Whispers Beneath the Opera

The grandfather clock of black forest oak in the third-floor salon chimed eleven slow, resonant strokes that vibrated through the quiet corridors of the Palais von Roth. Outside the tall leaded windows, the Vienna snowstorm had intensified into a howling white gale, obscuring the illuminated streetlamps along the Ringstraße in thick clouds of whirling powder. Inside, Vivienne sat curled in a wingback chair by the crackling hearth, her woolen shawl…