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“The orchestra is out of tune, the soprano is likely hiding in her dressing room praying for a miracle, and the audience smells of wet wool and desperation,” Gioachino whispers, his voice a jagged rasp.
He is pacing the narrow, velvet-choked wings of the Teatro San Moisè, his boots clicking a frantic, irregular rhythm against the floorboards. His chest feels like a caged bird, ribs straining against the stiff linen of his waistcoat. Every breath is shallow, tasting of ancient dust and candle wax. He is eighteen, a prodigy who has spent years commanding string sonatas from the podiums of Bologna, but today, the air in Venice feels too thick to swallow.
This is not a suite of instrumentals. This is *La cambiale di matrimonio*—a farsa, a gamble, a living thing of clockwork plots and comedic timing that could either soar or shatter upon the first note.
Beside him, Franz stands as a calm anchor in the storm. At thirteen, the Austrian is smaller in stature but possesses a stillness that borders on the monastic. He is leaning against a prop crate, his violin case open beside him, the instrument resting like a sleeping animal. He watches Gioachino with wide, perceptive eyes, noting the way the Italian’s fingers twitch rhythmically against his thighs.
“You are vibrating,” Franz observes, his voice low and steady, cutting through the cacophony of the tuning orchestra.
“I am vibrating because my soul is trying to exit through my pores,” Gioachino snaps, though there is no heat in it, only a raw, shivering anxiety. He stops abruptly, turning to face Franz, his eyes wide and searching. “What if the critics find it derivative? What if the audience laughs at the music rather than with the comedy? I have been an assistant conductor, yes, but I have never been the architect of the entire evening.”
Franz shifts, the movement fluid. He reaches out and grips Gioachino’s forearm. His hand is small but the grip is firm, the warmth of his palm searing through the fabric of the sleeve. It is a grounding touch, a physical tether that pulls Gioachino back from the ledge of a panic attack.
“You have proven yourself time and again,” Franz says. His voice is a quiet command, devoid of platitudes. Rather than a smile, he offers a hard, undeniable truth. “The music is precise. The melodies are infectious. The work is already done, Gioachino. Now, you simply let it happen.”
Gioachino looks at the heavy velvet curtain, the barrier between him and the judgment of Venice. His heart hammers a frantic presto against his sternum, a physical thrumming that makes his vision blur. He feels the sudden, irrational urge to bolt—to run out the stage door and disappear into the foggy labyrinth of the canals.
“Give me one good, solid reason I shouldn't turn back,” Gioachino breathes, his voice barely a whisper.
Franz lets go of his arm and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, handwritten ledger. He doesn't look up, his gaze fixed on the numbers. “This will earn you forty scudi,” Franz says flatly.
The mention of the money acts like a cold splash of water. Gioachino blinks, the tension in his shoulders snapping. He looks at Franz—the absurd, pragmatic brilliance of the boy—and feels a sudden, sharp laugh bubble up in his throat. The fear is still there, but it has shifted from a suffocating weight to a sharp, electric energy. He straightens his waistcoat, his fingers finally still. The conductor signals. The lights dim. Gioachino steps forward, the heat of the spotlights waiting to burn.