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deepened. "Mary, nothing makes up for the plumbing in the here and how. But that's not why I was wincing. I simply can't for the life of me understand—never could—why anyone would applaud a performer who subjected them to that damn harpsichord. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. It's like listening to a concerto for nails-scratching-a-blackboard and orchestra."
    Mary chuckled. "Well, take heart. Our very own Marla is up next."
    That announcement caused John Simpson to lean back in his chair with some degree of anticipation. Mary had always had protégés in the past. Marla Linder was the latest; a young woman Mary had discovered in Grantville who, while she might not be a prodigy, was clearly gifted. She had been their guest in Magdeburg the last few weeks, preparing for this concert. Having heard her singing snippets of songs around their townhouse, John was actually looking forward to hearing her.
    The harpsichord had been moved out of the way and the grand piano muscled into position. John joined the applause as Marla came out, gave a nod of her head in acknowledgment, then sat and began. Several selections followed, all sounding somewhat familiar to him, ending with a Chopin showpiece. Loud applause erupted. After it died down, John leaned over to Mary. "I think that made Signor Frescobaldi sound a bit insipid." He smiled at her frown.
    Marla returned, taking a stand in front of the piano. What followed was remarkable, even to John's less than trained ears. Song followed song, lyrical, polished, enrapting; classical was followed by show tunes, ending with Christmas music. Some were sung as duets or ensembles, one with her violinist fiancé Franz Sylwester, but most were solos. The final piece was "Ave, Maria," during which John looked over to see a bit of moisture in Mary's eyes. Truth to tell, he had a bit of a lump in his own throat.
     
    After the concert was over, John Simpson waited while his wife did her usual gadding about, congratulating the performers, chatting with—or chatting up, rather—various key members of the nobility and wealthy merchants present, comparing notes quickly with Amalie Elizabeth and the abbess of Quedlinburg. The usual conspiratorial business of the dame of Magdeburg, in her drive to turn the brand new USE's brand new capital city into one of Europe's cultural powerhouses.
    To Simpson's amusement, some of the city's newspapers were already starting to use that title for her. He wondered if they'd come up with it on their own, or if somehow they'd discovered that in a different universe Pittsburgh's newspapers had often called her "the Dame of the Three Rivers" and decided it was catchy.
    Whatever. Over the years, he'd learned to be patient about the whole business, even though he had very little interest in the matter himself. As one of Pittsburgh's premier industrialists, he'd found Mary's constant cultural and philanthropic enterprises had added a great deal to his own prestige and status. Now as an admiral in the USE's growing little navy— the admiral, really—he knew her activities would have the same effect. More so, probably, in this world than the one they'd left behind.
    So, he waited. Still, it was with some relief that he was finally able to escort her out of the palace. He hadn't let any of it show, but he was actually quite concerned about that industrial accident. True, the location of it wasn't close enough to the navy yard to pose any direct threat to his own enterprises. But as stretched thin as all of Magdeburg's industries were, any major disaster would have an impact—especially since his naval building projects were the main customer for a lot of those industries.
    As soon as they stepped out of the palace onto the portico, his concern spiked sharply. The portico was elevated a good fifteen feet above the rest of Magdeburg—a city whose terrain was as flat as a pancake, where it wasn't outright marshland—with a wide stone staircase descending to the street below. From