As the waiter presented the first course—royal sturgeon caviar with blinis and sour cream—Shane turned slightly and offered a courteous smile to Baroness Rothschild, seated on his right.
"Madam," he began with an easy, almost teasing tone, "did you know that in New York's supper clubs, it has become fashionable to serve martinis in perfume bottles?"
He paused, glancing over the glimmering glassware and candelabra that adorned the twelve-meter-long table. "I must say, Europe's sense of refinement remains unmatched."
Baroness Rothschild's lips curved faintly as she spread a small portion of caviar across her blini. "Mr. Cassidy," she replied smoothly, her accent laced with the grace of Vienna's old aristocracy, "the creativity of your American acquaintances is always… astonishing. Much like your country's stock exchange—forever inventive."
Her voice lingered on the last word with a hint of dry amusement.
The waiters glided silently across the parquet floor, replacing the appetizer plates with Imperial Clear Soup, its golden surface glimmering under the chandeliers.
At the far end of the table, Count Sascha Kolowrat-Krakowsky, one of Austria's pioneering film producers, leaned toward Fritz Lang, who was seated diagonally opposite.
"Mr. Lang," he murmured, stirring his soup with calculated ease, "Vienna's economy has become as unpredictable as the London Exchange."
Lang's thin lips curved into a knowing smile. "Some risks," he replied quietly, "are worth taking. Especially those that might bring a revolution… in color." He lifted his glass of Riesling, its pale hue shimmering in the candlelight.
The dinner progressed with restrained elegance. When the main course—roast venison loin with blackcurrant sauce—was served, the rustle of linen and soft chime of silver cutlery filled the air. Twenty-four guests, moving almost in unison, reached for their game knives.
Shane seized the moment to turn to Mrs. Gertrude Kiessler, seated on his left. "Mrs. Kiessler," he said, his tone measured yet warm, "I hear the Vienna Philharmonic is considering composing original scores for motion pictures?"
Before she could reply, her husband Emil Kiessler, a prominent banker, placed a subtle hand on her knee beneath the table—a silent reminder of discretion. Their daughter, Maria, seated nearby, caught the gesture with a flicker of curiosity.
The fourteen-year-old mimicked Anna Mahler, who sat across from her, elegantly folding her napkin to hide a mischievous smile.
When dessert arrived—Vienna's famous Sacher Torte—Maria's blue eyes sparkled at the sight. The swirl of warm vanilla sauce on the porcelain plate looked almost too beautiful to touch. She took a careful bite, then exclaimed before she could stop herself:
"Is the world in color films as dazzling as this cake?"
A hush fell. Emil's grip tightened around his dinner knife, his stern gaze fixing on his daughter. Maria's cheeks flushed scarlet.
At that moment, Shane set down his napkin, his voice light but perfectly controlled. "Imagine, my dear young lady," he said, deftly turning his silver spoon beneath the chandelier's glow, "the wings of the fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream—surely, they would shimmer with such colors."
The spoon caught the candlelight, scattering a soft rainbow across the white linen. Maria leaned forward in wonder, her embarrassment forgotten.
Mrs. Kiessler, observing Shane's tact, allowed herself the first genuine smile of the evening. Maria, meanwhile, studied the young man's face in fascination, silently wondering how an Irish gentleman from New York knew so much about Shakespeare's fairies.
Later, in the Golden Hall of Schönbrunn Palace, twelve gentlemen gathered around a gilded round table once owned by Prince Eugene. The air shimmered with the mingled scent of cigars and Tokaji wine.
Shane withdrew a folded report from his jacket pocket—its heading marked New York Stock Exchange, May 1927.
"Gentlemen," he began, tapping the figures with his forefinger, "our film presale model has only been active for three months, yet it has already exceeded every expectation."
He turned to the second page, where presale data for MGM and Fox's new May releases stood out in crisp black ink.
"In the North American market, both studios have recovered nearly half their production costs before release. Wall Street analysts now call movie tickets 'the liveliest bonds in America.'"
A murmur rippled through the room. The chandelier light glinted off the curve of Shane's glass as he continued, voice calm and deliberate.
"It means," he said, "that tomorrow's money from the audience funds today's films—and today's success secures tomorrow's profit."
Count Castiglioni's cigar paused midair, a line of ash trembling at the tip. Across the table, Baron Rothschild set down his glass with immaculate poise, though his fingers lingered an instant too long on the stem.
Shane's voice deepened slightly. "Gentlemen, those who understand the new rules first will always claim the richest rewards."
Rothschild's gaze sharpened. "But what happens," he asked evenly, "when a film fails to meet its promise? Can a reel of celluloid serve as collateral?"
"The film itself is an asset," Shane replied smoothly. "Its copyright ensures recurring income through re-screenings and overseas distribution. Far safer, I would argue, than certain government bonds currently in circulation."
Several gentlemen exchanged glances. Castiglioni leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest. "Then," he said slowly, "you propose a financial institution to evaluate the value of film patents and presales—essentially, a credit bank for cinema?"
Before Shane could respond, Fritz Lang tapped the rim of his glass with a cigar cutter. "A single reel of color film," he interjected dryly, "requires enough arc lamps to light half the Vienna State Opera. That is the true cost of innovation."
Kolowrat adjusted his glasses. "And converting an ordinary cinema to a three-strip projection system would cost no less than eight thousand schillings."
"But," said Oscar Pielitz, the film distributor, "if we apply Mr. Cassidy's presale method—start with six cinemas, three in Berlin, three in Vienna—our risk is distributed, not multiplied."
Laughter and murmurs rippled around the table. The mirrors reflected candlelight like a hundred tiny stars.
Playwright Hugo von Hofmannsthal leaned back, exhaling faintly. "To colorize Faust," he scoffed, "is to gild tragedy. What next—adding a car horn to Beethoven?"
Shane raised his Tokaji glass, the golden liquid catching the flame. "Every leap in art has been called folly first," he replied evenly. "As Shakespeare himself was dismissed by London's nobles—until the curtain rose."
He turned to the financiers with a half-smile. "Why not begin with Salome? Strauss can adapt the score, and Mrs. Mahler can direct the staging. That alone could rebuild the Opera House's reputation—and its coffers."
At the mention of Alma Mahler, Rothschild's brows lifted almost imperceptibly. He poured more wine into Shane's glass and murmured, "Von Stauffenberg sent word last night. He asks about the White House's true stance on the Reichsbank."
Shane's hand tightened around the stem of his glass. He lowered his eyes for a heartbeat, then met Rothschild's gaze.
"Tell him," he said softly, "that President Hoover's position on tariffs applies equally here. America prefers Europe to recover through its own means—but cooperation remains open."
Rothschild nodded, satisfied.
Moments later, a waiter entered discreetly to announce that the ladies would soon join them. Castiglioni closed his briefcase, concealing a sketch on his notepaper—a symbol that merged a film reel with a rising stock curve.
The gilded doors opened. The women entered with a rustle of silk and perfume, laughter soft as the movement of petals.
Mrs. Kiessler appeared arm-in-arm with Maria, whose taffeta gown shimmered faintly blue beneath the chandeliers.
"Mr. Cassidy," Mrs. Kiessler said warmly, curtsying, "thank you for rescuing my daughter's confidence earlier this evening."
Shane inclined his head. His gaze, drawn by instinct, found Maria's upturned face as she admired the painted ceiling of the goddess of war.
Candlelight touched her profile—the soft blush of youth, the gleam of curiosity in her eyes.
"It was my pleasure," Shane replied, taking a cream-colored business card from his pocket. The gilt film-reel emblem along its edge caught the light.
He leaned slightly forward, extending it to her with careful politeness. "If you ever wish to learn more about cinema, Miss Kiessler, write to me."
Maria's fingers brushed his sleeve as she accepted the card. Her eyes brightened like a spark catching flame. "Mr. Cassidy, if I wished to make films one day… could I?"
"Of course," Shane said with quiet conviction. "Hollywood needs new faces—faces the world hasn't seen before."
No one at the table could have foreseen how that single moment would ripple through time—that ten years later, Maria Kiessler would take the stage name Hedy Lamarr, dazzling Hollywood with her brilliance and beauty.
For now, the girl simply tucked the card into her silk purse, her heart beating fast—as though she had just received a secret invitation to her own destiny.