* * *

Woferl’s doctor, a man named Herr Anton von Bernhard, came late that night in a quiet flurry to stir a cup of medicine for my brother.

He looked at Woferl’s eyes, listened to his heart and his lungs, and studied the angry rash on his skin. In the candlelight, I could see Mama’s face. She wanted to say something, perhaps ask Herr von Bernhard a few questions, but each time she looked at Woferl she closed her mouth, as if she’d forgotten what she had to say.

“Scarlet fever, I imagine,” Herr von Bernhard told my father afterward. “See the bright red color of his tongue. Keep him in bed, and in a room with fewer windows.” He rubbed his temples as if it were a nervous habit. “I will come again tomorrow and give him a dose of angelica. He should drink warm water, boiled thoroughly.”

We moved Woferl into a smaller chamber the very next morning, one with only a single window and dim light. Each evening Herr von Bernhard came to give him medicine, and each morning Sebastian would open the window briefly to let the sick air out. Sometimes Mama would sit with Woferl while I retreated to play the clavier, Papa at my side, absently correcting my mistakes.

The halt to our performances stretched on. Papa’s bright mood from our successful Vienna trip darkened. I performed alone before the Elector of Bavaria. Without my brother, the court’s attention stayed only on me, and when they burst into applause at the end of my performance, I felt so stunned that for a moment I forgot to curtsy in return. The tips of my fingers still tingled from the thrill of my music.

My eyes went automatically to the space beside Papa, where Woferl would be. But only a court official stood in his place. Behind him, I thought I saw a pale, lithe figure stride through the crowd, his blue eyes fixed on me in approval. I turned my gaze back down to the floor. The thought of my brother lying stricken in bed clashed with the sound of thunderous applause.

“Nannerl, listen to what the newspaper says,” my father said several nights later, as we sat for supper. “The girl played the most difficult sonatas and concertos quite accurately, and in the best of taste.” He smiled at me. This was such a rare sight that I did not react quickly enough to smile back. My heart soared. “They do not say this lightly, Nannerl. Well done.”

A newspaper article! Papa had praised me for it! I reread it in bed that night, going over the words until I fell asleep with it still clutched in my hands. In my dreams, I curtsied before an applauding opera house covered in night flowers. My mother and father sat in the front row. My brother was nowhere to be seen. Up in the balconies, Hyacinth leaned against the banisters and watched me with a look of pride.

I shook awake, my eyes still turned up in his direction.

But Woferl stayed ill. My enthusiasm dampened every time I passed his room and saw him delirious with fever in his bed. Papa muttered frequently under his breath. Sometimes I heard him speak harshly to my mother in the next room, then lower his voice in apology.

“Your father is simply frightened, Nannerl,” Mama would say when I asked her about it. “He loves Woferl dearly, and he worries for us.”

“You worry for us,” I replied, “and you never speak harshly.”

Mama smiled a little. “I am your mother, darling. What good would that do?”

One night, when both of my parents sat by Woferl’s bed with me, I saw something stir in the corners of the room. The shadow flickered, turning sharper and sharper, until finally it materialized into the shape of Hyacinth.

He had grown taller and more slender since I last saw him, matching me in height and paleness, as if he too were edging out of his youth, growing from boyhood and into the body of a young man. As I watched him, he came to kneel beside me. His eyes, serious and silent, lingered on my brother.

“I know what you are thinking, Fräulein,” he said to me. “You think that perhaps I did this to him when he pricked his finger on the night flower.”

“Did you?” I finally asked.

“Your brother pricked his finger only so that a drop of his blood could spill inside the kingdom,” he replied. “I wanted to be sure that I had a link to his lifeblood and his talent, just as I have a link to yours through your notebook.”

The thought of Woferl’s blood being his link to the kingdom sent a shiver tingling through me. “What will happen the next time we step into the kingdom?” I said. “What other dangers will we have to face? Will the kingdom require more of our blood?”

Hyacinth shook his head. “The next time you come, you will come alone. I only need you for your next task.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because, Fräulein.” Hyacinth looked at me, his eyes pulsing in the dark. “The fulfillment of your wish has always been about you.”

Me. I remembered my name printed alone in the newspaper article, my father’s praise only for me. It had all happened after fetching the night flower for Hyacinth.

When I didn’t answer, Hyacinth turned his attention back to Woferl and heaved a wistful sigh. “Poor little boy,” he said. “Look at the color of his face, as if he is hovering between two worlds.”

Two worlds, the kingdom and ours. In his musical voice was such a sound of pining that I felt truly sorry for him. I thought of his past that I’d told Woferl, the way the kingdom’s forests had claimed him along with the queen, and wondered if he missed the home that he had been stolen from. Perhaps this was why he’d chosen to help me. One forgotten child to another.

“What will my next task be, then?” I asked, looking again at him—

—but Hyacinth had disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving nothing but emptiness beside me.

I blinked, disoriented to be alone all of a sudden. Beside me, Papa and Mama looked undisturbed, their heads still bowed in prayer.

I waited, half expecting Hyacinth to appear again. Had he ever been in here? The air seemed chillier now, and when I glanced outside the window, I noticed a ghostlike figure shrouded in dark colors drift by.

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.