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pointed toward the small garden that lay beyond the courtyard, and I carried the tray over and placed it on a table next to the garden bench.
    Sophie extricated herself from the embraces of the goat and came to me. “It’s my sixteenth birthday, signore. We’re having a country party, like the queen of France.” The emperor’s younger sister, Maria Antonia, had built a rustic hamlet on the grounds of the great palace of Versailles, where she and her lady’s maids escaped from the boredom of court life and played at being shepherdesses.
    â€œI think the royal farm animals are more obedient than this goat,” Sophie added. I smiled at her. She never failed to charm me, with her pleasing features, shapely figure, laughing gray eyes, and friendly smile.
    Stefan captured the goat and tied a length of rope around its neck. “I’ll take him back to Hoffer,” he said, dragging the animal out of the courtyard.
    â€œThank you, Stefan,” my landlady called. “Would you like a punch, signore?”
    â€œOh no, thank you, Madame Lamm. I’ll just go up to my room.”
    â€œThere’s a cold supper in the kitchen when you are ready,” she said.
    I thanked her and went into the house and up to my room on the second floor. I dropped my satchel on the floor, crossed to the cupboard and put my cloak on a hook, and then took off my coat and waistcoat and hung them next to the cloak. My eyes fell on the pocket of my cloak. I sighed, then pulled out the message I had received that morning. I had put off looking at it long enough. I broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read the contents:
    33    27    54    71    52    33    61    33    28    55
    Verrò
    21 aprile
    â€œI am coming. April 21,” the Italian read. I had no idea what the string of numbers meant.
    I went to my desk and took a folded packet of paper from its small drawer. It was a duplicate of the newest one, again hastily addressed to me at the theater, with the same messy, unmarked seal. My hands shook as I unfolded it and placed it by the newest message. My eyes traveled between the two pages, comparing the contents. They were the same.
    Loud laughter came from the street below my window as Sophie’s party broke up. I studied the messages. What was the meaning of the numbers? Was someone toying with me for his own amusement, or did he have more sinister motives? What was going to happen on April 21, seven days from now?
    As I stared at the notes, my mind full of worry, the happiness I had gained from an afternoon with an old friend completely unraveled.

 
    Two
    The next morning I worked for an hour in my office, then took my Don Giovanni libretto and went upstairs to the main hall of the theater. Workmen were arranging chairs on the stage, where Mozart and I would continue leading the cast through the libretto and score we had written for the performances in Prague. We had already worked through the first act and part of the second act of the opera last week. These preliminary rehearsals were very informal—Mozart would accompany the singers on a fortepiano as they tried out their arias. Later, once we had determined what changes must be made, we would begin rehearsing with the orchestra. I stood down in the parterre watching Thorwart, the assistant theater manager, directing the workers on the stage.
    Most of the cast members had already arrived and sat chatting with one another in the seats behind me. The company had changed members since Mozart and I had last worked together on The Marriage of Figaro two years ago. Only three singers from that cast remained—the talented and handsome bass Francesco Benucci; the delicate soprano Luisa Laschi, now the prima donna of the company, heavy with child; and the scowling Francesco Bussani. New to the company were two men who had just arrived in