The Kingdom of Back(75)

“No.” Papa’s voice was harsh with determination. “We will stay here for the time being. We will not go outside, unless we absolutely must. Let me think of a plan.”

I sat on my bed in the darkness as their voices rose and fell, my eyes fixed on the bit of candlelight that crept underneath my door and into my room. The air was not cold, but I still trembled. I’d seen before what the smallpox could do to people, turn their skin red and angry, their eyes milky and blind. I thought of Sebastian, who waited for us in Salzburg. Then I thought of Johann and hoped that the epidemic would not spread to Germany.

A commotion in the hall woke me the next morning. I startled, still dazed with sleep, and realized that Mama was shouting at someone outside my door.

I opened it to see Mama opposite Herr Schmalecker, her face red with anger. Papa stood near her.

“Why did you not tell us of this?” Mama said to Herr Schmalecker. “You knew of it, for so long!”

“Calm yourself, Frau Mozart,” he said. An embarrassed smile lingered on his face. “Augustine healed before you had even arrived—so I did not think of telling you.”

“And what are we to do now?” Mama’s voice became shrill. In it, I heard the fear of the mother who had lost so many children before Woferl and me. “Your two other boys have fallen ill. Soon we will all have the smallpox. This will be on your shoulders, Herr Schmalecker.”

Over their arguing, I could hear the wails of Herr Schmalecker’s stricken children coming from somewhere downstairs.

Papa looked at me. His eyes held a silent warning. “Nannerl,” he said. “Go sit with Woferl in his room. I will come get you when I’m ready.”

I nodded without a word and headed to my brother’s door.

“What has happened?” Woferl asked me as soon as I stepped in. He sat unmoving on his bed, his head turned in the direction of Mama’s voice. He looked startled to see me.

“Herr Schmalecker’s youngest daughter had the smallpox shortly before we arrived,” I replied. “The others woke up feverish this morning.”

Woferl searched my face with blank eyes. He looked distant this morning, his soul somewhere far away. I sat down on the corner of his bed and frowned at him. “What is it, Woferl?”

He shrugged. His vacant stare turned to the window, as it had for the past few days. “Hyacinth was in my room last night,” he said. “He stood in the corner and watched me.”

I tensed, my fingers closing tight on his blankets. He found us. “Why was he there?”

Woferl didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t know. Instead, he looked back down at the papers spread out on his bed, then pressed his hands to his ears. “I cannot concentrate,” he said. “There is too much screaming.”

I worked on my composition late into the night, urged on by the fear of Hyacinth watching my brother. The song of your heart, Hyacinth had asked of me. I flipped through the pages and listened to the music in my mind. It was a path that extended nowhere, long and winding, forever heading toward a place I might never see. I wrote and wrote until my eyes strained from the low light.

Outside, I could hear the sounds of horse hooves clattering against the cobblestones, the shouts of people as they carried their luggage to the carriages and prepared to leave Vienna. Still other voices were ones of terror, voices calling out for doctors to visit their homes, to see to family members that had fallen ill. I tried to shut out the sounds. They rang in my mind, tearing apart my thoughts.

Finally, when the moon rose high in the sky, I stood up gingerly and crept to my door. I did not know what I wanted to do. I simply did not want to stay in my room any longer.

I walked silently over to Woferl’s door, then opened it and stepped inside. He had fallen asleep amidst the strewn papers of his composition, and his dark hair framed his face in wayward curls. His cheeks looked flushed. I closed the door behind me, then walked over to his bed and crawled in next to him. I hugged him to me. He stirred a little, then instinctively huddled closer to me and let out a sigh.

I tried to remember him as a tiny boy, when his fingers were still small and fresh and chubby, and his face was eager and innocent. I lay awake beside him, caught in my own emotions.

I had not stayed with Woferl for an hour when Papa suddenly burst into the room. I bolted upright, disoriented in my weariness.

“Papa?” I said.

His face was grave. He hurried over to the bed and began to wrap Woferl up in his blanket. My brother whimpered, then rubbed at his eyes even as Papa threw a coat over him. “Go back to your room, Nannerl,” he said to me. “I will speak to you in the morning.”

I watched Papa nudge my arm away from Woferl and pick him up. A sudden panic hit me. “Where are you going? Where are you taking Woferl?”

Papa ignored me, then stood with Woferl in his arms and promptly left the room. Through the open door, I saw Mama standing at the top of the stairs. Without waiting any longer, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and rushed out to the hall. Papa had already started down the stairs. Woferl looked up at Mama and me with sleepy, startled eyes.

I put my hand on my mother’s arm. “Mama, where are they going?”

“Hush, Nannerl,” Mama said. Her face looked drawn, and full of fear. I looked quickly from her to Papa’s back, and then to her again. “Your father is taking Woferl to a friend’s home. He will be safer there.”