The Kingdom of Back(35)

Hadn’t the queen from the Kingdom of Back seen those figures too, floating shadows in the mist, the pieces of her dreams? Hadn’t they surrounded the castle on the hill and reached for her as she lay ill?

I trembled as another glided by, then another. Now their shapes condensed, turned solid, so that I could make out their red eyes and black hoods, their twisted fingers on long, spindled hands. They grew as the candle burned low by Woferl’s bedstand.

The queen had not recovered from her nightmares, and instead had fallen into madness. I pictured her in my mind again, afraid and alone, lost in a world that those around her could not see. Perhaps they had frightened Hyacinth away too.

I rose from my place and left the room, returning with two more candles. I replaced the dying one, then set another right beside it. Mama watched me silently.

“It is too dark in here,” I said to her. “Now it is better.”

The figures outside the window slowly faded away in the brighter light, until they looked like nothing more than the flag that flapped against the glass.





A FAMILY OF DIGNIFIED REPUTATION



My brother remained weak with fever for several more weeks, catching a second illness before he finally began to recover.

He had now been absent from the clavier for nearly two months. I had not written any music during this time, either, as I would not have been able to explain the quill and ink sitting beside the clavier stand. Instead, I spent the months practicing, while the unwritten notes ached in my mind, hungering for paper to rest on.

Momentum, once slowed, was difficult to pick up again. Our invitations dwindled. I still played alone before my smaller audiences. I still relished knowing that the applause was for me. But newspaper headlines were not the same as gifts of coin. My performances did not draw the kind of patrons we needed, their pockets lined with gold.

Papa began to speak more and more about money, sometimes about nothing else. Even I had already learned that three hundred and fifty gulden a year as the vice-kapellmeister of Salzburg’s court was no large sum. We could earn more with one night’s worth of performances.

“A pittance,” Papa complained, “for such a position. There is no respect for the creation of music anymore, and certainly not by the archbishop.”

“We could dismiss Sebastian for a time,” my mother suggested in a quiet voice, so that Sebastian would not hear it from where he was tidying their bedchamber.

Papa made an irritated sound. “The Mozarts and their famed children, unable to keep a manservant? Imagine inviting a member of the court to our home, only to have my own wife serving him tea and cake. Who will send us invitations, then?” He waved a hand in the air. “No, no, I will arrange for their portraits to be done.”

“A portrait each?” My mother’s eyes flickered, and I could see her doing the calculation of the cost in her mind. “Leopold—”

“What’s the matter? Are we not a family of dignified reputation? Do our children not deserve the best? Let our guests see how fine and young they both are, how well we are doing. Do you want to be the laughingstock of Salzburg, Anna?”

My mother pressed her hands tidily into her lap, in the way she always did when she knew she could not bend my father’s ear. I thought of her asking me what good it would do for her to speak harshly. “Of course not,” she said in an even tone.

My father went on, talking of taking us to France, to Paris. He had already begun soliciting, asking for the names of the kapellmeisters in each French town we could pass, and whether or not the townspeople cared for musical performances.

“They will not stay young forever,” Papa finished. “The older they are, the less magnificent their skills will seem.” Then he turned away, mumbling, in the direction of Woferl’s closed bedchamber door. He stepped inside, then shut the door behind him.

In the silence, my mother looked at me and noticed my expression. She sighed. “You must forgive him his anxiety in times like this,” she told me. “He is only looking out for our well-being. He says such things because he is desperately proud of you and your brother, and wants to ensure you are spoken of in high regard.”

“Are these times really so bad?” I said. “Why is Papa so worried?”

Mama gave me a stern look. “These are not questions a young lady should ask. Concentrate on what your father expects of you, and nothing more.”

I followed my mother’s example and did not speak again. No question was ever one a young lady should ask. It was useless to bring up my performances, that I had been tiding us over all this time. Papa was still waiting to hear my brother again. And I could feel it, my father’s mind pulling away from the memory of my talent. I was retreating into the dark spaces of his attention.

I thought of Hyacinth. My fingers ached, longing for the chance to write again. He had been gone so long. I needed him to return, before he forgot me too.



* * *





Slowly, to my relief, Woferl began to emerge from his bed. He started to chatter once more. I would find him in the music room in the mornings, seated on the clavier. A pink flush came back to his white cheeks. I took comfort in seeing him return to us, in all the familiar scenes that had been absent for the past month. Perhaps my worries about Hyacinth’s involvement were just nonsense, after all.

And then, one morning, the quill and ink were out again, and he was scribbling away.