The Last Waltz of Vienna

The heavy velvet curtains of the Hofoper still vibrated with the echoes of your final aria, but the applause in the auditorium was drowned out by the frantic drumming of your own heart. Outside, the Austrian secret police were moving through the corridors, their heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the polished marble. You fled across the glittering ballroom floors, your silk gown whispering against the parquetry, weaving through mask-wearing diplomats who had no idea of the trap closing around you. You slipped into your private dressing room, slamming the door behind you, gasping for breath. The room smelled of dried roses, powder, and ozone. You lunged toward your jewelry box to grab your forged transit papers, but a shadow stepped out from the heavy drapes near the window. It was Julian. He stood there with a worn leather suitcase at his feet, looking exactly as he had seven years ago before he vanished into the night. His dark coat was damp from the autumn rain, and his eyes, deep and entirely unapologetic, locked onto yours. He gestured to the open window, beyond which a carriage waited in the dark alleyway. 'They are searching the west wing,' he said, his voice a low, f…