The Kingdom of Back(21)

Would this be how I performed before royalty? Barely able to move?

When they finished, Papa guided me to the nearby wig shop and parlor. There, the wigmakers pulled my hair back and away from my face, fitting me with a curled wig that piled high on my head and then tumbled down my shoulders in a cascade. They patted the hair with white powder until the fine dust floated in the air around us. I wrinkled my nose at its stale scent. The weight of it made me keep my head and neck at a strict, straight angle. I tried to puzzle out how to lean into my music as I played while wearing such a thing.

Noon approached, and finally we finished our fittings. As we thanked the clothier and made our way out, I cast one final glance over my shoulder. The tailor smiled back, his tall figure cutting a long shadow on the floor. His teeth were very white, his eyes so blue they seemed to glow.

“I’ll see you soon, Nannerl,” he said. I looked at my father for his reaction, but he did not seem to notice. Only Woferl tightened his hand in mine. I tried to remind myself that this must be part of Hyacinth’s plan. In order for me to perform, I must first look the part.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of practice, as did the next.

I could not sleep the night before our performance. Instead, I stared at the ceiling in silence, drowning in thoughts. My glass pendant lay tucked underneath my pillow, so that I could feel its slight bump against the back of my head. I let myself take comfort in its presence. A reminder of my wish.

“Nannerl?”

I turned to look at my brother. His eyes blinked back at me in the darkness. I propped myself up on one elbow and smiled at him. “You should rest,” I whispered.

“So should you,” he protested, “but you’re not.” He glanced over to where our father slept, afraid that he would stir.

It had not occurred to me that Woferl might be nervous too. I reached over and took his hand in mine. I was small for my age, but his fingers were tiny even in my palm. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” I said gently. “All of Austria is excited to hear you. The emperor requested you personally. You will not disappoint.”

Woferl closed his little fingers around one of mine. “I’m not afraid,” he said.

I smiled again. “Then why are you awake?”

Woferl scooted closer to me, buried his head in my pillow, and pointed toward the clavier. I followed his hand until my eyes rested on my notebook. It was closed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The notebook is singing,” he whispered. “I can’t sleep.”

I turned my head quickly back to the clavier. We fell silent. I heard the sound of a late-night coach from the streets below, the whisper of wind, Papa’s gentle snore, a trickle of water from some mysterious place. I did not hear the music.

“Are you sure?” I whispered to Woferl. “What do you mean?”

He wrinkled his nose at me. “Nannerl!” he exclaimed in a quiet hiss. “It is singing right now—you can’t hear it? It is very loud.”

It must be Hyacinth. He has done something to my notebook. He is here.

I waited for a minute, forcing my breathing to stay even, until Woferl began to squirm. Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed, rested my feet on the floor, and slowly made my way to the clavier. Still I heard nothing. The floor numbed my feet. I took care not to tremble.

I should be in bed, I thought. Our performance.

When I had moved close enough, I picked my notebook off the clavier’s stand and clutched it to my chest. Gingerly, I made my way back to bed.

Woferl sat up straighter, eager to see. “It keeps repeating the same lines,” he insisted. “Over and over and over.”

My skin tingled. We both froze for an instant as Papa stirred. I kept my eyes on him until he turned away from us, and then I relaxed my shoulders. I opened the notebook quietly. “What does it sound like?” I whispered.

Woferl hesitated for a moment. “Like this.” He hummed a few notes as softly as he could.

I swallowed hard. My initial excitement, my sudden thoughts of the princeling, all vanished. Woferl must have discovered my secret composition, I thought, the little wisp of music I’d written down several days ago. I felt an abrupt rush of anger. “You’re making it up,” I whispered harshly. “The notebook is not singing at all. You are.”

Woferl burst into a fit of giggles. He threw himself facedown into his pillow. I closed my notebook in disappointment and hid it inside our blankets. His quiet laughter stung. “This is my notebook, Woferl. You shouldn’t take what’s not yours. You aren’t going to tell Papa, are you?”

His giggles died down. He looked at me solemnly. “Well, why are you hiding it? It’s beautiful.”

His words were so serious, said so truthfully, that any anger I might have had flitted away. “Young ladies do not compose,” I told him.

He shook his head. “Why?”

I took his hands in mine and squeezed them once. How much and how little he understood of my life. “Please, Woferl, let it be our secret. Promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

It was Woferl’s turn to look upset. “But who will hear it, then?” he whispered, horrified. “You’re not going to let it stay there forever, are you?”

“Yes, I am.” I gave him a firm look. “If you love me, then promise me.”