Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(92)

Franz Josef Gottlieb Vogler

Gone Too Soon

I left a poppy behind.

Tomorrow I shall venture to the Goblin Grove one last time with our offerings. The locks of hair from you and Fran?ois have thankfully survived the journey, and I shall bury them in the grove. And then, as the sun sets in the west on the first night of summer, I shall play Der Erlk?nig upon my new violin. Wolfgang had it refinished with the finial of the carved woman that had been in our family for generations as a wedding gift. I can’t believe you and Fran?ois found it in your dressing room.

When I was younger, I could not decide whether the woman’s face was one of agony or ecstasy, but now that I am grown, I understand her expression for what it is:

Joy.

I have not heard word of the Procházkas since we departed Vienna, but rumor is that Snovin Hall is overgrown. Sometimes I think of that blue-green lake hidden in the hills above their estate and wonder.

We shall return once the sale of the inn is final. Mother has been beside herself with excitement to see you again, and even Constanze seems eager to leave this place behind.

“The place is full of so many ghosts,” she said. “And I cannot rest for their relentless chatter.”

The villagers think she has lost her mind, but I understand better now how our grandmother thinks. Those of us with one foot Underground and one in the world above are ever privy to the uncanny and unseen. Is that madness? Or merely another way of being?

Give my love to Fran?ois. Tell him I look forward to how the troupe has staged the opera when we return, and how much I have appreciated his guidance and his tutelage on the writing and composition. The story was mine to tell, but the music was a work of collaboration.

Before we leave, Wolfgang insists we debut the Wedding Night Sonata for the villagers, so they might have something to remember us by.

“So they understand the whole of you, Elisabeth,” he told me. “So they understand the entirety of us.”

I don’t know what the butcher and baker will think of the music, but I fancy they’ll enjoy a performance nonetheless. The ending of the Wedding Night Sonata keeps changing, and I imagine it will change still further, on and on and on until I die. But that is the way of a life’s work, and I am happy to keep composing, to keep writing, until I find the right finale.

One last thing before I end my letter. I know you would rather have me keep the wolf’s-head ring, or at least have it appraised for its value. But in the end, a promise is without price. When I step into the Goblin Grove for the last time, I will leave it for our brother, along with your locks of hair and our love.


Yours always,

Composer of Der Erlk?nig





Where I am, you are with me.


— LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN, the Immortal Beloved letters





once there was a little girl who played her music for a little boy in the wood. She was the genius, he was the interpreter, and they were each the gardeners of the other’s heart, taming, tilling, and tending the fertile soil of their souls until they blossomed into a far-reaching forest that encompassed the world.

Their grandmother had taught them the old ways and the old laws, but the little girl and boy were not afraid, for they were both Der Erlk?nig’s own.

Don’t forget me, Liesl.

And the little girl did not reply. Instead she played her song for the Goblin King every spring, every year, to bring the world from death back into life. And when the little girl’s gnarled and aged fingers could no longer hold her bow, her children and students picked up her song and continued to play, one long, unbroken melody that stretched across time and memory. On and on and on, for as long as the seasons turn and the living remember all that is good and beautiful and worthwhile in the world.

For love is our only immortality, and when memory is faded and gone, it is our legacies that endure.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


First books are a dream, but second books are a nightmare. If you were to page through the acknowledgments of nearly every author who has ever had the privilege (punishment?) of writing a second book, you’ll likely see multiple variations on the same theme:

WRITING IS REALLY, REALLY HARD.

Debut novels are not always the first novels written; Wintersong was certainly not my first. But I consider Shadowsong my first Real novel—the first written under contract, the first written under deadline, and the first written knowing it will be published and read by people other than myself. If Wintersong was the book that introduced me to a wider audience, then Shadowsong is the one that made me a Real writer.

No book is ever written in a vacuum, and I would be remiss if I did not give a nod to all the people who helped me through the strange and wondrous process that is publishing. First and foremost, I need to thank my editor, Eileen Rothschild. Eileen, being with you is like coming home. You knew me as a friend, a peer, and a colleague before you knew me as a writer, and I am grateful for your guidance in shaping this manuscript. Here’s to many more!

And as always, thanks to Katelyn Detweiler, agent and author extraordinaire, as well as everyone at Jill Grinberg Literary Management who helped bring Wintersong and Shadowsong to the world: Cheryl Pientka, Denise St. Pierre, and Jill Grinberg. Thanks also to Tiffany Shelton, Brittani Hilles, Karen Masnica, DJ Smyter, and everyone else who worked on my books at St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books.