The Kingdom of Back(51)

Woferl’s cruelty descended as swiftly and fiercely as his affection. Later that night, I discovered that the pages in my music notebook had been rummaged through. When I flipped through it to the second to last page, where I’d written my first measures of music, my first secret, I found that the page had been ripped entirely in half.

I ran my finger along the frayed edges, then clutched the notebook to my chest and wept.





A DREAM NOT LIVED



Starting the very next morning, woferl no longer allowed me to watch him as he composed. He did this by letting Papa become his sole companion by the clavier, and Papa would tell me not to stand idle when I could be helping our mother with something. Woferl did not confide his stories in me at night. When we prepared to sleep, he would simply turn his back to me and pretend not to hear my words. He no longer replied when I mentioned the Kingdom of Back.

Perhaps he had taken my outburst to heart, and did not believe anymore.

I took my compositions and folded them into my heart, writing now in complete solitude. Finding the moments to do so became more difficult without Woferl’s help, the way he would quietly leave the ink and quill for me at the clavier. I had to be more careful with the precious few moments when I was alone. I would write a few hurried lines before hiding it all away with my other secret papers, sandwiched between the bottom layers of clothing in my belongings. But when I composed a piece that excited me, I had no one to share it with.

My secrets were mine alone now. And I could blame no one but myself.

I kept expecting to see Hyacinth with each passing day—standing in the corner of our inn, smiling at me from our audience, hiding in the shadows of the streets. Fear crept into the crevices of my sleep. I wondered what he would do now that I had broken my promise. Seek revenge, perhaps. Rob me of my ability to compose, or steal my sight so that I could no longer play the clavier. Perhaps he would take it out on my brother instead. Bleed the pink out of Woferl’s cheeks until he faded away one day with the morning light.

Or perhaps Hyacinth had turned his back on me entirely and chosen to fulfill my brother’s wishes instead. This thought, that my guardian might have abandoned me in favor of Woferl, haunted me the most.

“You should not be so upset with him, Nannerl,” my mother said to me one day. We were on our way to London now, having arrived on British soil just a day earlier.

I froze at her words. “Why?” I asked cautiously, unsure if she was referring to Hyacinth or Woferl.

“He is your brother, my darling, and he loves you very much.” Mama took my hand. “Try to be patient with him. He is still very young, and his mischief overwhelms him at times. When you marry and have a son of your own, you will understand.”

I thought back to the chateau, the castle on the hill. After a moment, I said, “I am not upset with him, Mama. He is upset with me.”

London did not have much sun or sky when we arrived. An oppressive fog settled over the city, dampening everything, and people on the streets huddled into their coats when they went by, uninterested in us. Only Woferl seemed unbothered by the weather. He would grin his broad grin at those we met, sing for them, and tell them little jokes that would make them laugh. He made sure to time his antics for whenever I was ready to speak. The attention would stay on him, as it always did—except now, even my brother ignored me. I’d sit in silence, feeling like I was slowly disappearing into a world that no one could see.



* * *





After a week in England, we settled into a small inn near the edge of Bloomsbury, just shy of central London. It was here that I met the boy Johann again.

I saw him one morning when I was outside the entrance of our inn, waiting to see my father come back after his visit to the king and queen. Woferl did not want to wait with me, of course, so he had disappeared somewhere with Mama and Sebastian. I shivered in the cold air. There was the stale scent of fog, and the aroma of beer and salt and vinegar that wafted out from the taverns.

He passed our inn with the bottom of his face wrapped in a scarf. His shoulders were hunched up from the cold, and his hands were stuffed firmly into the pockets of his coat. I only caught a glimpse of his raised eyebrows, and his warm dark eyes.

“Johann?” I said, before I was even sure of it.

The boy had already passed me by, but he stopped in his tracks and looked around in confusion. I dared not call out his name a second time. Papa would be home soon.

I thought for a moment that Johann would keep going, convinced that my voice had just been a part of his imagination. But before he could turn away, he caught sight of me standing in the doorway of the inn. I felt embarrassed for my silence, and the blush rising on my face. Still, I did not turn away.

Johann hurried over to me. He pulled the bottom of his scarf down a bit so that he could speak, and his breath rose in a cloud. “Is it you, Fr?ulein Mozart?” he said. His face brightened, and he gave me a quick, awkward bow. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

I could not help but smile at him; it was comforting to hear our familiar language. “Neither had I,” I replied. “What are you doing in London?”

Johann blinked to moisten his eyes in the cold, and I noted how frozen his lashes looked, the strands beaded with icy dew. He pointed farther down the street. “My father wants me to attend university next year, to study law. We came to London to see the schools.” He raised an eyebrow at me, his smile wry. “I may end up back in Germany, as I can’t say any here have stirred him. I liked Oxford, but you should have seen his face. He was shocked by the brashness of the students—loud and unapologetic, always protesting something or other.”