Wintersong(41)

K?the gave me an indulgent smile, and added another spoonful of sugar to her tea. “Eat,” she said, nodding at the untouched slice of cake on my plate.

I studied my sister. She seemed clear-eyed and conscious; present, in a way she hadn’t been at the Goblin Ball.

“K?the,” I said carefully. “Do you know where we are?”

She laughed and sliced herself another piece of cake. “Of course I do, you ninny. We’re in my quarters, enjoying a spot of tea and some time together. Now tell me,” she said, gesturing to the bare, earthen walls, “what do you think of the wallpaper?”

“The wallpaper?”

“Watered silk imported from Italy, of course,” she said loftily. “Just like we always imagined, Liesl.”

My heart fluttered in my chest. The color was high in my sister’s cheeks, her movements heightened and exaggerated, as though she were playacting the role of a gracious lady. As though she were playing pretend. What if?

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Your quarters are beautiful.” I picked up my teacup and took a sip to hide my frown. “My compliments, my dear.”

K?the’s eyes were alight. “Why, thank you, darling. My husband is a very generous man, as you know.”

My cup rattled in its saucer. “Your husband?”

She pouted. “Don’t you remember? We had the most beautiful wedding in the Munich Frauenkirche, with the archbishop presiding. Josef played your wedding mass to thunderous applause.”

I set down my tea. “My … wedding mass?”

K?the gave me a pitying look. “Oh, Liesl, you must have had a rough night if you can’t remember. The wedding mass you wrote for us. Mother sang the Benedictus so beautifully it moved everyone to tears.”

“My … music.”

She nodded. “You’re a success all over the Holy Roman Empire now, thanks to my husband’s connections. He had the good sense to hire Josef at court too, and even funds our brother’s tours across Europe. He even has Papa on retainer as a Konzertmeister, although it’s more a courtesy than an active position.”

“At … his court?” My voice was strangled, thin.

“Of course his court,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He couldn’t very well hire for someone else’s, could he?”

“K?the,” I said. “Just who is your husband?”

She blew out a huff and rolled her eyes. “Manók Hercege. The Hungarian count? Honestly, Liesl, perhaps you ought to let yourself have a bit of fun more often if a little indulgence will set you back like this.” K?the traced her fingers absentmindedly along her collarbone, and I found myself mirroring the gesture, half-remembering the revels of the Goblin Ball.

A count. A rich, Hungarian count. K?the’s fantasy husband was a wealthy, foreign nobleman. This was not the sort of man I thought my sister would imagine herself in love with.

“Is Man—Manók Hercege good to you?” I asked.

“Of course,” K?the beamed.

“What is he like?”

“Kind. Gentle.” Her voice was misty, distant. “Generous. Not just to me, but to all of us. Eat up,” she said again, pushing the cake at me. “Chocolate torte. It’s your favorite.”

Then it became clear just what K?the’s greatest dream had been: to marry rich. Not for fancy gowns or expensive jewels, but to provide for her family. My throat tightened and I gathered my sister in my arms, holding her close.

“Liesl,” K?the said with surprise. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” I choked. “Everything is not all right. It’s not right at all.”

She swatted me away. “Have some cake,” she insisted again. “After all the trouble I went through to get it for you, you should at least have a bite.”

I nodded and picked up the plate and a fork. I recoiled. What had seemed, at first glance, like a moist chocolate torte was layer upon layer of crumbling dirt, with stripes of slime for buttercream. I pretended to tuck in for K?the’s sake, but the moment my sister looked away, I cast the cake into the fire. The impossible scent of summer peaches rose with the smoke.

“Did you like it?” she asked, eagerly searching my face for an answer. Her blue eyes were steady, but seemed overlarge in her pale face. Despite the high color in her cheeks, she looked sicker than ever. “My husband went all the way to Bohemia for the recipe.”

“Delicious.” I managed to swallow my bile. “My compliments to your husband.”

K?the beamed, then deflated. “He travels so often, my husband,” she said. “I wish I could go with him sometimes. To see the world beyond this beautiful palace. It is beautiful,” she continued, a trifle defensively, “but it can be stifling. Almost like a prison, rather than a palace.”

I straightened in my seat. That was the real K?the speaking, my true little sister beneath the wish-spell that surrounded her. The young woman who wanted to experience the world beyond the edges of the rustic life she had always known.

“Where are Manók Hercege’s holdings?” I asked.

“Hungary, of course.”

“But where in Hungary?” I pressed.

A vague expression crossed her face. “I—I’m not sure.”