Page 39 of The City of Stardust

“I made it clear that the Everlys were not to be helped,” she says. “And I don’t tolerate failure.”

She picks up the velvet bag of asteros cards and places them into the asteria’s hands. His body slumps at her feet.

A warning.

CHAPTER

Twenty

AWEEK LATER, VIOLETstands near the entrance of the MuseumsQuartier in Vienna. On either side, impressive buildings rise gracefully behind vast pavements. Signs in several different languages point tourists in various directions. Although it’s drizzling and the sky is a leaden grey, the weather does little to dim the spectacle.

Violet clutches the address tightly in one hand, her umbrella in the other. When she’d searched for it online, she assumed it would be for a house, or a flat. Not a room in one of the most renowned museums in the world. The Kunsthistorisches Museum sprawls in front of her, grand and thronging with crowds. A ripple of excitement shivers through her.

Come find me, Everly.Well, here she is.

She ducks into the queue, pays for the eye-wateringly expensive ticket and makes her way through the gilded atrium. A statue of Theseus beating a centaur takes pride of place on the staircase, Theseus’ club poised at the height of the killing blow. It looks so smooth, too clean for such a bloody act.

The museum is so large Violet loses her way more than once. Painted eyes watch her from beautiful landscapes and haughty portraits, as she moves from room to room. Twice, she whips around, certain that someone is watching her. But the tourists amble past with no concern for her, their gaze sliding from one artwork to the next.

It’s just nerves, she tells herself.

After nearly an hour of searching, she finds the room listed on the scrap of paper. It’s one of the smaller ones, filled with biblical depictions and pastoral scenes with lush greenery. There are fewer visitors, and no one lingers.

She examines every painting, then wanders the room in slow, looping circles, feeling increasingly foolish. Maybe the note wasn’t really meant for her, but for another Everly, no relation. Maybe she’s got the wrong room, or the writer has already given up on waiting for her.

Maybe she’s walked into a trap, and she just doesn’t know it yet.

On her fifth turn around the room, she hears footsteps. Behind her, a staff door opens and a curator steps out: a middle-aged man in professorial tweed, with wire-rimmed glasses and a grey beard. He sees her and his eyes light up.

“Marianne Everly, you took your time—” Then he stops and looks at her properly. “You’re not Marianne.”

“No,” Violet agrees.

The man frowns at her. “You have the look of an Everly.”

“I’m her daughter,” she says, then holds up the piece of paper. “You left this behind?”

“Scheisse.” He sighs and rubs his beard. “Oh hell, I suppose I should have known better than to expect Marianne to attend a party. It’s just, I heard the name Everly, and you were a woman, and I thought… Marianne’s daughter.” He says this as if trying out a phrase in a foreign language. “Huh.”

For some reason, this rubs Violet the wrong way, though it shouldn’t, given the amount of times she’s been mistaken for her mother despite the obvious age gap. Marianne’s daughter, her obedient shadow. The abridged edition.

“It’s Violet, actually,” she says instead, sticking out her hand.

The man shakes it firmly, his hands surprisingly calloused underneath her palm. “Johannes Braun. I think you would like an answer, yes? To my note.” He glances at several passing tourists. “But not here.”

With a hasty glance at the cameras, Johannes leads her through a door marked STAFF ONLY, swiping his key card. She follows him quickly through a maze of narrow corridors, squeezing past other staff members. Snatches of chatter drift in and out of her hearing.

Eventually, Johannes draws them into a small office, stacked high with books and files. Grainy CCTV images of various galleries flicker on an ancient TV balanced precariously at the top of a bookshelf. Between all the clutter, there’s just enough room for a desk and two faded armchairs, precariously worn. He gestures for Violet to sit; she does so gingerly, springsgloingingunderneath her, and leans her damp umbrella against the desk. Instead of joining her, however, he rummages through his cupboards, coughing occasionally as clouds of dust whirl upwards.

“Ah, here it is,” he says triumphantly.

He sets a photograph down on the desk in front of Violet. The quality is poor; a lens flare obscures most of the image. But there’s her mother. Young and defiant, her head tilted away from the camera. Next to her is a young man who might bear a passing resemblance to Johannes, his arm slung around her shoulders possessively.

“We were very good friends once,” Johannes says. “We were novices together, then assistants to the same master scholar. But I’m afraid we drifted apart afterwards.”

Violet deflates slightly. “You haven’t seen her, then.”

“Not in many years,” he acknowledges. “We had a bit of an argument and… Well, she was never much concerned with being liked. But you know that, of course.” He smiles to himself, his gaze suddenly distant. “She was so exceptionally talented. She had a mind like a knife. The other assistants used to complain endlessly—she would eviscerate them with a sentence, you see. But she was so clever, no teacher would discipline her.” He sighs. “We’ll never see a gift like hers again.”

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