The exhilarating, genre-bending sequel to the sensational New York Times bestseller City of Dark Magic
“If you’re looking for a time-travel mystery with laughs, danger, and a romantic interest clad in lederhosen (and who isn’t?), look no further.”
—People (4 Stars)
In this action-packed sequel to City of Dark Magic, we find musicologist Sarah Weston in Vienna in search of a cure for her friend Pollina, who is now gravely ill and who may not have much time left. Meanwhile, Nicolas Pertusato, in London in search of an ancient alchemical cure for the girl, discovers an old enemy is one step ahead of him. In Prague, Prince Max tries to unravel the strange reappearance of a long dead saint while being pursued by a seductive red-headed historian with dark motives of her own.
In the city of Beethoven, Mozart, and Freud, Sarah becomes the target in a deadly web of intrigue that involves a scientist on the run, stolen art, seductive pastries, a few surprises from long-dead alchemists, a distractingly attractive horseman who’s more than a little bloodthirsty, and a trail of secrets and lies. But nothing will be more dangerous than the brilliant and vindictive villain who seeks to bend time itself. Sarah must travel deep into an ancient mystery to save the people she loves.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
After the uproar over the publication of his first novel, City of Dark Magic, Magnus Flyte retreated to his dacha in the Urals, where he enjoys exploring underground tributaries of the Ufa, observing the mating habits of the spotted nutcracker, and smelting. Mr. Flyte is currently at work on a half-hour television comedy about sixteenth-century ethnographer Sigismund von Herberstein, entitled Ural I Love.
Magnus Flyte is a pseudonym for the writing duo of Meg Howrey and Christina Lynch. Howrey is the author of the novles The Cranes Dance and Blind Sight. She lives in Los Angeles. Lynch, who lives near Sequoia National Park, is a television writer and journalist.
The follow-up to City of Dark Magic (2012) finds musicologist Sarah Weston in Vienna, trying to find a cure for her young friend Pollina’s rare autoimmune disease. Nico, the dwarf made immortal in 1601 by the astronomer-alchemist Tycho Brahe, has his own idea about a cure, but it involves some pretty scary ancient technologies. Meanwhile, Sarah is trying to track down another doctor, but he has vanished, leaving behind an old clock apparently stolen from the British Museum; and as much as she’s reluctant to ask former lover Max Anderson for help, he’s the guy with the museum connections. Oh, and let’s not forget Westonia, the time-travel drug, and the villainous woman operating behind the scenes as a sort of puppetmaster. Trying to assign this book to a genre would probably result in a headache, so just think of it as a blend of urban fantasy, romantic comedy, and time-travel adventure, with an extra twist of weirdness. Flyte—a pseudonym for the team of novelist Meg Howrey and TV writer Christina Lynch—keeps things moving at a brisk clip, not giving us a chance to pick at any loose threads. Lots of fun. --David Pitt
At least, Sarah thought, she wasn’t the only one at the police station in a Dirndl, though hers was the only one with a side seam busted open. She counted a half dozen people in ball costumes, two of them in handcuffs, singing a spirited version of “Das Schönste auf der Welt” at the top of their lungs. The officer who was transcribing Sarah’s statement looked up at the serenaders, frowned, then informed Sarah that the song was a fine one if sung properly, in tune.
Well, she had definitely arrived in Vienna.
There had been quite a scene with the police. After Sarah had explained to the officers what she was doing in the lab and they had holstered their guns, one officer had been dispatched to collect Alessandro from the Platz. By then, Nina Fischer had arrived.
It was Nina who had sent the police to the lab. Bettina Müller, it seemed, had phoned Nina in a panic, saying she had gotten a text from a blocked number telling her that her laboratory had been broken into.
“But she couldn’t come herself,” Nina explained. “Because she was already on a train.”
Sarah, Nina, and Alessandro were all taken to the station to make statements. They filled out form after form, repeating all their information, and signing reports. Neither the Polizei nor Nina was able to reach Bettina Müller, who, by the end of the evening, was under suspicion of having stolen her own laptop from herself..
“Perhaps she is not getting phone reception on the train,” Nina offered, outside the police station.
“Do you know where she lives?” Sarah asked. “I’m sorry. I’m really not a crazy stalker. It’s just that I urgently need to speak with her. She did invite me to the lab tonight. . . .” If she had even sent that message.
“I don’t.” Nina raked her fingers through her pink hair. “Somewhere near the Naschmarkt, I think. She always breakfasts there. Shit. But, look, she should be back by Friday at the latest. That’s when our team always meets. And there is a concert that night, at the Konzerthaus. She never misses when Kapellmeister Schmitt is conducting.”
“I’ll stay till then,” Sarah said, frustrated. “Maybe she’ll be back in touch.”
Sarah headed to the Naschmarkt, feeling melancholy, which wasn’t helped by a drizzle of cold rain. She ordered a Melange, the Austrian equivalent of a latte, and a Topfengolatsche, which was Austrian for “You have gone to pastry heaven. You’re welcome.” Sugar inspired, Sarah wondered if maybe Nina Fischer knew of any similar work to Bettina’s being done somewhere else. Sarah thought she had run down every other avenue when she was in Boston, but maybe . . .
Her phone beeped.
I had to leave. My life is in danger.
What the hell?
Dr. Müller? Sarah texted back. Where are you? And how do I know this is you?
After a moment, her phone beeped again. There was a photo of her own cover letter on Pols’s medical records. Then another message.
I can help your friend. Will you help me?
Sarah strode through the Naschmarkt, searching the stalls for a glimpse of Bettina. Had she not left town after all? Was she following Sarah? What game was this woman playing? Another message arrived.
There is something in the refrigerator of my apartment that must be returned. Use maximum discretion. No police.
Whatever was in the refrigerator, Sarah was guessing it wasn’t leftovers.
What is it? And who do I return it to?
But the return message read only: Paniglgasse 18. The concierge will let you in. Tell no one or I will not help you.
How do I know YOU WILL HELP ME? Sarah texted furiously. This wasn’t what she had imagined would happen in Vienna. This wasn’t how scientists operated. . . . This was as bad as fucking Prague!
I can save your friend. Do this for me. I will contact you tomorrow.
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