Today, Natasha wore a simple, full-length black dress. Her violet hair was pinned up beneath a translucent black veil that exposed her slender, smooth neck. Her entire bearing radiated grief and solemnity.
She passed by Franz without a glance, heading straight for the stairs as if nothing else in the world existed.
"What on earth has happened?" Franz asked himself once more with growing unease, glancing around.
The handful of people in the lobby — including Polly, the young woman who handled reception — all wore expressions of utter bewilderment. None of them had any idea what could have driven the future Grand Duchess, the current Countess Violet, to such profound grief.
Had the Grand Duke suddenly passed away?
No — if that were the case, she would immediately have to issue death notices to all the nobles, then escort the coffin to the Golden Cathedral to receive coronation rites from Cardinal Saer de on behalf of the Pope, and after the funeral, travel to the holy city of Lance to pay respects to the Pope. She would have absolutely no time to come to the Musicians' Association.
Had the Northern heretics broken through the fortress and were about to march into Altor?
No — hailed as a "true knight," she would be the first noble to lead the remaining Violet Knights into battle, not a coward hiding at the Musicians' Association to numb herself with music!
Had some famous musician passed away?
No — apart from Christoph, the master who had once taught Natasha, no musician had the standing to bring her here in person with such bearing and such gravity.
Wait —
Everyone seemed to arrive at the same thought at once. That genius musician who had just concluded a spectacular, seemingly unsurpassable concert — the musical legend whom people had already begun calling a master in hushed whispers — could something have happened to him?
Although after the concert the Princess had dispatched guards to announce that Mr. Lucian Evans had merely collapsed from a combination of severe illness and excitement, and that with Cardinal Gosse in attendance he had recovered smoothly — only that his body remained very weak and would require a prolonged period of rest — in the two days since, aside from a small number of Mr. Evans's friends who had been permitted to visit, everyone else had been turned away from the villa. No one actually knew whether his condition was improving or worsening.
In such a weakened state, there were countless precedents for someone to be struck by a sudden illness, unable to wait for priests or bishops to arrive in time, and dying within mere minutes!
If it was him — after that concert just concluded, after that earth-shaking and deeply moving Symphony in D Minor, "Ode to Joy," after those masterpieces one after another — it would indeed warrant the future Grand Duchess personally coming to the Association to deliver the tragic news.
More importantly, his intimate relationship with Princess Natasha had already become public knowledge, and many regarded him as the future Duke of Tilan — in the Vorlite Principality, when the successor was female, her husband would receive the title Duke of Tilan, a position without real power and one that could not be inherited. If it was him, then the Princess's attire and her uncontrollable grief made perfect sense!
"Lord, Mr. Evans hasn't even turned twenty-one yet…" Polly clapped a hand over her mouth in shocked grief, glistening tears welling at the corners of her eyes. Then she struggled to rein in her spiraling thoughts. "It absolutely cannot be Mr. Evans. Lord, please, let it not be him…"
After the homecoming concert, she had come to regard Mr. Evans as an angel presiding over music and joy — the figure she admired and adored above all others.
The Altor Weekly slipped from Franz's fingers and drifted to the floor. After visiting Mr. Evans that first morning and confirming that his condition was relatively stable, Franz had plunged headlong into the fervor of musical creation. The inspiration kindled by "Ode to Joy" echoed in his mind ceaselessly, and it seemed the theme of a symphony was on the verge of emerging. For the next several dozen hours, he had shut himself away in his practice room, paying no attention to anything else.
Coming to the Association today — leaving his practice room — Franz hadn't come specifically to collect copies of the Altor Weekly. He had intended to look up some materials in the music library, then visit Mr. Evans to seek his advice and discuss his own compositional ideas.
"No, no, that can't be…" Franz's gaunt face was filled with instinctive denial. Then his feet carried him forward almost against his will, following Natasha, Camille, and the others upstairs. He needed to hear the Princess speak the final answer himself. He needed to confirm that the outcome was not what his heart feared.
…………
In Christoph's private lounge.
Othello looked helplessly at the master, whose white hair had grown sparse. "Mr. President, haven't you finished your review yet? This issue of Music Review and Symphony Herald has already been delayed by two days." Though he had already assumed the presidency himself, out of old habit he still addressed Christoph as he always had.
Beside him, Victor's gaze slid to the papers in front of Christoph.
Because of the "homecoming concert" on June first, both Music Review and Symphony Herald had been pushed back to June second for publication, so they could be the first to cover what was likely a most extraordinary concert and the certainly outstanding new works of Lucian Evans.
As it turned out, the concert and the new works had not only lived up to expectations — the response had far surpassed imagination — and so both journals had eagerly prepared for publication. Meanwhile, the musicians who had been shaken and moved burst forth with passionate reviews. Within a single night, the number of qualifying manuscripts exceeded what was needed for two issues, forcing both journals to plan additional supplement editions. But in the midst of all this, the review by Master Christoph — which had been intended as the lead article — remained undelivered for two full days straight, pushing the publication date further and further back.