In 1814, the Congress of Vienna has just begun. Diplomats battle over a new map of Europe, actors vie for a chance at glory, and aristocrats and royals from across the continent come together to celebrate the downfall of Napoleon...among them Lady Caroline Wyndham, a wealthy English widow. But Caroline has a secret: she was born Karolina Vogl, daughter of a radical Viennese printer. When her father was arrested by the secret police, Caroline's childhood was stolen from her by dark alchemy. Under a new name and nationality, she returns to Vienna determined to save her father even if she has to resort to the same alchemy that nearly broke her before. But she isn’t expecting to meet her father's old apprentice, Michael Steinhüller, now a charming con man in the middle of his riskiest scheme ever. The sinister forces that shattered Caroline's childhood still rule Vienna behind a glittering façade of balls and salons, Michael’s plan is fraught with danger, and both of their disguises are more fragile than they realize. What price will they pay to the darkness if either of them is to survive?
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.10(d)|
About the Author
Stephanie Burgis is the author of Masks and Shadows. She has published over thirty short stories for adults. Kat, Incorrigible (US)/A Most Improper Magick (UK) won the Waverton Good Read Children's Award in 2011 for Best Début Children's Novel by a British writer. It was followed by Renegade Magic/A Tangle of Magicks and Stolen Magic/A Reckless Magick. Born in Michigan, she now lives in Wales with her husband, writer Patrick Samphire, and their children. Before becoming a fulltime writer, she studied music history as a Fulbright Scholar in Vienna, Austria, and worked as a website editor for a British opera company.
Read an Excerpt
Congress of Secrets
By Stephanie Burgis
Prometheus BooksCopyright © 2016 Stephanie Burgis Samphire
All rights reserved.
"Of course, I could never go back to Vienna," Michael Steinhüller said.
It took a fine art to pitch his voice to wistful melancholy over the sound of three dozen carousing actors in Prague's tiniest and most crowded tavern. But Michael had chosen this tavern, and this moment, carefully — and the notorious Count Cagliostro himself, the greatest trickster of all time, had taught Michael the art of successful vocal control.
"You've been to Vienna before, then?" Michael's drinking companion, Peter Riesenbeck, smiled at him from a face flushed with elation and alcohol, looking far too young to be the director of a theatrical troupe. "Did you think it the most beautiful city in the world? The tales I've heard —"
"I was born there," Michael said. Honesty, for once. The thought was bittersweet; he let it linger, to lend sincerity to his wistful smile. "And I can tell you, every tale you heard was true. The lilacs in spring — the Stefansdom cathedral by evening light ..." He sighed.
"You miss it, then," Riesenbeck said. "Why did you leave?"
"I? Oh, never mind my history. Star-crossed love, disinheritance, disasters, tragedies. ... We should drink to your good fortune instead. To the Riesenbeck theatrical troupe! And to your Grand Tour. May you take Vienna by storm and dazzle every member of the Congress."
"From your lips to the Almighty's ear!" Riesenbeck laughed and chinked clay cups with him by the guttering candlelight. "But there's no need to trust to fortune, my friend. I've been preparing for this moment for years."
So have I, Michael thought.
Skating from one gamble to the next, from one disguise to another, from deposed French nobleman to earnest Russian mine-owner ... for the past four-and-twenty years, whatever role the moment called for, Michael had willingly played, and Fortune had smiled on him as warmly as if to make up for the shattering of his former life and shining ideals. He'd never waited too long to flee when a game went sour, never picked a dupe who couldn't afford their losses, and always won enough to keep himself until the next game paid off.
But even his run of luck could not continue forever, and at eight-and-thirty years of age, Michael was ready to aim at higher stakes than mere survival. It was time to play the gamble of his life. Every instinct in his body told him that the Congress of Vienna was the chance he'd been waiting for: the moment he could finally play the cards he'd held hidden in his sleeve for the past four years.
Within a week at most, the city would be full of the wealthiest and most influential men and women in all of Europe, gathered together to waltz, gossip, and be witnessed in glorious celebration of Napoleon Bonaparte's defeat. Even now, diplomats were preparing themselves to barter the fate of the Continent, aristocrats to display their finery, and the city of Vienna to become the beating heart of Europe.
Michael couldn't possibly miss it.
But first, he had to find a way back through the Vienna city walls.
As they downed their beers, Michael glanced out of the corner of his eye at the rest of the actors from the Riesenbeck troupe, busy lording it over their less-fortunate colleagues on this, their last night in the eastern backwaters of the Austrian Empire.
Please God let them be feted with as many drinks as possible, and let their moods rise as high as their fortunes had with their invitation to the empire's capital.
Michael signaled to the tavern keeper, and more beer arrived at their own crowded corner. Riesenbeck reached for his purse, but Michael forestalled him.
"Allow me, please." He paid the waitress and shrugged, smiling crookedly. "Fate may have left me little, but I can still afford some pleasures."
"Forgive my curiosity." Riesenbeck leaned forward, gesturing expansively with his beer. "I'm an actor and a playwright; I love stories. I have to know. Why did you leave Vienna? Why can you not go back?" He grinned infectiously. "Feel free to bash in my nose if I'm too impertinent — but I'd rather you aimed for some part that wouldn't show up so well on stage."
"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said dryly. "But you're too young to waste your time with tragedy stories like mine, surely."
"Why, what old stories is our director drawing out of you?" Marta Dujic, the Riesenbeck troupe's gloriously curvaceous leading lady, purred the words directly into Michael's ear. "Herr Riesenbeck is a veritable fiend for stories, you know. He'll pull every last one from you as fodder for his plays, if you aren't careful." She smiled at his blink of surprise and slid into the seat beside him, smelling of sweet perfume as well as sweat.
Michael didn't begrudge her either scent. She'd fallen all across the stage that night in the company's final Prague performance, showing an impressive athleticism that mingled oddly with her current demeanor of limpid femininity. He was neither deceived nor offended by the intimate smile she aimed at him now from her position of enticing closeness; he could see her husband, Karl, watching them carefully from a safe distance away. Actresses, like fraudsters, had to learn to play many games to succeed.
"Marta, this is Herr ..." Riesenbeck frowned. "Damn it, I've forgotten — what did you say your surname is?"
"It was Von Helmannsdorf when I was born," Michael said. He gazed into his beer, swirling the dark liquid in its cup. "My father was the first count of that name, raised up by the old empress of blessed memory; I was his eldest son. Still, I've gone by the name of Neumann for so long now, I sometimes forget I ever had any other name."
"But how mysterious," Marta breathed, leaning closer. "Why —?"
"You mentioned earlier: disinheritance, disasters, and tragedies?" Peter Riesenbeck was smiling outright, his blue eyes gleaming with sheer enjoyment. Did he believe what he was hearing? Michael couldn't tell. But at least he was listening.
"And star-crossed love," Michael finished for him, nodding. "That was the cause of all the rest. You see, my father, being the first count, had high hopes for all of us. So, when I married an actress from the emperor's Burgtheater ..."
"The Burgtheater." Riesenbeck's face smoothed into near-religious bliss. "She must have been accomplished indeed. Which troupe did she play in?"
"Ah ..." Michael blinked and took a stab in the dark. "She was Italian — an opera singer, in fact, hired by Emperor Joseph himself. The first time ever I heard her sing —"
"She stole your heart, of course," Riesenbeck finished for him. "But — naturally — your father did not approve?" He took a swig from his beer. "Let me guess the rest. The disinheritance came next, followed by her death from — oh, a wasting disease, I suppose? Very romantic, very tragic. And then, of course —"
"Peter!" Marta said. "Do remember you are speaking to her widower."
"I beg your pardon, Michael. Herr von Helmannsdorf, I should say." Riesenbeck looked genuinely abashed. "I was carried away, I'm afraid. It's only that it sounded so much like a play, I —"
"Never mind." Michael smiled tightly. "It has been a long time since I lost my Gabriela. I could hardly expect you to understand." There was a short, uncomfortable silence before Michael took pity on the director. "But you were quite correct. I did lose Gabriela. By then, my father had cut me out of his will. I left Vienna — I could no longer bear the memories — and I heard the news of my father's death only a year later."
"But why can you not go back?" Riesenbeck asked. "Surely after so long, even the most tragic of memories —"
"Ah, but the memories themselves are not the difficulty," Michael said. "Not anymore. Now we come to the true mystery. You see, my brother inherited the title as well as the entirety of my father's fortune. And yet ..."
"And yet?" Marta raised perfectly arched eyebrows.
"And yet," Michael said, drawing the word out, "my mother always claimed in her letters that a second will had been written by my father, after I'd left Vienna."
"Brilliant." Riesenbeck grinned. "Hidden, of course — they're always hidden. But you must return to Vienna, man! Rip up the floorboards! Search the secret passageways! Hunt —"
"I would care for nothing more," Michael said. "Unfortunately ..." He paused, moistening his lips, as he prepared for the climax of the piece.
Like a play, Riesenbeck had called his story — and so it was. Michael had chosen it precisely for his current audience, and he could only pray that they applauded it. The truth ... The truth was something rather different.
Although Michael had abandoned his own ideals years ago, as the price of survival, he'd never lost his cursed status as an enemy of the state. If he was discovered by the customs guards at Vienna's city walls, he would be taken to Vienna's notorious secret police for interrogation — and whether they arrested him as the idealistic boy radical he once had been or as the wickedly accomplished fraudster he had become after his escape ... well, Michael knew better than most just how bitterly his own story would end.
As it had ended for the two people he had loved most, on the night he'd fled Vienna, twenty-four years earlier.
Curse it. He hadn't thought of them in years. He had sworn never to let himself — and he had succeeded, until now. It was the thought of Vienna that brought back his former life to him, the one he had discarded and forsworn decades ago. Michael gritted his teeth against the memories. Still they rose to fill his vision with a vivid intensity that the years had done nothing to diminish: her face, tear-streaked but gazing at him through the flames. As if he were her only chance for salvation ...
He would not remember what had happened next. He couldn't let himself. If he did, he could never return to Vienna. And if he didn't return to Vienna, he would miss the greatest opportunity of his life: the chance for true security at last.
"Let me tell you about my younger brother and his ploys" Michael said, and shook aside the disquieting sheen of memory. "You see, he could hardly take the risk that I might return and claim my true inheritance. So ..."
Michael told his invented story with all the color and excitement of an epic drama, and in the telling of it and the creation of a dozen confirming details, he almost managed to forget his moment of unaccustomed weakness. He ordered a third round of drinks for the entire theatrical troupe, and then a fourth. And when, in the middle of the celebrations, Peter Riesenbeck suddenly looked up with an expression of delighted inspiration, Michael felt the delicious frisson in his chest that marked the moment of success.
"Do you know," Riesenbeck said, "I may have a solution to your dilemma!"
"Impossible," Michael said. "Ever since my brother arranged the theft of my identification papers, I cannot pass the walls, and — as I cannot enter the city —"
"Ah, but we can pass through the walls, can we not?" Riesenbeck said. He winked knowingly at the little group of his actors that had gathered around them as the evening progressed. He drew them closer, as his voice dropped to a stealthy undertone. "You wouldn't know this, of course, not being an actor yourself ... but there's a bit of a trade secret to our traveling carriages. You see, we haven't always got all the spare money one could hope for ... and customs inspections are so damned heartless and thorough ..."
"Yes?" Michael said. He had to grip his cup of beer in both hands, to keep his tone innocently curious. Almost there ... only say the words ...
"The fact of the matter is, your old family home isn't the only spot with secret hiding places" Riesenbeck said. "Of course, it would be a tight squeeze for you, fitting into the compartment under the floorboards of our carriage ..."
"We'd have to pack him in with some food," Marta said. "He could hardly go seeking his inheritance without any sustenance, after all."
"Apples should be enough for the trip," her husband said judiciously, narrowing his eyes at Michael's lean frame. "At any rate, he'll only need to be hidden down there for an hour or two at most, for the passage through the walls. We'll have to poke some holes into the floorboards, though, to be safe. We wouldn't want him suffocating during the customs inspection."
"Well, Michael?" Riesenbeck raised his clay cup in salute. "What do you say? Are you ready to join us for an adventure?"
"Am I ready?" Michael shook his head in true wonderment, trying to control the excitement that wanted to overwhelm him. To return back to Vienna, after four-and-twenty years of exile — to begin the greatest adventure of his life ...
He couldn't hold it back after all. Exhilaration rushed through Michael's chest, as irrepressible as air. He let it break out in a grin that took in all the beaming faces that surrounded him. "My friends," he said. "You have my deepest gratitude. I would be honored to make use of your secret compartment."
* * *
Sabers flashed in the early morning sunlight, signaling the arrival of the emperors, princes, and archdukes of Europe at the Congress of Vienna's opening ceremonies. Battalions of infantry, regiments of cavalry, and all the cuirassiers of the Viceroy of Poland joined ranks to honor them. As Europe's highest rulers crossed the flower-strewn grass to the open tent in the center of the field, bright sunlight lit the golden orders of distinction on their military-styled jackets until they too seemed to blaze with triumph.
"My, my," murmured Caroline, Countess of Wyndham, in French to her companion. "What a distinguished company indeed. I had no notion that so many of our kings were so very martial." She widened her eyes innocently, dropping her voice. "Do you think they defeated the great Napoleon by blinding him with their medals in the sun?"
Her companion, the Prince de Ligne, turned stifled laughter into a cough, his shoulders shaking. His blue eyes twinkled in his weathered face, still handsome even in great old age. "Why, Lady Wyndham," he murmured back, "I would be astonished to learn that you, of all people, haven't heard yet of the finest entertainment in this Congress."
"Your Grace?" She tilted her head closer, ignoring the neighbors around them.
They sat in the front row of seats, facing the sovereigns' tent — a coup indeed in the battle of social grasping that already ruled the newborn Congress. The Prince de Ligne breathed his words directly into Caroline's ear.
"Why, the finest and most popular form of entertainment among our serene rulers, madam, is to gift each other with the highest of honors. Distinctions that men used to fight and die for are now handed out like baubles between friends. Indeed, they've already been reduced to awarding each other mere military ranks. Emperor Francis is now a colonel in Tsar Alexander's Imperial Guard, I believe, and Tsar Alexander a colonel in our own Hiller regiment."
"But what a distressing turn of fortune for their wives," Caroline said. "Do you think the emperor shall care much for his new life in a humble colonel's tent camped somewhere in the Crimea? Next time the tsar decides to mount another war of invasion, I hope the emperor is not, at least, given a tent that leaks. It would detract so sadly from the glory of war for him."
She bit her tongue abruptly, wondering — had she gone too far? No, surely not, judging by the twinkling amusement in the prince's eyes.
The old prince was as wily a diplomat — in both courtly and political life — as she had ever met. Born a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, he had made his name across the Continent for his glittering epigrams, his famous — and infamous — letters to all the greatest personages of Europe, his books on military history, and his own dramatic military exploits as a field marshal of the Austrian Empire. In short, he was a very master of self-publicity, and if he did not penetrate her disguise, no one ever would.
Excerpted from Congress of Secrets by Stephanie Burgis. Copyright © 2016 Stephanie Burgis Samphire. Excerpted by permission of Prometheus Books.
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