm about to sing is from the future, but it isn't one of the grand works that you typically hear from me. Nor, for those of you who come by The Green Horse tavern on certain nights, is it one of the Irish songs I sing with my friends.

"For all that, it is a classic in its own way. I offer it to you, but I sing it to my husband. Unchained Melody."

Marla bowed her head for a moment. Giacomo was impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. When she raised it again and looked at Franz, Hermann began the introduction. After four measures of quiet piano, Marla began to sing.

Unlike the previous vocal pieces, this one had lyrics in English. Giacomo had heard Marla practicing this song several days before. The lyrics weren't what he would consider immortal poetry, but when mated with the music . . . ah, they became truly memorable.

Quiet, oh so quiet Marla's voice, but it filled the room as she sang to her love, her darling, as she sang about hungering for him. Giacomo knew without looking that everyone could hear, that everyone had once again been enraptured by the young woman's talent. But now, now there was something—a tone, a timbre, an emotion—something that he had never heard in her voice before. The low notes positively throbbed.

Another voice joined Marla as she began the second verse. Giacomo's eyes opened wide and his head snapped to focus on Andrea Abati. He was standing two paces behind Marla, mirroring her posture and position. Shadow to her glory, his eyes closed, he poured his voice out to complement hers. Singing descant, he followed Marla's lead as she mourned the passage of time and questioned whether her love still responded to her.

They two had sung together before. And they both were called angel voices, yes. But this . . . Ai, Dio, que bellisima! It was enough to tear the heart from a statue, the quiet passion of Marla supported by the pure fire of Andrea.

The twined voices swelled on the first line of the chorus, surging to a peak as Marla poured forth her need, then beginning to fall off of it. Each successive line dwindled, until the last two words were sung in the same quiet intensity of the beginning.

Marla sang the opening lines of the interlude, voice floating, the lower register of her voice just so resonant, so full, the intensity so quietly overpowering that Giacomo forgot to breathe. The music evoked the image of flowing waters that the words described.

Andrea re-entered, still with the higher descant harmony, perfectly partnering Marla's voice. In one little corner of his mind, Giacomo was amazed at how perfectly they matched—it was as if one throat was producing two tones. The final phrase swelled as Marla called her love to wait, leading to the return of the verses.

Now the full voice was unleashed, now Marla was unfettered, now the passion was totally unveiled. And Andrea kept step, note by note, singing around her voice, somehow blending, yet still it was Marla's song.

The climax of the entire song arrived with the first line of the chorus. The tempo slowed, and the singers crested on the word "need," seemingly holding the note forever, although Giacomo knew that it was barely the four beats of one measure. At last, they descended, repeating the pattern quieter and at a lower pitch for the second line.

Andrea dropped out for the final line. Marla broke her pose as she began the phrase, holding her hands out toward Franz, sustaining the word "love" for a long moment, allowing the briefest of pauses, and then very softly singing the final two words " . . . to me."

Her voice just seemed to hold that note forever, until Giacomo realized with a start that he couldn't hear it any longer.

There was a long moment of silence.

Songs of love were not uncommon. Street music, art music, they could be heard almost anytime, anywhere. But tonight, tonight had been different. Tonight a woman had bared her soul in truth, unheeding of the public who witnessed it. Tonight a love had been declared, had been poured out like a drink offering on the altar of God, in so selfless and unmannered a fashion that Giacomo marveled. Truth to tell, he was somewhat uncomfortable with observing it, as if he had unwittingly committed an act of voyeurism. Perhaps everyone felt something of that, for the silence held.

Finally Franz stood and stepped to his wife. He claimed Marla's hands and raised them to his lips. At that moment, the silence shattered as the wildest applause of the night broke free.

****

"I am not worthy of you," Franz murmured as he kissed Marla's hands, ignoring the uproar behind him.

Marla simply smiled and shook her head.

"You knew—everyone knew—you were going to do this, and nobody told me."

"Nope." The smile grew larger.

"You change my life and my plans at your whims."

"Yep." Marla's eyes began dancing

"And there is nothing I can do but love you."

"You just remember that, because the changes are just beginning."

Marla giggled as Franz's expression wavered between alarm and curiosity. Curiosity won.

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to be a father."

****

Just when Giacomo thought the noise was beginning to taper off, Marla melted into Franz's embrace for a passionate kiss. The audience just exploded with applause and cheers.

Magdeburg

May 1635

Dear Aunt Susan—and you too, Jonni, I know you're reading this

Boy, do I miss email. I Hatewriting letters!!!!!!!!!!! (sigh) But I promised I would keep you up to date on stuff, and I can't afford the telegraph very often, so here I am scribbling on paper.

First news is, I'm pregnant. And yes, I'm sure. I've missed my second period, and I've always been like clockwork before now.

x o x o x o x o x o x o x (kisses and hugs)

Okay, are you guys through celebrating? Seriously, this is really going to put a crimp in some things. My best guess is it happened in early February, so we're pegging the due date in early November. I was supposed to sing in the anniversary concert for the Battle of Wismar like I did last October. I'll probably be as big as a whale, so it looks like I won't be doing that.. Even if I wanted to appear on a stage like that—which I don't!— my diaphragm will probably be pushed up to the bottom of my lungs. I'll be doing good to breathe, much less sing.

Our first big concert of the year happened a couple of nights ago, and everything went really well. I played my flute in one song, and sang in two more. Everyone seemed to like them pretty well. Mary Simpson was very complimentary. I don't know why some people think she's a real hard case. She's never been anything but nice to me and Franz.

I told Franz he was going to be a father after the concert. I thought he was going to pass out on the spot! He's been treating me like a porcelain doll ever since. He keeps trying to make me sit down, and doesn't want me to do anything. I don't know who's more scared, him or me.

Yeah, I'm scared. I'd be nervous if we were still in the USA, I'm sure. I'm really nervous now. I mean, if something goes wrong, we don't have the doctors or the hospitals or the medicines or the tools or . . . I'd better stop that before I start crying again.

I am excited, too. I think I'll like being a mom. But if you've got any advice for me Sis, or you too, Aunt Susan, I really want to hear it.

That's all for now.

Love to you and all the kids.

Marla

x o x o x

Magdeburg

August 1635

Dear Aunt Susan,

Me again. Thanks for sending me the nursing bras. I've really started putting on weight (wonder why?), and I'm enough larger already that these feel more comfortable.

I've been really lucky—the whole morning sickness thing wasn't much of a problem. That's good, since I don't puke easily. I did twice, though. Turns out Franz's stomach is a little sensitive. I looked up from the first time, and he was positively green. I started laughing, and he started to get mad, then he got a funny look on his face, and before I knew it he'd pulled the pot away from me and added his supper to mine. Afterwards, he laughed with me, but the next time it happened I made him leave the room.

Well, we've finally settled on names: Paul Otto if it's a boy, after my brother and his father; and Alison Wilhelmina if it's a girl, after my mother and his mother. Franz kept wanting to dump these huge German names on the kid, and I told him no way. He finally came around to my way of thinking.

Franz surprised me yesterday. Gunther Achterhof put him in touch with a woodcarver, and he brought home a cradle. It's beautiful! It's not very big, but it will do for a few months, anyway, and it's hand carved out of oak, with musical notes and stuff on the head and foot boards. I cried.

Speaking of crying, how long will I be so emotional? And don't tell me 20 years! I mean, when my hormones finally settle down, will I get back to normal again? I know it's a dumb question, but this is my first time, remember?

Umm, I know it's asking a lot, but if you or Jonni could see your way clear to coming to Magdeburg around November 1 and staying until after the baby is born, I would really appreciate it. There are several Grantville women in town now, but they're not family. You know—it's not the same. Let me know if you can.

Gotta go.

Love.

Marla

Magdeburg

October 7, 1635

"You are sure you will be fine?"

Marla swatted her husband on the arm with the program.

"Will you get backstage where you belong? I'm fine. I'll be fine. And I've got Mary here watching over me."

Mary Simpson leaned over Marla. "She'll be fine, Franz. I'll take care of her. Go."

Franz stood by Marla's chair for a moment more, then slowly turned and headed for the door, looking back over his shoulder more than once. He straightened up just in time to avoid walking into the doorframe.

"Men!" Marla snorted. "He thinks I'm totally helpless."

"Actually, dear," Mary smiled, "the problem isn't that he thinks you're helpless, it's that he knows he's helpless. Whatever happens with you and the baby, he's already made the only contribution he can make, and men aren't wired for patience and helplessness. Are they, John?" She poked her husband.

"Not for that," John Simpson said. "Mary was lucky. I was gone a lot with the Navy while she was carrying Tom. I'm sure I'd have driven her crazy."

"Oh, heavens." Mary laughed. "You'd have been there every morning, clipboard in hand, taking statistics and measurements, figuring out if I was behind the optimum health curve, laying out exercise plans and diets. I wouldn't have had a moment's rest."

Mary patted John's hand. Marla didn't miss how his much larger hand curled around her small one. She'd never believed that John Simpson was quite as stoic and hard-shelled as everyone said he was. After Mary's adventures last year, she had noticed that he seemed a little more . . . demonstrative, maybe. He certainly smiled at her more in public than he did before.

"Anyway, be patient with him, dear. It's much better than a husband who doesn't care, and he'll level off after the baby's born."

There followed several moments of conversation, until someone on the other side of John Simpson claimed Mary's attention. Marla sat back and fanned herself with the program. Early October notwithstanding, at eight months pregnant she was hot almost all the time. She felt as big as a house, and about as maneuverable as one of the Admiral's ironclads on the river. Please let this kid get here soon!

To take her mind off her condition, Marla started reading the program, although she knew it by heart. Franz had been rehearsing the orchestra for weeks.

Wellington's Victory – Ludwig Beethoven.

Lament for a Fallen Eagle – Giacomo Carissimi

1812 Overture – Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

All music associated with battle and victories, two from the up-time and one from the present. Appropriate for the concert commemorating the second anniversary of the Battle of Wismar.

"Does it feel strange to be sitting here instead of singing the lament tonight?"

Marla looked up to see Mary focused on her again.

"Yeah, a little. I really wanted to sing the duet version of it with Master Andrea like we did last year." She laid a hand on her swollen abdomen. "But junior here kind of got in the way."

Marla had sung the first performance of the lament back in December of 1633 in Grantville. It had been arranged for the instruments that were available, which weren't many. She still remembered Maestro Carissimi muttering about barbaric villages beyond the bounds of civilization when he discovered there was no orchestra available. So, for the first anniversary of the battle, when he was asked to have the work performed for the first time in Magdeburg, the maestro had gleefully re-orchestrated the music to take full advantage of Magdeburg's orchestra. He had also, after discussing it with Marla and Master Andrea both, re-scored the vocal part to be a duet. It had been Marla's first opportunity to sing with someone of Andrea's calibre and it thrilled her. She had been looking forward so much to singing it again this year. Sigh.

"So, how is the orchestra going to do the cannon shots for the overture?"

Marla laughed. "They've got several shotguns loaded with blanks, and they're firing them into a fifty gallon oil drum with one end cut out." Mary's eyebrows climbed. "I don't know if it sounds like a cannon, but it makes a big sound. They only got to rehearse it once, so Franz is a little nervous about that."

"Since the cannon blasts aren't exactly timed to the music," Mary mused, "if one of them doesn't quite hit the mark, no one would know."

"That's what I told him."

"From the looks of the program, Franz must be ready to start exploring the symphonic works." Mary raised her eyebrows.

"You mean he hasn't told you yet?" Marla was surprised.

"No." Mary smiled. "But then, he has had a lot on his mind lately,"

Marla laughed again. "He decided recently that he wants to work through the symphonies of Beethoven, do one, maybe two a year. And Marcus has miniature study scores for each of them, so we don't even have to have them transcribed from recordings. Some of Marcus' students are copying out the first symphony score and parts now."

"Surely he'll do more than that?"

"Oh sure, both down-time and up-time. But Beethoven's first symphony will be the first one they do."

Mary started to say something else, but at that moment Franz emerged from the side door. The applause began.

****

Marla sank back into the seat of the carriage. Her feet hurt. Her feet hurt clear up to her hips. Or she assumed it was her feet that were hurting—her lips quirked—she hadn't had a good look at them in weeks. She rested her hand on her abdomen, and giggled for a moment. Dressed in a forest green gown, her belly looked like an overly ripe Black Diamond watermelon. Then she wished she hadn't thought that, because watermelon sounded really good, and she knew what her chances were of getting any in October in Germany. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

Between her feet aching and junior deciding to perform gymnastics in time to the music, Marla had been somewhat distracted from the concert.

The Beethoven piece, one of his minor ones, had been chosen more for the theme of the work rather than its artistic merits. It had sounded well, though.

And Master Andrea more than did justice to Maestro Giacomo's work. That one Marla had definitely heard.

The climax of the evening was the 1812 Overture. It had definitely been received well, ersatz cannon and all. Marla giggled as she remembered seeing the audience jump in time with her baby as the shotguns had roared.

Afterward had been the obligatory round of conversations with the patrons, guildsmen and burghers and their wives. That's when her feet had really started hurting. Franz had hurried through that as quickly as he could, asking their friend Isaac to go call their rented carriage to the door much sooner than she thought he would.

The carriage rocked as Franz climbed in, having finally closed off the conversations and made his farewells. He reached over and took her hand. "Tired?"

"No." Marla snorted. "My eyes are dusty and I'm just cleaning them." She opened said eyes in time to watch him laugh.

The carriage—another mark of Franz's concern for her well-being—only took a few minutes to move through the streets to their house. Her husband handed her down with great care, then reached up to pay the driver. He helped her up the steps and opened the door as the carriage rattled off.

Marla sighed. Home again. She was ready to get the dress off, throw her shoes into a closet and get into a comfortable bed gown. Another month to go. She wasn't sure she could make it.

Franz closed the door behind them. She felt him come up behind her and place his hands on her shoulders. "Shall I take your coat?"

"Please."

****

Franz reached to put Marla's coat away, then heard a strangled gasp. Without a thought, he dropped the coat and spun. In the light of the little lantern on the side table, he could see a look of sheer panic on his wife's face. His instinctive step to her splashed.

Splashed?

He looked down, and realized Marla was standing in a puddle. His immediate reaction was relief, followed by biting his lip to keep from laughing, believing that she'd had an accident.

But then Franz realized he didn't smell the acrid smell of urine. His panic returned, redoubled. He reached to her as she clutched at his arm, long pianist's fingers sinking deep into cloth and flesh.

"God." A whispered prayer, then louder and frantic. "Franz . . . my water broke! The baby's coming!"

"What?"

Marla's voice cracked. "The baby's coming! It's too early!"

Franz was on the verge of gibbering, but one look at the fear on Marla's face told him he couldn't. Drawing on the strength that had let him face down Rupert Heydrich, his nemesis, over a year ago, Franz gathered Marla into his arms.

"Shh, shh," he repeated over and over, hand stroking her hair as she hiccupped. After a few moments, he held her out at arms' length. Good. She was calmer now. There was still a wild light to her eyes, but she wasn't about to go to pieces.

"It is not going to be here this minute, love. Let me help you to the bed and out of that dress, and I'll send for the midwife."

He watched as Marla visibly grasped for composure. She nodded, and led the way to the bedroom.

Magdeburg

October 8, 1635

There was a knock at the door. Franz rose, stiff from sitting all night. He opened the door to find Mary Simpson standing in the light of the dawn. With her were Lady Beth Haygood and his good friend Isaac Fremdling.

"May we come in?" Mary asked.

Franz stood to one side, waving them in as he yawned.

They all found seats in the small parlor, except Isaac, who leaned against a wall.

"How is she?" Lady Beth's face was worried.

"I do not know." Franz's voice was weary. "Her water broke after we got home, and I sent for the midwife immediately. She and her helper came at once."

"Who did you get?"

"Greta . . . " Franz searched for the name.

"Oh, I know her." Lady Beth smiled and patted Franz on the arm. "She's good. She's been to Jena and learned quite a bit. There's been a bit of tension between her and some of the other midwives, because of her insistence on cleanliness now."

"I tried to stay with them," Franz continued, "but when the labor started hard, the midwife ordered me out. She said they didn't have time to tend to me as well as Marla."

"When was that?"

"I do not know. Some time after midnight, I think."

"So," Mary said, "she's been in labor about nine hours, maybe, and in hard labor maybe three or four?"

Franz gave a tired nod of affirmation.

"Well, that's not all that long. Especially for a first child."

"Oh, my, no," Lady Beth smiled. "I was almost twenty-four hours with my first, and there was another woman in the OB ward at the same time who'd been there twelve hours when I got there and still didn't have her kid until after I did."

Franz's expression must have changed, because Mary rushed to say, "But that's not always the case. Marla's probably going to have an easier time of it. She's tall enough that you don't realize how wide her hips are. She really ought to have it soon."

At that moment, there was a yell from the bedroom.

"Oh, good, they've had her start pushing," Lady Beth said.

****

Others had dropped by from time to time during the morning. It seemed everyone they knew wanted to know how things were progressing, but none stayed more than a few moments other than Mary, Lady Beth and Isaac.

A few of the callers brought food and drink. Franz was able to eat some bread and butter when he was encouraged to, but the one sip of coffee he took caused his stomach to roil and he put the cup down. The beer likewise turned his stomach. Only cautious sips of water seemed acceptable.

Shortly before noon the screaming stopped. Franz raised his head from where he had nearly dozed off in exhaustion. He looked at the others. He didn't know what expression was on his face, but Mary reached over and took his hand.

It seemed an eternity before the midwife appeared, still in what the up-timers would call her uniform: hair under a white hood, white gown over her clothes. She was wiping her hands with a small towel as she came through the door. She folded it away, but Franz's stomach lurched as he caught a glimpse of blood on it. The next thing he knew, he was on his feet.

"How . . . how . . . "

The midwife's expression never brightened. Within his soul, Franz began to moan.

"I am sorry, Herr Sylwester. We did everything we knew to do, but we could not save your daughter."

Franz wavered, and Isaac was at his side instantly, grasping his arm to steady him.

"What . . . what are you saying . . . that my child . . . "

The sympathy on the midwife's face was almost more than Franz could stand.

"Your child was stillborn, Herr Sylwester. I am so sorry."

Franz just stared at her numbly.

"How is Marla?" Mary asked, coming up on Franz's other side.

"Physically, she is exhausted, yes. Very tired. But she will recover. I am worried, though. She made us wrap the baby and give it to her. This is not good. She must let go. The more she waits, the harder it will be."

The moan in Franz's soul began to climb his throat and force its way out. Isaac pulled him around so they were face to face.

"Franz . . . " he felt Isaac shaking him gently.

"Franz . . . " Isaac caught his gaze.

"Franz, remember . . . 'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away . . . '"

"'Blessed be the Name of the Lord,'" Franz whispered. He stared into Isaac's eyes, the man who was the closest thing to a brother he would ever have, and saw the reflection of his own grief. He saw, too, the love that Isaac bore for them both. That allowed him to straighten in Isaac's grasp.

"Franz, your wife needs you."

"Marla."

"Yes, Franz, Marla needs you. Go to her."

Isaac released him. Franz turned to the bedroom. The midwife stood aside, touching his arm as he passed.

Franz stopped inside the door. Marla had been cleaned and dressed in a fresh gown, and the bed linen had been changed. She sat up at the head of the bed, humming to the bundle in her arms.

Marla was exhausted. Even for her, her face was pale; her eyes were so dark she looked bruised. Her hair was limp and lanky from sweat. But at that moment, she was so beautiful to Franz it almost tore his heart out.

The midwife's assistant murmured an apology as she brushed by him with the bundle of soiled linen. Marla looked up to see him. The smile that crossed her face pierced him

"Franz, you're here. Come see our daughter!" She bent her head down once more and sang wordlessly.

Step by slow step, Franz crossed to the bed. He forced a small smile to his face as Marla looked up at him.

"See . . . isn't she beautiful?"

Franz swallowed, and whispered, "Yes . . . yes, she is." He swallowed again, bent over and said in a normal tone, "May I hold her, please?"

"Okay, but be gentle."

Marla very carefully transferred the bundle to Franz. He straightened, and pulled a fold of the blanket away from where it draped over part of the baby's face. God in Heaven, she was beautiful. Fuzz of black hair, perfect round little face, perfect little fingers peeking out from under the blanket. He watched closely, hoping there had been an error, but there was no movement; no fluttering of eyes, no twitching of features. No breath of life.

Hope died.

Franz felt his arms beginning to shake. He turned away from the bed and pressed his lips against the little forehead.

"Go with God, Alison Wilhelmina," he whispered. The midwife had quietly come up. He let her take Alison.

"Franz?" from behind him. Steeling himself, he turned, sat beside his wife on the bed, taking her hands in his.

"Did you see her, Franz? Did you see Alison? Isn't she beautiful?"

Her eyes searched his.

"Yes, love."

"Franz?"

Deep breath.

"Marla, Alison is with the angels."

He watched as the black dawn of desolation overtook the light in her eyes, grieving as it died. He watched as the awareness pierced her heart, as the cold fact of death became a stone in her soul. He watched as her face crumpled. He watched as she whispered brokenly, "Oh, Franz," and her mouth opened to wail and keen, though nothing came out.

He heard keening, nonetheless, as Marla turned to him, hands clutching at his shirt—keening from her soul and his. As his arms enfolded her, he wondered if it would ever stop.

Franz held his wife. Tears mingled as they mourned together behind the shroud of her long black hair.

Magdeburg

October 11, 1635

Susan Garrett stood on the doorstep, shivering. The cool weather outside was a perfect match for the state of her soul.

The door opened enough for Franz to peer out. His face brightened and the door swung open. "Aunt Susan! Come in."

Susan carried her bag in and set it to one side. She waited for Franz to finish closing the door, then threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace. His arms returned it. They stood together for a long moment, two kindred mourning souls drawing comfort from each other.

After a long moment, she pushed away to arms' length and looked up at him.

"You look horrible, Franz." And he did, too—haggard, hair unkempt, eyes so dark they looked bruised. He also looked bewildered.

"We did not expect you so soon."

"I started packing as soon as the first telegram came. Mrs. Simpson sent it, telling me that Marla's water had broken. When I got the second telegram, I started trying to make travel arrangements. I finally managed to get on a train, and here I am."

Susan looked around. "Where's Marla?"

"Asleep."

Franz was wavering where he stood, obviously exhausted. Susan led him to the chairs, and sat with him.

"Am I in time for the funeral?"

Franz shook his head.

"No, it was yesterday. We could not wait any longer."

Susan felt a pang, but understood that even in the cool of October, without embalming, a body, even that of a new-born infant, had to be buried soon. Still, she would have liked to have seen the baby. With a deep breath, she set that aside. "So, since I missed it, tell me what happened."

Slowly, halting often, Franz began to describe the events after his world came crashing down in ruins. "Mrs. Simpson took charge of everything. She saw to it that the invitations went out . . . "

"Invitations? You send invitations to a funeral?" Susan had heard the Germans did such things, but until now she hadn't really believed it. She was astounded.

"Indeed. Mary talked to me and managed to make sense of what I said. She drafted everyone in sight whose hand was legible to prepare and deliver the invitations."

"So who was invited?"

"The Simpsons, Lady Beth Haygood and her husband, many of the Grantvillers in Magdeburg, Masters Schütz, Carissimi, Abati and Zenti, of course. The orchestra. Gunther Achterhof and a couple of the people from the Committee of Correspondence in Magdeburg. I tried to tell Mary it was too many, but she wanted to make sure that everyone who wanted to come had the opportunity. I'm not sure they were all there, but a lot of them came."

Susan shook her head, still having trouble with the idea of sending invitations to a funeral, for heaven's sake! Every time she thought she was used to the way the Germans did things, something new would pop up. There was a long moment of quiet.

"So, where is she buried?"

"Since neither Marla nor I are Lutheran, I felt it was best to not try to find a space in one of the Lutheran church cemeteries. There is a new city cemetery, created after the sack of the town, that is open to everyone. We found a space there. A beautiful place, really, at the top of a slight rise near a tree. It will be long before the space is needed again—perhaps not until after Marla and I are gone—so we will be able to visit it for long and long."

"The . . . space is needed . . . "

Susan was perplexed. Surely Franz didn't mean what she thought she heard. Franz looked at her, and his mouth quirked wryly.

"Aunt Susan, you must not think of our cemeteries like yours, with the nice neat rows of graves, each with its elaborately engraved memorial stone. The land is only used for a time. After some years, if the space is needed, the old bones are dug up and placed in an ossuary, allowing the burial of someone new."

Horrorstruck, Susan's hand flew to her mouth. Surely he didn't mean that . . . that Alison's little body could be . . . would be . . . desecrated like that.

Franz smiled sadly, and took her other hand in both of his. "It is the custom, you see. But where we laid her, it will not happen for a long time."

"Does . . . " Susan spoke past the thickness in her throat, "does no one stay buried?"

"Only the very rich, who can afford to build grand memorials that will cover their graves." Franz coughed. "Such we are not."

"We'll see about that," Susan muttered, thinking to herself.

Another quiet moment.

"The wood crafter who built Alison's cradle also built her coffin," Franz murmured. "It was so small . . . she was so small. I could have carried it in one hand."

Susan looked up at Franz, to see him staring blankly at the wall across the room, slow tears trickling down his cheeks.

"I carried her out and placed her in the wagon bed, then brought Marla out to the carriage. Once we were settled, the wagon driver started off. Within steps, Gunther Achterhof had stepped in front of the wagon to lead the way, and Klaus and Reuel had come forward and taken the bridles of the wagon and carriage horses. I looked out, and I could see a few other Committeemen walking alongside. With the friends that had joined us at our house, we had become a procession. Despite our slow progress, it was not long before we reached the grave, where more friends were waiting for us."

"Was Byron able to make it?" Byron Chieske was the husband of Marla's sister Jonni, assigned to something with the military or the government in Magdeburg.

"Yes, he was invited, of course. He came. He said nothing, only embraced us and shook his head."

"That's Byron, all right. Never one to say a word if he didn't have to."

Susan watched as Franz wiped his eyes and his face.

"So, if you didn't go to the Lutherans, who did the eulogy?"

"Herr Washaw."

"Which one? There's more than one of them around."

"Herr Lennon Washaw."

"Lenny—that's okay, then. He's a good man."

"Yes, he is. He started by saying that he was neither a preacher nor the son of one, but he was a deacon in the Methodist church and he had known Marla's family for years, so he counted it both his responsibility and his sad privilege to speak. He read from the Bible, Psalm 23 it was, and then he spoke for perhaps a quarter of an hour."

After a moment of silence, Susan asked, "So what did he say?"

Franz shook his head. "I do not remember much, but I do remember that it eased the hurt for a few moments. Then he prayed." The tears started trickling down Franz's face again. "And . . . and after the prayer . . . " He swallowed. "After the prayer I . . . took Alison's coffin in my arms and . . . and placed my child, our child in the earth." The tears were streaming now. "And then I turned and led my wife away. Leaving my heart behind."

Now the sobs began, great wracking, heaving sobs. Susan gathered Franz into her arms. He slumped against her, face hidden in his hands as a torrent of grief was loosed.

After a time, the tempest passed. Franz straightened, wiping his face first with his hands, then with his sleeves. "I am sorry, Aunt Susan. I should not have lost control like that."

Susan took his chin firmly in her hand and turned him to face her. "That's foolishness, Franz Sylwester. You've been storing that up for days now, haven't you? Trying to be strong for Marla, I reckon."

Franz nodded with a somewhat shame-faced expression on his face.

"You can't bottle that up inside of you, child. It will poison you. Grief is natural, it's a part of life on this earth, and the only way to deal with it is let it flow through you and then move on with the rest of your life."

Franz gave a very small smile, but Susan was glad to see it. "I think Herr Washaw said words much like that."

"Wouldn't surprise me. Lenny's a pretty wise man for his years, for all that he's no senior citizen yet. You could do a lot worse than to go to him when you need help with these feelings."

"I will keep that in mind."

"You do that." Susan sat back, and took a deep breath. "I imagine Marla took this hard."

Franz's expression twisted in pain. "Yes, she did. But I worry for her, Aunt Susan. After the first day, she will not cry."

Susan's heart sank.

"I thought I heard someone."

Susan's head snapped around, to see Marla standing in the doorway to the rest of the house. Her heart continued its fall, thudding to the floor between her feet.

Marla had always had an air, a quality about her, that had seemed to make her shine. No more. Hair that had always seemed to float, now just hung, limp and dark. Her face was drawn, almost as if skin had been stretched across a bare skull. And that skin, which had always glowed before, now was opaque and dull, like a thin parchment. But the worst was her eyes. What had once been shining blue beacons of life and liveliness were now lifeless chips of granite embedded in dark holes.

Susan felt the tears starting in her own eyes as she stood and walked over to her niece to enfold her in her arms. She tried to draw Marla's head down to her own shoulder, whispering, "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," but Marla would not bend.

Stepping back, Susan took Marla's hands, and said, "I know it hurts now, Marla, but you will get through it. It will be all right."

Dry-eyed, Marla shook her head slowly. "I don't think that anything will ever be all right, ever again.

Magdeburg

Late October, 1635

"Maestro Giacomo, it's like Marla has died." Andrea Abati spoke in Italian. "But her body doesn't know it yet. She looks and sounds like some failed attempt by Pygmalion, some kind of clockwork device, or perhaps a female golem devised by some Kabbalist. I don't understand it. I know that the loss of a baby in childbirth hurts, but it happens all the time."

"Ah, my friend." Giacomo Carissimi picked up his wine glass. "There you are slightly mistaken. It does not happen all the time, not to those from Grantville. More than nine out of every ten of their children survive their childhood." Andrea's eyebrows elevated. "Yes, they do. I learned that while I was teaching at the school. It amazed me.

"Their newborns are usually healthy, and usually arrive with few problems. So Marla's background would have told her she should have had every expectation of having a healthy baby girl. And consequently, when tragedy struck, she was even more devastated than one of our own generation would have been."

"I grant you that." Andrea waved a hand. "But still, should she not be recovering even somewhat?"

"Andrea, have you never seen a mother lose a child and grieve so severely she wasted away?"

"All right, I concede the point. And poor Franz is almost as bad, grieving for his child and then grieving almost as strongly for his wife." Andrea drummed his fingers on the table top so strongly the wine danced in his glass. "Surely this cannot happen. God cannot have given her that voice, only to see her waste away and not use it."

"I agree with you, my friend, but you will have to take that up with God. I have already spoken with Him about it. Perhaps He will listen to you."

"There has to be something we can do!" Andrea slammed his fist on the table, causing wine to slop out of his glass.

"What do you suggest?" Giacomo set his glass down and leaned forward.

"I don't . . . " Andrea sat bolt upright, thoughts racing. "Then again, maybe I do know." He drained his glass in one gulp. "Maestro, please be available to me tomorrow evening."

With that, Andrea was gone, leaving a bemused Giacomo to finish the bottle of wine by himself.

Magdeburg

The next evening

True to his word, Master Andrea returned the following evening. Giacomo opened the door at his knock, and stepped back to let an apparition through.

"My, Andrea, you do look . . . what was the phrase the Grantvillers use . . . oh, yes . . . you look a wreck."

Giacomo's mouth quirked as he sat across the table from Andrea. His friend was a sight. Normally very well-groomed and particular about his appearance, he was a definite exception to that rule tonight: hair disheveled, blood-shot eyes, definitely wearing the same rumpled clothes he had worn yesterday. A muscle tic'd under his cheekbone with some regularity. The hint of breath that wafted across the table made Giacomo glad they weren't sitting closer. "So, Andrea, what have you wrought?"

"Wrought, indeed, maestro. I have not slept since I left—coffee is wonderful stuff when you want to stay awake, drunk as the Grantville military prepares it—hot, strong and bitter. And because of it, I have this."

Andrea pulled a paper from his coat pocket. Giacomo set a glass of wine in front of him. Ignoring the wine, Andrea leaned forward, eyes intent, almost blazing. "Maestro, Signora Marla will not or cannot sing—it matters not which. Here . . . " He slid the paper across the table. "Here are the words she would sing if she could."

Giacomo took the paper and began reading the text scribbled on it. His eyebrows climbed his forehead as he read. As he set the paper down, he looked to his friend with new respect. "Andrea, I did not know you were a poet . . . and in English, at that."

Abati waved a hand in disregard. "Maestro, I am no such thing. These words were given to me. Given to me for Marla. We must sing for her, maestro, sing for her soul struck dumb. Write the music, please. Write music that only I can sing, music that can burst her bonds, that the gates of her hell cannot prevail against."

Giacomo felt the burning gaze of his friend as if it were a physical force. Perhaps he caught some spark from him, for his heart quickened. "All right, Andrea. I will do my best."

A very tired smile crossed Andrea's face. "Good." He drained his glass of wine as Giacomo picked the paper back up and began intently studying the text.

After a moment, there was a clank. Giacomo looked up to see Andrea slumped over the table, mouth open and eyes closed, asleep. The cup was overturned beside his head. Shaking his head with a smile, Giacomo returned to the text.

Magdeburg

Early November, 1635

Franz sighed as he settled Marla into her seat. She stared straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap, seemingly oblivious to everything around them.

When Master Andrea had contacted him about the recital that he was going to perform, he had insisted that Franz attend with Marla. When Franz demurred, Andrea grew more insistent, in the end all but demanding that they attend. Franz finally acquiesced, but now he wondered if the wiser course would have been to decline the invitation.

This was not a large public concert, for which he was thankful. It was a recital, with only the elite of the patrons in attendance; Mary Simpson's "music mafia" and their friends. Some few of them did stop and speak to Marla, which made Franz a little nervous. In her current frame of mind, he was never quite sure what his wife would say. Aware nonetheless of the pitying glances directed their way from all around them, he sighed, wishing the evening was over.

The side door opened. Master Andrea strode into the room, followed by Hermann Katzberg. Wearing his customary short waisted jacket and long trousers in black velvet, Andrea made his usual flamboyant bow, then straightened and nodded regally to Hermann. With that, the recital began.

It looked like Andrea, il primiero gentilhuomo that he was, intended to follow Franz's philosophy for a concert. The first item on the program was a cantata for soprano, Tra le fiamme, by Georg Friederich Händel. Despite his state of preoccupation, Franz found the musings of the poet about how he was "playing with fire" in his pursuit of love both witty and well done. Andrea, needless to say, more than did justice to the four arias and interlude recitatives. At the end, the performance was well-received by the elite audience.

The Händel work proved to be a warm up, for the next work on the program was nothing less than Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen (The vengeance of Hell is in my heart), more usually known as The Queen of the Night Aria, from Die Zauberflöte, by W. A. Mozart. The contrast of range and style between the earlier work and this most bravura of soprano arias was marked. Franz was caught up in it, forgetting for that moment the burden that was his constant companion. Once again he marveled how the body of a man, even though castrato, could produce a voice equal to Marla's.

Master Andrea drove the aria to its triumphant conclusion. The audience responded in kind, with loud extended applause.

For contrast, the next three songs were of a different style, composed some years later by Franz Schubert. The singer's composer, Marla called him. Three of his best followed the Mozart: the quiet, almost serene An die Musik (To Music); the introspective Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (Only one who knows longing); and Gretchen am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel), where Gretchen's dreams and longings for her lover Faust were set against an accompaniment that was almost more of an art work than the melody.

Again, Master Andrea sang with superlative skill. Nonetheless, Franz detected an air of . . . almost distraction in the master. He had worked too much with Marla and Andrea both not to notice when someone of that calibre was not totally focused, and Andrea was not.

None of the patrons seemed to notice, which did not surprise Franz. Their applause was again long and loud.

That was the end of the program, but Franz was not surprised to hear members of the audience call for an encore. It also did not surprise him to see Master Andrea hold up his hands after a moment and motion for quiet.

"Thank you, thank you." Andrea bowed slightly and spread his hands. "As it happens, I do have one more song to sing." There was laughter in the room. "It is not an up-time song, however. It is a new song, one written by Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, who has agreed to play piano for me tonight. In addition, we will be joined by Johan Amsel on the viola."

There was a moment of moving bodies as Hermann left by the side door, Johan entered, and Maestro Giacomo arose from his seat in the audience to come to the piano. The maestro played a note; Johan plucked strings to verify his tuning was still sound, raised his viola and positioned the bow, then looked to Andrea.

"We present to you," Master Andrea said, looking directly at Franz, Elegy for Lost Innocence. A chill chased down Franz's spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

The piano began, quiet chords, and Andrea began. It was a lullaby, simple, like something Franz's mother would have sung to him. Soft and lyrical, Andrea's voice was like silk.

"Hush little baby,

Go to sleep.

While you're sleeping

Angels keep.

Hush little baby,

Child of love.

Jesus watches

From above."

They repeated the lullaby. Johan joined them the second time, playing a harmony that complemented Andrea's melody.

At the end of the lullaby, Andrea dropped out, and the piano and viola played a transition that, as it progressed, grew more dissonant and louder. Johan began attacking his strings, producing almost percussive sounds.

When Andrea entered again, it was with full voice.

"She's gone!

How could you take her?"

Full of passion, pure cutting edge of white-hot intensity, Andrea put voice to a bereaved mother's soul. As the text was presented by the song, a mother's heartbreak was bared, her anger and grief revealed. It built and built, spiraling higher, founded on the piano and entwined with the viola.

She did nothing wrong!

She didn't deserve to die!

As Andrea poured forth all his art, all his skill, Franz felt that never had he heard the gentilhuomo so much at one with his music, so nakedly baring his own soul.

A hand clutched his. He froze for a moment. Looking down, Franz saw Marla's hand in his. Heart in his throat, he looked to his wife. At the sight of slow tears trickling down her cheeks, his own eyes grew wet, but a tremor of joy was felt for the first time in weeks.

"Send her back,

Take me in her place!"

The song crested with Andrea on a note so high that Franz wondered if even Marla could reach it. Partnered by the moaning viola, Andrea keened.

The music stopped. For a brief moment only.

"Take me in her place."

Andrea's voice repeated the last line of the climax down an octave, quietly fading, as if the anger had burned out and the grief had worn thin.

There was another interlude of piano and viola, playing a hint of the lullaby. Andrea sang another verse.

"Lord Jesus, take her in your arms.

Lord Jesus, keep her safe and warm."

Marla's head bowed, and Franz could see her lips moving.

The piano and viola led the way back to the lullaby theme. After a time, Andrea rejoined them.

"Hush little baby,

Go to sleep.

While you're sleeping

Angels keep.

Sleep in the arms

Of the Lord,

You'll always

Have my love."

The music faded away. The patrons applauded, but Franz was very aware of the many glances directed their way.

Marla looked up at him. She smiled—smiled! Oh, it was a small smile, and a sad one, but it was a smile! It was enough for his soul to want to burst out singing to rival Master Andrea.

"Hello, love," Franz managed to say.

"Hello, yourself." The smile grew a little wider, a hint of her old sparkle entered her eyes, and she squeezed his hand. They sat there, oblivious to their surroundings, simply gazing at each other, while the applause ceased and the patrons began to stir around and leave.

Just as Franz became conscious of all the motion, Marla stood. He followed her as she walked to the performers.

"Thank you." Marla spoke to them, simple and direct, then kissed each lightly. She smiled again when Johan blushed, then stepped back beside Franz and joined hands with him.

The four men were grinning widely. Their eyes were bright indeed—perhaps a hint of moisture, Franz thought. Then he noticed that there was a certain self-satisfied air to the two Italians. Suddenly a connection was made.

"You planned this," Franz accused. "You intentionally wrote that song and staged this recital for the purpose of drawing Marla out."

"Actually, it was a division of labor," Giacomo said. "The music is mine, yes; but you must look to Andrea for the words."

"Are you a poet, then, Master Andrea?" Marla asked. "Shall we add that to your list of many accomplishments."

"No!" Andrea was emphatic. "This once, I wrote words. This once, to bring my best student back to me." He adopted a mock sternness. "You have missed enough lessons. We have much work to do to make up for them."

Marla laughed, and the sound was balm to Franz's soul. The others must have felt the same, for they all fell silent. Franz looked to his wife—her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, there was a smile on her lips and she clutched his hand. The only evidence of the events of the last few weeks were the shadows beneath her eyes.

Franz's heart was so full it could burst. He looked to the others. "I owe you a life, my friends. It is a debt I can never pay, but know that at any time, for any need, I am yours." The intensity in his gaze impacted them all—they knew how deeply he felt at the moment. Young Johan blushed again and ducked his head; the others simply nodded, not attempting to downplay the moment.

Marla looked around the group one more time. "Thank you, thank you all. It is the love of the friends God has given us, friends like you, that have lifted us—lifted me—in this time of darkness."

"There will be other children," Giacomo said softly.

Marla smiled through the sadness. "I know that. And I know that by enduring what we have just walked through, whatever happens, we will survive."

"Survive and prosper," Andrea said. "Survive and prosper."

Marla turned to face Franz, and looked into his eyes. "Survive, and prosper, and love—love above all."

Coda

From "The Fall of Fire: The Coming of Grantville and the Music of Europe"

Charles William Battenberg, B.A., M.A., Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music, Schwarzberg Chair of Musicology, Oxford University

1979, Oxford University Press

Chapter One – The Advent of Grantville

" . . . story of Grantville's appearance is a matter of fact to every child in school . . . endless tomes on the impact of Grantville on politics and technology . . . impact on musical arts was, if anything, even more profound . . . hesitated to attempt yet another survey, but a number of new evidentiary sources have been uncovered in recent years, including journals of several notable figures . . . course was shaped by the triad created by the fortuitous meeting of composers, performers and the first modern conductor . . . "

Chapter Two – The South Advances

" . . . one of the earliest known works evidencing influence of Grantville's music is Lament for a Fallen Eagle, by Giacomo Carissimi, renowned Italian composer . . . several versions exist in the composer's own hand . . . followed in short order by The Passion According to St. Matthew and the opera Brutus . . . Carissimi was nothing if not prolific . . . early works were all transitional, all produced while Carissimi's assimilation of up-time forms and techniques was still in progress . . . "

" . . . most musicologists agree that the first work by Carissimi that exhibited his fully mature style was Elegy for Lost Innocence, written on the occasion of the death in childbirth of the first child of his very good friends Franz Sylwester and Marla Linder . . . the composer was in full command of his newly expanded palette of techniques, forms and modalities . . . "

" . . . The first performance was apparently given in a recital by Andrea Abati, the noted castrato, who was also a good friend of the bereaved parents . . . recently discovered journal of Duchess Elisabeth Sofie of Saxe-Altenburg describes the recital in great detail . . . the young duchess indicates she was greatly touched by Abati's performance of Elegy, and joins with other contemporaneous accounts in raving about how beautiful it was yet how great the impact . . . "

" . . . Elegy for Lost Innocence is infrequently sung. Perhaps one performer in a generation will attempt it. Modern sopranos find the emotional demands to be equally as harsh as the technical demands . . . it is more often heard in the transcription for violin made by Franz Sylwester . . . still heart-breakingly beautiful . . . "

" . . . journal of oldest surviving child, Alexandria Maria Sylwester . . . herself no mean performer . . . asked her mother why she had never sung the Elegy . . . responded with 'That's Andrea's song, not mine.' . . . explains tradition amongst descendants of Marla Linder . . . none have sung Elegy for Lost Innocence . . . "

Chapter Three – The North Responds

" . . . Heinrich Schütz entered the scene in 1634 . . . perhaps took longer to assimilate the up-time methods than his Italian contemporary . . . began writing in a strong style almost immediately . . . moved in a different direction . . . "

" . . . wrote in large works, beginning with Fantasia on a Theme by G.F. Händel, based on the Sarabande from Suite No. 11 for Harpsichord . . . recorded in the journal of Lucas Amsel that Schütz considered it an homage to the up-time composer Ralph Vaughan Williams . . . "

" . . . tradition has long been that Schütz's Mass on Unchained Melody was composed to mark the death of Marla Linder's daughter, much as Carissimi's Elegy for Lost Innocence was . . . "

" . . . again indebted to the journal of Lucas Amsel . . . Schütz's Passion of St. Luke . . . his master confided to him that the famous aria, Mein Herz Weiß, or My Heart Knows , sung by Mary looking up at her crucified son…was written specifically for Marla Linder . . . justly famous . . . in its own way, just as demanding as Carissimi's Elegy for Lost Innocence . . . but 'She could not have sung it before losing her baby,' Master Heinrich said. 'She would not have understood the pain.' . . . "

Chapter Four – Fiat Lux

" . . . the triad of the composers—Carissimi and Schütz; the performers—Linder and Abati; and the conductor—Sylwester; these lit the beacon that drew a generation of musicians to Magdeburg . . . "

MURDER

None So Blind

Magdeburg

January, 1635

The slap knocked Willi sprawling, eyes watering with pain. He had to bite his lip hard to keep from crying out.

"Five nothings!" Willi felt Uncle's hand grab the back of his rags and haul him up. The hand shook him so hard he felt like a pea rattling in a cup. "You spend all day on the streets and all you bring me are three pins and two worthless quartered Halle coins!"

Willi dropped to the floor again. His head was spinning, but his hand had fallen across his stick. He instinctively grasped it, then pulled it to his side. It took a moment to rise to all fours. As soon as his head settled some, he pulled himself up on the stick.

"I'm sorry, Uncle, but the place where I was, not many people put coins in my bowl." He hesitated. "And . . . and I think someone took money from my bowl. It kind of sounded like it."

"What? Did you see who it was? Why didn't you stop . . . " Uncle's voice died away as he realized that no, Willi did not see who the culprit was and therefore could not stop him. "Hmm. Well . . . I guess that might not be your fault. But you'll have to do better in the future. Here." Something thumped into Willi's chest and dropped to the floor. "That's all you've earned today."

Willi knelt down again and felt around the dirty floor. Within a moment his fingers encountered what he expected to find—a dried hunk of bread. It was more than he had expected. When Uncle felt he had been cheated, those in his family were more apt to receive curses and blows than blessings and food. Willi gathered the bread up. He would go hungry tonight, he knew, for it wasn't much more than a crust.

It took Willi a moment to peer around and figure out from the play of light and dark which way his corner was. It took some time to make his way there, stepping with care and feeling his way with his stick. At least none of the family was in a mood to push things or plant feet in his way in the hope he would trip tonight. In the last four years, he had provided that entertainment many times, often falling helplessly to the ground with cruel laughter ringing in his ears.

Willi's blanket was still where he had left it, wadded up behind an old trunk so that no one would notice it. Threadbare and full of holes though it was, he did feel warmer with it wrapped around his shoulders. The winter was not even half over, and he felt like he hadn't been warm since forever.

The bread was eaten slowly, one small bite at a time; partly because it was so dry and hard that it took a lot of chewing to make it possible to swallow, and partly to make it last longer. It would at least give Willi the illusion of having enjoyed a full meal—a most uncommon experience in his short life.

Willi was swallowing the last bit as he heard someone coming toward him amidst the noise of the other children chattering and yelling. He cocked his head to one side, then smiled as he recognized the step. "Erna," he said.

"How do you know that?" the girl demanded as she took his hand and with care set a small pottery cup in it. "How do you always know it's me?"

"You walk different." Willi sipped the water in the cup.

"But even when I try to sneak up on you, you still know it's me."

Willi held his hands out and shrugged. That caused water drops to splash out of the cup, and he licked them from his hand. "I don't know how. I just do."

He felt her plop down beside him. "So where were you today?" she asked.

"By the cathedral."

"The cathedral? No wonder you were so late getting back. You'd better not let Uncle know you went there. He's told us more than once to stay away."

"Well, I won't tell him, so if you stay quiet he won't hear, now will he?"

Erna swatted his arm. "Why did you walk so far? Weren't you afraid of getting lost?"

"I've heard Fritz and Möritz talk about it, so I knew the way there. I hoped the folk coming out of the church would give alms, but they were as cold as the building itself. And what they did give, someone else took."

"That really happened?" Erna leaned close.

"Yeah. Someone tossed a coin in and then someone else snatched it back out before it stopped ringing. It was so fast I felt nothing, saw only a dart of shadow." It wasn't the first time that Willi had cursed his ruined sight. It wouldn't be the last.

"Well, next time take someone with you, to watch over you."

"Who? You?"

Willi was knocked sideways by her punch on his shoulder. "Yes, me. I can watch from a ways away and make sure nobody robs or cheats you."

Willi shrugged. "If you want to. But how will you earn your bread if you're near me?"

"Uncle's been teaching me some new stuff. I'll manage."

Willi wanted to ask what new stuff, but just then Uncle called out, "Lights out." As usual, his stinginess with lamp oil was getting the lamp blown out at the earliest moment.

Erna left amid the sound of scurrying around. A moment later she was back. "Lie down and I'll cover us." Willi curled up on his left side facing the old trunk, wrapped his arms around his stick and hugged it to his body. He felt the weight of first his blanket, then hers, covering him. Erna wiggled under the blankets and put her back against his.

The two of them were too small to gain a space close to the fireplace and its few coals—Uncle not being any less stingy with the firewood. Those went to the older, harder children; older than Willi's eight years. Forced into the outer part of the room, they had learned that if they shared their blankets they stayed warmer than if they slept alone. Even so, there were many nights that they shivered together as the cold cut through the meager coverings.

Erna went to sleep as soon as she stopped wiggling to find the right position. Willi was kept awake by his growling stomach for some time, but at length he drifted off.

****

The next morning Erna ripped the covers off of Willi. "Come on! It's daylight. If we don't get out there, we won't get anything." She barely let him use the chamber pot, and then they were in the street. "So, where to this morning?"

"Not near the cathedral, that's for sure." Willi pondered. "How about Zenzi's? I haven't been there in a few days."

"Zenzi's it is. C'mon." And so, stick in one hand and Erna tugging on the other, Willi was towed to one of his favorite places, a bakery that was several blocks away.

"Here we are," Erna announced in triumph. "You want your usual spot?"

"I can find it." Willi pulled his hand away and reached out to touch the front of the building, then walked along the front to where a beam jutted out. He put his back to that bit of corner and settled to the ground with a sigh. Reaching inside his ragged jacket, he pulled his bowl out and set it on the ground in front of him. He leaned back against the corner, set his stick against his shoulder, settled to wait for opportunity.

Erna crouched in front of him. "Lean forward."

"What?" Willi was confused.

"Lean forward, I said."

Willi did so. He felt a band of cloth cross his eyes and get tied behind his head. "What did you do that for?" His hand fumbled at the cloth, only to get slapped.

"Leave that alone." Erna leaned close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. "Willi, you can't see. But the people can't tell that unless they get a really good look at your eyes. This way they can tell right away and you'll most likely get something from them."

"But I can see!" Willi's voice broke, to his embarrassment.

"Willi." Erna's voice was full of pity, which only deepened his embarrassment. "It's been almost four years. You only see light and shadow. You try to see more, and all you get is more falls and more of those bad headaches. Just wear the rag. You'll feel better, and you'll make more coin, too." Willi heard her sit back. "I'll be up and down the street, doing my thing and keeping an eye out. Won't nobody dip into your bowl without my seeing it."

"All . . . all right," Willi choked out, feeling as if he was giving up on his dreams to see again.

Erna patted his cheek, for all the world like she was the mother he could hardly remember instead of a slip of a girl not much older than him. "That's my Willi. I'll keep watch." He heard her stand and walk away.

Willi sat in his darkness. The rag soaked up his tears.

Magdeburg

February, 1635

The two men with sergeant stripes on their sleeves marched into Frank Jackson's office, stopped in front of his desk, then saluted smartly—or as smartly as a couple of West Virginia hillbillies with no military service could manage.

"Cut it out," Frank said in a weary tone. "Bill, shut the door. Siddown, both of you." He looked at Bill Reilly and Byron Chieske. "We," Frank emphasized that word, "have a problem. You guys are going to help solve it. You know who Otto Gericke is?"

The two men looked at each other. Byron shrugged. Bill turned back to Frank. "He's some kind of mucky-muck here in Magdeburg, right? Bürgemeister, or something like that?"

"Yep, he is; one of several. He's also the mayor and the engineer appointed by Gustavus to rebuild Magdeburg. And a more thankless task I can't imagine." The other two men nodded in agreement. "But when he's wearing his mayor and bürgemeister hat, he's the only one of the city officials who can pour water out of a boot even when the directions are written on the heel. As a consequence, he's the one who's in charge of anything important, including the city night watch. And he's asked for help in upgrading them into something resembling a police force."

Bill looked to Byron again. Byron looked puzzled. "So why doesn't he approach the admiral for some help from that investigative unit he set up?" Although there had been pretty wide-spread deprecation of the "NCIS" unit at first, after a few successes in investigating some crimes, including a bloody double murder, no one thought they were a joke now.

Frank grimaced. "There's been one too many exchanges of insults. That wouldn't stop the Navy guys from working at it—the admiral keeps them on a pretty short leash. The city boys, though, have been 'insulted,' they claim. They refuse to work with the Navy.

"Mike's pretty pissed about it. He doesn't need extra trouble right now, and for a squabble to boil up between the Navy and the civilian government is just not a good thing in more than one way. I wasn't in the room, but my understanding is that he more or less told the admiral that if his investigators couldn't keep from talking trash, he'd better muzzle them. Oh, it was a little more polite than that, but the message got across." Frank grinned an evil grin. "I also heard that the admiral's subsequent talk to his crew chief was a bit . . . ah, blunt." He sobered. "But the city watch still won't have anything to do with them."

Frank folded his hands on his desk. "Bill, I know you were about done with your degree. What was your major again?"

"I was in my last semester for a degree in Business Admin, with a concentration in business law and contracts."

"Right. And you worked for that security firm in Fairmont for a while, right?" Bill nodded.

Frank turned to Byron. "And I know you were majoring in criminology and had just qualified to serve as a reserve officer for the county sheriff. Correct?" Byron nodded. "I checked with Dan. He said something about you doing some ride-alongs."

"Yeah, some for Dan and some with the sheriff's deputies."

"Were you bucking to join the Grantville PD?"

"State trooper or sheriff's department."

Well, that's all water under the bridge. Dan Frost's partner, Dennis Grady, is based here in Magdeburg, so by rights this job ought to go to them. Building police forces is what they do. The city council is too cheap to pay their consultancy fees, though, so Mike told me to handle this problem.

"Here's how it is. You two have more experience in law and law enforcement than anyone else I can lay my hands on, so you're it. As of now, you are no longer part of the transportation detachment. You're seconded to the Imperial City of Magdeburg, reporting directly to Otto Gericke. Your first assignment, straight from the Prime Minister, is to shape the Magdeburg city watch into something more than a good-ole-boy's club that walks around at night with torches."

The two of them looked at each other wide-eyed for a moment, then turned equally horrified glances on the Army chief. Frank stared at them for a moment longer, then grinned. "You're both officers now—Reilly, you're a captain, and Chieske, you're a lieutenant. Carve up the work however you want, but one of you needs to work with Gericke and try to get the organization and procedures laid out. The other one needs to start working with some of the watch, so they can get used to the idea of us Grantvillers poking our nose in their business."

Frank focused on Byron alone. "Chieske, you're probably going to end up with the second job. I think you can do it. But there's one thing you won't do. You take the strong and silent type to an extreme. You make Calvin Coolidge look like a town gossip. I haven't figured out yet if you just don't like to talk, or if you caught on at an early age if you kept your mouth shut you'd stay out of trouble. I don't care, actually. But you will knock it off with the city watch."

The general directed a stern look at him. "I don't mean you should turn into a smart-aleck motor-mouth. But you will talk to these men, using reasonably complete sentences. You will instruct them. You will correct them. You will even, God help you, discipline them if you have to. You're not one of those street corner white-faced clowns. You're an officer in the Army, my army, and you will do your job to the best of your ability, no matter how much it makes you uncomfortable. Is that clear?"

Byron nodded.

"I said, is that clear?" Frank's voice was frostier in tone.

"Yes, sir."

Byron shivered a little. Frank sometimes had that effect on people.

General Jackson smiled again. "Who knows? If you play your cards right, Gustav Adolph might draft you. You could end up in the history books as the first two agents of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation. " He stood and shook hands with them. "Odogar has got your rank insignia and badges in his desk in the outer office.

"Get to work."

Magdeburg

March, 1635

Frank's thoughts were right. They divided the work so that Bill Reilly—Captain Reilly, now—worked with the mayor. That left Byron to work with the men of the watch themselves.

A few days after trying to work with all of them, Byron had decided that it was going to be tough to get through to the watch as a group. Despite the fact that many of them were close to his own age, or even older in a couple of cases, they reminded him of nothing more than a group of high school jocks. He knew they weren't stupid—these were the cream of the patrician and merchant families, after all—but they had adopted a uniform "We don't need to know anything you have to show us" attitude. Byron had muttered a few words about the NCIS to Bill, who sympathized with him. They both knew that there was plenty of pride and arrogance to go around. The watch had almost certainly given as good as they got in the insult arena, but that didn't make the results any easier to deal with. Byron had gone to Otto Gericke and asked him to designate one member of the watch—one who might be a little more open or reasonable than the others—to partner with him.

The result was Gotthilf Hoch, one of the youngest members of the group and from a minor patrician family. Byron watched him as he squirmed a little in his chair. He had been sizing Gotthilf up for the last day or so. He thought he could work with him. No time like the present, he supposed, so he had asked the young man to step into his office.

"So, why did you join the watch?"

Gotthilf's eyes widened in surprise. "The statue speaks!"

Byron grinned. "I'm not that bad, am I?"

Gotthilf returned the grin uncertainly, as if he didn't know how Byron would react. "Nay, but there are those who have wagered you would only speak when spoken to or when ordered to. Coin changes hand tonight when I tell them of this."

"All right, so I don't talk a lot, unlike some others I could name." The grins returned at the thought of a few of the members of the watch. "So, why did you join?"

Gotthilf flushed a little. "After . . . after Tilly's men destroyed the city, I thought to help protect it again."

"And?"

"And . . . I thought it would be good to be seen as a member of the watch." That all came out in a rush.

"Aha. You liked the idea of wearing the sash and carrying a musket or torch around at night with a bunch of other guys." Byron glanced at the younger man, only to catch his profile as he stared down the street in his turn. "That sounds like the ambition of a fifteen-year-old boy." Gotthilf's flush increased. "But the idea of protecting your city, now . . . that's a goal worthy of a man."

Gotthilf turned to stare at Byron.

"Yep, that's an ambition I can respect," Byron continued. "Thing is, it doesn't go far enough."

Gotthilf's stare turned puzzled.

"You were thinking of protecting Magdeburg and your family from outsiders. What about protecting Magdeburg and its citizens from assault from within?" Byron pointed out the window to the street. "These people have the same desire for peace that you do. Shouldn't they be given your protection? From theft and murder and rape, not by soldiers but by those who are just stronger and more vicious?"

Gotthilf's eyes followed Byron's finger. For long moments he stared out the window. When he turned back to Byron, his jaw was set firm. "The talk is that you Grantvillers come to overturn our laws and create anarchy, that you are all but lawless yourselves. Look at how your admiral insulted the city by raising those outside the law to enforce it in his precious NCIS."

"The rumors have it wrong, as usual. We believe in laws, but we believe in moral laws; laws that are based on reason and logic, not on custom and ritual. And the admiral has his reasons—after all, sometimes you have to set a thief to catch a thief. But that has nothing to do with protecting your people." Byron smiled at Gotthilf's surprise. "You already have the tools you need to reach your desire. Eyes to see, ears to hear, and a mind to reason. If you have those, all you need to know is how to use them."

The young man was still thinking about that when Byron ended the discussion with, "Meet me tomorrow morning here. Leave your sash at home. In fact, dress in something old and worn, something that looks like it's been used for more than sitting for a portrait." His grin was fully as evil as Frank Jackson's. "And wear your most comfortable shoes or boots. We're going to be doing a lot of walking.

****

Gotthilf Hoch, stalwart member of the Magdeburg city watch—in his own opinion, anyway—was walking as escort today for Lieutenant Byron Chieske of the USE Army. At least that was how he thought of it. He knew that Byron referred to him as his partner, but that implied an equality that Gotthilf didn't feel. As a member of a patrician family in the city, he wasn't sure he should be forced to work with this up-timer. However, Mayor Gericke had made it very clear he expected Gotthilf to do so, so here he was.

He looked up at Byron as they walked down the busy streets of Magdeburg. This wasn't the first day they'd been walking the streets. When he questioned Byron about why, he got a response that he was still mulling around, trying to understand: "I need to learn the city—learn it the way the people know it . . . not from horseback, or with a group of the watch or a company of friends, but up close and personal. And if I've got to be out there, you're going to be out there with me." That devil-may-care smile was on his craggy face as he finished.

It was a fair distance to look up at Byron—he was on the tall side, even for an up-timer, whereas Gotthilf was short, even for one born before the Ring of Fire brought Grantville to these times. In fact, on those few occasions when Gotthilf was being honest, he would admit that he almost bordered on being a dwarf. That made the contrast with Byron even stronger.

Byron glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow. The man was a walking definition of laconic, Gotthilf decided. He could talk, but at times his facial muscles did most of his talking for him. In any event, it wasn't difficult to interpret this question.

"Yes, we're almost there." He stepped around a steaming pile of dung left just moments before by a horse. "Another block, I think." Byron nodded and continued walking.

They were well away from the docks, in an area of Magdeburg that was very much still in a state of transition. The sack of the city in 1631 by Tilly's army had burned most of it to the ground. Almost four years later, the city was still in recovery. Money was flowing in because of Magdeburg becoming the capital of the USE, from the naval yards and from many of the new up-timer inspired businesses. Nevertheless, much of the city was still a mess.

Take this street, for instance. It must have served as a fire break, since most of the buildings on the west side of the street showed no evidence of flames. The east side buildings were, for the most part, ash and a poor grade of charcoal. Many of the former building sites had been cleared, with a few of them even showing evidence of reconstruction. The west side buildings hadn't totally escaped damage, however, as doorway after doorway showed evidence of having been forced or kicked open by Tilly's marauding troops.

The area was busy, though. Enterprising vendors brought wagons, carts, or even packs full of anything that would sell, and set up in the open spaces created by the fire. These weren't the big merchants; they were peddlers, small farmers from outside the city, itinerant craftsmen. Withered or dried fruits and vegetables; firewood that was more twigs and small branches than solid wood; cloth scraps and ribbons and old clothes; odds and ends of plates and cups and knives; pins and needles; even a portable butcher shop—bring your own meat; all could be found down this street. It was even whispered sometimes that some of these folk were those who would also perhaps purchase items without inquiring too much into whether the seller was the rightful owner.

A rangy dog ran by, splashing them both with liquid from a rather noisome puddle. Gotthilf cursed as the smell reached his nose. His immediate reaction was to look and see how badly his clothing was soiled, resentment boiling in his mind. It took the visual reminder that he was wearing old clothes from one of the servants for him to relax. His best tunic and culottes were still hanging in the wardrobe at home. For once he was glad that this inscrutable Grantviller had made him wear something other than his finest clothes. Only then did it dawn on him that his servant's opinion might not be the same as his.

Byron's clothes were equally scruffy and unremarkable, Gotthilf noted. In fairness, he had to admit—with reluctance—that the lieutenant hadn't asked him to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. There were enough up-timers in Magdeburg these days, and enough down-timers starting to dress like up-timers, that his worn clothing attracted nothing more than the occasional calculating stare that assessed the value, then caught sight of Byron's face and looked away.

Although it was broad daylight, Gotthilf caught glimpses of women sidling up to men on the fringes of the crowd, offering themselves as they pursued the wherewithal to buy enough food to stay alive—or enough beer or spirits to stay drunk all night would be more like it. Young though he was, he had seen enough of the streets to have the cynical attitude of one who had observed the worst that mankind could do to itself. He had no illusions as to whether the raddled harridan he was watching at the moment would choose food or drink when darkness came.

Gotthilf's head turned forward again as another cross-street was reached. Byron stopped, which caused Gotthilf to halt as well. "This the area?" the up-timer asked.

"Yes, Lieutenant." The up-timer's abruptness irritated Gotthilf again, but he didn't let that interfere with his responsibilities. "The people of these streets have little love for the town watch, but such complaints of theft as have made their ways to our ears seem to center near this street."

"And no one has seen anything?"

"Not that we have heard."

"Hmm." Without speaking, the American moved to the west side of the street and leaned against the front of a building, hands in pockets.

After a moment, Gotthilf followed. "The building is in no danger of falling, you know. We don't need to prop it up." Byron's mouth formed a fleeting grin, but his eyes remained focused down the street. "What are you doing?"

"Watching."

"For what?"

"Don't know. I'll let you know when I see it, though."

Gotthilf shook his head, wondering if all the Grantvillers were this crazy.

****

Willi settled into his corner in front of Zenzi's with a sigh. Erna hadn't come with him. She'd said something about Uncle wanting her to do some work somewhere else today and left before he did. The way had seemed longer than usual without her chattering beside him. He'd had to go slower, as well, but he'd walked the route often enough that his feet automatically took him to Zenzi's.

The rag across his eyes was securely in place, or so his testing fingers told him. Willi pulled his bowl out of his coat, salted it with the couple of quartered Halle pfennigs like Uncle had told him to do and set it in front of him. He leaned back against the corner and propped his stick against his shoulder, settling in for the day. Pursing his lips, he began to whistle.

****

Byron felt the pressure of the wall on his shoulder blades as he stared down the street. He watched Gotthilf out of the corner of his eye as the youth looked around in imitation of what Byron had been doing the last few days. His gaze was slow, but Byron thought he was actually starting to observe what he was seeing.

Gotthilf looked back to him. "This is some more of that pattern stuff again, isn't it?"

"Yep. That's what I'm trying to do here, today. Start understanding how this street works. Once we can see that, then we can start looking for the thief, because he'll stick out like one of the emperor's Finns at one of Mary Simpson's parties."

That got a laugh from the young watchman.

****

Willi heard steps coming from the door of the bakery toward him. He cocked his head for a moment, then smiled. "Frau Zenzi." He gave a nod. "Good morning to you."

From the sound of her steps, Frau Kreszentia Traugottin verh. Ostermann—known as Zenzi to one and all—was not a small woman. Her husband, Anselm, was the baker for Das Haus Des Brotes, but she was the one the buyers dealt with. She held her own in exchanges that sometimes were impassioned and occasionally vituperative. Willi had overheard descriptions of ancestry, personal appearance and habits that, if true, were incredible. And more than once he had heard her take up the hardwood oven paddle and use it to chase would-be thieves or extortionists from the bakery. Swung edgewise by someone who knew how to use it—which Zenzi did—the paddle could break bones and crack skulls.

For all that, however, Frau Zenzi had been nothing but kind to Willi from the first day that he hunkered down outside her shop. Whether it was his age or size or affliction, she had always had a kind word to say to him and would often slip him a piece of warm bread with butter. Once she had placed a sweet roll in his hands. Willi's mouth watered whenever he thought of that day, when he'd had a taste of heaven.

"So, Willi, how are you today?" Willi liked Frau Zenzi's voice. It was deep and warm and furry sounding, but would never be mistaken for a man's voice.

"Today I am fine, Frau Zenzi. And how is your business today?"

"Eh, well, it is not as good as I would like, but it is good enough. God provides." Willi heard her clothes rustle as she bent down. "Hold out your hand, Willi."

He did so, and felt a cup placed in it. The tang of buttermilk came to him as he sipped.

"It's not much," she said. "I would have more, but the bread sold out early today, even the rolls that were burned on the bottom."

Willi licked his lips, feeling the thick coating of the buttermilk on them. He lifted the empty cup and felt it taken from his hands. "Thank you, Frau Zenzi. It was good." He hesitated. "Frau Zenzi? Why do you give this—the bread, the milk—why do you give them to me?"

He felt her kneel down in front of him, then her hand touched his head. "Do you not know, young Willi?" He shook his head. "'Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.' Those are the very words of Jesu Christus. I don't understand many things about the Bible, or about the words of Luther or Calvin, but these words of Jesu I understand. To the least, I will give. And you, young Willi, are among the least."

She patted his head gently, then stood. Willi's throat felt swollen from the emotion he was feeling that moment. To think that someone did care for him even a little fueled a warmth in his belly that made him forget the cool day.

"Uff." Frau Zenzi sounded disgusted. "Here comes that Dürr woman again, wanting us to bake something for her. If ever a name was fitting it is hers, for she is as thin and dry as an old stick."

"She sounds mean," Willi ventured.

"Ha! That's because she is mean, Willi my lad, for all her trying to sound sweet. Well, I'd best go deal with her. Soonest begun, soonest done."

Willi heard her steps move off. He sat quietly in his darkness for a moment, feeling the warmth inside, then resumed his whistling.

****

Byron pushed away from the wall of the building. "Come on. Let's go for a walk." Gotthilf was beside him as he started down the street.

The pace was more of an amble than a walk. Byron kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he looked around. He decided that most of these folks would have been right at home at an up-time flea market either as buyers or sellers. The energy, the conversations, the raised voices, even some of the gestures were all the same. If the people had been speaking English instead of German, this could have been the Saturday morning meeting at the old drive-in theater over by Fairmont.

One trade in particular caught Byron's attention. He was looking the right way to see several silver coins exchange hands for a single table knife, fork and spoon setting of stainless steel flatware. The vendor looked nervous when he saw Byron staring at him after the exchange was made.

"Don't look now," Byron said after they were several steps past that point, "but the fellow in the faded green coat may be dealing in stolen merchandise. Don't look," without changing expression as Gotthilf started to turn.

"Why aren't you confronting him?" Gotthilf was scowling.

"Because I can't prove it . . . or at least not yet."

"But you saw something back there."

"Yep. I saw him sell something that could only have come from Grantville." Gotthilf started to turn again, and Byron grabbed him by the arm. "But . . . that doesn't mean it's stolen. Only that it might be."

Gotthilf settled beside him again. "So, you just ignore it?"

"No. Because it might be stolen. So it's our responsibility to look into it. We'll ask some questions in Grantville about what I saw. We'll ask some questions around here about this fellow. We'll start putting the pieces of the puzzle together, and depending on what picture we get we may arrest the guy."

Gotthilf stopped. "Pieces? Puzzle? Picture? What are you talking about? And what does that have to do with stolen property?"

Byron's jaw dropped for a moment. "Um . . . I think we just tripped over an up-time thing." He spent some time describing jigsaw puzzles, until Gotthilf understood the concept. "So, police work is a lot like that process, except we have to make the pieces ourselves."

"I understand . . . I think. But it seems like a lot of work when we could just arrest him now and have done with it. You saw it, you think the items were stolen, the magistrates would probably be satisfied with that."

Byron wanted to smack his forehead. "Gotthilf, it's about the truth. It's about what I can prove, not what I think." He reached into his inside pocket and brought out a piece of paper. "Listen, this is even in the Bible. From Deuteronomy chapter seventeen, verse six: 'At the mouth of two witnesses, or three witnesses, shall he that is worthy of death be put to death; but at the mouth of one witness he shall not be put to death.' That's basically establishing that justice will be based on more than one man's opinion."

Gotthilf still looked stubborn. Byron was glad that he had talked to Lenny Washaw about this stuff. He had had a feeling that having something from the Bible that would support his teachings would impress at least some of the down-timers. He wasn't much of a church-goer himself, but he knew Lenny through his wife Jonni and her sister Marla. Lenny was a Methodist deacon, so he knew more Bible than Byron did, that's for sure. Once he had explained his need, Lenny had come up with several passages for him.

"Listen, Gotthilf, have you ever read the story of Susannah and the Elders?"

"No."

"It's in your Bible. Read it. You'll see what I'm talking about."

****

They continued strolling down the street. Byron had quit talking and was just looking around. Gotthilf was trying to see what the up-timer was looking at, but he saw nothing noteworthy.

His feelings ran through a cycle of confused, irritated and frustrated, over and over again. He thought he understood what Lieutenant Chieske was saying, but it just didn't make any sense. If you thought something was wrong and you knew who did it, everything in him said you should do something about it. It didn't make sense that you should just talk to people.

Gotthilf shook his head, walking two steps past the up-timer before he realized he had stopped. He turned and stepped back to where Byron had his head cocked to one side. "What is it now?"

"Listen."

After a moment Gotthilf could hear it; someone was whistling. Someone was whistling well, although he didn't recognize the tune. Byron had caught the direction and headed toward the sound. Gotthilf trailed in his wake, shaking his head again. Now the madman wanted to see someone whistling.

Byron stopped so suddenly that Gotthilf almost trod on his heels. The whistling was in front of them. He stepped around the up-timer, only to see nothing—nothing, that is, until he looked down to see a small boy seated in front of a bakery, whistling.

Gotthilf had to admit the boy was good. For a moment, he stood there and listened. He didn't think he knew the tune, but something about it . . . He shook it off when Byron knelt before the boy.

"Hello." Byron's voice was light, but his expression was serious. "My name is Byron. What's yours?"

Gotthilf noted the dirty rag tied around the boy's eyes and the wooden bowl with several coppers in it sitting on the ground in front of him. A beggar. His mouth twisted in distaste.

"Willi." The blindfolded head turned to look up at Byron, as if the boy could see. "You sound funny. Are you from Jena?"

Gotthilf was ready to wager there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

"No," Byron responded, "I'm from a lot farther away than that."

"Mainz?" Willi was obviously trying to think of someplace far away.

"No," Byron laughed. "I'm from Grantville."

Willi's mouth made an O. He started asking excited questions, which Byron answered patiently, one after another. When the boy ran down, Byron asked his own question.

"Do you know the name of the song you were whistling?" When the boy shook his head, Byron said, "It's called 'The Rising of the Moon.' My wife's sister sings it a lot at the Green Horse tavern."

"Oh, I never heard the name. That's pretty. I just heard the song when Un . . . when someone I know would hum it."

Gotthilf snorted and nudged Byron with his foot. When the up-timer looked up with a frown, he said, "We have work to do, or so you told me, yet you sit here talking to a beggar who can probably see as well as you can."

The boy's mouth set in a hard line. He reached up to pull off the bandage, then raised his face to them. Gotthilf swallowed a curse as he stepped back from the sight of the scarred and cloudy eyes.

Byron took Willi's face between his hands, tilting it this way and that to let the light shine upon it. "Can you see anything at all?" The question was asked in a tone that matched his gentle hands.

"Some light, some dark." Willi's voice was low.

"Has it gotten worse?"

Willi nodded.

"When did it start?"

"When the soldiers came." The boy started putting his bandage back on to hide his eyes.

Byron looked up to Gotthilf. The sack of Magdeburg—four years ago. Gotthilf swallowed in sudden nausea. "Where's your mother and father?"

"Soldiers killed them." Willi's voice was now almost inaudible.

"I'm sorry." Byron rested a hand on the boy's hair for a moment. "Who do you live with now?"

"Uncle."

"What is his . . . "

"Willi! It's time to go." Byron was interrupted by another boy running up to Willi's side. "Come on, you know Uncle doesn't like us to be late." The boy helped Willi pick up the bowl and put the coins in his pocket. "Come on!"

"Wait." Byron reached in his pocket and pressed something into the boy's hand. "Goodbye, Willi. Nice talking to you."

Gotthilf stood beside Byron as the two boys hurried down the street, Willi being led by the other.

"You know when I said I'd let you know when I found what I was looking for?"

"Yes."

"I think I just found it."

"The boy?"

"Yep. Boy that size shouldn't be begging, blind or not. On my watch, you don't abuse or take advantage of kids. Someone's not taking proper care of him, and I think I'll find out who."

"But he's just a beggar." Gotthilf was astounded at the up-timer's thoughts. Astonishment fled in the next instant, however, as Byron turned to him with a transformed face. His eyes were cold. His face was still, as if engraved in stone, except for a muscle tic in his left cheek.

"'We hold these truths to be self-evident' . . . " Byron's voice, cold enough to match his eyes, was obviously quoting something. " . . . 'that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'" After a moment, he continued. "That's from the American Declaration of Independence. It expresses our belief that all men are created of equal worth. And that includes Willi."

Byron's hands snaked out and grabbed the front of Gotthilf's jerkin. He suddenly found himself nose to nose with the taller man, feet dangling inches above the ground. "That boy is a victim." The up-timer's voice was, if possible, even icier than before. "And no victim is ever going to be dismissed as 'just' anything. Not on my watch. If you don't learn anything else today, learn that."

The up-timer released his grip. Gotthilf landed hard on his heels with a jar that brought a clack from his teeth and set his head spinning. He looked up to be transfixed again by the cold glare from Byron's eyes.

"You've got some Bible reading to do. While you're doing that, I'm going to do some research."

Still a little wobbly, Gotthilf watched the back of the tall up-timer recede down the street.

****

Willi was two streets over before he was able to dig in his heels. "Erna!" He wrenched his arm out of her grasp. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of trouble," she hissed in his ear. "One of those men was an up-timer."

"I know that. His name is Byron. He was nice."

"Well, I think the man he was with was one of the city watch. He looked like one I saw wearing the sash a week or two ago."

Willi swallowed. "He wasn't nice."

"That's right. And you just remember that. We're going to have to tell Uncle, and he's not going to like it. Now come on."

"Wait." Willi held out his hand. "Byron gave me this. What is it?" He heard the sound of breath sucked in. "Well?"

"It's a silver pfennig. Uncle will like that for sure. Now put it away and come on."

****

As it turned out, it was two days before Gotthilf saw Byron again. He spent a frustrating morning trying to locate the Bible passage he had been directed to read. Finally he gave it up and went to visit his pastor. The ensuing reading and discussion lasted most of the day. Verse by verse the scholar walked him through the account, in the process showing him the wisdom and knowledge owned by Daniel, the hero of the tale.

"It is a cautionary tale from several aspects," the pastor concluded. "First, to those who are in positions of authority: it says to guard themselves against temptation, and warns them that if they do succumb to temptation, nothing they can do will hide their sin. They will be found out."

He turned a page. "Second, to the community: to not be quick to judge without first carefully weighing the facts. Things such as this must be diligently examined, and even the highest ranked involved should be questioned carefully.

"Third," and here he gave a direct look to Gotthilf, "to those charged with these examinations: to be diligent to look for the facts, and not be swayed by opinions or statements from others. It is reprehensible to allow someone to be falsely accused and convicted of a crime."

"That's what he said," Gotthilf muttered.

"He?" the pastor asked.

"Byron Chieske, the Grantville lieutenant I'm supposed to be working with."

This led to a discussion of the events of the previous day. Somehow it didn't surprise Gotthilf to find that his pastor agreed with the up-timer.

"He sounds as if he is a man of wisdom, integrity and insight. I suggest, young Gotthilf, that you listen to him."

"Yes, sir," Gotthilf sighed.

The following morning Gotthilf tried to apologize to Byron for not showing up the previous day.

"Don't mention it," Byron waved it off. "I was up to my eyebrows in looking for an orphanage."

"Orphanage?"

"Yeah. A place where kids who lose their parents and don't have kinfolk go to live."

Gotthilf struggled to absorb another new up-time idea. "We have no such things."

"That's what I found out." Byron shrugged. "So then I asked what happened to the kids whose parents were killed in the sack."

"And?"

"Most of them were placed with kin. If no kin was found, older children were placed as apprentices and younger children were placed with families who would care for them until they were of an age to be apprenticed." Byron looked satisfied, to Gotthilf's eye. "The church kept records, they did. When I explained my concern about Willi they not only opened those records, they gave me a clerk to read them. And here," he reached in his pocket and drew out a notebook which he threw open, "is a list of families who accepted young boys into their foster care about that time."

Gotthilf reacted to Byron's smile with an uncertain smile of his own. "Let me guess: we go to talk to these people."

"Right. Here's the addresses. Let's go."

****

They turned away from the next to the last address on their list. "All children accounted for and healthy," Gotthilf muttered as he pulled the address list out one last time. "We're down to one Lubbold Vogler."

"It's called the process of elimination," Byron assured him. "You work through all the possibilities until you arrive at the one that fits. So, we've eliminated all the others, we should get our answers from Herr Vogler at this last address."

But the face that opened the door at their knock disappointed them. "No, no Vogler here."

"Did he live here before you, do you know?"

"No." And the door was firmly closed.

They stepped down to the street. "Where do we go from here?" Gotthilf wondered.

Byron looked around with narrowed eyes. "C'mon. And think of a question you can ask." Gotthilf followed him over to an old man sitting on a step, one hand on a cane and another holding his pipe. The up-timer nodded his head to the old man. "Good afternoon, Großvater. I am Lieutenant Chieske, and this is Herr Hoch."

"Fuchs," the old man grunted around the stem of his pipe.

"Herr Fuchs, we are searching for one . . . " Byron turned to Gotthilf, who fumbled the paper out of his pocket. "Lubbold Vogler."

Herr Fuchs took the pipe from his mouth and spat expressively.

"Does he live there?" Byron pointed to the house they had just left.

"Nay."

"Did he live there?"

"Aye."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Nay."

"Did he have some small children?"

The old man finally showed some expression, as his mouth tightened. "Aye."

Byron looked to Gotthilf. He had been smiling at the sight of Byron meeting someone even stingier with words than the up-timer, but now realized he was supposed to ask something. "Um . . . er . . . when did he leave?" He was gratified when Byron nodded in approval.

Herr Fuchs thought for a moment. "Three years ago."

"Did he say where he was going when he left?"

"Nay." They waited a moment, but the old man said nothing more.

"Thank you for your time." Byron held out his hand for Herr Fuchs to shake. "You've been very helpful."

They turned to leave, and the old man took the pipe from his mouth again. "If you find him, tell him I remember he still owes me twenty pfennig. And give him a lick from me for the way he beat those children." He clenched his teeth around the pipe stem again and gave them a firm nod, which they returned.

"Well," Byron breathed. "Well, well, well, well, well." Gotthilf looked up to him as he tried to keep up with the up-timer's long strides. "I do believe we've found our man."

"Found?"

"Well, so to speak. It appears we have a name for him, which is more than we had. Now we just need to truly find him."

"And how do we do that?"

"We go back to the street tomorrow and talk to Willi. One way or another, we'll find Herr Vogler through him." Gotthilf watched as Byron's face turned cold again; colder even than the other day. "And then we'll have a little talk."

The ice in Byron's voice caused the down-timer to shiver.

****

Gotthilf couldn't decide if Lieutenant Chieske looked preoccupied in the early morning light, or if he was just sleepy.

"Do you have a gun?" Byron asked.

"The musket belongs to the city."

"No." Byron shook his head. "I meant a handgun; a pistol."

"I have a pistol," Gotthilf replied. "One of the new percussion cap revolvers from Suhl."

"A Hockenjoss and Klott?"

Gotthilf nodded.

"Got it with you?"

Byron held out his hand. Gotthilf, with mingled pride and embarrassment, pulled the pistol from his pocket and handed it to him. He watched as the up-timer handled it. The young man took a great deal of pride in his new pistol, although he thought it a bit plain. It still bothered him, however, that he had been forced to settle for the silver-chased model with bone handles. His father had made it very clear that their family was not named among the Hoch-Adel, so there would be no gilded toys.

"A good weapon." Byron handed it back. "A little too pretty for my taste, though." Gotthilf was unable to keep his astonishment at the up-timer's reaction from his face. Byron laughed, producing by what seemed sleight of hand a weapon from underneath his jacket "Now this is what I would call a good pistol. None of that fancy work on it that has to be kept polished and clean."

Gotthilf stared at the pistol. It wasn't pretty. It was all metal, and looked like a slab with no decorative work on it. No gold or silver chasing, no carved ivory or woodwork. Just pure function—to shoot, perhaps to kill. A chill ran down his spine at the sight of it.

"Keep yours with you all the time now." Byron made his disappear again. "And Gotthilf," Byron started to turn away, "make sure it's loaded."

****

Erna watched as Willi tried to argue with Uncle.

"But Uncle . . . "

"No, I said! You will not go out, not with those . . . those . . . spies looking for you."

"But . . . " Willi started.

"No!" A slap knocked Willi against the wall, where he slid to the floor. "Now do as I say."

Uncle looked at the huddled boy for a long moment, then turned away and left the room. Free to move without the glare of Uncle's gaze being on her, Erna hurried to Willi's side and helped him sit up.

"Are you all right?" She pulled his head around to see where he had been hit. Willi's ear was a bright red, so that must have been where the slap landed. "Are you all right, Willi?" she whispered.

Willi tried to stand, then folded up again. "'M dizzy," he murmured.

Erna helped him over to their corner and covered him with their blankets after he laid down. She crouched by his head. "Willi?"

"Mmm?"

"Willi, don't you try to talk to Uncle for a while. He's . . . something's not going right for him. I heard men yelling in the back of the house a couple of nights ago. It woke me up. The back door slammed, then he came into our room and stood by the front door for the longest time."

She shivered, remembering what the light from the other room had revealed. "Willi . . . Willi, he had a gun. A pistol."

"Why would Uncle have a gun?" Willi slurred.

"I don't know," Erna replied, still whispering. "But he does. And it scares me."

"Mmm."

A long moment of quiet passed.

"Willi?" There was no response. Erna checked to see if he was breathing. He was, so she guessed he'd gone to sleep or passed out. She wiggled around, then sat with her arms around her knees, waiting until Uncle told her to go do her work.

She hadn't been able to tell Willi the most important part. After Willi had been knocked to the floor, Uncle had stared at him, cold and hard. Then he'd put his hand in his pocket and started to take out his gun, only to stop and, after a moment, slide it back in.

That scared Erna more than anything.

****

The space outside the bakery was empty. They loitered in the area until well past the time that they had seen Willi before. Gotthilf watched as Byron's lips tightened in frustration.

A large woman appeared in the doorway of the bakery, looking up the street. Byron elbowed Gotthilf. "Come on." She looked to them with a frown as they approached.

"Your pardon, Frau . . . " Byron began.

"Frau Kreszentia Traugottin. And you are?"

Byron introduced them as city officials looking into various irregularities. "I see that the boy is not here today.

The woman's frown turned thunderous. "You're not looking to harass Willi, are you?"

"No, no, indeed not," Byron soothed. "We want to talk to him because we think he knows something that will help us. And we want to make sure he's being taken care of. It bothers us that a child that young is begging in the streets."

Gotthilf watched as Byron's conversation with Frau Kreszentia—"call me Zenzi"—elicited the information that no, she didn't know where Willi lived; no, she didn't know anything about an uncle; yes, the last few months he had been here almost every day; and yes, he always came from one direction, often with another youngster leading him.

The conversation drew to a close. "Bide," Frau Zenzi said as she stepped back into the bakery. She returned a moment later with two rolls, to hand one to each of them. "You find my Willi, you make sure he is all right, you tell him his place is still here. Yes?"

They assured her they would do exactly that and took their leave. Munching on his roll, Gotthilf looked back to see her standing in the door of the bakery, looking after them.

Gotthilf swallowed the last of his roll. "For someone who doesn't like to talk," he commented to Byron, "you certainly are proficient at it."

Byron paused in licking his fingers. "Just because I can do it doesn't mean I want to." He finished the finger licking, and continued, "And you'd better have been paying attention, because you're going to start doing all the talking and question asking soon." Gotthilf stared at the up-timer with wide eyes. Byron returned a grin. "Yep. Count on it. You'll talk; I'll just stand around and look threatening."

"Ha." Still strolling down the street, Gotthilf looked up and stiffened. "Byron." He tried very hard not to shout or act excited. "Isn't that the boy who pulled Willi away from us?"

Byron directed a casual glance that direction. "Yep. Now look away." They did so. "The trick is to not stare at the person, but to look that way just often enough to keep him in sight. Except in this case I think it's a her."

"What?" Gotthilf absorbed another surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've been around girls in pants all my life, so to me they're not the automatic disguise for a girl they are for you down-timers." That was the first time Gotthilf could remember Byron using that term. He noted in passing that it was used in a neutral manner. "Girls move differently than boys, even that young. And if you look at her hands, from what I remember they're slenderer than a boy's usually are. So, I think that's a girl." Gotthilf absorbed that as well.

There was a moment of silence.

"Gotthilf?"

"Aye?"

"What's she doing out here? I mean, it looks like she's sound and healthy. She ought to be in school, right? Or in some kind of service?"

"Yes. She should definitely not be out on the street in boy's clothes." Gotthilf was starting to understand what Byron had meant about looking for things that didn't fit the pattern.

"So," Byron hissed, "we have two weirdnesses now—a boy begging who shouldn't be, and a girl dressed in boy clothes who is . . . "

At that exact moment they both saw the girl snatch a kerchief from the pocket of a man she bumped into. She was so fast they barely caught a flash of it before it was stuffed inside her jacket.

Gotthilf saw that Byron's face had gone very grim as he muttered a string of words in up-time English. Gotthilf didn't recognize the words, but he recognized the tone. If some of them weren't blasphemous, he'd eat his hat. "Okay," Byron said after he had to stop for breath, "that's the third strike. Now I really, really want to talk to Uncle."

"So do we take the girl now?" That was Gotthilf's instinctive reaction, but he'd been with Byron enough by now to realize that might not be the best thing to do.

"No." Byron shook his head. "No, I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this. I want you to hustle back and get Captain Reilly and at least a couple more guys, either Army or city watch, I don't care, as long as they've got pistols. No muskets. You get there and back as fast as you can. If Bill wants to know what's going on, you just say I said to get here now." Gotthilf opened his mouth. "Go!"

Gotthilf went.

****

It was over half an hour before Gotthilf arrived back at Byron's side, accompanied by Bill Reilly, two of the city watch and another up-timer. Completing the crew was Otto Gericke, who had been talking to Bill when Gotthilf had burst into his office, panting and wheezing from his run.

Byron met them back up the street, waving them to the side of a house on the west side.

"Is she still here?" Gotthilf asked.

"What's up?" Bill was matter of fact as the men gathered around.

"Possible faginy racket. Got a girl in boy's clothes working as a dip down the street. Pretty sure she's got a mule—think I've got him pegged. We think the same bunch had a blind kid out here begging a few days ago. Girl came and pulled him away, nobody's seen him since."

Bill pulled at his chin. "So, what do you want to do?"

"Follow the girl home. Both she and the boy mentioned someone named 'Uncle.'"

"Ah. You think he's the fagin?"

"Best guess."

"What is this 'faginy'?" Gericke asked. Gotthilf listened closely as Captain Reilly described a plan to teach children to perform criminal acts for the gain of those who taught them. He also explained that a 'dip' was a pickpocket and a 'mule' was someone who would take stolen goods from the 'dip,' reducing the risk that the pickpocket would be caught with them.

"This 'Uncle' is the man who would do this?" Gericke was frowning. The captain nodded. "I want this man."

"So do we, Master Gericke. So do we." Reilly turned back to Byron. "So, what's the plan, Lieutenant?"

"Gotthilf and I go first. The rest of you follow at least a half block behind, in more than one group. Once we find the place, we figure out what to do next."

"I am a magistrate," Gericke said. "You will be under my authority."

Byron's smile was sharp-edged. "Thank you, sir. That will make things easier."

So it was that Gotthilf found himself once more at Lieutenant Chieske's side, walking down the street with the girl barely in sight ahead of them. The late afternoon shadows were unfolding, and she disappeared and reappeared as she moved in and out of them.

Unfortunately, her route was not straight. Turning the third corner, Byron muttered, "Man, I wish we had radios." Gotthilf was confused again—a state that was all too familiar the past few days of working with the up-timer. Byron caught his expression. "No, I don't mean the crystal radios, I mean . . . oh, forget it, I'll explain later. Might as well be wishing for cars, while I'm at it."

After they passed the next lane that crossed the street, Byron started limping. Gotthilf slowed to keep pace. "No, you keep going," the up-timer said. "I've decided I want to talk to the guy following us, so this is my excuse for dropping back. You keep her in sight and I'll catch up in a few minutes."

True to his word, before long Byron slid back into place beside Gotthilf, who looked over at him. "So?"

"Bill saw me dropping back, so he moved up as well. We took the guy down a few minutes ago. He was her mule, all right; he had that cloth we saw her snitch. He's not talking right now, but the boys have him tied up and are bringing him along."

Just then the girl veered toward a house that looked to have burned. Roof beams were visible and charred. Gotthilf wouldn't have thought there was anyone there, but she just tripped up the steps and opened the front door. It closed behind her before they could react.

****

Erna was back. Willi sat up from where he was lying in the corner. He felt some better. She was talking to Uncle about Möritz and some things he was bringing. Willi wasn't sure what that was about. But he was very glad that Erna was back. He stood and moved toward the sound of her voice. Maybe she could come talk to him now. "Erna?" he called.

****

The others closed up with them. Lieutenant Chieske conferred with Captain Reilly and the mayor for a brief moment. Gotthilf watched as the captain sent the other men to surround the house.

Byron turned back to Gotthilf. "You ready? Got your pistol?"

Gotthilf swallowed, nodding as he pulled the pistol from his belt.

"Okay. Mayor Gericke is wearing his magistrate hat at the moment, and he really wants to have a conversation with Uncle. You and I will be the first in the door. We're hoping this guy won't cause trouble. Fagins usually don't. It's petty crime they're in, not enough to take big risks for."

Byron pulled his own pistol. "But we're going in prepared. Stay with me, follow my lead, and watch my back. Whichever way I go after I clear the door, you go the other. Got it?"

Gotthilf was poised on his toes as they stepped up to the door, gun before him, breathing rapidly. He felt as if his vision had narrowed to a circle just in front of him. Byron raised his hand to knock on the door.

****

"Uncle! Uncle!" That was Fritz, shouting as he crashed through the back of the house. "City watch and up-timers outside. They have Möritz, and they're surrounding the house."

There were thunderous knocks on the door. A loud voice called from outside, "City watch! Open up in the name of Magistrate Gericke!"

Willi recognized the voice. "Byron." He was perplexed as to why the up-timers had come here.

He had spoken loud enough for Uncle to hear. "You," Uncle hissed. "This is all your fault."

Willi heard a loud click.

"No," Erna screamed. Willi felt her push him.

There was a loud Bang. Willi was knocked to the floor.

****

Byron threw the door open at the sound of the shot. Gotthilf followed him into the house, stepping to the right of the door because the up-timer had stepped to the left. His horrified gaze was greeted by Willi lying on the floor, with the girl they had been following sprawled across him. A dark crimson splotch across the front of her jacket was widening as he watched. Gotthilf tore his eyes from that sight to focus on the man who Byron's pistol was pointed at with unwavering aim.

"Drop the gun." Byron's voice was like the chill of a blizzard. Gotthilf could almost feel snow in the air. Belatedly, he brought his own pistol to bear on the man standing against the far wall. "No one else needs to get hurt."

The man's laugh was high-pitched, almost manic. "And what will you do with me if I do? What would be my fate?"

"Lubbold Vogler, we arrest you on the charges of theft, attempted theft, aiding and abetting theft, receiving stolen property, contributing to the delinquency of a child, and murder." Gotthilf marveled at how matter of fact Byron's voice sounded.

"Ah, all very impressive, although I'm not sure those are all crimes under Magdeburg law. Still, the last could be troublesome." The other—Vogler, since he didn't reject the name—gave a slight bow over a pistol that was twin to the one Gotthilf held. A wisp of smoke curled up from the barrel, but Gotthilf could see that the hammer was cocked again.

Watching the man's eyes, Gotthilf was very uneasy. He couldn't read Vogler's thoughts, but he knew they were racing, because the eyes were shifting frequently, like a wild animal looking for a way out of a trap.

Byron took a slow step to his left. Gotthilf took a step to the right.

"Drop the gun, Vogler." Byron's voice was even and cold.

"I think . . . not!"

Boom!

Almost everyone in the room flinched at the loud report of Byron's pistol, a sound that left more than one set of ears ringing. Uncle, however, did not flinch.

Uncle—Gotthilf decided he preferred to think of him like that—jerked against the wall behind him, down which he slid until he sat slumped against the wall, legs outstretched and head lolling like nothing so much as a rag doll tossed haphazardly across the room. But rag dolls don't have pistols fall from their lax hands, and rag dolls don't have crimson blood flowing from holes in their chests and don't leave large bloody smears on walls.

Byron gestured toward the large boy in the back of the room who was trying to sneak out. Gotthilf pointed his pistol in that general direction and the boy froze, trying to emulate a statue. Meanwhile, Byron slid Uncle's pistol away from the corpse with the toe of his shoe.

There was a sound in the door. Gotthilf glimpsed Captain Reilly out of the corner of his eye.

"All over," Byron said. "Have someone take the big one into custody. He looks to be about the same age as the mule, so he may be an accomplice as well. The little ones are all pretty much victims, I think. They should be held together until someone can make arrangements for them."

The next few minutes were bustling, as watchmen and up-timers came in and collected the children. Gotthilf put his pistol away after the largest was tied and hauled out.

Mayor Gericke walked in after the flurry of activity was over. "So, you killed him, Lieutenant Chieske."

"Yes, sir," Byron responded.

"I would have preferred him alive, Lieutenant."

"So would I, sir. But he had already killed a child and was trying to shoot me. I had no choice."

Gericke's eyes turned and bored into Gotthilf's. "Do you agree with the Lieutenant's assessment, Watchman Hoch?"

Gotthilf swallowed, stiffened, and stuttered, "Ye . . . Yes, Herr Magistrate. It happened as Lieutenant Chieske described it."

The mayor's eyes shifted again. "Do you have any contrary comment, Captain Reilly?"

"No, sir. From what we could hear outside, it sounded like it went down the way they describe it."

Gericke paused for a moment, sighed, and nodded. "I agree. The death of the child is ruled a felonious murder on the part of Lubbold Vogler, committed for reasons unknown. The death of Lubbold Vogler is ruled justified self-defense on the part of Lieutenant Byron Chieske after said Vogler attempted to kill him." He looked older, for some reason.

The two up-timer officers relaxed from their stiff positions, with almost identical expressions of relief crossing their faces. Gericke shook all their hands, including Gotthilf's, then left the death house.

"Well, your first case solved," Bill Reilly started to comment, when a sound arose from behind them. They turned to see the body of the girl moving.

****

Willi roused slowly, head aching from the second knock of the day. He tried to move, but someone was lying on top of him. He heard people talking, but it was all blurry to him. "Get off," he whispered, but the person didn't move. He pulled his hands out and started pushing. With some difficulty, he managed to free himself enough to sit up.

The other person's head was on his lap now. He put his hand on it, feeling it, looking with his fingers to see if it was someone he knew. The face was small, thin, with a bump in the nose; a familiar face, it was.

"Erna." He reached down and shook her shoulder.

"Erna." She rolled limply and his hand slipped, to land in something warm and sticky.

"Erna!" He brought his fingers to his nose. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. What had happened? His thoughts were reeling.

Steps sounded in the room. He felt Erna lifted off him, while other hands picked him up.

"Willi?"

"Byron?" Willi was confused. The last thing he remembered, he was home. How did Byron get here? "What happened to Erna?"

"Willi . . . " He felt the man shake his head. "Willi, Erna is dead."

The cold bubble in his chest burst, filling him with shock and grief. The screams followed.

****

Night had fallen some time ago. Gotthilf felt himself sagging where he stood, watching the final discussions between Captain Reilly, Lieutenant Chieske, Frau Zenzi and her husband, and the senior pastor of Magdeburg.

An amazing number of things had occurred in relatively short order. Not long after Mayor Gericke left, wagons had appeared: one for the corpses and one for the children found cowering in the house. The two larger children, Fritz and Möritz, classified as thugs from the testimony of the smaller ones, were tied up and made to march behind the wagons. The captain intended to question them some more later. The mayor wanted him to get to the bottom of Vogler's faginy scheme, in the hopes that this was the only one.

Willi, once he was worn out from the screaming, would have nothing to do with the wagon. He kept breaking out in sobs for Erna. Byron was the only one the boy would talk to, so Byron carried him all the way back. He was sleeping now, rolled up in a blanket in the back of the children's wagon.

The conference broke up. The pastor walked off. Byron stopped at the children's wagon for a moment with Frau Zenzi. Willi sat up rubbing his eyes, listening to the words from the grown-ups. He began crying again, quietly, a child's sobbing.

Captain Reilly came to Gotthilf. "Big day, huh?"

Gotthilf nodded.

"I'll be honest with you. I never expected to find anything like this, especially since we're just getting started. Mayor Gericke and I were talking about it; it just doesn't make sense for this guy to have a gun. That's several weeks' income to a petty crook. Doesn't make sense. There's something going on, here. We need to keep digging." He placed his hand on Gotthilf's shoulder. "This will be big news, you know. You and Lieutenant Chieske should get commendations of some sort for this."

Willi finally nodded and Frau Zenzi folded him in her arms. Gotthilf watched as she nodded to Byron over the boy's head. Byron stepped back, looked around with weariness evident in every motion, then started down the street.

Gotthilf nodded again as he watched Byron. "Where is the lieutenant going?"

Reilly looked at Byron's receding back. "I suspect he's going to get a drink somewhere." He returned his gaze to Gotthilf. "You're his partner. Go with him. It's always hard on a cop when he shoots someone, and he needs you to be with him on this just as much as he has the last few days. If he doesn't want to talk, don't try to make conversation. Just sit with him." The captain gave Gotthilf a small push on the shoulder. "Go on. We'll talk to you tomorrow."

Gotthilf received a sidelong glance from Byron acknowledging his presence when he fell into place beside the up-timer, but no words were said. The statue was back, Gotthilf decided.

Weary himself, Gotthilf trudged alongside until Byron turned in at a tavern. He looked up to see they were entering the Green Horse. That was all right with him. A stool pulled up to a horse watering trough would have satisfied him at this point.

Byron walked up to the bar. "Ale. Two. Large." He spun a coin on the bar top, received the two steins and walked over to an empty table in a dark corner, where he sat with his back to the wall. Gotthilf sat with him and applied himself to his stein.

They were on the third refill when Byron began talking. He began by pulling his pistol out and laying it on the table.

"There it is. The M1911A1.45 automatic. Like most pistols, designed for one thing and one thing only: to kill people. It does a good job.

"I was supposed to join the sheriff's reserve. I was going to order a Glock, but then the Ring of Fire happened. So, here I am with Jonni's Grandad's old.45 that he brought back from World War II. It still works great. But I sure didn't expect to have to use it for real so soon."

Byron's face was getting red, Gotthilf noticed.

"I had the drop on him. All he had to do was put the gun down. That's all he had to do. He'd have stayed alive for a while, anyway. All he could see was his way."

"The man murdered a child, Byron," Gotthilf responded. His voice was quiet. "And all but in front of a magistrate. He would have been hanged within the next day." Byron shook his head. "Put the gun away, Byron." Gotthilf pushed it with a finger. "Put it up before someone notices."

"Right."

It was the fourth refill before Byron spoke again.

"I failed, Gotthilf. I screwed up royally. Gonna turn in my badge and go back to shipping supplies."

"You didn't fail, Byron."

"Two people are dead because of my mistakes. I failed."

"You did nothing wrong. Vogler killed the girl, then committed suicide by trying to kill you. You did the best you could."

"Then why's that girl dead? Huh? You want to explain that to me?" Byron was genuinely angry, Gotthilf saw. A hot anger, this was, unlike the cold anger he had seen a couple of days ago.

"Sometimes evil wins, Byron."

"You're barely old enough to grow a beard." Byron's voice was thick with sarcasm. "What do you know about evil?"

Gotthilf felt anger of his own rise within him. "Four years ago Tilly's soldiers destroyed this city . . . my city . . . my home. My house and the houses of thousands of others were burned to ashes. Bodies were everywhere. Don't talk to me about evil—I've seen the results first hand. I know about the evil men can do. And sometimes evil wins. But what was it you said to me—that protecting my city from theft and murder and rape, not by soldiers but by those who were just stronger and more vicious was a goal worthy of a man?"

Taken aback, Byron nodded.

"So, we lost this battle. Does that mean we stop fighting the war?"

Byron looked at Gotthilf, and after a moment gave another firm nod. "You'll do, Gotthilf. You'll do. And you're right."

Toward the bottom of that stein, Byron said, "None so blind as those who will not see. Vogler just didn't see, is all."

"Is that from the Bible, too?" Gotthilf thought it sounded scriptural.

"Nope. But according to my friend Lenny Washaw, it was written by a Bible scholar; guy by the name of Matthew Henry, I think. But it's true enough, man—it's true enough."

"Yes." Gotthilf just agreed with Byron.

Byron turned and faced Gotthilf. For all the ale he had been drinking, he appeared to be stone cold sober.

"This is why we do the job, man. This is why we will go back out on the streets tomorrow—to make sure that something like this—Does. Not. Happen. Again. Not on my watch."

"Not on our watch." Sometime during the day, when he wasn't paying attention, something had changed. Gotthilf now understood why Byron was so serious about their work. It surprised him a little, but he did understand it. And after watching a girl's life ebb away because of the greed and anger of one evil man—not even an enemy, but a resident of Magdeburg—he agreed.

Byron was turning his stein in circles on the table. After a few moments, he looked over at Gotthilf with a sly grin. "So, you going to tell me what Gotthilf means?"

Gotthilf had to think for a moment as to what the English would be. "Means God's Help."

"Does it now?" Byron laughed. "Well, that's probably appropriate, my friend. I suspect we'll need a lot of that help in the future—partner."

Gotthilf returned a smile of his own as he warmed inside. "I agree—partner."

Through A Glass, Darkly

Magdeburg

March 1635

Lieutenant Byron Chieske dropped into the visitor's chair in Captain Bill Reilly's office with a grunt. Reilly looked up from his paperwork with his eyebrows raised in a mild question. "The day that bad?"

"No, just long. We had to bring Annie Grimmigwald in on assault charges."

"Old Annie? How come?" Bill was surprised. Annie was normally a quiet woman, content to turn enough tricks to get her evening gin at some dive of a tavern before she stumbled out into the night to find a nook to sleep in.

The two officers had been working with the Magdeburg city watch for over two months now. The nature of that work had made many of the city's streetwalkers known to them. The city council ignored them as long as the women were quiet and kept to certain parts of town. Bill and Byron didn't pay any more attention to them than they had to. There were usually more serious issues to deal with.

"She kicked the slats out of another prostitute. She kept screaming that the other woman had stolen her man."

"Who's got magistrate's duty tomorrow?"

"Otto Gericke, I think."

"Good." Bill was relieved. "Maybe he won't be too hard on her."

"Actually, I'm going to try and get the charges dropped. The other prostitute had a knife, so it might have been a self-defense situation."

"Mm, yeah, I could buy that. Annie's usually not mean. Do what you can." Bill saw Byron nod. "Where's your partner?"

"Left him in our office filling out the report. I'll sure be glad when someone develops reliable carbon paper. This having to fill out triplicate reports by hand is a real pain. I keep hearing about typewriters in German, but haven't seen one yet." Bill shook his head at Byron's sidelong glance. They were available, but the city council kept ignoring requests to acquire one for their budding police department. "Speaking of Gotthilf, he reminded me again to see if you've gotten an answer yet from Grantville about the possibility of stolen silverware."

Bill started rummaging through the papers on his desk. "Um, maybe. I thought I did." The rummaging ended with a piece of paper pulled in triumph from the middle of a stack. "Yeah, here it is." He passed it to Byron.

"Okay . . . looks like someone actually dug back into the records for this. Several reports of vacant houses being broken into a week or so after the Ring fell . . . kitchens ransacked . . . pans and glassware left behind, but knives, tableware and plastic stuff taken, including Melmac dishes in some cases." Byron scanned through to the end of the report. "Thefts stopped after a couple of weeks. No known suspects." He looked up with a grimace. "And, of course, since the owners of the homes were left up-time, there's no one who can give any kind of descriptions. Not much to go on."

"You still think that guy you saw selling the stainless silverware was selling hot stuff?"

"Well, he was sure nervous about something when he caught me looking at him. He didn't even know I was a cop, but he was sure spooked." Byron changed the subject. "Any word yet on the guys the kids told us about? The two from Hannover?"

"No, and since their descriptions match half the men in the northlands, I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you." Bill remembered everything surrounding the Vogler case rather well—everyone who had anything to do with it did. He looked down at his desk. "Well, now that you know what you know, go find this peddler. Otherwise, I'm going to trade jobs with you and let you deal with this stuff."

Byron shot to his feet. "On my way." And that quickly he was out of the office.

The threat of the paperwork worked every time, Bill smiled to himself. Then he looked at his desk, and groaned. He had to get an assistant soon. He wondered if he could somehow snaffle Odogar out from under Frank Jackson. It would be worth the grief the general would give him just to get someone who could run this office.

****

Gotthilf set the last copy of the report on top of the stack and wiped the pen nib to clean it. Byron came in the door to their office just as he set the pen aside. The up-timer waved a paper in the air.

"Finally got the answers from Grantville about the silverware questions we asked."

Gotthilf perked up. He'd wanted to grab the street vendor when Byron saw him selling the tableware, but Byron had insisted on waiting for information from Grantville. "So now we go get him?" He bounced to his feet and checked for his pistol.

"So now we go question him, anyway," Byron laughed. "Whether we get him or not depends on his answers. Come on. I want to check on Willi, anyway."

Gotthilf grabbed his jacket, and in moments they were on the street in front of the building that served as the city watch headquarters. As usual, Byron's long legs set the pace, forcing the shorter Gotthilf almost to a trot to keep up. "Slow down, you great lunk," he gasped after they traveled a block.

"Sorry." Byron slowed his steps to more of a stroll, which allowed Gotthilf to walk at a more normal speed. "I keep forgetting just how sawed off you are." A fleeting grin crossed his craggy face.

"All the better to cut you off at the kneecaps," Gotthilf growled before he smiled in return.

The two men had been partners now for a few weeks. It was an unlikely match at first glance; the lanky up-timer and the short but strongly built down-timer. The relationship had been a bit testy at first; or at least it had on his side, Gotthilf acknowledged. The city watch of Magdeburg was a proud organization, and they had not taken well to the thought that others could tell them how to fulfill their duties. There had been friction at times between the watch and the military police and NCIS staff at the naval yards. Gotthilf was honest enough to admit that there was as much fault on the side of the watch as there was on the navy's, maybe more. But that hadn't made it any easier to deal with the two up-timer officers when Mayor Gericke brought them in to help shape the city watch into something more of a police department in the up-time mold.

Gotthilf still wasn't sure why the mayor had selected him to serve as the partner of the tall and laconic up-timer. The first few days had been pretty strained, particularly after Gotthilf made the mistake of speaking disparagingly about a young beggar child. He found out in a moment that the good-natured lieutenant was capable of anger and passion. But the case they had stumbled on as a result of meeting that child had cemented them together as partners. The young down-timer was wholly converted to Byron's point of view, and in turn began to act as leaven to the whole watch. By this point, only the most hidebound of the watch were continuing to resist the new methods.

"I have a question," Gotthilf announced as they turned a corner. Byron looked at him with one of his quizzical expressions—he had a whole arsenal of them, ranging from innocent to sly to out-and-out sarcastic disbelief. This one was just a simple raised eyebrows indication to go ahead. "Why do you call it silverware, when there is no silver in or on it?"

Byron grinned. "More sloppy up-time speaking. It used to be that tableware was made of silver alloys, but that was pretty expensive for most people's pockets. So then someone started silver plating cheaper metals like brass. Looked as good as silver for a lot less money—until you polished the silver plating off and the brass started shining through. But after a while someone decided to start making it out of stainless steel. No rust, no polish needed, and while it didn't take a shine like silver, it was good enough for most folks. But people had been calling the package of knives, forks and spoons 'silverware' for so long that the name just carried over to the stainless steel version. Anyone who was trying to be really correct would say 'flatware,' but in over ninety-nine percent of the homes in America, if someone said 'Get the silverware out and set the table,' what came out of the drawer was stainless steel."

"So what you saw the man in the green coat selling was not silver?"

"Nope. It was pretty definitely stainless steel—it's got a characteristic look to it—and from the brief glance I got it wasn't even some of the better stuff. But good, bad or ugly, I saw at least three pfennigs change hands, so he was getting a good price for that knife, fork and spoon set."

They were entering that section of town that had become a street vendors' haven. One side of the street had been burned down in 1631 when Tilly's troops had sacked Magdeburg. The resulting spaces where houses and buildings had been had mostly been cleared off, but little reconstruction was under way in this area yet. Every kind of vendor and peddler that could be imagined could be found in these open spaces, including some of the more unsavory types. In fact, this was where they had found the pickpocket that had led them to crack the Vogler case.

"So where was he?" Gotthilf started looking around.

Byron pointed. "There—about half a block down on the left."

They drew closer. "He's not there now," Gotthilf observed.

"No joke. Let's start asking questions."

****

After close to an hour of asking fruitless questions, Byron pulled Gotthilf back into the traffic moving in the street. "Come on. We're not getting anywhere. Let's go check on Willi." They started walking on down the street toward Das Haus Des Brotes, the bakery operated by Herr Anselm Ostermann and his formidable wife, Frau Kreszentia Traugottin. Anselm was the baker, and Frau Zenzi, as she was known to one and all, was the public face of the bakery, ranging from cajoling saleslady to shrewd bargainer to hard-faced punisher of theft in as many breaths. They had become the foster parents of young Willi, the almost totally blind eight-year-old boy who had, all unwittingly on his part, led the two partners to the discovery of the faginy ring operating in Magdeburg under the very noses of the city council and the watch.

At the bloody conclusion of the case, which had ended in the death of one of the children—a girl who was Willi's best friend—and the death of the fagin, one Lubbold Vogler, there had been red faces all around. Otto Gericke, bürgemeister and mayor of the Magdeburg civic government, had not minced words. Nor had the senior pastor of the city, whose outright horror at what had occurred had turned to rage of Biblical proportions. Clerks had been sent scurrying to find the lists of the children orphaned in the sack of the city in 1631. Assistant pastors had been handed the lists and sent out at a run to verify the whereabouts and condition of each of those children. There was a feeling that thunderbolts were about to strike, and it did not ease for over a week until the last of the children and their foster parents had been located. Broadsheets and newspapers had kept the matter fresh for several days, until the latest news from the imperial court had driven it off the front pages.

The source of it all, young Willi, was up to his elbows in bread dough when Byron and Gotthilf were ushered into the back of the bakery. He had flour on his hair, on the cloth that covered his damaged eyes, on his eyebrows. Bits of dough were stuck to his chin and cheek.

The smile on Willi's face was a welcome sight to the two men. The recent changes in his life had left the boy depressed for some time. To see some happiness in him lifted them both up.

"Willi," Frau Zenzi announced, "your two favorite watchmen are here."

"Hey, Willi," Byron said. "How's it going?"

"Herr Byron, Herr Gotthilf!" Gladness rang in Willi's voice. "I'm learning how to knead the dough. Papa Anselm says that when I learn to do that, then he will teach me how to shape it for the oven."

"That's good," Byron exclaimed. They spent several minutes talking with Willi. He very proudly showed off what he had been taught, and the two men congratulated him profusely.

After a time, they said their farewells. Frau Zenzi followed them outside. "Truly, how does he do?" Gotthilf asked.

"Well enough," she replied. "He smiles more, and even whistles or sings a bit now and then. The voice of a cherub, he has."

"Don't let my sister-in-law, Marla, hear that, or she'll have him in a choir so fast that you wouldn't know what happened." Byron's voice was joking, but then his expression turned thoughtful. "Actually, I might mention it to her after all. If he's good, she might be able to find him a place, give him some training, like that. With singing, his eyes won't hold him back." Frau Zenzi frowned a little. "I'm not saying right now. Maybe never. But it's an option. Something to think about. Give some thought to what kind of future a blind boy can have, Frau Zenzi." She nodded slowly.

"Is he still having the nightmares?" Gotthilf asked.

"Not so much. And he asked to go to her grave, so we took him last Sunday." Her was his friend Erna, the one who had been killed.

"How did that go?" Byron had been wondering when Willi would make that pilgrimage.

"He cried, but it was quiet. He took the cloth off his eyes and tried to look around, but we could tell he saw nothing. My heart, it broke when he asked me to tell him what everything looked like." She wiped a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron.

"It sounds like he's getting better, then." Byron nodded to her in parting. "Take good care of him, Frau Zenzi."

"We will."

****

Harold Baxter set his stein down with a thump and dragged his sleeve across his mouth, then smoothed down his scraggly beard. The seventeenth century's widespread acceptance of full beards was a good thing in his mind; he'd always disliked shaving. He still had the straight razor his grandpa'd given him over forty years ago, though. Push came to shove, it wasn't a bad hideout weapon. It had gotten him out of more than one bar fight alive over the years, both up-time and down.

He let a belch roll out, and gave himself a three for it. Tone was a little dead. Then he looked across the table at the man who was fidgeting with his own stein.

"So, what do you want, Herr Albret?" Harold knew the other guy's name was Albrecht Lang, but he had trouble with the German "ch" sound, especially after a few beers.

"I need more of the Tafelsilber, bitte, Herr Baxter."

"How much more?"

"I can sell three packages tomorrow, if I have them."

Harold nodded. "Show me the money." He watched as Herr Lang counted the pfennigs to the table, one at a time . . . four, five, six . . . and slowly pushed them to Harold's side. His eyes narrowed; he pushed one of the coins back. "You suckered me once with a Halle pfennig, Lang. Not again. Good silver, or you get nothing."

"But that is all I have." Lang's nasal voice turned whiny, sending a shiver down Harold's spine.

"Shut up." Lang shut up. Baxter swept four of the pfennigs into his hand and dipped into a pocket of his bush jacket, then pulled bundles wrapped in none-too-clean scraps of cloth out of another of the jacket's many pockets. "Here's two sets. I'll be here tomorrow if you get more money." Lang looked like he wanted to argue or plead, but a glare from the up-timer made him gulp and grab the last two coins off the table top along with the bundle. "And Albret?" The down-timer froze. "You try that trick with a Halle coin again, and your prices will double." Lang jerked his head in a nod, then fled without another word.

Harold sniggered, then spat into the fireplace. He'd always found the fact that Lang meant long in English funny, since Herr Albret was one of the scrawniest people he'd ever met. Nothing about him was long, except maybe his hair and his nose. The thought of hair brought a reflexive scratch of his scalp. He drew his fingers away to look at the louse he'd caught, then cracked it between a fingernail and the table.

No one else looked like they were going to approach him, so Harold decided to call it a day. He drained the last few swallows of beer from his stein, then shoved himself to his feet and walked to the door. Before the Ring fell, Harold had always prided himself on being able to walk a straight line, even when he'd taken on a full load of booze. He could still do it, he thought as he went out the door.

****

Two men across the room watched Baxter leave.

"That him?"

"Yes."

****

Byron looked across the street as they were headed back to the watch station. A young woman held her coat open for a moment to hide the hand that beckoned to him. He nudged Gotthilf with his shoulder. "C'mon." They stepped across the street to meet her.

Byron knew she was a street walker, but what was her name . . . oh, yeah, Leonora. Pretty name, he thought. She'd been pretty at one time, in a pale-skinned sort of way; pretty enough to perhaps live up to her namesake. No longer, however. For all that she was young, there were lines graven in her face that spoke of pain and wastage, lines that turned her visage into a portrait of experience and suffering with eyes full of desolation that wouldn't have been out of place on a woman three times her age.

"Don't smile at me," she said. "Act angry, please." Byron caught on immediately, and pasted a dark frown on his face. Gotthilf took a moment longer to understand, then his expression turned stern.

"You reached out to us," Byron said, shaking his finger in her face for those who watched. "What for?"

"You look for a man in a green coat, one who sells things from the up-time?"

"You know we do." Gotthilf postured by grabbing her shoulder.

"His name is Albrecht Lang."

"Ah." The two men stored the name away.

"Do you want to know who he gets his wares from?" Leonora looked down as if being chastened.

Byron had to struggle to keep his expression in place. "If you know who it is, you bet."

"An up-timer named Harold Baxter."

"How do you know that?"

"Albrecht arranged for me to spend a night with Herr Baxter." Leonora wrapped her arms close around her chest and looked away. "He hurt me."

A flash of rage went through Byron. "So, why are you telling us?"

"You were nice to Annie. And someone needs to stop Baxter. He will kill one of us some day—us or others."

"You're not the only one he's hurt?"

"No."

He wanted to have a talk with Baxter, Byron decided.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Gotthilf asked.

"No."

"Okay." Byron started shaking his finger at her again. "Don't do anything stupid, but if you need protection, come to the watch house and tell them my name. We're going to walk off now, so look dejected."

The two men walked away from the streetwalker and resumed their journey to the watch house. "Another victim," Gotthilf muttered.

"Yeah." Byron shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "You know, I'm not religious, not like my wife and sister-in-law, but the more time I spend in this job, the more it seems like the concept of original sin just has to be true. I mean, look at us." He gestured around. "Every society the world has recorded history about had prostitution. And for every streetwalker who gets rich as a high-level courtesan or finds a loving marriage, a thousand or more die, old before their time, used, abused, diseased and usually wrecked by alcohol or worse. If man is so good and so perfectable, why does this crap happen over and over and over?"

"You had them up-time?"

Byron gave a short bitter laugh. "Oh, yeah, we had them up-time. And we were still arguing about what to do about them. Almost four hundred years later, and we weren't doing any better than your time does."

The rest of the walk occurred in silence. Both men were alone in their thoughts, each in his own way contemplating the difference between what had been and what was now.

****

Gotthilf bounced into the office he shared with Byron. "Good morning!" he exclaimed.

Byron winced, and waved at a chair. "Sit, sit, and be quiet until I finish my coffee."

Gotthilf grinned and sat. Bill Reilly had explained to him not long ago that Byron was in no way a morning person, and if he wanted to preserve tender portions of his anatomy from being chewed upon, he shouldn't approach Byron in the morning until after he'd had at least one oversized mug of coffee. From the looks of it, Byron was almost done with his first mug.

It wasn't long before Byron set the empty mug down. "Stop smirking at me, and let's go see the boss."

Gotthilf followed him to Captain Reilly's office.

"Hey, Bill."

"Captain Reilly."

The captain looked up from whatever he was reading this time, and groaned theatrically. "Oh, no. Both of you at once. What's happened now? Is the Penguin loose in Magdeburg?"

Byron laughed. Gotthilf, on the other hand, was bewildered, and it showed. His partner caught his expression. "Never mind. More crazy American stuff. I'll explain later." He turned back to the captain. "Bill, you ever had anything to do with a guy named Harold Baxter in Grantville?"

"Baxter . . . Baxter . . . name sounds familiar, but I can't tell you why. Why are you asking?"

"Because it turns out there may be something to this silverware thing after all, and if there is, he's probably involved in it."

"Baxter . . . Baxter . . . Oh, yeah, now I remember. He's Raelene Baxter's brother—she got left up-time. He was married to Sharlyn Douglas for a while, too. I think he's Brandi Dobbs' dad. I remember the divorce . . . pretty nasty. Dad used to say he was a mean cuss, and there was apparently some pretty strong evidence that he was abusive to Sharlyn and Brandi. After that, he moved out of town and raised fighting dogs . . . mostly pit bulls. I'd forgotten he got caught up in the Ring of Fire. He must have been in town to buy something."

"You don't know any more than that?"

"Nope. If it's him, he's about the same age as my dad, so I didn't really know him. Just some of the stuff from the rumor mill, you know. But I remember Dad saying that if it ever came down to a no-holds-barred no-rules fight with anyone, Harold was the one man in town he wanted on his side, 'cause there wasn't anything he wouldn't do in a fight."

Gotthilf swallowed. This Herr Baxter did not sound like anyone he wanted to get involved with. He looked to Byron, and saw that his partner was sober-faced; no funny expressions at all.

"If we need to know more, who should we talk to?"

"Maybe Frank Jackson. Like I said, Baxter's from my dad's generation, so he ought to be around sixty years old. He's maybe just a little older than Frank, so Frank probably knows something more about him."

On their way out of the office, Gotthilf looked at Byron. "The Penguin?"

"Well, before I can tell you about the Penguin, we'll have to talk about Batman first."

"Batman?" Fledermaus? Hieb? All sorts of thoughts went through Gotthilf's mind.

"Batman. See, there's this comic series . . . "

Americans were crazy, Gotthilf decided yet again.

****

Baxter watched his last customer of the day walk away from his table. The backpack he'd brought with him was empty. Six settings of stainless steel, a couple good butchers' knives and two settings of Melmac had all sold. Those who bought from him knew better than to try and bargain any longer. Once he said his price, that was it. Early on a couple of guys had tried to bargain with him, but he'd showed them. Every time they argued, he raised the price. He snickered at the thought of their expressions.

He emptied his stein and waved for another. The thought ran through Baxter's head that he was getting into a rut. Maybe he needed to start looking for the dogs he had planned to buy. From the looks of it, he'd never have much more money than he had now. His stash of "unique up-time wares" was about to run out, and with Grantville bulging at the seams, he'd never be able to scrape up its like again. From what he could tell, even the garage sales in town were a mere shadow of what they used to be like. Seemed like whenever anything was offered for sale nowadays, down-timers would swoop down and carry it off, with only enough bargaining to salve their own pride. Nope, if he wanted to get his kennels started up, he'd have to get started, and right soon.

****

"Now?"

"No." Benedikt Schiffer looked to his younger brother Ebert—half-brother, actually—as the familiar thought ran through his mind that his brother wasn't much brighter than the boar he was named after. Of course, the thought continued, his mother was noted more for being soft and placid than for any great amount of mental strength. Benedikt had inherited their father's brains and his mother's hardness. "No, Eb, we need to wait a bit longer. Make friends with him first."

"Oh." Ebert turned his stein in his fingers. "I wish Lubbold hadn't gone and gotten himself killed."

"Me, too, Eb. And don't talk about him anymore."

"Why, Ben?"

"Because," Benedikt summoned all of his scant patience, "he did something bad. He killed a little girl, and if people find out we were his friends, they might get mad at us."

"Oh. Okay."

That American word was popping up everywhere these days, Benedikt thought, then turned his mind back to Lubbold Vogler. Vogler the mastermind, whose plan to link gangs in different cities so that stolen goods could be transported to different regions for resale died just as it was about to be put into effect. Benedikt had come from Hannover with the final agreement of their folk, which was all that was needed according to Vogler, only to find him dead. Killed in a fight with city watchmen led by up-timers. Called themselves Polizei now, whatever that was supposed to mean. But to have everything—all the plans, all the contacts, all the names—resident only in Vogler's mind meant that it was all fuel for the flames of Hell. If the city men hadn't shot Vogler, Benedikt might well have done it himself. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

So now, now Benedikt was trying to find something with which to salvage this trip, and he had stumbled onto Herr Baxter peddling bits and pieces of the up-time. He took another glance at his target out of the corner of his eye.

****

Gotthilf looked to Byron. "Is Herr Lang in sight?"

"No." Byron muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said, you'd think it wouldn't be that hard to find one man."

"Like you told me, if it was easy, they wouldn't need us." Gotthilf smiled.

"Oh, shut up."

****

Harold looked up as two men seated themselves across the table from him. "I don't know you." Harold was a direct man. He didn't see much sense in dancing around—just get to the matter at hand. "What do you want?"

"Ah, but you are well known, Herr Baxter. You are the man with the many up-time things—small things, but things that are so very useful that many people want."

"You want them?" More directness.

"Perhaps, Herr Baxter, perhaps. And there may be other things we want that you might be able to help us get. But I forget myself, talking business before introductions. I am Benedikt Schiffer and this is my brother Ebert."

"Harold Baxter." Harold decided there was nothing lost by being polite, especially since they already knew his name, but he dropped his hand into his pocket to grab his razor just in case. "You boys ain't from around here, are you?"

It appeared to Harold that it took the other man a moment to figure out what he'd said. "No, Herr Baxter, we are from Hannover."

"That's a pretty fair distance from here." Harold spit into the fire. "You all didn't come this far just to talk to me."

Benedikt waved at the waitress, and held up three fingers when she looked his way. "We came to conclude a business agreement, but by the time we got here, the merchant had died. We were seeking some other opportunity, when we happened to see you making your deals with the local peddlers. Your wares would be very welcome in Hannover, so we are interested in buying as much as we can."

Harold's mind began racing. These guys weren't from here . . . they might pay a premium for what stock he had left. There were bits and pieces of stainless and a couple of knives still in the footlocker he had stored at the goldsmith's, but the prize was a full set of stainless and two sets of Melmac that he hadn't had to break up yet. He should be able to hold them up for good money. Maybe his kennel was closer than he thought.

"Well," Harold drew the word out, "we might be able to do business, depending on what you want and how much you want to pay."

Benedikt laid a groschen on the table. "We have money. How much we pay depends on what wares you have."

Harold scratched his chin, thinking. "I'll want some silver—quite a bit of it for some of my stock—but maybe you boys can help me." Benedikt cocked his head and nodded for the up-timer to continue. "I want some breeding stock—dogs—fighting dogs, you understand?"

"Like they use in bear baiting?" Benedikt asked.

"What's bear baiting?"

The two brothers looked at each other with obvious astonishment. Benedikt turned back to Harold. "Bear baiting? Where a bear is chained to a post, and a pack of dogs is loosed upon him? It is good sport."

"Chained?" Harold went beyond astonishment. "Chained how?"

"By the neck, or by a hind leg. There is much cheering, and betting on whether the dogs kill the bear or the bear kills the dog."

Thrills were running up and down Harold's spine. "You're serious? They really do this? Where at?" He swallowed spittle.

"They did not do this in the up-time?"

"Are you kidding? I've seen dog fights and cock fights, but never anything like what you're talking about. The animal rights folks would have had to change their pants, they'd have been so upset. The old ladies in the churches would have screamed so loudly if something like that show was put on, the government would have shut it down so fast your head would be spinning. They'd have thrown everyone they found at it in jail, and lost the keys to the locks."

A bear-dog fight! Harold was salivating. It would be like something out of the old Roman days, he thought. Man oh man, he had to get in on this!

"So, uh, you boys know someplace where this happens?"

Benedikt got a knowing look in his eyes, like he knew he'd hooked a fish. Harold didn't care. If they could take him to a place where fights like that happened . . .

"This is not our first time in Magdeburg, Herr Baxter." Benedikt's voice was smooth. "There is a bear pit outside the city. We know where it is." He turned to Ebert and rattled something else off too fast for Harold to follow. Ebert stood and went to the bar. "Ebert will see if the bar man knows when a fight will be."

When he came back, Ebert rattled off some fast words in their version of German that Harold didn't catch. Benedikt asked a question, and Ebert nodded. Benedikt turned back to the up-timer with a smile that bordered on sly. "Fortune smiles on us. Tonight, Herr Baxter; there is a fight planned tonight."

****

Byron and Gotthilf had been searching for Albrecht Lang for a couple of days now, and even the normally ebullient Gotthilf was starting to show some signs of irritation. They walked along this morning, hands in pockets, with none of their normal conversation. For lack of a better destination, they were headed to the street where Byron had first seen the man, with the intention of once again questioning everyone in sight.

"I suppose that," Gotthilf finally said, "if nothing else, we might make ourselves so great a nuisance that someone will say something just to get rid of us."

"That's possib . . . " Byron stopped in mid-word and grabbed Gotthilf by the shoulder. "There he is—straight ahead and off to the left, next to that vegetable cart."

It took a moment for other people to move out of the way enough for Gotthilf to spot their target. "I see him. He looks like a rat."

Byron chuckled, leaned over and murmured, "I'll go around the crowd and come up on the other side of him. Count to a hundred, then move toward him."

One of the things that still sometimes amazed Gotthilf about the up-timer lieutenant was that he could slide through a crowd of people like a knife through water—barely a ripple showing his passage. He wasn't sure if it was an up-time thing, or a tall person thing, or maybe just a Byron thing, although if he had to pick he'd probably take the last. But after a moment, he shrugged and started counting.

" . . . 98, 99, 100." Gotthilf tugged at his jacket, patted the pockets where his new badge and his pistol rested, and started toward the object of their search. "Herr Lang?"

"Yes?" An obsequious smile appeared on the pointed face of the peddler. "How may I help you, Herr . . . ?"

Gotthilf pulled his badge out and showed it to Lang. "Polizei." Before he could get another word out, Lang whirled and started to run . . . right into Byron, who grabbed him, spun him around and hauled one hand up behind him until his elbow was almost touching his shoulder blade.

"Herr Lang," the up-timer pronounced, "we have some questions for you. Now, we can do this one of two ways: you can come with us politely and we'll buy you a beer afterwards, or we arrest you on suspicion of selling stolen merchandise and you can talk to us in the magistrate's court. What's it going to be?"

"I . . . I know n-nothing," Lang stammered.

"You are wrong," Gotthilf purred with a stark smile. His voice dropped to a murmur. "You know about Harold Baxter, and you really, really want to tell us all about him." Lang turned white, and would have dropped had Byron not been holding him up. "So let's go find that beer and you can tell us what you know."

****

Harold sat straight up in bed, then almost fell back again as someone drove a hot railroad spike through his temples. His stomach was calm, for which he would have thanked God if he believed in him. But his head felt as if someone was using the inside of it as an anvil to pound out horseshoes. He stood and stumbled to where his bush jacket hung from a peg in a wall. From one pocket he pulled a pill bottle, from which he shook a couple of APCs into his hand. Another of the many pockets produced a flat Jim Beam bottle with perhaps a finger's worth of amber liquid in it. The pills went into his mouth, followed by the last of the whiskey. Holding the bottle up in front of him, Harold said, "So long, Jim. I'm going to miss you." He screwed the cap back on the bottle and set it on the table. Something else that could be sold.

It wasn't long before Harold felt half-way human again. What did he drink last night? The memory came to him: oh, yeah—shots of gin chased with ale. He remembered drinking Ebert and Benedikt under the table after the bear fight.

The bear fight! His normally fulsome vulgar vocabulary failed him at the thought of what he had seen last night. The bear pit was really a pit, a big hole that had been dug in the ground, with seats that Harold could only call bleachers built up on both sides of it. Obviously, this pit had been here for quite a while and had regular enough action if the owners went to the extent of building the seating. A beer keg to one side and some guy selling sausages on skewers passed for a concession stand. Harold approved of the owners' smarts, and he was more than a little envious that they could operate so freely in the here and now. Well, it was going to be his turn soon.

The fight, now—well, that was the most fun he'd ever had with his clothes on, better even than the last time he beat a woman into submission until she let him do whatever he wanted with her. The thrill of watching a dozen dogs tear into that bear and the bear tear back was way beyond sex. The blood flowed until much of the bottom of the pit was littered with dog corpses and red mud.

It ended finally. The bear's ears were bloody ribbons, his front paws were mangled and his sides and back legs had had strips of hide torn off of them. Two dogs were left, both of which could have been ancestral stock of Rottweilers from the looks of them. They danced in and out, until finally the bear charged to the limit of the chain locked onto his left hind leg. That quickly it was over. The bear fell, and the two dogs were at his throat in black and tan blurs. Moments later, the weakening roars and bawls of the bear fell silent, to be replaced by the cheers of the crowd—those of them who hadn't lost money by betting on the bear, that is.

Harold came back to the present, grinning for all he was worth. He knew what he wanted to do, now. He wanted to buy some breeding stock from the guy who owned the two big black and tan almost-Rottweilers and breed some dogs. Give him two years with good stock and the training he could give the resulting pups, and he could start cleaning up.

Then he remembered what was supposed to happen this morning. He looked at his watch . . . only 9 a.m., more or less. Good, he still had time to get his stuff together before the Schiffer brothers showed up. Harold grabbed his jacket and headed out the door of his room.

It wasn't far to the goldsmith's shop. A few minutes later Harold stepped into the front door of Master Alaricus Glöckner. He was met by Dieter, the master's son and oldest journeyman.

"Good morrow to you, Herr Baxter."

"Hi, Dieter. I need to pick up my footlocker."

"Pick up?"

"I'm taking it with me."

"Ah. A moment, please." He turned to an apprentice and murmured something that sent him scurrying for the back of the shop. "Will you be bringing it back?"

"Probably not."

Dieter frowned a little. Harold could see that he was sorry to lose the storage fees they had been assessing to keep his case in the safety of their strongroom. "Well, let me figure up the final charges, then."

The apprentice lugged the footlocker through the back door in the middle of the bargaining over the storage fee. Harold was feeling so good that he only put up a token resistance and paid over a silver pfennig, receiving two broken bits back as change. Just as he bent over to grab the footlocker handle, the back door opened again and a girl entered the shop.

"Didi, did you . . . " She turned pale, stopped and placed a hand on the wall.

"Did I what, Rosina?"

Harold straightened with the footlocker in hand, smiled at the girl and walked out of the shop. His smile broadened as people stepped out of his way.

****

Gotthilf watched as Byron pounded on the door of the room for the second time. Still no response. The up-timer looked around. "Doesn't look like he's here. You know the way to that goldsmith Lang mentioned?"

"Glöckner. I think so."

"Let's go, then."

****

"Do we go see Herr Baxter now, Benedikt?"

"Soon, Ebert."

"And will he give us the pretty things?"

"One way or another, Ebert. One way or another."

****

Gotthilf stopped in the middle of the street.

"What's wrong?" Byron raised an eyebrow.

"I turned the wrong way at that last corner. We need to go back that way."

The two men reversed direction.

"I thought you said you knew the way."

"I do, but I haven't come at it from this direction before."

"Where's a map when you need one?"

"Oh, shut up."

****

Harold set the footlocker on his bed, then reached over to close the door. He pulled a couple of keys from his pocket, opened the padlocks, and threw open the lid to the footlocker. A quick check verified that everything was still there; all the pieces he needed to tempt the Schiffer brothers. Closing the lid, he snapped the padlocks back and put the keys back in his pocket.

The bush jacket went back up on its peg. Harold stretched, then scratched his chin. The rasp of stubble and beard irritated him all of a sudden, so he decided to shave. It took a moment to unlock the small bag he had chained to the bed frame and pull out his soap and shaving mirror.

The mirror got set up on the mantle over the small fireplace. He poured a small amount of water in the basin on the table, and lathered up enough suds to cover his face. It wasn't as good as shaving cream, but it worked. Harold pulled the straight razor out of his pants pocket, opened it, and lightly thumbed the edge. Still sharp from the last time he had worked it over, so he walked over to the mantle and began to shave.

He mused as he scraped the blade over his cheeks, flicking the suds and bristles against the nearby wall. The razor and the mirror were all he had left of his grandfather, the man who had practically raised him. Old Grandpa Horace had been a hard man, but he'd made sure that Harold had grown up strong. The old man seemed to live forever, but when he died, all that Harold had wanted from his effects was the razor and the mirror. He remembered watching Grandpa shave on Saturdays: the careful stropping of the razor, the ritual of mixing the shaving soap in the mug and brushing it on the sunken cheeks and knobby chin, the watchful examination of the face in the small mirror and careful movements of the hand with the razor. He wouldn't say that he missed the old coot, but something had left his life when they put that pine box in the ground back behind the hill country house where he'd lived and died.

The mirror was very old now, and the silver backing was clouding and pulling away from the glass. Harold wouldn't use anything else though. Sometimes he thought he saw Grandpa Horace looking back at him from that tarnished image with an expression like those he used to have when he would take that razor strop to Harold. Sometimes he shivered, sometimes he laughed, but always there was a cold feeling to his spine.

There was a noise behind him. In the cloudy glass he saw the unlocked door of his room open—stupid mistake, Harold, he thought he heard his grandpa say—and Death step through.

****

Benedikt looked at the body of Harold Baxter lying at his feet, and cursed roundly and soundly and at great length. "Dead, just like Vogler," he said through clenched teeth, "and just as useless to us." He looked to where Ebert was holding up the length of copper rod, examining the blood and hair on it with every evidence of interest. "Ebert!" Startled, his brother looked to him. "Drop that."

"Okay." The rod clanged to the floor.

The room was a mess. Some of the furniture had been overturned; filth was everywhere. Benedikt looked around. "He said he would have the merchandise here this morning. Now where . . . " His eyes lit on the strange chest sitting on the bed. The smile that had started to blossom turned into a thunderous frown instead when he saw the locks on the chest. They had to be up-time work. A close look confirmed that, and also confirmed that they would be hard-pressed to open them. The chest, on the other hand, looked to be less strong.

"Ebert, bring that rod here."

"But Ben, you told me to drop it."

Deep breath. "Ebert, bring me the rod."

"Okay."

Just as Benedikt was about to take the rod in hand, there was a click-click from the doorway.

****

Gotthilf muttered to himself as they turned away from Master Glöckner's shop. He assumed his expression was sour. It should be, to match his feelings.

Byron looked over at him as they started back up the street. "Hey, so we missed Baxter. They said he was going back to his room."

"But if I hadn't taken that wrong turn, we would have seen him on the street."

"It's okay, partner. If that's the only thing that goes wrong today, we'll be ahead of the game."

Gotthilf was still frowning when they arrived at the inn where Lang said Baxter lived. They found the innkeeper, who told them which room was the up-timer's, then inquired as to whether he was in some kind of trouble. "Because if he is, take him away. I'll miss his silver, but not his custom."

They had just started up the stairs, when they heard a clang sound. Byron reached for his pistol, so Gotthilf followed his partner's lead. They soft-footed it up the stairs and down the hall to Baxter's room. It was no great surprised to find the door standing open. The sight of the body lying on the floor was a bit of a shock. It wasn't the first dead person Gotthilf had ever seen, though—working with Byron, it wasn't even the third or fourth.

He watched as Byron edged around to where he could see more of the room. Byron waved him over, so Gotthilf stepped over to stand beside his partner. They could see two blond headed men in the room, standing next to the bed, with one of them holding some kind of stick or club. When Byron cocked his pistol, Gotthilf did as well.

"Police!" Byron yelled, and they burst into the room. "City Watch! Up against the wall! Hands on the wall!"

They moved the shocked suspects away from the bed and over to a blank stretch of wall, where they forced them to face the wall and put their hands on it. Paying no attention to the babbling from one of the men, Byron stepped back over to the bed. "Hmm, up-time footlocker, has to be from Grantville. And it's got Harold Baxter's name stenciled on it, so . . . " Gotthilf kept his attention—and pistol—on the two men, but watched out of the corner of his eye as Byron turned to the corpse, " . . . this must be the illustrious Mr. Baxter. Let's see if there's anything to confirm that."

Gotthilf turned a little so he could see Byron roll the corpse to one side and pull something from a pocket on the back of the trousers. "One up-time wallet, complete with expired West Virginia driver's license made out to one Harold N. Baxter. Harold," Byron intoned, "you weren't very pretty at your best, but you're definitely pretty sad now that these two reshaped your head for you."

"We did nothing, I tell you!" one of the suspects shouted. "He was like that when we got here."

"Right." The sarcasm in Byron's voice was so thick it was almost visible to Gotthilf. "You just stopped in to see an old friend, and just happened to be holding what looks like the murder weapon when we came in. Tell that to the magistrate."

****

The magistrate! Benedikt's thoughts were whirling. If this had happened to someone else, he'd be laughing right now, but unless something happened soon it looked like he and Ebert were going to hang for a murder they hadn't committed. The irony of the fact that he had been fully prepared to kill Baxter almost sickened him. How could they get out of this? Even in his extremity, he wasn't thinking of letting Ebert take the blame alone. There had to be a way out.

"Baxter's dead," the tall one repeated. Then came the interruption.

"Baxter's dead, just like Vogler," Ebert recited.

Benedikt watched as the two watch men first stared at Ebert, then turned to stare at each other. Seizing the moment, he pushed off from the wall and caromed into the short one, sending him flying into his taller partner. He grabbed his brother's arm. "Run, Ebert!"

****

Gotthilf rolled off of Byron and looked up in time to see the last of the suspects going out the door. Byron sprang to his feet and sprinted after them. Gotthilf looked around for his pistol, and saw it on the floor near Byron's.45 automatic. He grabbed both and ran for the stairs.

He saw Byron leap from the top of the stairs, and arrived in time to see him land on the talkative suspect just as he was about to make the turn for the final steps and run for the outer door. They sprawled on the landing, and the suspect yelled again, "Run, Ebert."

Gotthilf hurried down the steps, but couldn’t get past the two men wrestling on the landing. He looked up, expecting to see the one named Ebert running out the door. Instead, there was a loud crack as the man wrenched the end banister post loose from the stairs and lifted it, obviously intending to use it as a club.

"Stop!" Gotthilf yelled. "Stop!" He raised his pistol. The large man ignored him, lifting the post.

The sound of his pistol firing surprised Gotthilf, and again it fired. He hadn't been conscious of firing the double-tap that Byron had drilled him in. Two red dots appeared in the chest and abdomen of his target, and began to spread. The post dropped from hands that seemed to lack strength. The big man staggered a step, said, "Ben . . . " and collapsed on the steps leading up to the landing.

"A little help here, partner," Byron yelled. Gotthilf shook off his shock, stepped down another step and leaned forward to point his revolver between the eyes of the other suspect. "Care to make it three bodies?" Byron asked.

With that, the man went limp, head twisted toward the other suspect, tears running down his cheeks.

****

After additional police arrived to take charge of the two suspects, living and dead, Byron and Gotthilf returned to Baxter's room. The disarray, the filth, the twisted corpse, all seemed surreal to Gotthilf, especially on the heels of what had already happened. Byron had him stand in the doorway to keep others out while he tried to gather what little evidence there might be besides the copper rod with clotted blood and hair.

"He hasn't been dead long," Byron pronounced. "No signs of rigor mortis yet. The blood on his face is still a bit tacky, even. Hello, what's this?" Gotthilf watched him pick something out of the corpse's right hand. "An old-fashioned straight razor. Not exactly the weapon I'd choose for a fight to the death, old man, but it looks like you got surprised, and you use what you have, I guess. Got any of that waxed paper, Gotthilf?"

He shook himself, and pulled a couple of sheets of the stuff from a pocket and handed them to his partner.

"Thanks." Before wrapping the razor in a piece of the paper, Byron looked at it pretty closely. "Hmm. Well, I don’t see any cuts on your face, old man, so the blood I see here must have come from whoever you were fighting with." Byron stopped in mid-wrap. "Gotthilf, did you see any cuts on those two?"

He thought for a moment. "No, no cuts or blood before they went down the stairs."

"Hmm. Okay, that's odd."

Byron started back to the body, then stopped dead in the middle of the floor. He pulled a large pair of tweezers from a pocket, bent down and picked something up with them. "Gotthilf, come see what you make of this."

It was a piece of flesh, flat, not too thick, smooth on two sides with mostly rounded edges except for the raw edge that cut in a diagonal. "I don't know," Gotthilf replied after looking at it closely. "What do you think it is?"

"I think it's an earlobe," Byron said. "And I think it was cut from the ear of Baxter's attacker with this razor." He muttered something.

"What?"

"It looks like our boy downstairs may have been telling the truth. They may not have killed Baxter. No cuts, no mutilated ears." He wrapped the piece of ear in another sheet of the waxed paper.

Gotthilf felt as if he had been pole-axed. "I shot an innocent man?"

"No." Byron wheeled and stared at Gotthilf intently. "You shot a man in defense of your partner. Make no mistake about it. If he'd hit me with that piece of oak, I'd be a body downstairs on the floor instead of what's his name—Ebert. They may be innocent of Baxter's murder, but they're guilty of something, I'd stake my life on it. In fact, I already have, and I owe you for the fact that I'm still breathing."

Gut churning, Gotthilf relaxed a little. "All right. But if they didn't do it, who did?"

"This was a crime of passion," Byron said. "Look at Baxter." He pointed to the corpse's head. "It's all beaten in. Someone beat him well past the point of his death. That only happens when there's a relationship of some kind. Someone who knew him."

"Okay," Gotthilf focused his thoughts on the issue. "So who knows him? Lang," he answered his own question.

Byron frowned. "I doubt it. First of all, I don't think the man could muster this much passion about anything." Gotthilf nodded. "And second, we've had someone watching him all day, remember?" Gotthilf nodded again with a rueful expression. "How about Leonora or one of the other streetwalkers?"

Gotthilf thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, she was too afraid. And even if she wasn't, she'd have used a knife—any of them would."

Byron started muttering to himself again. Gotthilf's focus wandered, until it lit on the copper rod, now slightly bent, lying on the floor. The blood and hair proved it was the murder weapon. Copper . . . copper . . . copper . . . He stiffened, then headed for the door. "Come on. We may be too late."

****

For once, Byron had to hustle to keep up with his shorter partner, whose legs were churning and driving him down the streets. Gotthilf gasped out enough of an explanation as they ran for Byron to understand his reasoning and where they were going. They slowed to a walk when their destination came into sight. Gotthilf grabbed Byron's sleeve and pointed to blood drops on the threshold and a blood smear on one of the door posts, about the height where someone would rest a hand. Byron clapped his partner's shoulder in congratulations, then pounded on the door.

"Polizei! City Watch!"

No response.

Another thunder of fist on door. "Polizei, Master Glöckner. We know you're in there. You really don't want us shouting our business to the entire neighborhood." And the neighborhood was definitely paying attention.

After a moment, the door opened to reveal the glowering visage of Master Alaricus. "Come in, then, if you must."

"I'm afraid we must." Byron brushed by him, Gotthilf following close behind. Once inside, Byron pointed to Gotthilf.

"Master Alaricus, be so good as to call your apprentices and journeymen into the shop, please."

"Why?"

"Just do it," Byron said in a voice of iron.

The master's glower intensified, if that was possible, but he stepped through a curtain and rattled off a list of names. Within moments, several boys and youths were present. Gotthilf went to each, tilted their heads this way and that. No cuts, no mutilations. He stared at the master's head. No cuts, not mutilations. He started to glance at Byron in bewilderment, but then a thought occurred to him.

"Master, be so good as to call your children in, if you please."

The goldsmith's complexion now verged on dusky purple. "I will not! The impertinence of this! Explain yourselves, sirs. I will complain to the bürgemeisters about your conduct, indeed I will. I . . . "

"Papa, enough." From another door way came a figure of a man, head wrapped in bandages, supported by a girl. From their faces, they were the goldsmith's children.

"Dieter, I forbid . . . "

"Papa, enough. I will not lie, nor will I allow you to lie for me."

"Dieter Glöckner, I presume?" Gotthilf asked.

The man sat on a stool, and his "Yes" was shaky.

"I suspect that if I unwrap those bandages, I will find a severely gashed ear with a missing lobe. Am I correct?"

Everyone in the room looked surprised. "Yes," admitted the young man.

"We found your earlobe." Gotthilf pointed to Byron, who fished the waxed paper packet from his pocket and showed it to everyone. "We found it in the same room where Herr Harold Baxter was beaten to death. Before his death, however, he managed to wound and mutilate his attacker with a razor. That attacker was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Tell us about it."

Dieter took a deep breath. His sister wrapped her arm around his waist to support him. "Baxter raped Rosina. He threatened to kill her if she told anyone. I found out today, after he came to collect his chest that was stored here. She was so upset on seeing him, that I dragged it out of her."

"So you went to confront him."

"Yes. I wanted him to marry her, or at least provide some kind of compensation. Everyone knows he's been making money selling up-time goods to vendors, and spending next to nothing. He must have a pile of silver."

"Tell me about the rod."

Dieter looked a bit surprised. "Baxter is . . . was . . . a hard man. Everyone knows that. I was afraid that when I spoke to him, he might attack me. So I took a copper rod with me."

"To defend yourself if you needed to."

"Yes."

"Tell me what happened."

"I just wanted to talk to him at first, but with every step I grew more and more angry. By the time I arrived at his room, I wanted to kill him. So . . . I did." With that admission, Dieter sagged on the stool. His sister stood by him, tears streaming down her face, pale and wan, but nodding her head in affirmation.

The audience to the confession all seemed stunned. For a long moment there was silence.

Gotthilf at length cleared his throat. "Master Alaricus, have you sent for a doctor?"

The master shook his head.

"Do so. We will allow his wounds to be tended before we arrest him."

****

The rest of the day passed in a blur for the partners: getting the confessed murderer tended to and transferred to custody, writing reports, gathering other information to be ready for the magistrates. By evening, Gotthilf was numb from everything, which was at least partially a good thing.

"Come on, partner," Byron said from the office door. "I'm buying."

"No," Gotthilf sighed. "I'm buying. The first round, anyway."

They made their way to The Green Horse. Gotthilf walked up to the counter and threw a coin on the top. "Ale. Two. Large." They made their way to the same table in the dark corner they had sat at on the night the Vogler case broke. Gotthilf took the seat with his back to the wall, and they applied themselves to the ale.

He broke his silence once, when Byron brought the third refills back to the table. "It shouldn't be that easy to extinguish a man's life. May God never let it be easy for me."

"Amen to that, partner," Byron replied.

Two days later

"This is where your brother's buried." The short policeman pointed to the patch of raw turned earth.

The Magdeburg Polizei had taken turns interrogating Benedikt Schiffer yesterday until they were satisfied they knew everything that could be dragged out of Benedikt about Lubbold Vogler and his schemes. Yesterday had ended with an appearance before the magistrate, one Otto Gericke, who had pronounced judgment after all facts had been made known.

"Herr Schiffer, thinking about committing a crime is no crime before this court. You will have to answer to God for that. And since the Polizei will not charge you with resisting authority, and in light of the unfortunate death of your brother, you are free to go after observing the following judgments.

"First, if you had been a better brother to your brother, he might still be alive.

"Second, you are free to go, as long as you leave Magdeburg and never return."

This was Benedikt's last stop before leaving. The two Polizei officers who had arrested him had accompanied him to the grave. "Good luck, Herr Schiffer." With that brief farewell, they turned and walked back to the city.

Benedikt's vision clouded as he looked at the grave. If he hadn't panicked, Ebert would still be alive. If he hadn't been obsessed with taking money instead of earning it, his brother would still be alive.

He looked up to the gray heavens. "God, I'm not much of one for prayer, but if it is possible, charge my brother's sins to my account and receive him unto Yourself."

Benedikt knelt and placed a hand on the grave. "Sleep well, Ebert."

He rose and dusted himself off, then clutched his coat closed against the March chill and began walking north.

Rachel's Plaint

Magdeburg

Late March 1635

It was early afternoon in the office of Paulus Bünemann. The door was closed, as the good Herr Bünemann was expecting no visitors. The merchant was, in fact, indulging in a post-prandial nap.

Despite Herr Bünemann's expectations, however, there was a visitor, one who walked on silent feet to where the merchant slept on the sofa which was across from the large desk. The visitor looked down at the slack face of the sleeping merchant, then leaned forward and placed hands around his neck. Bünemann's eyes flew open. A gurgle made its way from his lips, and his own hands strained and pulled at those of the visitor.

Unfortunately for the merchant, the visitor was stronger. The fingers sunk tighter into Bünemann's neck. Bünemann's complexion darkened, his eyes seemed to swell, and his feet drummed on the sofa for a moment. Then he sagged, his head lolled and his hands fell away.

The visitor retained his grip for some time, but at length released it. He straightened, staring down at the corpse for a long moment, then turned and made his way to the only door into the office. He gently tested the lock to ensure that it was still engaged.

Moments later, the corpse was alone in the room.

****

Byron Chieske and Gotthilf Hoch walked out the front of the building that was serving as the police and City Watch station.

"Do you know where this office is?" Byron asked.

"Yes."

"Close enough to walk?"

Gotthilf looked up at the gray sky that was beginning to drop water on them. "Not in the rain."

"Right." Byron stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, waving at one of the horse-drawn cabs.

The cab driver pulled up in front of them. "Where to, Herren?"

"Herr Bünemann's warehouse, down by the river." Gotthilf slammed the door of the carriage.

The driver shook his reins and clucked to his horse. The cab lurched into motion.

"The captain's got to light a fire under the city council," Byron muttered. "I'm getting tired of having to hire a cab every time I want to go someplace. I know they had to spring for the fire equipment, but that was last year."

"We finally got the typewriter," Gotthilf reminded him.

"One. A typewriter, when we need three. And don't get me started, or I'll be ranting about a morgue again." The rest of the ride took place in silence.

****

"Bünemann's warehouse," the cabbie called. Byron and Gotthilf dismounted from the carriage into the rain.

"Pay the man," Byron said. Gotthilf dug into a coat pocket and counted out enough of the new copper pennies to pay the fare.

"Thank you, sir," the cabbie said with a tug at his hat. Gotthilf heard him cluck to his horse as he hurried to the warehouse to get out of the rain.

"Georg." Gotthilf nodded to the City Watch man standing outside the warehouse door. "Any problems?"

"None outside of a dead body inside." They both chuckled, and Gotthilf opened the door. Inside he stepped up beside Byron, who was talking to a tall, stooped man whose face was almost ashen. Gotthilf couldn't tell if that was because of the circumstances or if it was the normal complexion for the fellow.

"Gotthilf, this is Gerhard Lutterodt, the chief accountant for Herr Bünemann's business." Byron waved a hand in Gotthilf's direction. "Gotthilf Hoch, my partner."

"Good day," Lutterodt muttered. Gotthilf simply nodded.

"So," Byron resumed the interrupted conversation, "you were telling me that Herr Bünemann often closed his door in the afternoon with instructions he was not to be bothered."

"Perhaps twice or thrice a week." The accountant nodded. "Usually after a large lunch with much wine."

"He was taking a nap?" Gotthilf guessed.

Lutterodt shrugged.

"Was it usual that he would lock the door?"

"Yes."

"And how long would the door remain locked."

Lutterodt shrugged again. "At least an hour, sometimes two."

Gotthilf looked around while the conversation was going on. The space wasn't very large. There were two tall tables with stools, one of them obviously belonging to Herr Lutterodt. The other stool was occupied by a younger man, who appeared to be intent on copying something into a ledger book . . . except that Gotthilf had seen that his pen hadn't moved for some time. There was an open door behind the young man that opened to a small room with shelves and cabinets in it.

"Gotthilf?"

He switched his attention back to Byron. "Yes?"

"Any questions for Herr Lutterodt before we start going over the crime scene?"

Gotthilf thought for a moment. "Was Herr Bünemann a successful merchant?"

Lutterodt gave a thin smile. "Rather."

"So he had enemies?"

"Not in the battlefield sense. Competitors, certainly."

"Anyone he was afraid of?"

"Afraid? No." Lutterodt was definite. "He was concerned about the Praegorius family from Hamburg sending a factor here, but the man hasn't even arrived yet."

"Anyone he hated?"

Lutterodt frowned. "I do not know if hate is the right word, but Master Paulus would have nothing to do with Andreas Schardius. The man took advantage of him in one of his earliest deals. Ever since then the master would neither accept nor make proposals involving Master Schardius."

"Is this Schardius person dishonest?"

"Master Paulus would say that he made a dog's hind leg look straight in comparison."

Gotthilf underlined that name in his notebook.

"Do you know of anyone that would have gone to the length of killing him?"

Lutterodt all of a sudden yanked a kerchief from his left pocket and coughed heavily into it, almost a paroxysm. Afterward, he took a shuddering deep breath while shoving the kerchief back into its pocket. Gotthilf thought he saw spots on it.

"I doubt that there are many who will mourn his passing." Lutterodt's voice was hoarse at first, evening out as he spoke. "But likewise I doubt that any of the other corn factors despised him enough to try and murder him. Besides, as we told the first watchman, there was no one in the room when we broke in. I do not see how he could have been murdered."

"That's the door you broke?" Byron pointed to a door at the back of the room.

"Yes."

They moved in that direction. Byron fingered a splintered place on the door frame. "Why did you decide to break in?"

"I needed the master's signature on a contract, and it had been over two hours since he had gone in to the office. I tapped on the door, but there was no answer."

"Did you break in then?"

"No, next I rapped hard. After there was no answer, I pounded as hard as I could."

"And still no answer." Byron was pulling on his chin, a sign that Gotthilf recognized that meant the up-timer was thinking hard.

"Aye. I waited a few more minutes, not wanting to needlessly anger the master by destroying the doorway, but finally I sent Johan," Lutterodt gestured to the other accountant, "to bring one of the warehousemen with a pry bar."

"Is that the bar?" Gotthilf pointed to a length of metal lying next to the wall.

"Yes."

Byron picked it up and compared the end of the bar to the marks on the door frame. They matched. He handed it to Gotthilf. "Tag it." Gotthilf pulled a piece of heavy paper on a string loop out of one of his pockets, and a pencil out of another. He wrote "Bünemann" followed by the date on the tag, then looped it around the bar and tucked it under his arm.

The up-timer reached out and pushed the sprung door open, revealing a surprisingly large room dimly lit by two small windows set up high in the wall across from the door.

Gotthilf followed Byron into the office. The corpse was obvious, lying on a sofa across from the desk. One arm was folded up on the chest, the other trailed to the floor.

Byron stopped them just inside the door. "When you first broke in, Herr Lutterodt, did anything in the room seem strange?"

"Other than the body?"

"Other than the body." Byron's tone was dry.

"No, but I didn't take time to look."

"Take time now," Byron instructed. "Take all the time you need."

Gotthilf watched Lutterodt as he surveyed the room. The accountant, hands in pockets, made a slow turn as he scanned everything, even stepping forward to look over the desk and its chair. He turned again to face the detectives.

"I cannot swear that everything is as it was before he locked the door, but everything that I know should be here is present, and I see nothing that should not be here."

Byron turned to the door. "I assume this is the master's key in the lock."

"It must be. He never gave me a key to this door."

"Are there any others?"

"The master told me once that his wife has one, but I have never seen it."

Byron took the key from the lock, knelt and tried to pass the key on its ring under the door. The space was too narrow for the bulk of the key, not to mention the ring with the other keys on it. "Well, that didn't work. Not that it would prove anything or help us any if it did." He stood again and handed the keys to his partner. "Tag them." Gotthilf did so, and handed them back to Byron.

The up-timer now moved to the sofa and touched the face of Herr Bünemann's corpse, then lifted the trailing arm and set it on the sofa. "Hmm. Rigor mortis is already setting in. That would match death sometime after noon. Did you close his eyes, Herr Lutterodt?"

"Yes."

In Gotthilf's eyes, Herr Bünemann was not a prepossessing man. His frame was small; he wasn't much taller than Gotthilf, which made him short. At least Gotthilf was stocky, but the merchant by comparison was rather slender. His hands were small, short-fingered, and looked soft. His face was reasonably handsome, with regular features and no pock marks or other scars, but his hair was thin and receding, which left him looking like a dyspeptic school master. All in all, Gotthilf was reasonably glad he hadn't been on familiar terms with the man.

Gotthilf turned to Lutterodt, who was hovering behind them. "You said earlier Herr Bünemann had a wife?"

"Yes. He was married to Frau Sarah Diebsin."

"Did they have children?"

"No."

Gotthilf pulled out his notebook again and made more notes. "Are there any legitimate kin that should be notified?"

"No. The master had a younger brother, Karl, who died when Tilly's soldiers sacked the city. He was not married. Their father was an only child. There may be some distant cousins somewhere, but I do not know who they would be."

Lutterodt pulled his kerchief out for another coughing spell. When it subsided, Gotthilf murmured, "Just a few more questions. Has Frau Sarah Diebsin been notified of her husband's death?"

"I believe so." Lutterodt's voice was weak and shaky. "The City Watch said they would notify her." He stopped and took a heavy breath. "I am surprised she is not here already."

"And did the master have any illegitimate kin?"

Lutterodt grimaced. "Yes." He began coughing again.

"Children?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me who they were?"

Lutterodt grimaced again. "No. I simply knew he had them. He made no great secret about it."

Byron had been crouched over the body this entire time, shining the beam of a small pocket flashlight on the neck and turning the head this way and that against the increasing stiffness of the advancing rigor. He flicked the light off and straightened. Gotthilf turned and raised his eyebrows.

"No doubt about it," Byron spread his hands. "He was strangled. And since there's no way that you can strangle yourself, we seem to have a murder."

The room seemed to darken at that pronouncement.

Byron looked to Gotthilf. "We've got to examine the body and see if there is anything else about it that might be important."

"Right." Gotthilf nodded, anticipating the next question.

"So, where do we do it?"

"There's that back room at the police house."

"I guess that's better than nothing." Byron muttered something. All Gotthilf could catch was " . . . city council . . . " He decided not to ask Byron to repeat it. "Okay," the up-timer said, "your drawing is better than mine, so you make a sketch of the body in the room while I get us some wheels."

Gotthilf turned to a fresh page in his notebook and began sketching as Byron left the room. He heard the outer door shut.

It didn't take long to make the drawing of the body and its placement. Gotthilf was actually pretty competent at sketching. He took a little bit of pride in that, smiling as he thought of how poor Byron was at it. On the other hand, he definitely sympathized with Byron's opinion of the city council; he wished they'd quit delaying and arguing and get the photography gear they had been promising the fledgling police department. It would be so much better than these drawings at showing exactly how things stood in a crime scene.

He turned to a fresh page, anticipating the next need, and began making a sketch of the room as a whole. Good progress had been made with it when the outer door opened again. Byron entered the room a moment later, followed by Georg the patrolman.

"How's it coming?"

Gotthilf flipped back and showed him the drawing of the body.

"Good. Well, I've got a cab, and the cabbie had a spare horse blanket, so we can wrap him up and get him out of here." Georg shook the blanket out on the floor, then he and Byron lifted the body and set it down on the blanket. A few moments later, the corpse was swaddled and not visible. Gotthilf watched as the two men bent. "Hup!" Byron exclaimed as they lifted the dead weight. Gotthilf returned to his sketching as Georg led the way out of the office, walking backward and looking over his shoulder.

A few minutes later Byron came back in. "Well, that's done. Georg's on his way to the police house with the body. He'll get somebody to help him carry it in, then he'll come back here."

Gotthilf finished the sketch of the room, closed his notebook and put it back into his pocket. "Well, I think we have an appointment with a corpse," he remarked.

"So we do," Byron agreed. "So we do, after we ask a few more questions."

They exited the office, and Byron turned and pulled the office door closed. Testing it, he found that it still latched well, so he took the merchant's keys from his pocked and locked it. "Keep everyone out of that room until we say otherwise." Lutterodt nodded just as the outside door opened. Framed in the doorway was a woman with a sodden cloak thrown over a green dress.

"Frau Diebsin," Lutterodt exclaimed, stepping forward to take her arm and lead her in. "You did not have to come. You should have sent Philip." He nodded to the large man who followed her in, blanket draped over his shoulder.

"Is it true, Gerhard? Is Paulus really dead?"

Frau Sarah Diebsin verheiratet—no, it was verwitwet, now, Gotthilf thought—Bünemann was by anyone's estimation a plain woman. She was short, no taller than her husband, with mousy brown hair and uneven complexion, which was not improved by the reddened eyes and nose that gave evidence to weeping.

"Yes, ma'am," Byron interjected, "he's dead."

She looked at him and arched an eyebrow. "And who are you?" Gotthilf tightened his lips to keep from smiling.

"Lieutenant Byron Chieske, of the Magdeburg police, ma'am. My partner, Gotthilf Hoch." Byron pointed to Gotthilf. "We were sent to look into the circumstances of the death of such a prominent man as your husband."

Frau Diebsin brow furrowed. "Circumstances?"

"Yes, ma'am." Gotthilf replied. "It seems Herr Bünemann was murdered."

Her face paled to the extent that the redness seemed like streaks of scarlet. She wavered on her feet, clutching at Lutterodt's arm to remain standing. "Murdered?" she asked in a small voice. Gotthilf nodded in confirmation.

There was silence for a long moment. No one moved until Frau Diebsin spoke.

"I trust that it is now your concern to find who did this." Her voice was firm; she was not asking a question.

"Yes, ma'am," Gotthilf answered.

"Good. I want to know what you learn." She swallowed. "Now, may I take my husband home?"

"Ah, I'm afraid that won't be possible," Byron said. "The body has been sent to the police house for an examination to determine exactly what killed him."

"Don't you know what killed him?" Frau Diebsin' voice grew stronger, and her pale face began to redden.

"We think we know, ma'am, but we need to be sure."

"Is this indignity necessary?"

"We have instructions from Magistrate Otto Gericke," Gotthilf interjected, "to do a most thorough investigation."

"Oh." The news that the most prominent magistrate in Magdeburg was already involved in the situation set Frau Diebsin back a bit. "Then when can we receive him?"

The two detectives looked at each other. "Unless we find something unusual," Byron responded after a long moment, "perhaps around noon tomorrow."

"Good. I will expect a message accordingly."

Byron nodded. "We will want a chance to speak with you as well, ma'am. Would it be all right if we come by tomorrow morning?"

Frau Diebsin drew herself to her full height, such as it was. "I will look for you tomorrow, Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch." In a moment, she was in her carriage and Philip was shaking the horse's reins.

Byron closed the door. "Okay, back to business. What happened today?"

"The usual routine," Lutterodt replied. "I arrived an hour after daybreak, opened the office and opened the warehouse as soon as the men started arriving a few minutes later. Johan came in about then as well."

"When did Master Bünemann arrive?"

"Perhaps a half hour after that."

"What did he do?"

"Went to his office and began working. He read and signed three contracts and dictated five letters to Johan. The contracts were sent out by messenger before noon."

"Anything unusual about the contracts?" Gotthilf asked.

"No, they were standard buy/sell agreements. He was spreading the risk of investing in this year's grain crop. 'Who knows what the emperor's campaigns will bring our way?'" Lutterodt's voice took on a thin nasal whine; he was apparently imitating the deceased merchant.

"So a corn factor buys and sells grain?" Byron asked. Both Gotthilf and Lutterodt stared at him. Byron spread his hands. "Hey, I'm an up-timer, remember? I'm used to buying my cereal in a box in a store."

Lutterodt gave a sardonic twitch to his mouth. "Yes, a corn factor buys and sells grain. You could say he buys and sells life itself. The Germanies, all of Europe, lives on bread—wheat for the wealthy, barley and rye for those who can't afford the wheat. Grain is literally the stuff of life. The Roman emperors knew that; they had a fleet of ships dedicated to bringing grain from Egypt to Rome to keep the people quiet. And they had riots over bread if the supplies dropped or the prices climbed too high. It is not an idle analogy when our Savior said 'I am the bread of life.'"

Gotthilf smiled a bit. Of course a corn factor's establishment would know that verse from Scripture."

Byron took a new tack. "Do you keep any money on the premises?"

Lutterodt said, "The master sometimes keeps . . . kept a few pfennigs, maybe a groschen or two in his desk."

"Are they still there?"

The accountant's eyebrows went up. "I didn't think to look."

Byron unlocked the office and they all trooped in and witnessed as Lutterodt pulled open the desk drawer and counted the few coins. "Three pfennigs."

"Hardly enough to bother with, and since it's still here, obviously robbery was not a motive for the killing." Byron led them back to the outer office, locking the door again.

"Okay." Byron nodded. "So what did Herr Bünemann do at noon?"

"He took a meal with several of his business connections." Lutterodt looked to his assistant. "Did he say where he ate, Johan?"

"Not to me."

"Did he say who he was with?" Byron asked.

Lutterodt looked to Johan, who shook his head. "No."

"Who would he usually lunch with?"

Lutterodt and Johan between them named half a dozen names. Gotthilf jotted them down.

"How long was he gone?"

"An hour, maybe a bit more."

Byron was pulling at his chin again, Gotthilf noted.

"And was this a common pattern?"

"Oh, yes. More days than not, he would dine with his acquaintances, then return complaining of having overeaten or drunk too much." Gotthilf made note of that. It agreed with what the accountant had said earlier.

"And that's when he'd close the door to his office for an hour or so."

Lutterodt shrugged. "Usually."

"So today's events follow his normal routine?" Byron's voice had a note of resignation.

Lutterodt held up his hand and gave an almost Gallic shrug. "The master was comforted by routine. He disliked change."

"Yeah, well, his routine's been changed . . . permanently." Byron nodded to Gotthilf to take over.

"Did anyone enter Herr Bünemann's office between the time he locked the door and you had to have it pried open?"

"No."

"Did anyone attempt to open the door?"

"No."

Gotthilf noticed Lutterodt looked a bit put out by the questions. He continued. "Do you remember anything unusual happening at all, any time in the last few weeks?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gotthilf saw Johan open his mouth, only to close it again when Lutterodt said, "No." He looked to Byron and saw from his narrowed eyes that his partner had caught that motion as well. He nodded toward the warehouse.

Byron straightened. "Herr Lutterodt, come show me the warehouse side of this space. I want to see the back side of the office." Lutterodt shrugged again, then led him to the side door that opened into the warehouse space.

Gotthilf turned to Johan. "Johan, is it?" The youth nodded. "And what is your surname?"

"Dauth, sir."

The pencil made jottings in the notebook again. "Johan Dauth. Good. Now, Johan, did you like Master Bünemann?"

Johan squirmed. "It's not for the likes of me to like or dislike someone like the master. He was mostly a fair man, and treated us okay."

Gotthilf nodded, and made notes. "Good. Now, I noticed you were about to say something about something unusual happening?"

More squirming. "I . . . don't know as I should."

"Johan." Gotthilf made his voice take on a stern note, smiling inside at the thought of being stern with anyone. "This is a murder investigation. Magistrate Gericke himself wants the truth found. Anything you know must be told to us."

"Well," the youth hesitated, then finally blurted, "it was about two weeks ago. It was late in the day when the master's wife came in. She nodded to me and walked on into the master's office, closing the door behind her. Gerhard left right after she came in. He was having one of his bad days."

"And what is Gerhard's problem?"

"Consumption."

Gotthilf's stomach lurched. Suddenly he was glad he had not made physical contact with the man. "Continue."

"She stayed for maybe half an hour. I was in the document room," he pointed to the open door with the cabinets in view, "when she came out. I didn't see her, but I heard her last words to him."

"Which were?"

Johan hesitated until Gotthilf frowned at him, then spilled in a rush, "'Paulus, if you bring that bastard child into my house, so help me, I'll kill you for it.' But she couldn't have done it! She hasn't been here for days."

Gotthilf shaped a soft whistle as his pencil flew over the page of his notebook. He looked up to see the youth almost quivering. "It's all right, Johan. You've done nothing wrong. But say nothing of this to anyone else until we tell you you can."

Johan gave a convulsive nod, and turned back to the papers on his desk.

Gotthilf looked around, just taking in the general atmosphere of the accountants' work area: papers pinned together lying on the desks, folders lying on top of the cabinets in the document room, spools of different colored ribbons for use as tapes in place on the desks and in the document room. He turned as Byron and Gerhard Lutterodt came back in from the warehouse side.

"Well, certainly no one could have gotten into Master Bünemann's office from out there." The note of resignation was higher in Byron's voice now. "How new is this building, anyway?"

"The original building was burned in 1631 by Tilly's army," Lutterodt said. "Very little was left of it. The master had it rebuilt."

Byron glanced at Gotthilf, who gave him a nod in return. Byron pulled up his sleeve cuff and looked at his watch. "Almost five. How much longer would you ordinarily work, guys?"

"The master usually let us go while there was still daylight in the skies."

"Then call it a day right now, if you will. We'll be back tomorrow morning, and we'll want you here then."

"What do we tell the warehousemen? They will want to know who will take over the business. Who will pay them?"

Gotthilf shook his head. "That's up to Frau Diebsin."

Lutterodt returned to the warehouse while Johan tidied things up and closed the document room. Gotthilf picked up the tagged pry bar before Johan could lock it away with everything else.

The door to the warehouse opened again, and Lutterodt rejoined them. "The men are gone and the warehouse is closed and locked, but they were grumbling as they left. Someone needs to have answers for them tomorrow."

"Talk to the widow," Gotthilf said again.

Moments later, they were all out in the rain and Lutterodt was locking the front door. "Who else has a key to this door?" Gotthilf asked.

"Frau Sarah," came the reply.

"All right then, we'll see you in the morning." Byron waved at the others as they left.

Gotthilf turned to the watchman, who had made it back from his errand to the police house. "Go home, Georg."

"With pleasure, sir." Georg touched the rim of his hat, and left no time in striding down the street.

Byron and Gotthilf weren't far behind him. A horse came clip-clopping up as they walked, heads down. "Need a cab?"

Gotthilf looked up to see the same cabbie that had brought them here smiling at them. "By all means." They scrambled into the carriage which might be somewhat damp but was infinitely preferable to the heavy rain.

Byron muttered something.

"Hmm?" Gotthilf raised his eyebrows.

"I said, you do realize this case has changed, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

Byron sighed. "At first we thought we just had a dead man in his office. Then we thought we had a dead man in a locked office. But now . . . now we have a murdered man in a locked office."

"So?"

"So, there looks to be only one door into this room, right?"

"Right."

"If the door was locked from the inside," Byron continued, "if Herr Lutterodt and his assistant don't have keys to the door, and if they didn't see anyone enter or leave the room, how was the murder committed?"

Gotthilf started to answer, then stopped as he realized the implications of what Byron had said. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. We've got a real life locked room puzzle in front of us."

Gotthilf raised his eyebrows again. "Locked room puzzle?"

"Oh, yeah. We've talked about all the different kinds of books people used to be able to get in the up-time, right?"

"Yes."

Byron slumped down a little in the carriage seat. "One of the different kinds of books was called mysteries, and most of them dealt with stories about murders."

Gotthilf made a face. "Go on."

"No, really, these were really popular. People would read and re-read their favorite books, and even get together and have conventions . . . um, maybe conclaves would be a better word for you . . . about these books."

Up-timers were weird, Gotthilf reminded himself.

"Anyway, there was one whole type of these stories that was dedicated to murders that couldn't have happened. Murders that happened in impossible circumstances. The most popular variation was the locked room mystery, where a man was murdered in a locked room that no one has a key to and no one could get into or out of. Yet he was murdered."

"Sounds like what we're dealing with. But it's not really possible, right?"

"Right. The up-time writers would always have a way for it to seem like the victim had been killed when he was alone, but there was always a way for someone to have somehow gotten to the victim without anyone else being aware of it. A couple of writers actually developed lists of the ways it could be done."

"Well?"

"Huh?"

"What are the ways?" Gotthilf said, an impatient tone in his voice.

"Oh, I don't remember them all," Byron said, "although I did have a criminal justice teacher who made a list of them. It may be with all those papers I had Jonni send me. If this gets too weird, I'll go dig it out."

"But what do you remember?"

"Okay: one was that a man could have been injured someplace else, but the injuries weren't immediately fatal and he could have gotten to the room and locked the door before dropping dead. Another was that there was another entrance to the room, hidden or otherwise, which hadn't been accounted for."

"Any more?"

"Umm, that the victim was alone in the room, but that the murderer somehow set up circumstances so that he was still killed. That one usually involved poison."

"Hmm. Whether we need it for this or not, find that paper," Gotthilf said. "I want to read the whole list."

There was no further conversation. They each thought their own thoughts about their puzzle until they arrived back at the police house.

****

"Well," Gotthilf said as they walked in the door. "Your kindness to the widow means our day isn't done."

"Aw, you didn't have anything else to do tonight, partner." Byron grinned and gave him a light punch in the shoulder. "Come on."

Gotthilf followed his partner to the back room of the police house. They found the body laid out on a long table. Someone had already gathered three lanterns in the room and lit them.

"Come help me," Byron called out. In the light, Herr Bünemann's corpse seemed even smaller than Gotthilf had remembered it. They spent the next few minutes removing the clothing from the corpse, subjecting it to what would have been gross indignities if there was still life in it.

"What a struggle," Byron said as the culottes were removed, the last of the clothing. They gave the clothing a quick examination, finding nothing more than a couple of coins in one pocket, but nothing else. They left the coins with the clothing.

"Nothing," Byron pronounced at last. "Nothing unusual, nothing remarkable, no clues shouting out the name of the murderer. These tell us nothing more than that Herr Paulus was a sloppy eater. From the stains, it looks like he got more of his lunch on the outside than he did on the inside."

Gotthilf began rolling the clothing into a bundle. "Well, given how he died, I didn't expect to find anything." Shirt, vest, jacket, culottes, stockings, shoes; it seemed a small list to represent the end of a life.

"I didn't either," Byron replied, "but I had just a bit of hope that maybe something would be here. Oh, well, back to what we do know." He pulled the chin up and flicked his flashlight on. "These are the strangulation marks. Had to be a man. Look at how big the hands were." He laid his own hands over the marks for comparison. "That's unusual, too. Crime studies back in the up-time indicated that men don't normally strangle men. They usually use a weapon.

"Strong hands, too. Look at . . . hmm, I didn't notice that earlier." Byron lifted his hands and bent down to look at the right side of the neck. "Our man must have had a deformity—look at this, Gotthilf."

Gotthilf stepped closer and bent down to see what Byron was pointing at. He laid his own hand against the mark for comparison. "I see what you mean."

Byron's eyes gleamed. "A solid clue, at last. Can you sketch that?"

Gotthilf spent the next couple of minutes sketching the neck and its marks, all the while listening to Byron mutter about cameras and morgues and medical examiners and the city council. When he was done, they took the lights and examined the body closely, rolling it from one side to another as needed. At the conclusion, Gotthilf closed his notebook and put it back into his pocket, for nothing further notable had been found.

"Well, we could pack him in ice and keep him a while longer, I guess, but I see no need to. I'm no medical examiner, but that's as good a search as I know how to do. For this case, I think we're safe in saying that the obvious injuries are the cause of death."

Gotthilf looked down at the naked corpse. "There is no dignity in death."

"Only as much as we give it," Byron replied. "Let's get a messenger off to the grieving widow. Maybe they can pick the body up later tonight or first thing in the morning. And go put that pry bar on your desk."

The next morning

Otto Gericke was waiting on them when they arrived at the police house early the next morning. They followed him into Captain Reilly's office without even taking off their coats. He turned to face them. "Well?"

"Yes, Herr Bünemann was murdered," Byron began. "Strangled, in fact. Yes, it looks like it happened in a locked room that couldn't be entered. So we've got the beginnings of a good mystery here."

"Any problems with solving it?" Bill was tapping a pencil on his desk.

"We're not far enough into it to know for sure, but it's not open and shut at this point. We'll get it, Captain."

"Any suspects yet?"

Byron looked at Gotthilf, who shook his head. "Nothing very solid. According to Bünemann's accountant, Lutterodt, the man had commercial rivals, but he didn't think anyone hated Bünemann enough to do something like this. Besides, that doesn't feel right to me."

"Feel right?" Gericke questioned.

"Yes, sir," Byron replied. "If it was a business deal that caused this, I would have expected Herr Bünemann to have been shot or stabbed in the street or have his head bashed in in an alleyway somewhere. Something fast and impersonal, hire someone to do it and run. No, this was a crime of passion and premeditation. Someone has been very offended by Herr Bünemann. Someone felt strongly about this. Someone was staring into Bünemann's eyes as he died. Someone went to the trouble of staging this whole thing, of setting up the mystery of the locked room. I don't see that being a business acquaintance."

Gericke shook his head. "Go ahead with your investigation, Lieutenant. But please, bring me an answer as swiftly as you can. As I told you yesterday, Bünemann was an important man in the city."

"Get at it, boys," Bill said.

"Send another watchman back to the office," Byron said as they ducked out of the office. They were back on the street in a moment. At least it wasn't raining today. They hadn't walked very far when their cabbie from yesterday pulled alongside them. "Ride, Herren?" Gotthilf shook his head at the cabbie's grin as they got in. "Where to?"

"Bünemann House."

The cabbie flicked the reins, and they were off.

****

A young woman opened the door to Bünemann's house when they knocked. "Yes?"

"Lieutenant Chieske and Gotthilf Hoch, to see Frau Diebsin," Gotthilf said.

"Bring them in, Anna," they heard the object of their visit call from farther in the house.

"This way, please." Anna stood back out of the way until they passed, then closed the door and led them into what could only be called a parlor. It was a large room, surprisingly airy and cheery—except for the platform with a dead body on it. Master Paulus had been laid out in his own home, blanket laid over him and pulled up to his chin, leaving his face clear.

Frau Diebsin, dressed in black, sat in an upholstered chair, primly, feet together on the floor and hands clasped in her lap. "Good morning, Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch."

"Good morning, Frau Diebsin," Gotthilf replied with a nod, echoed by Byron. The widow wasn't wearing black because of up-time custom. The black clothing was likely the best that she owned. He'd heard his mother complain often enough that black dyes were so expensive. "We are sorry to intrude on your grief, but if we are to provide answers to Magistrate Gericke and to you as well, we must first ask some questions."

"As you will, but please be about your business quickly. I have much to do this day."

Byron took the lead again. "Do you know of anyone who hated your husband enough to kill him?"

Frau Diebsin shook her head. "No. He seldom talked of his work, so I know nothing of the people he did business with."

"What of the people who work for him?"

"I only know of Gerhard and Johan, and I don't see why either of them would have wanted to do this thing. Paulus was good to them." Gotthilf nodded slightly. That agreed with what Johan had said. Frau Diebsin continued, "I know nothing of the men in the warehouse, but I think they had all worked for Paulus for some time."

"Your husband had no close kin?"

"No. His brother and father are dead. I think there may be a cousin or two down toward Leipzig. Herr Köppe would know. Paulus' attorney. He's to come by later today and we are to discuss the business. Part of the business is mine by the marriage contract, because of the money I brought to the marriage, and I have a dower interest in the rest."

Gotthilf pursed his lips and nodded his head in respect. Frau Diebsin' thinking seemed to be very clear.

"Do you know the terms of your husband's will?"

"Not exactly. I know he left bequests to his workers, Anna . . . " She waved a hand at the maid standing to the side. " . . . a few acquaintances, and . . . others."

"Others?"

Frau Diebsin looked away for a moment, then looked back with a glint in her eye. She pointed to a painting hanging at the far end of the room. "That is our wedding portrait, painted eleven years ago. I was twenty-six, Paulus was twenty-eight. There was no love in the match. Paulus had a reputation as being one who would chase anything in a skirt, but he was never less than respectful to me. He married me for two reasons, neither of which had anything to do with beauty I did not possess: First, I brought gold from my father, and Paulus needed gold just then; and second, to produce an heir. I'm not certain to this day which was more important to him, but he did desire an heir. He attended to his marital duties with vigor and . . . duty."

She looked down at her hands. "Perhaps if we'd had a child, it could have provided a bond, a foundation on which love could have been built. But after several years, it became increasingly clear there would be no child. And because of his past we both knew who was at fault. So he returned to his mistresses."

Frau Diebsin raised her head and stared at the blanket shrouded body. "He would still come to me betimes. The intervening nights I would spend on my knees, beseeching God to give me a child, a son."

Gotthilf remembered a homily from a recent Sunday. "'Give me children, lest I perish,'" he murmured.

The widow's head swiveled to look at him, mild surprise on her face. "Yes. The words of Rachel. Oh, I know them well, the stories of Rachel, and Rebecca, and my namesake Sarah, and even Samuel's mother Hannah. How could I not? God intervened in their lives, but never in mine." The last sentence was uttered in a bitter whisper.

After a moment of silence, she continued in a normal voice, "But before long he stopped coming to me, spending his evenings instead with his whores. He gave me respect, but none of his love, none of his passion."

"And were there illegitimate children produced from his times with his mistresses?" Gotthilf tried to be delicate.

"Oh, please, use the old words. They fit so much better. Yes, both before and after the marriage, his whores gave him bastard children. He gave them gifts, you know: twenty groschen for a daughter, fifty groschen the one time a son was born. He told me about that one, celebrating. That was some time ago. But ever since then, I knew he was thinking. And finally he confronted me one night with a proposal: that we would take into this house that bastard son, adopt it into the family, so that he could have an heir of his body to take over the business when the time came."

"Was that when you went to his office and threatened to kill him?" Gotthilf asked.

Frau Diebsin looked at him with eyebrows raised, then smiled for a moment. "You must have gotten that from Johan. He is such an honest boy. Yes, I told Paulus to his face that I would kill him if he brought that boy into this house. I may not have given him children, but I am his wife, and this is my house. As my namesake would not tolerate Ishmael, I would not abide that scandal in my own home."

"Would you have killed him?" Byron asked.

Her jaw set. "I would have tried."

"Did you kill him?"

She held up her small hands. "Do these look like the hands that left the marks on his neck? Oh, yes, I saw them last night as his body was bathed."

"You could have hired it done."

"No, Lieutenant, I did not kill my husband. The fact that I do not . . . did not love Paulus does not mean that I hated him."

Gotthilf spoke up again. "Who will take over the business now? Herr Lutterodt?"

Frau Diebsin sighed. "No. He grows daily weaker from the consumption." Gotthilf heard a sniff, and he looked over to see the maid Anna wiping tears from her face. "He is her father," the widow explained. "But I will probably have to rely on Herr Köppe to find a man to manage the business now."

Byron looked to Gotthilf, who shrugged. "Thank you, Frau Diebsin. That's all the questions we have for now. One last thing—could we also borrow your set of keys to the warehouse?"

"Certainly." Frau Sarah stood, skirts rustling. "Anna will bring them." The two women left through the door under the wedding portrait.

Gotthilf walked closer to examine the painting. Herr Bünemann had obviously not been aging well—eleven years ago he had been a reasonably handsome man. Frau Sarah, on the other hand; well, the truth was as she had said—even on her wedding day she was not a beauty.

"So why is he laid out like this?" Byron asked. "I expected to find him on a bed or in a coffin."

"For the visitation," Gotthilf replied.

"Visitation?"

"For friends and family and acquaintances to come by and view the body and pay respects to the widow."

"Oh." Byron was silent for a moment. "I guess that makes sense. I mean, there are no funeral parlors here and now. But how long will they leave him here? He's already starting to smell some."

Gotthilf agreed. That sweetish odor of decaying flesh had touched his nose also. "I suspect that depends on how long it will take to get a coffin made and arrangements made to bury him. At least two days, maybe three."

"Yuck. Good thing the weather's cool, otherwise he'd be getting pretty high by then."

Gotthilf had to think about that statement, but after a moment he thought he understood what Byron meant.

"Besides," Byron continued, "if he's supposed to look pretty for the visitation, why don't they have him dressed up in his fanciest clothes? That's what we'd do in Grantville."

"The sumptuary laws."

"And what, pray tell, are the sumptuary laws?" Byron's eyebrows were elevated.

"Laws that decree who can wear what kind of clothing, including one that the dead are to be buried in nothing more than a shift."

"Why? Who cares how many clothes a body is wearing when it goes into the ground?"

"The paper makers care. They are in constant need of rags to use in making paper. They managed to get the emperor to make a law that it was illegal for bodies to be buried in clothes so that the clothes of the dead might come to them."

"Sheesh." Byron laughed. "Now I've heard everything."

"It's true, nonetheless," Gotthilf said. "Of course, I also understand that there is more than one lawsuit in the courts now, trying to have the laws annulled or otherwise declared invalid. That may take a while." He chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Even if the lawsuits do succeed, people may still get buried naked."

"Why?" Byron sounded very puzzled.

"Remember who I said caused the law to be made in the first place?"

"The papermakers."

"Right. Well, the papermakers do not care where the rags come from."

Byron thought about that for a moment, then his jaw dropped.

"You mean people would dig up dead bodies just to . . . "

"Steal the clothes off their backs. Yes, they would. It would be easier than digging up the dead bodies to sell to the anatomists, and that's been going on for a hundred years or more. Cloth is a lot easier to carry and hide than a body."

"That's just sick," Byron muttered.

"Welcome to the seventeenth century, my friend."

A noise distracted them, and Gotthilf looked around. Anna was standing in the doorway under the wedding portrait with a ring of keys in one hand. Something started fluttering at the edge of his mind, but it went away when Anna dropped the keys with a clatter. She stooped to pick them up, and averted her eyes from the body as she held out her burden.

"Thank you, Fräulein Anna," Gotthilf said as he took them from her. She bobbed a curtsey. Gotthilf slid the keys into his coat pocket. He noticed Byron was still looking at the portrait. He thought to himself that it was sad when a maid was prettier than the mistress. For that matter, it was sad when the husband was better looking than the wife in such a picture.

"Do you need anything else, Herren?"

"No, Fräulein Anna. We are ready to leave now." Gotthilf nodded to her.

"Come with me, please." She led them to the front door, opened it and stepped aside.

The two detectives moved into the sunlight, and the door closed behind them. They walked down the steps and out to the road. Byron looked around. "Where's that cabbie when you need him?" Indeed, the street was almost empty of wheeled vehicles. They started walking in the direction of the warehouse.

"So, we have evidence of a sort," Gotthilf said, "and we've interviewed the widow. What do we do next?"

"First we go hunt down the people in that list of names we got from Lutterodt and Dauth. We need to know who he had lunch with, and what happened. After that, back to the warehouse," Byron replied. "I'm going to go look at the hands of everyone who works there, and you're going to go into the office and try to figure out how the good Master Paulus Bünemann was murdered when the door to his office was locked and no one went in or out."

"Oh, thanks for giving me the hard part."

Byron grinned. "That's why I'm the lieutenant."

****

The warehouses of the other corn factors were also along the river, so they were able to walk down the river road from one to another. One by one they interviewed the men that Herr Bünemann's accountants had mentioned. The responses varied from smarmy to coldly polite, but they did at length identify two men who had had lunch with Herr Bünemann the previous day. Their stories matched in that they were the only ones who had dined with the victim, and that he was alive and well, if a bit tipsy, when they left him after the meal.

"So much for that," Byron said as they walked down the street.

"Did you expect to find something out?" Gotthilf was curious.

"No, not really. Hoped, maybe, but I didn't expect any more than what we got. They had lunch, he got half-drunk, and they all went back to their offices. Strangulation is just not something you can set up ahead of time. Now, if he had been poisoned, they'd be the number one suspects, let me tell you. But not for this."

"So now what?" Gotthilf asked.

Byron put his hands in his pockets. "Now I think we need to make a call on Master Andreas Schardius."

It didn't take long to find the warehouse of Master Schardius. The layout of the building was similar to Master Bünemann's, with an office on the street side. There were four men at work in the front office when they entered the building, indicating that Master Schardius was perhaps more affluent than Master Bünemann. When they announced who they were, one of the men went through another door, then reappeared a moment later to beckon them.

They entered another office, surprisingly small. "Good morning, Herren." The man behind the desk stood. He was of middling height and build, with brown hair brushed back from his forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. His hands were large, Gotthilf noted.

"Master Schardius?" Byron asked.

"I am. And who are you, if you please?"

Byron introduced himself and Gotthilf, then continued with, "By order of Magistrate Gericke, we are investigating the murder of Master Paulus Bünemann."

Schardius waved at chairs, and said, "Please, be seated." He resumed his own seat. "I had heard that Master Bünemann was dead. I will send my condolences to his widow. I had not heard," the merchant frowned, "that it was murder. Do you know who did it?"

"That's what we're investigating. We'd like to ask you a few questions, please."

"By all means," the merchant responded. "I have nothing to hide." He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his stomach.

Gotthilf pulled out his notebook and pencil. Byron pursed his lips for a moment, then began.

"We've been told that Master Bünemann disliked you. Was the feeling mutual?"

Schardius chuckled. "No, Lieutenant, it was not. Not long after Bünemann began making contracts under his father, he accepted a proposal from me. It did not work out the way he thought it should, and he accused me of Fraud and theft. It was nothing of the sort. Everything I did was in accordance with the provisions and terms of the contract. It was not my fault if he was not as cognizant of the full possibilities of those provisions and terms as I was."

"So you took advantage of him?"

The smile left the merchant's face and he leaned forward. "Be careful of what you say, Lieutenant. I do not tolerate slander or libel." He leaned back again. "No, I did not 'take advantage of him,' or whatever simile you want to use for cheat. His own father recognized that I was within the letter of the contract, or he would have taken me to court. If anything, I helped Master Paulus gain an education in the only school that counts—the school of experience."

Gotthilf made more notes.

"I . . . see," Byron said. "But you bear . . . bore . . . Master Bünemann no ill will?"

"No more so than any of my competitors. If anything, I admired him somewhat. He learned his lessons well. After his father's death, he took their firm and built their business until he was second in Magdeburg in terms of contracts and amount of grain factored."

"Who is first?"

Schardius smiled again. "Why, that would be me. Our family has been the largest corn factor for Magdeburg for three generations, now."

Byron steepled his fingers in front of his chest. "So you had no reason to want the man dead?"

The merchant's smile disappeared again. "Lieutenant, let me be very plain. I did not hate Bünemann. He was a competitor, yes, but I did not hate him. And trust me, if I did want him murdered, it would not have happened in his own office. He would have simply disappeared and been found floating in the river a day or two later with nothing to point to me."

"So you won't mind telling me where you were yesterday afternoon?"

Schardius made an exasperated noise. "Right here in this chair. The men out front will confirm that."

Byron lowered his hands. "Very well. We will ask them on the way out. Thank you for your time, Master Schardius."

All three men stood. Gotthilf put his notebook back in his pocket. "You've hurt your hand in the past, haven't you, Master Schardius?" Byron asked.

The merchant held up his left hand and bent his fingers into a fist. All except the ring finger obeyed him. "This? This is a memento from early in my career, the result of leaving my hand between a barge and the pier it was homing in on. Crushed the finger and left it useless. I sometimes wish I had let the doctor amputate it as he wanted to. It does nothing but get in the way."

They did stop and ask the office men if the merchant had been in his office the previous afternoon. They confirmed his statement.

Outside the building, they began walking toward the Bünemann warehouse.

"So," Byron said, "Master Schardius has a deformed left hand. That means he could be our killer. He also has an alibi, which means he probably isn't our killer." They walked on a few steps. "What did you think of our esteemed merchant?"

Gotthilf snorted. "I would not want to buy a used carriage from the man."

Byron chuckled. "I think I agree with you, partner."

****

Georg was posted back on the front door to the warehouse office. They nodded to him and went on in.

"Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch." Lutterodt greeted them, echoed by Johan Dauth. They returned the greetings.

"Herr Lutterodt," Byron said, "come introduce me to the head man in the warehouse. I need to talk to the men, and I might as well begin with him."

The accountant pushed off from his desk almost in slow motion, gathered himself and walked toward the warehouse door. Midway a coughing spell hit him, and he stopped, one hand on the wall to support himself, the other holding his ever-present kerchief. After it passed, he straightened and led the way out.

Gotthilf looked to Johan. "Bad day?"

"Bad day," Johan nodded.

Gotthilf pulled Frau Diebsin' keys from his pocket, walked to the office door and tried the keys until one of them opened the lock. He looked up to see Johan staring at him with wide eyes. Grinning, he placed a finger against his lips, went into the office and shut the door.

It was brighter in the room today compared to yesterday, because of the sunlight flooding through the small windows. The room still couldn't be considered well-lit, however. Surely there was some kind of light . . . ah, there it was.

On the desk stood an oil lamp. Gotthilf looked around the desktop and found the expected box of the new-style matches. He lifted the chimney, rolled the wick up in the frame, struck a match and in a moment had light. Replacing the chimney, he lifted the lamp by its handle and looked around.

Right. He was supposed to figure out how someone entered and left this room without the two men sitting out front noticing it. Okay, first things first. The windows: could someone come and go through them?

Gotthilf walked over to the window frames and stretched his arm up. He could put his fingers on the sill, but he couldn't touch the window. A taller man could, but looking at the size of the windows and how near they were to the ceiling, he didn't see how even a taller man could get out that way without something to stand on, which there wasn't. And if a chair or something had been moved to provide that, it would still be here. And if it was possible for someone to come into the room and move the chair back after the killer left, then the killer could have come and gone by that way and not bothered with the windows. Right. Windows were out.

Holes. Any holes in the ceiling? Gotthilf lifted the lamp up and spent quite some time walking back and forth, looking at the ceiling in between the beams. There was no evidence of holes or panels that he could see. After a lengthy examination, ceiling access was provisionally crossed off the list. He still might have to come back with a ladder and look at it closely if nothing else was found.

Gotthilf looked around. Walls. Any secret openings in the walls? And how would he find them if there were? With a sigh, he started at the corner nearest the desk and began a process of tapping on the walls, listening for a change in sound.

When he was almost half-way around the room there came a knock at the door. "Gotthilf?" Byron's voice was muffled by the thickness of the door.

"The door's not locked," Gotthilf called out.

Byron entered the room. "How are you doing?"

"Close the door," Gotthilf responded. Byron did so. "Did you find anything among the warehouse men?"

"Having talked to one and all and inspected several sets of very grimy hands, I can say with assurance that none of them have a deformity or damage that would have caused the mark we saw on Bünemann's neck. Now, what have you unearthed?"

"I looked for other ways into and out of this locked room." Gotthilf pointed to the floor by the wall. "There is no way anyone could go out those windows without leaving evidence that they did so; a chair, a table, a stool, something."

Byron looked at the empty floor, and nodded. "Agreed."

"So, I gave the ceiling a visual inspection. Without going over every square inch with a magnifying lens, from down here I see no evidence of a hole, a trap door or a secret panel of any kind."

Byron looked around, pursed his lips, and nodded again. "Also agreed."

"So now I'm looking for secret doors in the walls."

"Any luck?"

"No. I'm starting to get both bored and depressed."

"So where did you start?"

Gotthilf pointed. "At that corner, and I've worked around to here."

Byron nodded. "I'll start there and work the other way. We'll meet somewhere in the middle."

And some time later, they indeed met somewhere in the middle with tender finger tips and knuckles. What they did not have, however, was evidence of a hidden door.

"Okay," Byron muttered, "now I'm getting frustrated. Bünemann was alive until after lunch. He locked the door. Someone strangled him, but according to the front office men no one entered or left the office by the locked door. We have no reason to doubt them, so . . . how did the murderer get in? There has to be another way into this room. It's against all the rules of mysteries for there not to be another way in."

Gotthilf rolled his eyes. Crazy up-timer books. "We just have to find it. And I still want to see that list when this is over."

"Yeah, yeah." Byron waved his hand as he frowned at the offending walls that would not give up their secrets.

Gotthilf looked around. Had they checked every bit of the wall? A light dawned in his mind. No, in point of fact, they hadn't. "Byron."

"Hmm?"

"Did you check the walls behind the furniture?"

A sheepish look came over his partner. "No."

"Neither did I. Let's try again."

"I don't see any reason to," Byron said. "If it blocks the wall, it would block a door."

More time passed. Gotthilf checked behind two tables, a wine rack and a wardrobe before he came to a heavy coat rack. He shifted the coat rack out into the room and tapped on the wall behind it. It sounded solid, but something didn't feel right. He lifted the lamp up and looked at the wall. There were two hooks mounted on the paneling of the wall, but they weren't quite level with each other. He reached up and grasped the left hook. It was solid, well anchored, didn't move.

The right hook, on the other hand, moved as soon as he touched it. It seemed to slide down a bit. What really caught Gotthilf's attention, however, was the click that sounded from inside the wall. He pushed on the wall; nothing budged.

"Byron."

"What?"

"Come look at this."

With his partner watching over his shoulder he went back to the right hook and pulled on it. It swiveled at the top away from the wall, the click sounded again, and the wall moved toward him a fraction of an inch.

Gotthilf pulled on the hook, and the wall became a narrow and short door. He stuck his head through the opening, and saw what appeared to be a narrow hallway with doors at each end. It must be part of the warehouse area, he thought. Byron squeezed beside him. "Okay, I know where we are. That door goes to the warehouse, and the other one goes outside. I wondered why the inside door to the warehouse was there, and now I know."

They ducked back into the office. Byron slapped Gotthilf on the shoulder. "You were right."

Filled with warmth, Gotthilf lifted the lamp high and examined the door and its frame. It didn't take long to see that it was well made. The hinges in particular were hidden with artifice and cunning. He ran his hand along the top of the opening, stopping when he felt something brush his fingers. In the lamplight he saw what looked to be hairs waving by the edge of the opening. With care he reached up and grasped them, pulling them down and holding them before his face.

They weren't hairs. They were threads, fibers from cloth, all of the same dark color. He held them close to the lamp, and discovered they were green. He knew that color.

Gotthilf stood and looked at the very slight rough spot they had been caught on, and pondered. After a moment, a smile began to grow on his face as he understood what their presence meant.

Gotthilf pushed the secret door closed with his foot, hearing the snick as the latch caught, then moved out to the desk in the office. He set the lamp down and pulled one of the waxed paper envelopes that he always carried now out of his pocket. Moments later, the fibers were carefully captured and preserved.

Byron's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "So, what is it that's got you grinning like a Cheshire cat?"

"A what? Never mind." Gotthilf waved the thought away. He held the waxed paper envelope between the fingers of both hands. "I have the second piece of real evidence in this crazy case."

"Nice work," Byron said. Gotthilf felt a surge of warmth at the compliment from his partner. "But what do you think they mean?"

"I think they are how the door was opened from the other side."

Gotthilf unveiled his suppositions.

Byron took them in without comments, spent some obvious time chewing on them, and at length said, "I can buy that. I can see how that would work. And no one would probably ever have known about it if the door had just latched tightly the last time it was used."

"Probably not," Gotthilf agreed.

"So," Byron declared, "we're pretty certain we know how it was done. Do you know who our killer with the deformed left hand is, though? No one we've looked at matches the hand prints."

Gotthilf shook his head. Left hand, left hand. Hadn't they seen every left hand of everyone involved in the case?

Something seemed to strike Byron. He stood up straight and his eyes widened. Gotthilf noticed the change in posture. "What?"

"I think I know who did it. Even more importantly, I think I know why"

"Who?" Gotthilf was anxious. He hadn't been able to figure it out.

"Mmm, you should be able to see it. The pieces of the puzzle are all there."

Gotthilf felt a bit of resentment. "I do not see it."

"Think about it," Byron replied. "Meanwhile, I've got to figure out how to bring the killer in."

"What about confronting him with the evidence?" Gotthilf asked.

Byron sighed. "Yeah, I'm thinking about that. If Gericke wants this thing wrapped up quickly, that may be the fastest way. Okay, let's do it. Set it up for tomorrow, here, in this room."

"Right."

The next day

They arrived early, just as Gerhard Lutterodt was unlocking the front door to the office space. Georg was already there, and they exchanged nods. Once the door was open, they followed the accountant in. Johan appeared just as the door was swinging to.

"Herr Lutterodt," Byron called out as Gotthilf headed over to unlock the door to the inner office.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"We'll be having a meeting here this morning with Magistrate Gericke and Frau Diebsin to discuss what our investigation has determined. We will need some of your time and Johan's as well."

"Very good. We are certainly available."

And soon the other meeting attenders began to trickle in. Master Gericke showed up first, soon followed by a burly man of middle years who turned out to be Master Jacob Köppe, the dead merchant's attorney. The two obviously knew each other and at once fell into conversation. After a few minutes, Master Schardius appeared and was shown into the inner office.

They were still waiting for Frau Diebsin. Byron drifted over to Gotthilf. "Just like a woman; always late."

"Do you say that about your wife?" Gotthilf grinned

"Not in her hearing." Byron looked around with guilt on his face. "Did you tell her to bring the maid?"

"No." Gotthilf shrugged. "You didn't tell me to."

At that moment, Frau Diebsin' carriage arrived in front of the warehouse. Her man Philip set the brake, then dismounted to open the door and help his mistress out of the carriage. No maid followed her.

"Okay," Byron muttered, "that's not good. I need the maid. You head out and get her while I take the good Frau in and keep the others occupied."

"Right." Gotthilf was out of the office and through the front door so fast that Georg barely had time to move out of the way.

He hit the street. "Cab!" The driver looked up; it was the same man that had driven them around several times in this case.

"Good morning, sir. Where to?"

"Bünemann house. Schnell!" Gotthilf jumped in and slammed the door.

****

Gotthilf jumped out of the cab before it stopped rolling. "Wait," he shouted. He ran for the front door and pounded on it as if a horde of demons was after him.

The door opened and Anna the maid appeared. "Herr Hoch?" She sounded surprised. "Frau Diebsin is not here."

"I know that," Gotthilf said. "I'm here to see you." Now the surprise showed on the maid's face, and a touch of wariness as well. "We need you at the meeting your mistress has gone to."

"Me? Why?"

"Don't ask questions, and come with me."

The cab made the trip back to the warehouse even faster. Gotthilf again dismounted from the cab before it stopped rolling and threw a pfennig to the driver. Georg got out of his way again as he almost dragged the maid through the outer door. He did manage to slow down so that they entered the inner office at a walking pace. He held up his thumb and found the maid a chair behind her mistress. Byron nodded and looked around at everyone.

"I believe we're ready to make our report now. We promised Magistrate Gericke and Frau Diebsin that they would know the results of our investigation as soon as possible.

"The facts of what happened begin in a straightforward fashion. Two days ago, Master Paulus Bünemann returned after lunch, having perhaps drunk more than he should have. He entered this room alone, closed and locked the door. He lay down on that sofa . . . " He pointed to the object in question. " . . . to take a nap. A few hours later, concerned about the welfare of the master, Herr Lutterodt had the door forced open, whereupon they discovered Master Bünemann dead. Do I have that correct, Herr Lutterodt?"

"Yes." Lutterodt coughed slightly.

The magistrate was seated behind the merchant's desk, and the others were in various chairs around the room. Gotthilf watched as Byron paced around.

"It was at that point that my partner and I were called in. And we discovered a puzzle. Master Bünemann was apparently alone in the room, yet he had been strangled, so he couldn't have been alone in the room. Our whole investigation has dealt with the problem of how someone else could have entered a locked room. We believe we now know how it was done, and we intend to demonstrate."

Gotthilf walked over and laid down on the sofa.

"My partner represents the sleeping Master Bünemann," Byron said as he walked toward the door, "and I shall represent the murderer. Please wait and watch patiently." He closed the door behind him.

Gotthilf kept his eyes open and his head turned slightly so that he could see at least part of the room. The magistrate was sitting without an expression with his hands clasped together on the desk. Frau Diebsin was pale and motionless. Master Köppe was frowning and tapping a finger on the arm of his chair. He couldn't see the others very well, but they seemed to be still.

It seemed like a long time but couldn't have been more than a minute when the secret door opened and Byron stepped through. He said nothing, just walked with silent tread over to the sofa and leaned over and placed his hands around Gotthilf's neck. Gotthilf gurgled and let one arm slip over the side of the sofa. Byron straightened and retraced his steps, just as silently as he had come. The door closed behind him.

"What . . . " Master Köppe began.

Magistrate Gericke held up a hand. "Wait and see."

A few moments later the main door opened and Byron stepped through. Gotthilf rolled and sat up on the sofa. "And that was how it was done," the up-timer announced.

"I take it that is a hidden door?" Gericke asked.

"Yes, and it took some very good work on the part of Gotthilf to find it."

"I can believe that," Master Gericke said. "So this is how you believe it was done. Do you likewise know who did it?"

"We know from the marks on his neck that Master Bünemann was strangled. We know from the size and severity of the marks that the killer was most likely a man. We also know that the killer had a deformed ring finger on his left hand."

Heads turned to look at Master Schardius. His face turned a little red, but his voice was even when he replied, "A not uncommon injury. There are probably tens, if not hundreds, of men in Magdeburg about which that can be said."

"True enough, Master Schardius, true enough." Byron started pacing again. "So we had to find some other information to help us determine who the killer might be." He stopped. "Fräulein Lutterodt . . . "

She straightened in shock. "Ye . . . yes?"

"Had Master Bünemann been making advances to you?"

This time everyone in the room jumped in shock, especially Frau Diebsin. The maid paled, and for a moment Gotthilf thought she would faint. She was made of stronger stuff than that, though, and gathered herself enough to give a convulsive nod. "Yes."

Lutterodt lurched to his feet, only to come to a complete halt at the sight of Byron's.45 automatic pointed at his nose.

The tableau lasted for several heartbeats. The magistrate's mouth was pursed, the lawyer's eyebrows were raised in surprise; Frau Diebsin' hand covered her open mouth and her eyes were wide. The picture broke when Johan tried to scoot his chair farther away from his fellow accountant.

Lutterodt began coughing—deep, rasping, barking coughs—and collapsed back into his chair. He fumbled the blood-spattered kerchief from his pocket and held it in front of his mouth as the paroxysms shook his frame. This time it didn't hide the left hand, and Gotthilf could clearly see the ring finger missing its final joint.

At length the coughing died down and Lutterodt sat slumped, eyes staring at nothing, fighting for breath. When his breathing had finally calmed, he raised his head.

"Herr Lutterodt, did you kill Master Paulus Bünemann?" Byron asked in the stillness.

"Yes, I killed him."

"Will you tell us why?"

The accountant's mouth twisted. "It is what you think, and it isn't." He straightened in his chair.

"I married late. I had Johan's position then, under Master Marcus, Master Paulus' father. I had a cousin, younger than me, who was a maid for Frau Esther, Master Marcus' wife. Nineteen years ago, it was, when Master Paulus forced himself on her and she wound up carrying his baby. When she told him, he laughed, and told her that she should be proud to be the mother of his child."

Frau Diebsin' face twisted as Lutterodt continued his story.

"Ursula was not from an important family and had only a few pfennigs to her name. She had no hope of help from the law, where it would be her word against the word of the son of one of the wealthier families of the city."

Master Köppe's mouth pursed, as if he tasted something sour.

"Ursula came to me for help and advice. I was always fond of her, and it didn't take long for me to convince her to marry me. Three months later, Anna was born." Everyone reacted to that bit of information. Lutterodt's smile was most bitter. "Indeed, she is a legitimate child, born in wedlock. Ursula and I raised her until Ursula died five years ago, then I carried on alone. She is my daughter," Lutterodt leaned forward, eyes blazing and a drop of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, "but she is of his blood and bone. I can be some protection while alive, but I am failing fast, and I could see what would occur after I am gone."

Gotthilf nodded. Much now became clearer.

Lutterodt's head turned toward him. "Yes, Herr Hoch, now you see. It is what you think, and it isn't. If Master Paulus were to succeed in his advances, not only would he be ravishing my daughter, but he would be committing incest as well. God knows his heart must have been black with the sins he had committed, but I would not let him drag my daughter down with him. I would not let him taint her with the sin of the daughters of Lot." He slumped back in the chair, and his voice dwindled to a hoarse murmur. "And so I killed him."

"Anna is Paulus' child?" Frau Diebsin was bewildered. "I don't believe it. This was happening in my own house? With my maid?"

"Have her stand under your wedding portrait and compare her face to your husband's," Byron said. "The likeness is strong."

"And what will become of my daughter?" Lutterodt murmured

Frau Diebsin lowered her hand. "She will be safe with me, Gerhard. Have no fears of that."

The accountant straightened enough to make a seated bow to her.

"Two questions," Byron said. "How did you get into this office, and how did you find out about the secret door?"

"I knew that Frau Sarah had a copy of the key," Lutterodt responded, "so I had Anna make an impression of it in wax and had another key made. And the master would sometimes have women to his office. I saw one of them leaving by that side door one day, and knew that meant there had to be another way into his office. I poked and pulled and pushed on things until I found it."

Lutterodt looked over to Frau Diebsin again. "Johan knows everything there is to know about the business. I have been preparing him. I do not have much time left." He shifted his gaze to the magistrate. "Indeed, the hangman's noose might be a mercy."

Master Gericke's mouth tightened. "Thank you, Lieutenant Chieske, Herr Hoch. You have done what I asked for. Now I must discuss this with Frau Diebsin and Master Köppe to determine what should be done. Please take Herr Lutterodt to the police house." He transferred his gaze to Johan. "Herr Dauth, please resume your place in the outer office. And you, Master Schardius, may go or stay as you please."

"With your leave, I will stay," the merchant replied. "I may have words for Master Köppe when you are done."

Byron and Gotthilf stepped to Lutterodt's chair, each took an arm and lifted him to his feet. "Let's go, you." Johan led the way out of the inner office, and Gotthilf closed the door behind them.

Lutterodt pulled back as they passed the desks. "Wait," he said in a hoarse voice. They stopped for a moment. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and gave them to Johan. "You must open and lock up now." That prompted Gotthilf's memory. He dug in his own pockets and produced a set of keys. Byron produced yet another set of keys and tossed them to Gotthilf. Lutterodt gave no resistance as Byron led him from the office.

Gotthilf returned to the inner office. All four faces turned to him when he entered. "Frau Diebsin, your keys," and Gotthilf returned them to her. Then he turned to the attorney. "And Herr Köppe, the keys of Master Bünemann." He handed him the keys Byron had passed him, then bowed to Magistrate Gericke and closed the door behind him.

"Come along, Georg," Gotthilf said as he stepped outside. "Back to the police house. We're done here."

"It's about time," Georg replied as he followed. "A fellow could get flat feet from all this standing around."

Gotthilf looked around for what he was beginning to think of as "the cab," but it wasn't in sight. They handcuffed Lutterodt's hands in front of him so he could cover his mouth when he coughed. It was a long walk back to the police house at Lutterodt's slow pace, but at last they arrived. Georg took the prisoner over at that point while they went to report to the captain.

"So the butler didn't do it this time," Reilly said after they finished the report. Gotthilf rolled his eyes. Some other crazy Americanism he had to figure out.

"Nope. It was the accountant all the way. We could see evidence the strangler had a malformed left hand, and he's missing the last joint of his left ring finger. He did a good job of hiding it with his kerchief, though. So that was the first thing. The second was when Gotthilf found the fibers on the door frame that turned out to match the color and consistency of one of the ribbons they were using to tie together documents and folders. He'd used it to loop over the hook and hang out in the hallway. All he had to do was pull on it and it would open the door. But the last was when I noticed how much Anna looked like a younger Paulus Bünemann. If it hadn't been for the wedding portrait, we might still be scratching our heads."

"Well, good job, both of you. And speaking of that," Bill tugged open a drawer and pulled out a couple of wallets, which he tossed to the other men. "These are the new badges for the City of Magdeburg Police department. Cool, huh?" Gotthilf opened the wallet to see a lion's face cast in brass staring at him, with Magdeburg Polizei and the word Sergeant and a number embossed at the bottom.

Byron's hand came in to view and pulled the folder around where he could see it. "Sergeant, hey? That's great!" Gotthilf was staggered by the slap on his back that Byron delivered.

"Now, since you two are my best detectives, go out there and detect something for me." Bill waved his hands in dismissal.

Outside the building, they turned in unison in the direction of The Green Horse.

"Need a ride?" It was "their" cabbie. They looked at each other, then climbed in.

A few minutes later they climbed out again. This time Byron paid the cabbie. "Are you by some chance trying to become our personal driver?" The cabbie grinned and nodded. "Okay, that's cool. Come by the station first thing tomorrow, and let's talk to the captain about it."

The cabbie grinned again, threw something like a salute to them, then clucked to his horse and drove off. The lieutenant and his newly-minted sergeant walked into the tavern, collected their ales and moved to their favorite table.

"Well, that's one crime solved and one bad guy caught," Byron said after he sampled the ale.

"And we didn't have to shoot anyone," Gotthilf replied.

"Amen to that."

Gotthilf turned to his partner with an expectant glance.

Byron sighed. "Okay, now what?"

"What's a Cheshire cat?"