elrhiarhodan

Title: Orchestration - First Movement - Adagio
Author:  elrhiarhodan
Rating:  PG
Characters/Pairing: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Moz
Fandom:  White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1400 (Work in Progress)
Summary: A/U set in 18th Century Vienna. Neal is a composer struggling with the orchestration of his greatest work. Peter Burke, a wealthy Englishman, comes to him with an intriguing offer.

A/N - Written for a prompt left for me by the wonderful daria234, and while this is a work in progress, it is her birthday, and I wanted to write something just for her on this auspicious occasion.

No beta - all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Feedback is greatly appreciated.

______________________



Vienna, 1781

First Movement - Adagio

Neal tossed the quill on the desk, not caring that ink splattered all over the blotter and the dozens of half-filled sheets of staff paper. He was working on the orchestration for his newest opera, La Rivalité des Cygnes, and the project was giving him nothing but grief. He didn’t know how that prodigy, Mozart, did it, creating music as easily as he breathed. Of course, young Wolfgang was a feral child, vulgar and rude. He once joked that he could toss off a symphony as easily as tossing off a load of his seed, complete with the appropriate hand gestures.

Truth was - it wasn’t just the orchestration, it was the whole damn opera. The Rivalry of the Swans was supposed to be about two male swans fighting for the rivalry of a female, and the whole struggle watched over by the gods. But instead, it had turned deviant - the two rivals were longing for each other, and they shared the willing affection of the female. Of course, none of that was explicitly stated, but it was in the libretto - the lyrics - even how he drew out the staging, the ballets, the arias.

If he presented this at court, he’d lose his patronage and perhaps even his life. He was no Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who could scandalize all of nobel Vienna with songs about shit and drunken copuluations with animals. No, he was Neal Caffrey, half-Irish upstart, the bastard son of the Archbishop of Dublin and the sister of the Prince-Bishop of Passau. He couldn’t mount an opera about the illicit love of two men and the woman they shared - even if such a love was ordained and accepted by gods of Olympus. His patron, Prince Nikolaus of Esterházy, was a tolerant man, but even he had limits.

Neal wanted to toss the entire manuscript into the flames and forget about it, but he couldn’t. He knew it was good - maybe even great. It was pity it would never be seen.

As he was straightening up his desk, shuffling the sheets of the libretto back into its portfolio, there was a knock on his door. Mozkóvitz, his manservant, stomped out from the small quarters in the back of his apartments to answer it. The small man was strange, probably stole from him, and had more attitude than a courtier at the Emperor’s court, but was surprisingly useful in some surprisingly strange ways.

Neal had shoved the last of the leaves into the portfolio when Mozkóvitz ushered an unexpected and somewhat unwelcome guest into his music room.

“Graf von Burke, your worshipfulness.” The manservant’s sarcasm was grating. Mozkóvitz - or simply Moz - had little patience for the court nobility - high or low - which was the only reason Neal could afford to keep him. His attitude made him unemployable elsewhere. He had the unfortunate habit of adding titles to those who were not noble and diminishing or eliminating titles for those who were.

“It’s just plain Herr Burke - or Mister Burke. I am a mere second son, and hold no title.” The man’s patience with his servant’s oddities pleased Neal.

Moz shrugged and left them alone. Eventually he’d be back, with coffee or chocolate or pastries - whatever was in the small kitchen. But Neal knew better than to wait.

“Master Burke, what can I do for you?” Neal spoke English - it had been a while since he conversed in his native tongue.

“Peter, please.” The older man smiled and Neal tried not to get flustered. The invitation to this informality was certainly in keeping with his Englishness.

“Peter, then. What brings you here?” He wasn’t normally this blunt.

The other man gave him a sly smile, as if he recognized Neal’s nervousness.

“I have heard that you are working on a new opera.”

Neal schooled his expression. “You have?”

“Hmmm, yes.” Peter sat down on the bench at the fortepiano. Despite the man’s stunning height, he was perfectly at ease in front of the small, delicate instrument.

Neal didn’t quite know what to say. “Umm, who did you hear this from?”

“I notice you’re not denying it.”

“I may have a composition in the works.” Neal didn’t want to lie - he didn’t want to curse the piece.

“I’ve heard you are having some trouble with it.”

“You hear a lot of things, Master Burke.”

The man gave him a wolfish smile. “I thought I said to call me Peter.”

Neal sighed. This was not going well. “Why are you interested in what I may or may not be working on?”

“Hmmm.” Peter didn’t answer, but turned around and faced the keyboard. He flipped the lid opened and started to play. For a big man, he had a surprisingly delicate touch. The piece, a reworking of a Telemann concerto, one of Neal’s favorites*, had a quick and lively tempo with an underscore of darkness.

Peter finished with a flourish and closed the keyboard. “Lovely instrument.”

Neal gave him a small, tight smile. “Yes, it is.” He went over to the sideboard and pour a glass of madeira and downed in a single gulp.

“I wouldn’t mind a glass myself.”

Neal closed his eyes, prayed for something. Patience, maybe. Moz wouldn’t be too happy about having to hide a body. Another body.. Besides, he was rather fond of this position, these rooms, that fortepiano. Having to flee would do no one any good. And his opera would never be finished.

Neal poured Peter a glass of wine and handed it to him with surprisingly steady hands. He watched as the man drank. He watched with patience and fortitude, imagining himself a lion on some great, grassy plain, seeking his prey. It didn’t work, since Master Burke was clearly the lion in this room and he was the prey.

Peter finished his wine and set the glass down. “Oh, relax Neal. I’m not going to eat you.”

Neal thought about begging and was about to resort to very undignified behavior, when Peter’s lips lost that smirk.

“I understand you are having difficulty with the orchestration of your new opera.”

Neal nodded.

“And you are unwilling to let anyone assist you.”

Neal licked his lips. “I don’t see the need…”

“I’ve heard that the libretto rivals anything that Herr Mozart has written. A story of fantastical creatures, of myth and legend.”

Neal sucked in his breath. “How in Dante’s ninth circle can you know that? No one has seen it.” Moz wouldn’t have told anyone, especially not Peter Burke.

Peter smiled. “No one except a rather literate and well-paid char-lady.”

Neal closed his eyes and tilted his head to the heavens.

“It’s also a rather unusual story. I’m interested in your inspiration.”

“Master Burke - Peter. I am but a poor composer - my patron is a generous and patient man, but he will cut me off without a second thought for the work you’re talking about.”

“I am well aware of Prince Esterházy’s reputation, and you’re right. There isn’t a noble in the entire court who would take you on if you mounted an opera about a woman who has carnal relations with both her suitors.”

Neal breathed a sigh of relief. Burke didn’t know the worst of it.

His relief was short lived. “And those suitors were indulging themselves as well.” Peter delicately continued.

Neal turned towards the mantle and buried his head in his hands. “You really want to destroy me.”

He didn’t hear Burke get up, but suddenly the man was standing behind him. Very close. His lips were right at his ear.

“What would you say if I funded your opera?

To be continued

*Concerto polonios in G major - 43:G7 - For Strings and Basso Continuo