“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.

My heart leapt. It meant that I could start writing again too.

Papa spent longer hours at the clavier with Woferl and with me, as if to make up for the time we’d lost. He made Woferl play so late into the night that my brother could not concentrate anymore, then slapped Woferl’s hands when he saw my brother’s eyes drooping at the clavier.

I’d seen Papa’s temper strain many times before. But Woferl had suffered so long during his latest illness, and I’d been so truly unsettled that Hyacinth had done something to him, that now I felt the urge to defend him rise in me.

“Maybe he should rest now, Papa,” I said as Woferl wiped tears away, the dark circles prominent under his eyes. His small shoulders hung low like a wilted plant. “I’m sure he will play better in the morning.”

Papa did not look at me. He watched as Woferl started once again to play through the beginning of a sonata. The music did not have its usual joy, and Woferl’s hands could not play with their usual crispness. After several measures, Papa stopped him.

“To bed, both of you,” he said wearily. Shadows hid his eyes from me, so I could not guess what they looked like. “I’ve heard enough for today.”

That night, Woferl curled up tight beside me and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. He had recovered, but his strength had not fully returned to him. It was strange, his quietness. I draped my arm around him, touched my lips to his forehead, and let him rest.

I continued to write my music in secret. By now I had accumulated a small stack of papers at the bottom of our bedroom’s drawers, little sonatas and whimsical orchestra pieces, and had started to scatter them around in different spots so that they did not all sit together. I would write when Woferl and I had a rare moment alone.

One day Woferl, who sat near the clavier and watched me work, spoke up again, a welcome respite from his silence.

“You should show Papa your music,” he whispered. He rose from the windowsill and came to sit beside me on the clavier’s bench, pressing his small, warm body to me. When I looked down, I saw that his feet still dangled some distance from the floor.

“Papa will not like it,” I said. “I’ve told you this before.”