May 7, 1824 Vienna, Austria
It has taken Beatrix six days to get to Vienna.
A thousand miles, jumping from freight car to freight car, through at least four different countries, after paying for passage on a ship from Dover to Calais.
The ticket cost her a pretty penny, but the thought of stowing away on a ship—of being caught stowing away on a ship—made her break out in a cold sweat.
She could survive a tumble from a train well enough, but if she was thrown into the sea?
She shudders, despite the fact that she is walking down a wide, paved street. She knows the extent of the faerie’s mercy. She would drown, she would live, and she would drown again, over and over, until she gave the faerie what she wanted.
She pushes the thought away and hurries past buildings made of cream stone that make the city feel warm and bright and nothing at all like London, her skirts rustling around her ankles, her tight curls bouncing at her temples.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be somewhere new. She imagines Isabella asking her, How far did you go today? Imagines herself replying, Farther than I’ve ever been. The first time she can claim that since Venice.
She turns the corner, and the theater comes into view.
It’s early, but a crowd is already gathering out front.
She spots Oliver standing off to the side in a top hat and long coat, watching the carriages come and go.
Her heart leaps. Maybe he has something to do with that fizzy champagne feeling she’s had since she woke in a boxcar this morning.
She smooths her rose-pink skirts and slows her pace to something deemed more appropriate for a lady.
Her dress is nicer than the one she traveled to Vienna in, but not nearly as fine as some of the ones the other ladies are wearing, with short, puffed sleeves and a pair of ruffles at the hem.
She reaches into her pocket, touches the paper that she knows is there.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says when she is at Oliver’s shoulder.
He turns to face her with a smile. “Still sneaking up on me, I see.”
She gestures to the theater. “Are we here to see a play?”
He shakes his head. “The first performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It was Lucy’s idea.”
“Lucy?” Beatrix asks.
“She coordinates my excursions at Aevum,” he clarifies. “She said this would make up for skipping Mozart.”
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“It’s a masterpiece. One of Beethoven’s most admired works for centuries to come. You’ll see,” Oliver says.
“But?” she prods.
A shadow flits across Oliver’s gaze. “It’s his last completed symphony. His penultimate public performance. Not that he knows that.” Oliver looks at his shining boots. “He only has three years left to live.”
Her heart breaks a little for this man she doesn’t even know. Because the world will be robbed of his brilliant talent. Because he has no idea what is coming for him. “Nobody knows when they’re going to die, Oliver.”
“But I know when he’s going to die.” His eyes shine with anguish. “How can I sit there and listen to his music—watch him up there on stage—knowing that?”
“Then don’t,” Beatrix says.
“What?”
“You said this was Lucy’s idea. But Lucy isn’t here,” Beatrix says. “You are. Is this what you want to spend your time on?”
Oliver shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then let’s go find something else to do.”
“Bea, you came all the way to Vienna for this,” he says. “Go to the symphony without me. I don’t mind, I swear.”
“I came to Vienna to see you,” she says, the words slipping out before she realizes they have. Her face flushes with heat. Thankfully, Oliver doesn’t dwell on it, though she swears his cheeks have turned a shade pinker.
“Do you want to explore the city with me?” he asks. “I’ll try not to get hopelessly lost.”
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Beatrix says.
Oliver frowns. “Really?”
“I absolutely intend to get hopelessly lost in Vienna.” She turns in place and her skirts swirl out around her. She spins to a stop, and for a moment, the world doesn’t. She’s pointed away from the theater now, her back to Oliver, the wide street ahead of her.
Beatrix starts walking.
“Where are you going?” he calls after her.
“No idea,” she shouts over her shoulder, though that’s not entirely true. Wherever she ends up, she knows one thing for certain. It will be farther than she has ever been before.
Oliver falls into step beside her.
They set out with no destination in mind but spend most of the afternoon wandering through the vast gardens of Schonbrunn Palace.
They admire the fountain of Neptune and the long pavilion on the crest of the hill behind it.
There are other figures from Greek and Roman myth, and other fountains, too, though the strangest sculpture to Beatrix is the set of Roman ruins.
She can’t understand why someone would want to build a thing already fallen to pieces when time would take care of it soon enough.
They stroll through a glass house that smells of damp earth, full to bursting with palm trees of every shape and size, and another filled with orange and lemon trees that she wouldn’t mind living inside.
But the animal garden is the strangest sight.
She sees an elephant for the second time in her life, hyenas and kangaroos and polar bears for the first. They rest at the octagonal pavilion at the heart of the garden before moving on to the final exhibits of the menagerie, the sun sinking steadily toward the horizon.
Beatrix did not expect to meet a wolf in Vienna. It stands and stretches, its tawny coat catching the golden afternoon light, and pads across the small enclosure. Its amber eyes find hers through the iron bars. She has a sudden urge to fling open the cage and set it free.
“When I was a girl, there were rumors of a wolf in the forest around Lancaut,” she says. “I used to sneak into the woods every chance I got, convinced I could catch a glimpse of her.”
“Did you?” Oliver asks.
“Once.” But the wolf in Lancaut was wild and free, and nothing at all like the one pacing before them.
“That’s pretty lucky,” Oliver says.
It was lucky. Not that Oliver would know that. “How do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Wolves were all but extinct in England by then.”
“I suppose she was a survivor,” Beatrix says. A lonely survivor.
They leave the wolf behind and continue their wanderings. Oliver stops in front of a café on the corner of a street Beatrix can’t name. “I’ve always heard good things about Viennese coffee,” he says. “Want to try some?”
Beatrix nods. “Let’s see if the rumors are true.”
A cozy atmosphere greets them. Wood-paneled walls and crystal chandeliers, marble-topped tables circled by bentwood chairs. A woman in a white apron calls out in German, halting them in the doorway.
Beatrix sighs. “She says if I want service, I have to take a table in the garden. No women allowed inside the café.”
“You speak German?” Oliver asks, surprise laced with amusement.
“You said we were going to Vienna, and I thought one of us ought to know the language,” she says. “I didn’t think you could learn much in a week.”
The woman gestures for Beatrix to leave.
“It’s a beautiful evening for coffee in the garden,” Oliver says. “I don’t mind sitting out there if you don’t.”
Beatrix laughs. “You’re not supposed to sit in the garden with me, Oliver. You’re supposed to protect my honor by sitting in here with all the men, discussing politics and the arts and playing cards for hours while you smoke and ogle the ladies that walk past the windows.”
“That makes no sense,” Oliver says.
“It never has,” Beatrix replies.
Oliver nods to the hostess. “Tell her we’ll both sit in the garden.”
The woman seems to find the request odd, but she leads them to an empty table in the back corner of the garden next to a high, ivy-covered wall.
“What are you smiling about?” Oliver asks as he pulls out Beatrix’s chair.
“She thinks I’m your mistress,” she says. “That’s why she’s shoved us in the corner, away from prying eyes.”
“Oh.” Oliver sounds alarmed. Beatrix laughs.
The woman returns and places a silver tray on the table with two glasses of water, a pair of silver spoons set atop crisp white napkins, and two glass mugs of dark espresso, topped with a tall layer of whipped cream dusted with cocoa powder.
“This looks fancy,” Oliver says.
“It looks delicious.” Beatrix picks up her mug and clinks it against his. “Cheers.”
They both drink. The rich, smoky notes of the coffee meld with the sweetness of the chocolate and the cream. “If I lived in Vienna, I’d drink this every day,” she says.
“Agreed,” Oliver says.
Beatrix laughs. “You have whipped cream on your nose.” She plucks a napkin from the tray and swipes it away for him.
“Thanks,” he says, the faintest blush rising in his cheeks.
She props her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her hand. “What are you going to write in your journal about today?”
Oliver ponders the question. “Blew off Beethoven to get lost in Vienna with a beautiful woman. Wandered the gardens at Schonbrunn Palace with her. Had the best coffee of my life and discovered she learned an entire language because it might come in handy. Honestly, she’s a little intimidating. I think I’m in over my head.”
Beatrix laughs again.
Oliver continues. “Time went too fast, as per usual. Didn’t want it to end. Asked to meet her again in twenty-seven years.”
Her pulse races. “I don’t remember that part.”
“I’ll be in London in 1851,” he says.
“So will I.”
Her guts twist. Twenty-seven years. She reaches into her pocket, feels the sharp crease of the page.
“Before you go—before you come back, I mean…” Her stomach is suddenly full of butterflies.
She pulls the folded paper from her pocket.
“I was wondering, while you’re gone, do you think—could you help me with something? ”
Oliver takes the paper from her trembling hand.
“I found it in Professor Winfield’s library the day I was dismissed. I forgot I had it until after you’d gone.”