In the Claws of the Eagle by Aubrey Flegg

say if her drink suddenly rose up and emptied itself into clean air? She chuckled; she was never quite sure whether Helena might not see her one of these days.
    â€˜Bless you, Lotte,’ Madame gasped. ‘Delicious!’ Then to the world at large, ‘We need a holiday.’
    â€˜The mistress was saying that too, only this morning, but all the hotels is booked, so she says.’
    Izaac looked disappointed, Madame Stronski, however, swirled the ice around in her glass as if thinking.
    â€˜I wonder?’ she said. Then she put her glass down and pulled herself upright. Izaac looked up questioningly. ‘Mödling …’ she said. ‘Friends of mine have gone to Prague for the summer months; they won’t be back till September. It’s a barn of a house. I’m sure they’d let me have it, but we’d haveto do for ourselves. It might not be so much of a holiday for you, Lotte. Would you mind?’
    â€˜Anything to get out of the heat here, Mam.’
    â€˜Just think, Izaac, you could be walking in the steps of Beethoven, Schubert, Wagner, Mozart; they all went to Mödling to work.’
    â€˜Work! Am I going to have to work?’
    â€˜Izaac, my love, an artist never ceases to work,’ she looked dreamy. ‘You lie under a tree watching the sky and you say you are working; you meet with friends, and you are working; you sleep, and you work in your sleep; you walk in the woods, and your friend Igor Stravinsky will walk beside you.’
    â€˜Heaven forbid,’ Izaac laughed, but Helena was beginning to lever herself up.
    â€˜Give me a hand, Izaac; I must talk to your mother. Come, Lotte.’
    They left the room. Louise, wondering if there was anyway that she could be included in this expedition, lingered. It was up to Izaac. He was staring into his glass … perhaps he was thinking of Stravinsky. She was struck by how tired he looked. He had been working so hard; they both had. A weary smile crossed his face.
    â€˜You’ll come too, won’t you?’ He said. Then, more seriously, ‘You’ve … you’ve … been a bit standoffish lately.’
    So he had noticed. Ever since that nearly disastrous concert when he had lost his place in his music, she had indeed been ‘a bit standoffish’. That flood of affection that had swept over her that night might not have had anything to do with his losing his way in his music, but it had affected her deeply. Why, oh why aren’t I able to love people just a little? she sighed to herself.
    â€˜I’d like to come, Izaac.’ Then, with a smile, ‘We can work on the Stravinsky together.’
    â€˜Not you as well!’ he groaned. ‘We will both go down on the Bim and we will walk in the Wienerwald, and listen to the birds singing, and pretend that we are working. Oh, will I have to bring your picture too?’ he asked.
    â€˜No,’ she laughed. ‘There were whole weeks when Gaston and I rode out ahead of the troops, miles in front of the baggage train where my picture was, but I knew it was there.’

    Izaac only had a rucksack and his violin to carry as they made their way around the Ring to where the tram for Mödling waited.
    Louise was glad when they left the suburbs of the city behind. To their right were the wooded slopes of the Wienerwald . To their left, stretches of golden corn and dusty stubble. Carts piled with sheaves of wheat waited for them at crossings. Girls, wearing broad straw hats and bright dresses, sat on top among the upright pitchforks. Izaac, relaxed now, told Louise how the flatlands to their left stretched as far as Hungary.
    She embraced the little town even as they tramped up the hill from the tramway below. It nestled into the side of the hill like a dog curled up in its basket. The dusty yellows of the fields merged with the orange glow of the tiled roofs. Pools of shade invited them in out of the searing heat. Above the