The Keeper of Secrets by Julie Thomas

deep and guttural.
    “It is magnificent,” Rafael said, drawing level with him.
    “I sometimes wonder what my father would make of it. He was such faithful servant of the Party, and he lived such a gray life, an ordered life.”
    “But do you miss what you’ve never experienced? He was probably happy, yes?”
    “I doubt that. He hated the rewards they gave my grandpapa for being a war hero; all he wanted was to serve the Motherland. Such limited dreams, no vision. For all we know, my friend, there may be gold in these hills. This house could be built on top of a billion-dollar fortune.”
    “Shall we bring shovels next time?”
    Valentino turned to stare at him and then laughed, the cupid bow lips moist and red.
    “Very good, Raffy. I get the license from the prince and you organize shovels for your orchestra.”
    Rafael laughed.
    “Something tells me there’s a joke here about the Anvil Chorus, I just can’t quite find it. Have you added Tatiana to tonight’s program?”
    Valentino swung around to face back toward the room. His fleshy hand held a long glass of bloodred liquid. Rafael guessed it was Campari and soda.
    “Do you want to hear her?”
    “Of course.”
    “But you actually want to hear the Guarneri.”
    “That too.”
    “You are master diplomat. Yes, I had the violin sent over for her. She’s doing very well, Maestro Montenagro says she has enormous talent. But she doesn’t want to play the way he teach her; he’s so structured, she plays by instinct. It’s the gypsy in her.”
    “There must be room for all kinds of expression. I don’t believe in limiting a young person’s passion. If you restrict creativity too much, you know, shut it in a box when it’s still developing, sometimes it dies.”
    Valentino glanced at him sharply. “She has said words like this to you?”
    “No, no, nothing at all. I was actually thinking of someone else entirely. I will enjoy her sound, however she plays. She could play ‘Three Blind Mice’ on that instrument and it would sound heavenly, no? By the way, Sergei, have you had a call from Jeremy Browne?”
    The Russian put his glass on the wall and lit a cigarette.
    “About the Traviata gala? It is settled.”
    “He hasn’t invited you to dinner then?”
    “No, what does he want now? More money?”
    “Quite probably.” Rafael glanced at his watch. “I had better check on Mr. Psliwesky and make sure he can hold his cello. The preperformance nerves, they are going to play a big part in this young man’s career.”
    “Give him vodka.”
    “He’s Polish and he doesn’t drink.”
    Valentino grunted.
    “And he wants to be star? Tell Misha to start herding them into the music room.”
    O nce again Tatiana followed Jan Psliwesky on his cello, and she waited impatiently for the enthusiastic applause to die down before she climbed the half-dozen stairs to the raised platform. There were around four hundred people standing in the vast room. The tapestries that lined the walls featured intricate designs of treble clefts in silver and gold thread, interspersed with famous musical figures playing their instruments. Heavy gold curtains hung at the huge windows, and the floor was dark polished wood. Above the audience the ceilings were covered in lavishly painted frescoes.
    As well as the best emerging talent from the symposium, paintings by new artists adorned the public rooms of Valentino’s huge house, and sculptures sat on pedestals where they could be admired. An invitation to participate guaranteed a flood of offers of work. At the end of the evening, he would announce some of his contributions for the next twelve months, sometimes without bothering to tell the recipients beforehand. He liked to surprise people and demonstrate the power that his money gave him.
    Tatiana’s sleeveless gown, in midnight-blue velvet with Swarovski crystals sparkling on the bodice, clung to the curves of her long body. Her thick chestnut-colored hair was held back in a