Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(8)
Yet nestled in my satchel was the stranger’s gift. The flute jostled against my leg with every step, as real as Josef’s bows in my hand. I wondered why the stranger had gifted the flute to me. I was a mediocre flautist at best; the thin, ghostly sounds I could produce on the instrument were more strange than sweet. I wondered how I would explain its existence to Mother. I wondered how I could explain it to myself.
“Liesl.”
To my surprise, it was Josef who greeted us at the door. He peered at us from around the posts, hovering uncomfortably on the threshold.
“What is it, Sepp?” I asked gently. I knew my brother was nervous about his upcoming audition, what it would cost him to show his face to so many strangers. Like me, my brother hid in the shadows; unlike me, he preferred it there.
“Master Antonius,” he whispered, “is here.”
“What?” I dropped my satchel. “So soon?” We hadn’t expected the old violin master until the evening.
He nodded. A wary expression crossed his face, his pale features pinched with worry. “He made good time over the Alps. Didn’t want to get caught out by an early snowstorm.”
“He needn’t have worried,” K?the said. Both Josef and I turned to look at her in surprise. Our sister was gazing into the distance, her eyes a glassy glaze. “The king still sleeps, waiting. The days of winter have not yet begun.”
My pulse beat hard. “Who’s sleeping? Who’s waiting?”
But she said no more, and merely walked past Josef into the inn.
My brother and I exchanged a glance. “Is she all right?” he asked.
I bit my lip, remembering how the goblin fruit had stained her lips and chin with something like blood. Then I shook my head. “She’s fine. Where is Master Antonius now?”
“Upstairs, taking a nap,” Josef said. “Mother told us not to disturb him.”
“And Papa?”
Josef slid his gaze from mine. “I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes. Of all the moments for Papa to disappear. The old violin virtuoso had been a friend of Papa’s from the Prince-Bishop’s court. Both Master Antonius and Papa had left those days behind them, but one had traveled further than the other. One had just finished a post as a visiting resident at the court of the Austrian emperor, while the other found solace at the bottom of a beer barrel every night.
“Well.” I opened my eyes and forced my lips into a smile. I handed Josef his newly repaired bows and gathered an arm about his shoulders. “Let’s get ready to put on a show, shall we?”
*
The kitchen was a flurry of baking, boiling, broiling. “Good, you’re back,” Mother said shortly. She nodded at a bowl on the counter. “The meat is spiced, so start trimming the lengths.” She stood over a large vat of boiling water, stirring a batch of sausages.
I put on an apron and immediately began measuring the sausage casing to twist and tie into individual links. K?the was nowhere to be seen, so I sent Josef to go look for her.
“Have you seen your father?” Mother asked.
I dared not look at her face. Mother was an extraordinarily lovely woman, her figure still slim and youthful, her hair still bright, her skin still fair. In the half-light of dusk and dawn, in the in-between hours, in the golden edge of a candle flame, one could see how she had been renowned throughout Salzburg not only for her beautiful voice, but for her beautiful face as well. But time had graven lines at the corners of her full lips and between her brows. Time, toil, and Papa.
“Liesl.”
I shook my head.
She sighed, and a world of meaning lay within that sound. Anger, frustration, hopelessness, resignation. Mother still had the gift of conveying every shade of emotion through voice and voice alone.
“Well,” she said. “Let us pray Master Antonius won’t take offense to his absence.”
“I’m sure Papa will be back in time.” I picked up a knife to hide the lie. Trim, twist, tie. Trim, twist, tie. “We must have faith.”
“Faith.” My mother laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You can’t live on faith, Liesl. You can’t feed your family with it.”
Twist, trim, tie. Twist, trim, tie. “You know how charming Papa can be,” I said. “He could coax the trees to bear fruit in winter, he can be forgiven any slight.”
“Yes, I certainly know how charming your father can be,” Mother said drily.
I flushed; I had been born only five months after my parents said their vows.
“Charm is all well and good,” she said, straining the sausages and setting them on a towel to dry. “But charm doesn’t put bread on the table. Charm goes out with his friends at night when he could be showing his son to all the great masters himself.”
I did not reply. It had been a dream of the family’s once, to take Josef to the capital cities of the world and play his talent for better, richer ears. But we never did tour Josef. And now, at fourteen, my brother was too old to be touted as a child prodigy the way the Mozarts or Linley had, too young to be appointed to any sort of permanent post as a professional musician. Despite his skill, my brother still had years left to learn and perfect his craft, and if Master Antonius did not take him on as an apprentice, then it would be the end of Josef’s career.
So there was a great deal of hope riding on Josef’s audition, not just for Josef, but for all of us. It was my brother’s opportunity to rise beyond his humble beginnings and show the world what a talent he was, but it was also our father’s last chance to play for all the great audiences of Europe through his son. For Mother, it was a way for her youngest child to escape the life of drudgery and hardship that came with an innkeeper’s lot, and for K?the, it was the possibility of visiting her famous brother in all the capital cities: Mannheim, Munich, Vienna, and possibly even London, Paris, or Rome.