Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(19)

The next few weeks passed by in a blur, a flurry of preparations that seemed to take up every waking minute of our days. I was mostly focused on packing what few belongings we had that would travel easily: our clothes, our shoes, what few trinkets we had left that weren’t sold to the pawnbroker to pay off Papa’s debts.

“What will you do with your klavier?” K?the asked. We were in Josef’s room, sorting through my things. “Will you have the Count send for it once we are settled there? Or do you intend to sell it ere we depart?”

I hadn’t given the matter much thought. In truth, I hadn’t given music much thought at all.

“Liesl,” K?the said. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” I said, making a conspicuous show of sorting and organizing my notes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She ran her fingers over the faded ivory keys. I could feel her watching me as she pressed a note here, a note there. F-G-E-D sharp. A-A-A-F sharp. As she played tunelessly, aimlessly, I felt an inordinate sense of jealousy at her freedom, her nonchalance, her indifference. For my sister, music was just noise.

“It’s just,” she said after a moment, “I haven’t heard you play in a while, that’s all.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy,” she observed. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

I felt a pang—of guilt, of shame, and not a little frustration. K?the was right, of course. No matter how tired I was at the end of the day, no matter how full my hours had been with cooking and cleaning, I had always managed to find time for music, magic, and the Goblin King. Always.

“I’m surprised you noticed,” I said tartly. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“Just because I don’t have your gifts doesn’t mean I don’t notice or care,” she said. “I know you, after all.”

To my horror, my eyes welled up with tears. I had pushed aside and made excuses for my reluctance to sit down and compose for so long that I hadn’t realized my music was a weeping wound that would not heal. K?the’s kindness was an antiseptic, and it stung like hell.

“Oh God, Liesl,” she said, stricken. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no.” I surreptitiously wiped at my cheeks. “It’s all right. You didn’t do anything. I’m just overwrought, is all. It’s been a long week.”

K?the’s penetrating blue gaze was patient, but I did not elaborate. There was a part of me that wished I could confess and confide everything to her. How I hadn’t played or composed in an age because I was unable to face the enormous effort it would take to sit, to work, to labor. Because whenever I worked on my magnum opus, I felt another’s presence beside me—his touch, his kiss, his caress. Because I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me; or worse, that she would.

“It’s nothing,” I insisted, a sudden, absurd urge to giggle bubbling up my throat. “Come, why don’t we play the Ideal Imaginary World to while away the tedium of cleaning and packing? I’ll start. Once we arrive in Vienna and are settled in our new apartments, Count Procházka will throw a ball in our honor. Josef will be there, of course, playing my newest concerto. Perhaps his friend Fran?ois will be there also, and they will play a duet. And you—you shall be decked out in the finest jewels, with all of Vienna’s most eligible bachelors vying for your hand, plying us with chocolates and sweets and—Ow!”

My sister had pinched me. Again. It seemed to be becoming a habit. K?the pushed the hair from my face, frowning as she peered into my eyes. “When was the last time you slept?” she asked

I glanced down at my hands. I clenched them into fists, resisting the urge to hide them in my apron pockets.

“Liesl.”

I closed my eyes.

“Is it . . . is it the Goblin King?” Her voice was soft.

I flinched. “No,” I said quickly. “No, of course not.” It may not have been the truth, but neither was it entirely a lie.

K?the was quiet, but I could feel her eyes upon me. “I wonder,” she said after a moment, “if it’s not Vienna you’re running toward, but a kingdom you’re trying to outrun.”

I sucked in a sharp breath and opened my eyes. It was as though my sister had pulled a splinter from my heart that I hadn’t even known was there. “K?the, I . . .” But my voice faded to nothing at the look of pity on her face.

“You can be running toward something or running from something, but you cannot do both at once,” she said gently.

Tears burned along my lashes, but I refused to let them spill. “Who says I’m running at all?” I said, forcing a laugh. K?the’s laughter came more easily now, and I wanted her to smile, to joke, to look away from the dark corners of my soul so they would not be subject to the sunshine of her sympathy.

But my sister did not laugh. “Ah,” she said softly, “but what’s the use of running”—she lifted her eyes to mine—“if you are on the wrong road?”


*

As the weeks went on and our time at the inn wound down to a close, my sister’s words needled me, pinpricks of guilt and resentment poking holes in my comfortable avoidance. I hated how K?the had made me confront my lack of composing, my inability to sit down and play. It had been easier to believe the pretty lie that I had been too busy, too tired, too preoccupied, too anything but scared to revisit the Wedding Night Sonata.