The Kingdom of Back(16)

I tried to keep my unease at bay. I woke up early every morning of the winter to practice, staying at the clavier long after Papa had left for the day. I’d play and play until Woferl would tug on my sleeve, begging for his turn. When I was not at the clavier, I tapped my fingers against the pages of my notebook and hummed under my breath. I spent my days wrapped in the music, lost in its secrets. When I dreamed, I dreamed in new measures and keys, compositions I would never dare write down.

I was, after all, not my brother.

Sometimes, over the long winter, I’d also dream of Hyacinth whispering in my ear. Desire is your lifeblood, and talent is the flower it feeds. I’d wake and play his menuett on the clavier, the tune I’d heard in the grotto, wondering whether it would call him back again. Perhaps he was watching us right now as we stood outside our home, his pale body washed warm by the light. Out of instinct, I tilted my head up toward our windows, certain I would see his face there behind the glass.

“Nannerl.”

I looked down to see Papa approaching, and straightened to smooth my skirts. He placed one hand on Woferl’s messy head of curls. “Time to head into the carriage,” he said gently.

Woferl released me, then ran off to hug our mother’s waist, babbling affections all the while.

Papa touched my shoulder and led me over to the corner of our building, so that we stood partly in the shadow of the wall’s edge. I looked directly at him. I did not do this often; my father’s eyes were very dark and frequently shaded by furrowed brows. It was a stare that dried my throat until I could not speak.

“Nannerl,” he said, “this will be a long trip. I’ll need you to keep your wits about you and conduct yourself like a young lady. Do you understand?”

I nodded quietly.

Papa’s gaze flickered over my shoulder toward the carriage. “Woferl’s health has been delicate lately. All this winter air.” I nodded again. My father did not need to tell me. I had always known this about my brother. “Two weeks in the carriage may wear him down. Take care that he does not catch a chill. The emperor specifically requested his presence, and if we are to perform again in Europe, we will need Woferl’s reputation to precede us.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Be mindful of your brother.”

I waited for him to tell me to take care, too, but he did not. My hands brushed at the edges of my petticoat. Specks of dirt had spoiled the fabric’s light color. “I will, Papa.”

He removed his hand. His expression changed, and he started to move away. “The coach is almost ready. Come along, Nannerl.”

As I headed after my father, I watched Woferl pull Mama’s arm down toward him. I could not hear him, but his words coaxed a tear from her eyes, and she gathered him into her arms.

Years later, I learned that Woferl had asked, Mama, will you be sad when I grow up?



* * *





We traveled along the upper rim of the Alps, where the terrain changed to gently rolling hills and patches of forest. Papa and Mama chatted together on one side of the carriage, while I sat with Woferl on the other. The ride was so bumpy that I had to press him against the carriage wall to keep him from sliding around.

While our parents dozed, I spent my time looking at the ever-changing landscape. The houses had grown sparse, and the sun shifted in the sky so that it peeked in just below the carriage window, bathing us in light. I smiled at the warmth, leaned closer, and narrowed my eyes. The passing hillsides transformed into a stream of colors, gold and peach and orange, hazy layers of billowing silk. Tree trunks blurred by.

Beside me, Woferl’s eyes were half closed, and his lashes glowed white in the sunlight. His slender little fingers danced, composing in the same way I’d seen him that morning with Papa’s violin.

“What are you thinking, Woferl?” I asked in a soft voice.

He opened his eyes. “I am writing a concerto,” he whispered.

I nudged him affectionately with one elbow. “How are you writing a concerto, silly, with no paper?”

“I can write it down in my head and remember it.” He rolled his eyes upward, thinking, then looked at me again. “I am imagining the kingdom.”

His mention of the fantasy otherworld sent a familiar thrill through me. Woferl had, for months after the incident at the trinket shop, asked me exactly what I’d seen that day. I’d told him about the clavier and the notebook, the grotto and the princeling. All I’d left out was the conversation between Hyacinth and me. It had seemed like a secret meant for no one else.

“Are you, now?” I said. “What does a concerto about the kingdom sound like?”

He turned his large eyes on me. “You want to hear it?” he asked eagerly.

I hesitated for the space of a breath. “Of course,” I replied.

He cleared his throat and hummed a few bars. It sounded light and airy, not like the perfect music from my dream or the grotto, but instead like the scenery we passed. Somehow, I felt relieved that it was so different. Perhaps the music from the otherworld was something only I truly understood. My mind returned for a moment to the moss-paved tunnel, Hyacinth’s bright eyes and polished fingernails. Now and then, I thought I could see an upside-down tree flash by our window, although I could never quite focus on it.

“I like it,” I said to him when he fell silent again.