Mozart’s Blood Read Online Free

Octavia did.
    But performance practice was a fluid thing. Each new editor fancied that he knew more than the previous one, and she had learned long ago to bend with the winds of such changes. She had been tempted, more than once, to tell an arrogant conductor what Mozart had intended, but she had never done it. Restraint was another trait she had learned, over time, and with difficulty, but she had learned it.
    The flight attendant returned with her tea and glanced down at the score. “Ah,” he said. “Will it be Donna Anna?”
    â€œIt will. My first,” she said, with just a hint of anxiety, a droop of the lashes.
    â€œThe perfect rôle for you! I wish I could hear it.”
    Octavia took the teacup in her hands. “If you’re in Milan,” she said, “send me a note at La Scala. I’ll arrange a ticket.”
    He put his hand to his breast. “That would be wonderful! I may just do that.”
    â€œPlease do,” she said with a smile, then pointedly turned her page. He took the hint, backing away, turning to another passenger. Octavia sipped the tea, turned the page back, and began to study.
    Ugo’s closed eyelids trembled with mirth. “You know, darling, you’re wasting your time with that one.”
    â€œI think he’s sweet.”
    â€œVery. But he doesn’t play for your team.”
    She chuckled. “You underestimate me.”
    â€œOh, God. Such a diva. I can hardly stand it.”
    She blew him a tiny raspberry. He laughed and pulled his blanket up to his chin.
    Â 
    The moon was just setting when they landed at Malpensa. A limousine was waiting, with someone to speed them through customs and direct a porter with their bags. They were out of the airport within fifteen minutes, and riding through morning traffic toward Il Principe di Savoia. Ugo was quiet, his head resting against the seat as he watched their approach to the city. His complexion seemed a bit ashen to Octavia.
    She touched his knee. “Are you all right? Didn’t you sleep?”
    â€œI did,” he said. “But I need my valise.”
    â€œJust a little longer,” Octavia said. She leaned forward to open the glass partition, and said, “Più veloce, per favore!”
    â€œGod, Octavia.” Ugo turned his head to roll his eyes at her. “Any faster and we’ll be roadkill. This is Italy, remember?”
    â€œBut you don’t look well.”
    â€œI will look terrible smeared all over the highway,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Just make sure he drives between the lines, d’accordo? ”
    She patted him. “D’accordo.”
    Ugo swayed a little on his feet as they walked into the colonnaded entry of Il Principe. Octavia took his arm, and his body felt hot through the sleeve of his coat. The assistant from La Scala guided them through the marble lobby, expedited their registration, oversaw their luggage. In the elevator’s gold-flecked mirrors, Octavia saw Ugo scratching at his jaw and wriggling inside his shirt as if it had grown too tight for him. His nostrils flared, scenting something beyond the range of her own senses.
    In their suite, they had to wait politely as the bellman pointed out the amenities, the flowers and fruit sent by La Scala, the Pellegrino and chocolates provided by the management of the hotel. He assured them the hotel limousine was at their disposal at any time.
    Ugo leaned against a blue velvet armchair throughout the bellman’s recitation. The moment they were left alone, he disappeared into the connecting bedroom, where his bags had been left, and closed the door behind him.
    Octavia wandered through the curtained doors into her own bedroom. She pulled off her shoes and lay down on the big bed, tucking a cushion under her neck.
    It troubled her sometimes that she and Ugo were not of a kind. She could not do for him what he did for her. What he needed was quite different from that which