The Iron Tongue of Midnight the fourth Baroque Mystery featuring Tito Amato by Beverle Graves Myers Chapter 1 My eyes smoldered. My brow wrinkled. Curling my lip in a sneer, I raised my chin and crossed my arms in a gesture of implacable fury. Gussie turned his gaze from the autumn landscape speeding past the carriage window and regarded me with the bemused grin he usually reserved for Matteo and Titolino’s childish capers. The light carriage we’d hired after disembarking from the river barge at Padua was so cramped that our knees nearly touched. “Tito?” he asked. “What the deuce are you doing?” “Practicing,” I replied across the small space. “If I’m going to make a convincing Tamerlano, I must cultivate a fierce demeanor.” “Will you be able to sing with that scowl on your face?” I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and attempted a run that ended in a high C. The demands of technique pulled my lips into an angelic oval of silvery sound. “It’s no use.” I sighed in disgust. “I’ll have to convey the tyrant’s cruel nature by gesture alone.” “I’m sure you will manage. But I must say, this Tamerlano fellow isn’t really in your line. You sang a splendid Apollo in your last opera at the San Marco, and no one can touch you as a noble prince. But Tito Amato as a lustful, pillaging Mongol conqueror?” Gussie shook his head, releasing a lock of wayward blond hair from its queue at the back of his neck. “I can’t quite twist my brain around it. Why do you think Maestro Weber is so insistent that you sing the part?” In his frank, good-humored way, my friend and brother-in-law had given voice to the very question I’d been trying to avoid. Ever since I’d received the invitation to sing the lead role in a new opera by Karl Johann Weber, I’d been wondering why the German had chosen me. I’d barely heard of the man, and what little I knew gave me pause. Italian opera was the rage of Europe, and composers of all nations flocked to our musical capitals to imbibe the art from its source. If memory served, this Weber was a Saxon who had come to grief over a duel with a fellow composer. At the Teatro Ducale in Milan. Or had it been Torino? Whichever, Maestro Weber had scampered back over the Alps and gone to ground for several years. Now, it appeared, he was making a comeback. That was another odd thing. Venice was fertile ground for relaunching a career, but a man who wanted to make a splash should be calling on theater managers, engaging practice rooms, making the rounds of coffee houses that cater to musicians, in short, conducting himself in a manner that would whet the public’s appetite for his new opera. Maestro Weber had taken the opposite tack. Instead of displaying himself about town, he was completing the score for Il Gran Tamerlano deep in the countryside. Octavia Dolfini, the wife of a wealthy Venetian iron merchant, was playing Lady Bountiful to Weber’s production. Like every other household that could afford to quit our mosquito-ridden island for the warm months, Octavia and her husband kept a villa on Terrafirma, the mainland. It was a note from Signora Dolfini that had summoned me to begin rehearsal, and I had agreed mainly because the signora had also been eager to hire my brother-in-law. Vincenzo Dolfini, the master of the villa, had conceived a fancy for a series of scenic views of his rural property: picturesque gardens, a groom holding the reins of a prize stallion, grinning peasants bringing in the grape harvest. The sort of fashionable daubs Gussie could toss off in his sleep. As the flowery letter of invitation had put it, “What a happy coincidence that the painter Augustus Rumbolt is married to the sister of Venice’s most renowned singer.” Gussie and I had debated the matter for several days. My first inclination had been to refuse; I could easily find more suitable work that did not involve traveling to such an out-of-the-way spot. Gussie’s excitement overcame my reluctance. For once, he did not have a string of commissions waiting, and since my unorthodox marriage, our shared house on the Campo dei Polli was not a pleasant place to be at liberty. My darling, but stubborn wife Liya and my sweet sister Annetta differed considerably in their philosophy concerning household management. I’m being gracious. In truth, the female members of our household were at each other like a cat and dog stuffed in a knapsack. Signora Dolfini had also sweetened her invitation with liberal financial arrangements. Thanks to the public’s insatiable appetite for male sopranos, my career had advanced nicely over the years. Even so, the pay offered for Tamerlano nearly made me blush. It was enough to offset the inconvenience of travel and still provide a tidy sum to put toward the purchase of a large home for my new family. Gussie, too, was quite happy with his promised compensation. Thus contracts were exchanged, and we found ourselves jolting along a rutted lane toward a villa situated in the first risings of the Euganean Hills south of Padua. On this mellow, late September afternoon, the fields spread out in a harlequin patchwork of amber and gold. Wooded streams and single files of sentinel elms separated the barley from the wheat. In the distance, a range of dark hills folded into billowing white clouds. Gussie had just raised his hand to point out a flock of sheep when an ominous crack burst forth from the undercarriage. The top-heavy vehicle lurched violently, throwing me into the corner and upending Gussie on top of me. Above the pounding of hooves and squealing of the brake, I heard the driver calming his team with deep, caressing tones. He knew his business. After a skid of only a moment’s duration, the carriage rattled to a halt. A fog of road dust filled the interior. Groaning, I struggled to free my right arm. “Are you hurt?” I cried Gussie braced himself against the sharply-tilted carriage frame and inched his bulk back onto the slick leather cushion. Once upright, he gave his nose an exploratory pinch and wiggle, then withdrew his hand, tentatively, as if he expected to find it covered in blood. No trace of crimson was in evidence. “I’ll do.” He shrugged. “You?” I probed my ribs. I deep intake of breath told me I would still be able to sing… Publication date for The Iron Tongue of Midnight (ISBN 978-1-59058-232-9) is March 15, 2008. The book is available at your favorite local or online bookseller and from the publisher, Poisoned Pen Press. The entire series (Interrupted Aria, Painted Veil, Cruel Music, and The Iron Tongue of Midnight) can also be found at many public librairies.