Blackmoore(32)

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Chapter 12


Only one thing could soothe a soul as wretched as my own. I sneaked out of the second music room—the bird room, as I now thought of it— and found the back stairway I had discovered during my exploring earlier.

I could not risk having any of the guests see me like this. I was not crying, but I was very, very close. Too close to allow my heart to remain in this vulnerable state.

I hurried up the two flights of stairs and down the maze of corridors until I reached the west wing, shivering with the chill of the wind seep-ing through the old stone walls. I stayed there only long enough to grab my Mozart from my room and then fled back down the stairs, hurrying faster and faster, feeling my heart crack open with the weight of all of my discoveries this evening.

When I ran back inside the bird room without being seen, I took only a moment to light the extra candles in the room, carrying one close to the pianoforte. I glanced over at the bird in his cage. He regarded me with solemn, bright eyes, turned his head, and flapped his wings. But he did not sing.

Then I spread my music across the top of the instrument and sat down. Closing my eyes, I told myself that I would silence my aching heart. I would banish the humiliation that burned within me. I would 93



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n stop my frantic thoughts at what I had lost when I entered into a bargain with Mama. I would not think of how I had become like her. I would not feel despair at the truth. Mozart would fix all of this. Opening my eyes and taking a deep breath, I set my hands on the keys and began to play.

The notes of Mozart’s Concerto No. 21 were designed to march. I always made them march, and in controlling those notes, I controlled my heart. This was how a heart was schooled. Discipline. Order. Reason. This was the essence of classicism.

But the little soldiers would not march tonight. As soon as I sat down to play, Sylvia’s words flooded back to me. The humiliation doled out to me by Mr. Pritchard stung anew. And the realization that I had never had a chance to win my bargain with Mama—the realization that I would now have to give myself up to her will—darkened my soul with despair of the deepest kind.

I yearned for Mozart to fix all of this. I yearned for detachment and clarity. I played my concerto all the way through once and started over again. But my heart was heaving within my chest with despair and humiliation and the futility of everything I had attempted to make happen for myself. My heart shouted at me that no music could fix this—that no phi-losophy could make amends for losing this bargain with Mama. Nothing could undo the work I had done when I set out to become like her.

I struggled with the music, even as tears poured down my cheeks. I struggled with those little note soldiers, and with my heart, but the soldiers came loping out, or crashing into each other, or they fell sideways and would not stand in place.

“Stop!”

I jerked back from the keyboard, startled. My gaze flew to the man who strode across the room, waving his arms. “Stop! Stop this at once.”

It was Herr Spohr, with his untamed hair and his thick German ac-cent. He walked quickly, urgently, and came to me. “You must stop this, what you are doing. It is not right.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He rubbed a hand over his head, 94



breathing hard, as if he had just run all the way from the drawing room.

Then he asked, in a gentle voice, “What are you doing, Fr?ulein?”

“I . . . am . . . playing. I am playing Mozart.”

“No. This is not playing.” He shook his head and waved his hands, as if trying to wipe away what he had just heard. “This is fighting. You are fighting this music.”

He leaned over me, peering into my face. He had clear blue eyes, and for a moment I felt a thrill of fear. Here was someone who could see into my soul, I felt. And there was so much I did not want anyone to see.

“There is some war—some inner struggle—here.” He tapped my chest just below the collarbone with two fingers. “The demon you fight is keeping you from making excellent music. You must find the right music for your struggle—for your demon.” I could only look at him in confusion. I understood his English, but his words made no sense to my classi-cally trained mind.

He tapped my chest again. “Find the music that sets this beast free.

This beast that fights and struggles within you. You cannot subdue it. The music will suffer. You will suffer. Do you understand?”

I understood nothing. Perhaps he could see that bewilderment in my face, because he sighed and ran his hand over his hair, back and forth.

“Mozart is not the answer for you. Mozart is hurting you.” He leaned over and grabbed my music, pulling it to his chest. Then he bowed his head to me and said, “I am sorry, but I must take this away.”

Without another word, he walked hurriedly across the room and out the door, leaving me bereft. I stared at the door, stunned, waiting for him to return and tell me it had all been a joke. But he did not reappear. I slid off the piano bench and walked numbly to the birdcage. Kneeling before the cage, I gazed at the dark, silent bird. I touched the gilded iron bars, softly, then ran my fingers up and down their length. My heart was break-ing. There was no mending of this crack. It ran too deep.

My fingers curled around the iron bars of the cage, and I felt how this cage was as strong as it was decorative. And suddenly I hated it. I hated 95