Parma Province, Busseto.
Within a luxurious estate on the outskirts of the city, a black carriage was drawn by two jet-black steeds, followed by a squad of cavalry clad in black.
Across the entire Austrian Empire, there were only two professions predominantly associated with black: the funeral trade, and the Austrian Empire's censorship authorities.
Because of the nature of their work, coupled with the less-than-merciful tasks they often carried out, Austrian imperial censors were unquestionably a profession that struck terror at the mere mention of their name.
When they reached the villa gates, a young man stepped down from the carriage and exchanged a few words with the estate's steward, who then hurried into the house.
"Master Verdi, a censor calling himself baron Parwen wishes to see you."
Giuseppe Verdi, the most renowned nationalist composer of nineteenth-century Italy, went slightly blank. The teacup in his hand fell to the floor.
Yet Giuseppe Verdi quickly recovered. He let out a nearly imperceptible sigh, then turned to his wife.
"My dear, could you excuse yourself? There is something I need to discuss."
"You don't have to face all this alone."
"No. I must face it."
Giuseppe Verdi spoke with absolute finality. His wife did not press the matter further. After all, this was not the first time an uninvited guest had come calling. She merely felt that the legendary young Emperor did not seem to be the tyrant the rumors made him out to be.
A moment later.
"Maestro. Please forgive this presumptuous intrusion."
(Meister—"maestro," a respectful form of address for artists.)
"You did not come here to apologize to me, did you?"
Giuseppe Verdi said mercilessly, but the young man across from him did not become angry.
"You are as bold and direct as your art." The man drew a deep