“The young ladies of the De Mare family are truly multi-talented! The second daughter has such remarkable achievements in theology, and now the eldest daughter is composing music!”
The nun in charge of hymns at the Great Basilica, having received the sheet music submitted by Isabella, beamed with a wide smile. Isabella, displeased at being placed in parallel with Ariadne, forced a polite laugh before collecting herself.
Considering how monumental the affair of the Apostle of Acereto had been, perhaps it was a profitable deal to be considered on the same level without lifting a finger.
“It’s a full orchestral score. We’re practicing in sections, and we will invite you, the composer, on the day we gather to rehearse. Please come and see if your vision is being realized.”
Isabella flashed the nun a smile as radiant as a peony in May, determined to show off properly when she gathered her friends that day. Her half-sister, who was of no great consequence, had been receiving far too much praise from the marketplace. It was time to show everyone who the true queen among the peers of San Carlo really was.
* * *
Since Isabella was a young lady who had made her debut the previous year, she could invite her peers in her own name. Another privilege of a debutante was the ability to make day trips to respectable places—such as the church, the royal palace, or a friend’s house—without the accompaniment of her mother.
The Great Basilica, where the first ensemble performance of the Missa Brevis composed by Isabella was to take place, was the perfect venue for such an outing. The plan was simple: enjoy the performance, move to the nearby cardinal’s residence with her friends for afternoon tea, accept the customary praise for her beauty, offer some modest compliments in return, and disperse feeling fully satisfied.
Of course, Lucrezia, who was head over heels for Isabella, insisted she could not miss such a historic day and stubbornly refused to be left out. Despite Isabella’s annoyance, Lucrezia promised firmly not to interfere from afar and eventually tagged along to the social gathering. Arabella, desperate to see her own piece—or rather, the piece she claimed as her own—performed, begged to follow and joined them as well.
Isabella’s friends were gathering one by one at the Great Basilica. Julia, daughter of the Marquis De Baldessar, was the most prominent of them, and Camellia of the Barony of Castiglione, three years her senior, was a “friend” selected to perform various social duties.
Before Isabella had appeared, Camellia had been the most beautiful young lady in high society. Because Baron Castiglione had significant income outside of his feudal lands through sericulture, Camellia possessed a successful fiancé despite her relatively low status. The low-born Camellia was only welcomed by Isabella when she brought her fiancé, the young Count Ottavio De Contarini, and his friends along—unless it was an occasion where Isabella was displaying her “friends,” those beautiful young ladies, like a bouquet of flowers.
Today, too, Ottavio and his friends had been invited through Camellia. Among them was Count Cesare De Como, a prize in high society who, excluding Prince Alfonso, received the most attention from the young ladies of San Carlo.
The guests were arriving one by one. Isabella, who had been setting up flower decorations and tea tables in the front row of the Great Basilica, brightened upon seeing Camellia arrive.
“Camellia! You’ve arrived early.”
“Not at all, Lady De Mare. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Oh, please, call me by my name. Since this is my first composition, who else would I invite but my dear Camellia, whose insight into music is so profound?”
Isabella, having greeted Camellia with practiced warmth, sat down to chat. When she focused on someone, locking them in her gaze, she radiated a charm that captivated even the most wary of women.
Soon, Julia, daughter of Marquis De Baldessar, arrived, followed by Camellia’s fiancé, Ottavio, and his circle. The front row, reserved for guests at the Great Basilica, began to stir with activity.
“Ottavio, you are always so amusing.”
Isabella offered a crescent-moon smile, her eyes sparkling as she complimented Camellia’s fiancé. Camellia’s expression stiffened, but she dared not protest.
To address the man by his first name—bypassing the formality of “young master of Contarini” or the polite “Signor Ottavio”—was a blatant transgression. But that was Isabella’s specialty; she knew exactly how to overstep boundaries in a way that men, while pretending not to notice, inwardly adored.
“By the way, is Count Cesare running late?”
Isabella tossed the question to Ottavio, struggling to mask her impatience behind a casual air.
“When have you ever known Count Cesare to be punctual? He’s likely still stirring from his sleep, busy being groomed. He’s not one to miss the main event, though. Let’s proceed without him for now.”
Isabella nodded, a smile fixed on her lips, and the musicians behind the podium began to prepare.
As the conductor raised his baton, they struck the opening notes.
*Pam-bam-bam.*
*Diriring.*
*Dandara-ran.*
The sounds wove together into a single, complex tapestry. With a flourish of the conductor’s hand, the melody surged with intensity, then softened to a mere whisper.
Isabella felt a rush of ecstasy. To think that all these people were moving in perfect order, obeying commands for a piece she had “written”! Perhaps she should take up conducting as a hobby.
Though the piece was not truly hers, she had already fully rationalized the lie in her mind.
Just as the performance reached its peak, the music took a jarring turn. All other instruments fell silent, replaced by an abrupt, jarring pipe organ solo. It was so disjointed that any claim to musical cohesion vanished.
The organ played for sixteen bars, and then, without rhyme or reason, the string section crashed back in. Even Isabella—who knew little of music and had been on the verge of yawning—widened her eyes in genuine shock.
From a dark corner, Arabella watched, her chin resting on her hand. Watching her own work performed in the real world felt surreal, yet she felt no thrill. It should have been her sitting in that front row. She tried to remind herself that the pipe organ she’d received as payment made it a fair trade, but her heart remained heavy.
Then came the solo. Arabella instinctively bit her right thumb.
*‘Gasp!’*
The sheet music must have been swapped. There was no pipe organ solo in her original *Missa Brevis*.
*‘The sheet music for the lute solo—the original version before the arrangement—must have been accidentally tucked into the full score!’*
As Arabella chewed her nail, the conductor on the podium turned toward Isabella.
“Lady De Mare, the ensemble has concluded. Did you find it to your liking? We were quite confused during the performance—why was the pipe organ solo included in the middle?”
Isabella didn’t blink. She offered a smooth, nonchalant lie.
“I wanted to emphasize the melody in that particular section.”
“Ah… That is a bold musical challenge.”
The conductor appeared visibly flustered. To anyone with even a passing knowledge of music, the score contained a glaring structural error. Julia, the daughter of Marquis De Baldessar and a skilled harpist, tilted her head and whispered something into the ear of the young man beside her.
Expecting Isabella to smooth over the inconsistency, the conductor asked with a stutter, “The sheet music is… at this pace, the pipe organ solo feels quite disjointed. It jumps abruptly from a ‘Do’ to a ‘La.’ Even a virtuoso couldn’t bridge that with one hand. Even if it were intentional, it’s practically impossible to perform. Could you play it through with me once to see if we might revise it?”
Isabella was truly, deeply rattled.
“You want me to play it?”
She could not read sheet music with any real proficiency. As an organist, she was a novice who required days of rote practice to stumble through a single piece.
She hadn’t even bothered to open the manuscript for Arabella’s *Missa Brevis*, assuming that simply presenting the pages would suffice. Had she glanced at the score even once, she would have noticed the discrepancy and avoided this trap. As it stood, she had never practiced it; even if someone held a knife to her throat, Isabella could not play that passage.
“A professional performer can’t even manage that scale? Are you really a professional?”
Instead of answering, Isabella’s panic flared into indignation. She cast a desperate look toward Arabella, who sat in the corner of the Great Basilica—a silent, sharp demand for a solution.
But the moment their eyes met, Arabella, interpreting the look as a different kind of permission, sprang up like a shot.
“No, that’s not it! Do you have any graphite here?”
When a priest hurried over with graphite and staff paper, Arabella began filling in the score without a moment’s hesitation.
“The string section was missing. It wasn’t an intentional omission.”
Possessed by a sudden, frantic focus, Arabella filled five sheets of staff paper with swift, fluid strokes, skillfully correcting the introductory pipe organ solo as she went.
“The leap in the scale wasn’t intentional. How is a human hand supposed to span that? A full measure was missing right here.”
She handed the five completed pages to the conductor, even specifying where they should be inserted, before finally surveying the restless room.
Isabella was biting her lip. Around them, the invited guests were whispering in heated clusters.
— “What is this? She isn’t the composer?”
— “No wonder. I’d never heard that Isabella De Mare had any musical talent; I was surprised she was dedicating a composition for the Consecration Mass at all.”
— “To steal not just anyone’s work, but her own sister’s… she truly has no conscience.”
While Isabella’s circle of friends muttered amongst themselves, Camellia Castiglione, who had been vocal in her disdain for Isabella, looked positively delighted.
“Enough!”
Lucrezia, who had been observing from the sidelines, stepped forward.
“It seems there has been a misunderstanding.”
Rising from the shadows and striding toward the center of the podium, Lucrezia projected an air of cold intimidation, magnified by her height and regal attire.
She swept her gaze across the young lords and ladies, her tone a warning.
“This piece was composed by both my elder and younger daughters in collaboration. The primary musical concepts were provided by my elder daughter, while my younger daughter handled the technical details.”
Lucrezia fixed her eyes on those who had been chatting most fervently, choosing her words with icy precision.
“Isabella made a significant contribution. Indeed, it is accurate to say the piece was primarily created by Isabella. I would prefer that no unfounded gossip circulate further.”
At Lucrezia’s firm words, a man leaning against the stone pillar of the Great Basilica stepped forward, a low chuckle escaping him.
“Does it really work that way, beautiful Lucrezia?”
It was Count Cesare De Como. He looked impeccably stylish, draped in green deerskin boots, matching gloves, and a hat adorned with vibrant kingfisher feathers.