The String Diaries by Stephen Lloyd Jones

three-storey townhouse with tall leaded windows. A boy came out to lead away their cart and horses while another servant conveyed them inside. After brief introductions with Szilárd, Lukács was shepherded into a dressing room where clothing had been laid out for him.
    The polished shoes he recognised; the rest of the outfit he had never seen before. While it resembled the formal evening wear worn by the nobility in and around Gödöllö, the cloth and the tailoring before him was of an even finer standard.
    Wearily, he peeled off his travel clothes. He washed himself using water from a jug a servant had left him, then pulled on dark trousers and a stiff white shirt. The winged tips scratched at his neck. He tied a white silk bow tie at his throat, shrugged into the waistcoat and finally the wide-lapelled frock coat. Its fabric was heavy, smooth, luxurious.
    On a separate side table, the last item waiting for him was a polished pewter mask. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The artistry was stunning. He remembered the lengthy sitting he had endured six months earlier; the pewter face bore an unsettling resemblance to his own, although the artist had clearly used licence in its construction. The mask’s expression conveyed strength, confidence, compassion – qualities he suspected his father had requested, rather than anything the visiting journeyman had witnessed for himself.
    At nine o’clock that evening, obediently following József, Lukács climbed into an enclosed black carriage. The sun was setting as their driver turned on to the Széchenyi chain bridge that linked Pest in the east to Buda on the west bank. The bridge sat upon two enormous stone river piers, the roadbed suspended by chains of iron, each link several yards long. It was the only bridge in Hungary to have mastered the Danube.
    ‘See the stone lions?’ his father asked, pointing at the guardians on each abutment. ‘I knew the sculptor, Marschalkó. A fine man. They say the famous bronze lions of Trafalgar Square are based on them. Such mastery.’
    As they crossed the bridge, Lukács studied the vast edifice of Buda Palace on the opposite bank. The building overwhelmed the hill on which it stood, its tall walls of stone, washed golden in the setting sun, rising up proud of the surrounding trees. Verdigris roofs, turrets and domes blazed with colour.
    ‘The finest building in Europe,’ József told him. ‘Graced tonight with the finest of its residents. You’re privileged indeed, my son. I’ve never visited the ballroom. They say its opulence is not to be matched.’
    Their carriage clattered up the hill, rolling to a stop in front of the palace entrance. József laid a hand on Lukács’s shoulder and reached into a pocket. ‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘I have something for you. Tonight you become a man. It’s fitting that as my son, you wear my finest work.’ From his pocket he withdrew a gold watch on a heavy chain. ‘This is yours. I’ve kept it from you until tonight. I’ve been working on it this last year. You won’t find a more accurate, finely balanced piece, even if I say so myself. Here, take it.’
    Stunned, Lukács took the watch from his father, immediately feeling its weight. He opened the hunter case and gazed at its face, marvelling at the craftsmanship, and the work that must have gone into it. Turning it over, he saw an inscription on the back plate.
    Balázs Lukács
    Végzet 1873
    ‘I don’t know what to say, Father.’
    ‘Then say nothing. Go. Don’t lose it. Put on your mask before you open the carriage door. And take this purse. You shan’t need it but you should have money. Make me proud, son. I wish you well. Whatever happens tonight . . .’ His father paused. Then he nodded towards the door. ‘Go on. It’s time.’
    Lukács followed two footmen through the palace grounds as the sun dipped below the hill. Candlelight shone out of a plethora of palace windows. Once through the grand