4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read Online Free PDF

I always gave it my best and experienced boundless joy in using the amazing voice that the knife had bestowed. To do otherwise would make a mockery of my sacrifice. I exchanged only a few words with Mario and Lucca before they retreated to down another glass of wine before dinner.
    “But where are the ladies?” I asked my hostess. The cast contained two female characters. Asteria was Bajazet’s daughter, a Turkish beauty who would inflame my lust, and Princess Irene was my faithful betrothed. I had yet to see a sign of either.
    Octavia rolled her eyes. “Madame Fouquet is in her room, battling an attack of migraine.”
    “That would be our prima donna, the French soprano?”
    Octavia nodded. “Our Asteria.”
    “I am most anxious to meet her. I hear Madame Fouquet has captivated the Parisian audiences to the point of provoking them to riot if she refuses to give encores.”
    “I can well believe it, but you will have to wait until tomorrow to be caught in her snare. I doubt that she or her husband will join us tonight.”
    I cocked my head at the bitterness of her tone.
    “It’s her régime, you see. Madame Fouquet takes exquisite care of herself. She has a time to eat, a time to rest, a time to gargle and spray her tonsils. And if she comes down with one of her headaches, rehearsals must grind to a halt until she feels ready to continue.”
    I chuckled. “True prima donna behavior. I know some castrati who are equally guilty. I suppose a certain amount of temperament goes with the territory.”
    Octavia snorted. “Gabrielle Fouquet can cosset her pretty throat on her own time. I’m funding this opera, not only the singers, but every last inch of canvas and drop of paint once we take it to the theater. Now that you’ve arrived to complete the company, there will be no more time wasted.” She smiled broadly, exposing healthy teeth and a glistening expanse of pink gum. “One way or another, Madame Fouquet will be brought to heel.”
    The appearance of Nita at the doorway, apron showing evidence of a kitchen catastrophe, took my hostess away.
    I was drifting toward the rail to attempt to shift Maestro Weber’s attention away from his latest melody when I felt a tug at my sleeve. “Tito?” The voice was soft, almost intimate.
    I spun around, then had to lower my chin to meet Carmela Costa’s eyes. Petite, compact, with an intelligent gaze that seemed at odds with her loose, pink mouth, Carmela was a soprano I had often appeared with. Tonight, a simple chignon confined her lightly powdered hair, and a sprinkling of Alençon lace ornamented her rose satin gown. The effect was a delicate spring flower peeking through an unexpected April frost. Octavia Dolfini could use a few fashion lessons from Carmela.
    “Hello, old friend.” The soprano smiled, then gabbled on, “I’ve been dawdling tonight. I just came down. What a treat to find that you’ve arrived. I was so pleased when I heard you had joined the cast, but surprised, too. I’d heard you were in Rome.”
    “I was for a while, but happy to be back. The pope’s hand rests a little too heavily on the Roman opera houses for my taste.” I detected a speculative look in Carmela’s gray eyes. “Was there another reason why you were surprised?”
    She pulled on one of the teardrop pearls that hung from her ear lobes. “Well…”
    “Speak freely. I doubt you could tell me anything I haven’t thought of myself.”
    “All right, if you like. Since your role contains so many bravura arias, I expected that Maestro Weber would engage a singer with a sustained fortissimo, someone who can raise the roof, as they say. Your excellence lies in other directions.”
    “You don’t think my expressive style is up to the task?”
    “Let’s just say that rehearsals are likely to be… interesting. Our maestro doesn’t stint his criticism. You may want to gird yourself in mental armor.”
    I shrugged, then glanced toward the German. He had moved to converse with