Frank Tallis, acclaimed author of the Edgar Award–nominated Vienna Secrets, returns with a new and masterfully woven tale full of deceit, love, and rich mystery. Set in fin de siècle Vienna, it’s perfect for fans of Boris Akunin, Alan Furst, and David Liss.   Ida Rosenkranz is top diva at the Vienna Opera, but she’s gone silent for good after an apparent laudanum overdose. Learning of her professional rivalries and her scandalous affairs with older men, Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt and Dr. Max Liebermann suspect foul play instead. Their investigation leads them into dark and dangerous conflicts with Gustav Mahler, the opera’s imperious director, who is himself the target of a poison pen campaign, and Karl Lueger, Vienna’s powerful and anti-Semitic mayor. As the peril escalates, Rheinhardt grows further into his role as family man, while Liebermann finds himself at odds with his inamorata, Amelia, who’s loosening both her corset and her tongue in the new feminist movement.   PRAISE FOR FRANK TALLIS’S VIENNA THRILLERS   “[A] captivating historical series.”— The New York Times Book Review   “[A] riveting read . . . with well researched and wonderfully imagined period detail.”— The Guardian (U.K.), on Vienna Twilight   “Chock-full of tantalizing elements.”— The Austin Chronicle, on Vienna Secrets   “Engrossing . . . immensely satisfying.”— The Boston Globe, on Fatal Lies "Tallis does his usual fine job bringing turn-of-the-20th-century Vienna to life." --Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) "As in his previous series entries, Edgar-nominated writer and practicing clinical psychologist Tallis masterfully evokes period and place. Among the many pleasures here is the presence of real-life characters from the era, including moody composer and conductor Gustav Mahler and controversial psychiatrist Sigmund Freud." --Booklist Frank Tallis is a writer and clinical psychologist. He has written self-help manuals, non-fiction for the general reader, academic textbooks, more than thirty academic papers in international journals, and seven previous novels. Between 1999 and 2011 he received or was shortlisted for numerous awards, including the New London Writers Award, the CWA Ellis Peters Historical Dagger, the prix des letrices de Elle, and an Edgar. His critically acclaimed Liebermann series has been translated into fourteen languages and optioned for television. 1 Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt--a portly gentleman with a turned‑up mustache and world-weary expression--was standing on the sidewalk of a wide tree-lined road. The fog of the previous evening had persisted, and the buildings on both sides were only faintly visible as shadowy cubes, spaced apart at regular intervals. It had been a slow and perilous journey by horse-drawn cab, visibility deteriorating as they’d gained altitude. Indeed, they had only narrowly escaped involvement in a serious collision next to the Kaiser Pavilion. Rheinhardt turned to address his assistant. “Search the grounds, Haussmann. See if you can find anything.” “But, sir . . .” “Yes, I know that conditions are far from ideal,” said Rheinhardt. “Nevertheless . . .” The inspector removed a flashlight from his pocket and handed it to his disgruntled junior. Haussmann aimed the weak yellow beam at the cobblestones, revealing nothing but a slowly undulating blanket of fog. “Oh, very well,” said Rheinhardt, persuaded to reconsider the wisdom of his order. “You can accompany me. Perhaps it’ll lift later.” “Thank you, sir,” said Haussmann, much relieved. A figure emerged from the mist. “Who’s there?” “Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and my assistant, Haussmann.” “Good morning, sir. Constable Drasche.” The young man clicked his heels. He was wearing a long blue coat and a spiked hat, and a sabre hung from his waist. “How long have you been here, Drasche?” asked Rheinhardt. “Three hours or thereabouts.” “I’m sorry for the delay. The driver could barely see the road ahead of him. Who’s inside?” “Frau Marcus, the housekeeper, and Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s doctor--Engelberg. Frau Marcus called him as soon as she found the body. He was here before I arrived. He’s not in a very good mood, sir.” “Oh? Why’s that?” “He didn’t want to be detained. Said he had patients to see.” The horse was restive, and the driver jumped down from his box to give it some sugar. “The dead woman,” said Rheinhardt. “Fraulein Rosenkrantz . . .” Drasche anticipated the inspector’s question. “Yes, it’s her, sir. The singer.” Haussmann’s sharp features showed perplexity. “Have you not heard of Ida Rosenkrantz, Haussmann?” “No, sir. She’s never sung at Ronacher’s.” Rheinhardt shook his head. “Haussmann, she’s not that kind of singer! She’s an opera singer, a celebrated soprano. You’ll recognize her when you see her. Her image is in every shop window along Karntnerstrasse.” “Even my tailor has a signed photograph of Fraulein Rosenkrantz,” said Drasche. “He saw her in The