Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(39)

“No, ma’am.”

“But I thought you were a musician.”

I bit my lip. My brother had once called me the genius of our relationship, the creator, not the interpreter. I wrote the notes, Josef gave them life. But many of Vienna’s well-known composers performed their works as well—the late, great Mozart and this upstart Beethoven among them. I was no prodigy of performance, a fact I learned almost immediately after hearing Fran?ois play for the first time.

It was in these moments that I wished my brother would come to my defense, to speak for me, to explain our process, to be the one holding me up for once. But he stayed quiet and withdrawn, nearly invisible despite his golden curls, sharp features, and lean height.

“I am a musician,” I said quietly. “But my talents lie in the creation of music, not the execution of it. You will find my playing a very poor substitute for Fran?ois’s indeed.”

Those grass green eyes glinted—with amusement? annoyance? —as the Countess studied me closely. “Nevertheless,” she said. “You are the composer of Der Erlk?nig, are you not? It is your execution of your own work that interests me, not someone else’s interpretation of it.”

I looked to Josef again, but he was fiddling with his violin case, his feet shuffling back and forth nervously. A sudden surge of irritation burned the unease from my gut. If my brother would not speak on my behalf, then I would say nothing on his either. Fran?ois was by far the better partner for Josef; they had had months of practice together on the road, and he knew how to shape their playing into a singular performance rather than a display of individual talents.

“As you wish, Your Illustriousness,” I said.

“Please.” The Countess smiled. “We are among friends. Call me Elena.”

I tried not to let my discomfort show. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, unable to bring myself to use her Christian name.

Her eyes twinkled in the depths of her wintry mask. “That’s settled then,” she said. “Come, we shall adjourn downstairs.” Yet another servant reappeared with a tray with glasses of sherry. Or was it the same as the first? I could no longer tell. “Ah, thank you. Have a drink, my dears. It shall keep you warm as we move you away from the Ofen.”

Josef and I accepted the glasses out of politeness, but neither he nor I were much inclined to take a sip.

“Drink, drink,” the Countess urged. “Drink and we shall begin.”

Seeing no other way to avoid being rude, we both downed our sherry and returned the glasses to the tray. Josef coughed, his face reddening.

“Fra-Fran?ois,” he choked out, but our hostess did not appear to hear him. She held her arm out to her husband, who took it in his grip and helped her limp downstairs.

Josef and I watched them go.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “Shall we?” He absentmindedly scratched his neck, as though the sherry he had drunk could be rubbed away. It was then I noticed the scarlet poppy pinned to the lapel of his costume.

“Sepperl,” I said, pointing to the flower. “What is this?”

“Hmmm?” He dropped his arm and glanced down at his lapel. “Oh. The Countess gave it to me. ‘For faith,’ she said.”

My hand reached up to touch the wilted poppy tucked behind my own ear. I hadn’t lost it in the labyrinth.

“Sepp,” I whispered. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

It was a long while before he answered. “You tell me, Liesl,” he said. His eyes were hard beneath his black domino mask. “After all, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”





DER ERLK?NIG’S OWN

the parlor downstairs was small, more like the vestry of a church than receiving room. It looked a bit like a sacristy as well, the walls lined with dark wood panels resembling a choir and the granite floor covered with a tapestried Persian rug. The acoustics were strange in the space, both echoing and muffled at once, and I thought again it was an odd place for a professed lover of music like the Count to hold an impromptu concert.

The Count and Countess were already comfortably seated on plush red velvet chairs on opposite sides of the room from each other when Josef and I entered. The harpsichord lay between them, and they looked like guardian deities to a musical underworld. Neither had removed their masks; the Countess as Frau Perchta in her swan’s feathers, the Count as Der Tod in his death’s-head guise. Mirrors and opposites: black and white, night and day, save for the poppies pinned to their clothing like a drop of blood.

“Welcome,” the Countess said. “Make yourselves comfortable. Once you feel sufficiently warmed up, we can bring the other guests in for the performance.”

“And my sister?” I asked. “Fran?ois?”

The Count smiled. “I’m sure they shall come in with the others.”

His wife gestured to the harpsichord. “Your kingdom awaits, my children.”

My brother and I exchanged glances before making our way to the instrument. My brother set his case down and took out his violin while I sat down at the harpsichord. I lifted my hands to black and ivory keys, the inverse of all the other keyboards I had played before. The major keys were black, the minor white, and for a stomach-churning moment, I thought that I had forgotten how to play. The inverted colors gave me a sense of vertigo, making me unsure of my fingering and even the notes.