Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(41)

A game, Sepperl, I thought. A game like we used to play.

I improvised on the structures I had established, finding new shapes in the chords. My brother followed, his playing growing sharper. The melody was the same, but the color different. This version of Der Erlk?nig had keen edges that sliced and cut you with its beauty, its otherworldliness. It was not the version of the bagatelle I had in mind when I wrote it. I had written it to be dreamy, melancholy, nostalgic. I had written it as a farewell to my family when I first ventured Underground, leaving behind a piece of the girl I was.

Now that I had taken the music and molded it, my brother took the lead. The notes grew angry, and it was as if he were saying, You want a reckoning? We shall have it now. We were speaking to each other once more, and I hadn’t known until that moment how little we had heard one another. We transitioned back into the original arrangement, and I understood what it was he was trying to say at last.

Discontent. Unfulfillment. A hollow emptiness. A constant questing, searching, seeking, only to find himself right back in the place he began. Trapped. My brother felt trapped. Hemmed in by expectation, by pressure, by the weight of my desires crowding in on him so that his own wants had no room to breathe.

Oh, Sepp, I thought.

I listened. I listened and listened and listened, letting my accompaniment support my brother the way I had not since we came to Vienna. Josef played, adding trills and embellishments that were practically Baroque in complexity and flourish, but were also an expression of his frustration. He nearly rushed a set of sixteenth notes, but even in the midst of this uncharacteristic outburst of emotion, my brother was controlled, years of rigid discipline keeping his tempo even.

Something changed.

There was a strange, hushed quality to the room that had nothing to do with the rediscovered connection between us nor the reverent rapture of the audience. The smell of pine and loam and ice filled the air, but faintly, like the whiff of perfume caught in passing. I drew in a clean, clear, alpine breath, the crispness of mountain breezes and stony caverns filling my lungs. The skull’s head and the swan pressed in closer.

Elisabeth.

My fingers skipped a few notes, and I almost stumbled out of the playing, startled out of the piece. But my hands still held on to the hours of practice to which I had subjected them, the muscles moving automatically as though they held memories of their own.

Elisabeth.

I kept my eyes on my brother, attentive to his cues, but I sensed a presence in the room that was neither human nor mortal. I thought of the vision I had in the labyrinth, the glowing eyes and the crown of horns and kept my eyes grimly focused on Josef, trying to blot out the other voice in my mind.

Then the music ended.

The bagatelle was not a particularly long piece, and it finished on an uncertain note. Josef did not hold that last fermata with any sort of conviction, only a resignation that shattered me even more than his despair. His bowing arm went limp, his head drooping as though the weight of his isolation was too much for him to bear. Despite our momentary connection, my brother seemed unchanged, untouched by the magic we had created together. Now that the music was over, my head felt thick, the beginnings of a headache crowding my mind.

Our hosts broke into applause, the Count most enthusiastic of them all.

“Capital, capital!” he said, beaming with delight. “I have never heard such playing! It was so beautiful. So pleasant!”

I frowned. He had heard such playing before; he had written of it in his letter to me. While I was flattered by his remarks, the music my brother and I performed tonight could hardly be called pleasant. My heart slowly sank into my stomach like a stone. I was beginning to realize that the Count was not a man of discerning taste. And although I was grateful for his attention and his desire to elevate us, I couldn’t help but wonder if he were merely looking to be fashionable. Countess Thun and Prince Lichnowsky were both patrons of Mozart and Beethoven; perhaps this Bohemian nobleman was looking for his own pet musician with no standard of quality or aesthetic. I could have been any other composer as far as he was concerned. I rubbed at my temples, the throbbing moving up my skull to push at my eyes. I needed to stand up. I needed to sit down. I needed to lie down.

“Bravi, bravi.” The Countess clapped, two sharp claps of approval. “It was everything I had hoped for and more.”

Every thing she had hoped for? That niggle of doubt, that trickle of suspicion about the Count suddenly flowed together in a flood of understanding.

“It was you who wrote me the letter that brought me here.” I did not use her proper courtesy. I was too dizzy to be concerned about rudeness.

It all made sense. The elegant hand on the invitation, how she addressed me as Mademoiselle like the writer of the letter, not Fr?ulein like her husband. I thought of the Count’s unsophisticated ear and his lack of enthusiasm or education about either Josef or me, save for when we interested his wife.

Her green eyes sharpened as though in a smile. “Have I been so transparent?”

I shook my head, but not in answer to her question. My head felt thick, my eyelids heavy.

“I have heard extraordinary rumors about you, young lady,” she continued in a soft voice. “Rumors about the . . . otherworldly nature of your music.”

I laughed, but it sounded twisted, warped. “I am merely mortal,” I said hoarsely. “Not magic.”

“Are you so certain of that, my dear?”