Wintersong(15)

Josef turned his head, and although it was dark, I could imagine the blush staining his cheeks. My brother had never confided in me outright about his romantic inclinations, but I knew him better than anyone else. I knew, and I understood.

“The stranger places his hand upon my brow, and says I will carry the music of the Underground with me, so long as I never leave this place.” Josef turned his eyes to me, but he didn’t seem to see me. “I was born here. I was meant to die here.”

“Don’t say that,” I said sharply. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Don’t you believe so? My blood belongs to the land, Liesl. Yours too. We draw our inspiration from it, from the ground beneath our feet, as surely as the trees in the wood. Without it, how can we continue? How can I still play my music when my soul rests here, in the Goblin Grove?”

“Your soul rests within you, Sepperl.” I lightly touched my hand to his breast. “Here. That’s where your music comes from. Not from the land. Not from the woods outside.”

“I don’t know.” Josef buried his face in his hands. “But I am afraid. I am afraid of the bargain I struck with the stranger in my dreams. But now you understand why I’m too terrified to leave.”

I understood, but not in the way my brother intended. I saw his fear, and saw the demons he conjured to justify his fear. Unlike me or K?the, Josef had never seen anything of the world beyond our little corner of Bavaria. He did not know what delights the world could offer, what sights, what sounds, and what people he could encounter. I did not want my brother to stay home, to stay confined to the Goblin Grove and Constanze’s apron strings. Or mine. I wanted him to go out and live his life, even as it pained me to let him go.

“Come.” I walked to the klavier. “Let us play. Forget our woes. Just you and me, mein Brüderchen.” I felt, rather than saw, my brother smile. I sat down on the bench and played a simple repeating phrase.

“Don’t you want the light?” Josef asked.

“No, leave it.” I knew where the keys were anyway. “Let’s just sit in the dark and play. No sheet music. Nothing we know by heart. I will give you the basso continuo, and you will improvise.”

I heard the faint plink of strings against the soundboard as Josef pulled the violin from its case, the soft shush as he ran his bow over the rosin cake. He settled the instrument beneath his chin, touched the bow to the strings, and began to play.

*

Time passed in waves, and my brother and I lost ourselves in music. We improvised on established structures, embellished on some of the sonatas we knew from memory, and then gradually segued into what Josef was to play for Master Antonius. Papa had decided on a Haydn sonata, though I had suggested Vivaldi. Vivaldi was Josef’s favorite composer, but Papa claimed he was too obscure. Haydn—a composer with critical and popular acclaim—was the safer choice.

The music wound down. “Feeling better?” I asked.

“Just one more?” Josef begged. “The largo from Vivaldi’s L’inverno. Please.”

By now the enchantment the music had woven over us was fading. K?the had accused me of loving Josef more, but it was not Josef I loved more; it was music. I loved my sister as much as I loved my brother, but I loved music most of all.

I glanced over my shoulder. “We should go,” I said. “Your audience awaits.” I closed the lid of the klavier and rose from the seat.

“Liesl.” Something in my brother’s voice gave me pause.

“Yes, Sepp?”

“Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered. “Don’t let me go into that long night alone.”

“You won’t go alone.” I gathered him close. “You will never be alone. I am always with you, in spirit if not in flesh. Distance won’t make a difference to us. We will write each other letters. We will share our music with each other, in paper, ink, and blood.”

It was a long time before he spoke. “Give me a little something, then,” he said. “Just a little melody, to hold your promise.”

I pulled at a scrap of melancholy and hummed a few notes. I paused, waiting for him to tell me my opening chords.

“Major seventh,” was all Josef said. His smile was wry. “Of course that’s what you start with.”





THE AUDITION

The sounds of the gathered guests in the main hall flooded the corridor outside Josef’s room. My brother shrank back, but I pulled him along, bringing him out from the darkness and into the light.

Our little inn had never seen this many patrons before. Many of the assembly were burghers from town, including Herr Baumgartner, Hans’s father. Mother bustled back and forth between the tables, serving the customers alone. K?the emerged from the kitchen with platters of food a few moments later, Hans on her heels with steins of beer.

“There’s our little Mozart!” One of the guests rose to his feet, pointing excitedly in my direction. My heart leaped with both excitement and fear, but then I saw he was pointing to Josef hiding behind me. “Come, Mozartl, play us a jig!”

Of course the guest wasn’t referring to me. I was no one, the forgotten Vogler child with neither looks nor talent to recommend her. But the truth did nothing to lessen the sting of disappointment.

Josef gripped my skirts. “Liesl—”