“You don’t know that,” he replied. He turned his eyes to the sheet of music before him, his face full of wonder. “How can someone not like this?”

I sighed. “Woferl, it’s very kind of you to like my music, but you are not Papa. What can he possibly use it for? He certainly would not let me publish them, or perform them for an audience. He may tell me to stop writing altogether then. He will think it is a waste of my time, when I should instead be practicing for our performances.”

“Why?”

I always disliked this question from him. “I am a lady. It is simply not proper for me,” I decided to say. “I would need to have your fame, and your ability to draw a crowd, to even risk such a thing.”

Woferl frowned. I had never spoken of our performances like this before, as if we did not play together, as if we were separate. “But you have my fame,” he said. “You draw your own crowds.”

I looked down at him. He meant it in earnest, I could see that, but I knew it was not true. Still, I put my arm around him and squeezed his shoulder once, my silent thanks, before I turned back to the half-filled sheet before me. “Let me finish,” I said. “It is almost your turn at the clavier.”

I saw Papa alone that evening. It was very late at night, and Mama had already retired to bed, and I had carried a sleeping Woferl from the music room to our own bedroom. I had returned to the music room to fetch a candle. On my way back, I caught a glimpse of Papa sitting by himself at the dinner table and paused.

Both of his elbows were propped up on the table, and his head sat in his hands. I watched him for a moment, my face partially hidden behind the edge of the wall. Papa had rolled his sleeves up to the middle of his arms, messily, and gotten a stain on one of them. Mama would have to wash his shirt in the morning. His powdered wig lay forgotten on a nearby chair. I saw his dark hair in mild disarray, combed through with his fingers, loose strands everywhere. He seemed not like the stern figure often standing beside the clavier, but a tired soul, vulnerable and small.

In this light, I could see what he might have looked like as a young man, wide-eyed and smooth-faced, how my mother must have seen him before the weight of family and fortune carved lines into his skin. Perhaps he had been carefree in his youth too. A teenage Woferl.

I could not picture my father playing childish pranks on his peers, though, or clapping his hands with laughter at a story. He must have always been serious, even when he was handsome and charming enough to have coaxed my mother into his arms. And something about the intensity of his presence, the gravity of him, made me feel bold.

What if I did as Woferl suggested and told him about my compositions? Would it cheer him? Surely, he could feel some sense of pride, however fleeting, in knowing that his daughter could write music as competently as his son? I remembered Woferl’s words, and then my own. Perhaps he would let me perform them, just now and then, a small refrain in the middle of a private concert, some opportunities before my performing years ended.

An urge rose in me then, to tell my father about my secret. To hear the approval in his voice. My pendant felt suddenly heavy in my pocket. I thought about what Hyacinth would say. Did he want me to do this? I took a deep breath, wondering how I could word it to Papa.

I am composing my own music. It is mine, from my hand alone. I wrote it for myself and I wanted to share it with you. Do you see me?

Papa must have heard me take my breath. He lifted his head from his hands and looked around as if in a momentary daze, then settled on me. For a moment, his eyes softened, as if in guilt or sorrow. He looked like he wanted to say something to me. I waited, my heart pounding, my entire body tilted in anticipation toward him.

Then my father’s gaze retreated behind a wall. My courage wavered. I held back the words from the tip of my tongue.

“Have you stood there long?” he said.

I shook my head quietly.

He looked away from me and rubbed a hand across his face. “For heaven’s sake, child, go to bed. It is not polite to stand in doorways, spying on others.”

The moment passed as quickly as it came upon me. I could no longer remember what I wanted to say. What was I thinking? Seconds earlier I had nearly spilled open my secrets to him—now, it seemed absurd to mention such an idea to my father. He would have torn my music in half, tossed the ruined sheets into the fire. The thought made me pale.

I murmured an apology, stepped away from him, then turned toward the bedroom. Silver light sliced the floor into lines. When I moved past the windows, I thought I could glimpse the twin moons of the Kingdom of Back hovering in the sky, moving slowly and steadily closer to each other. Exhaustion suddenly weighed against my chest, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. In the morning, I would forget this moment. So would he.

Someone was waiting for me right behind my bedroom door. He was so quiet that I startled in the dark.

It was Hyacinth.

He had grown a little taller since the last time I saw him, and his face was more beautiful than ever. He had heard me calling for him through my music, however unconsciously I had done it. I stared at him, caught between fright and joy.

Whatever expression he saw on my face, it made him shake his head in sympathy. “You’ve performed well on your own,” he said. His fingers brushed against my cheek. “Why are you sad, my Fräulein?”

His words were so quiet and gentle, his look so attentive, that I felt an urge to cry. I swallowed, waiting until my eyes dried, and then whispered, “My father is unhappy.” I looked to where my brother lay curled in bed, withered from exhaustion and already asleep. “Woferl has been very ill lately. It has made him withdrawn and quiet.”

Hyacinth’s glowing eyes roamed around the room before they finally settled on the window that overlooked the Getreidegasse, and the lands beyond.

“Perhaps I can do something to help your family,” he said to me, taking my hand in his. “It is time for your next task. Are you ready?”

I thought of my father with his head bowed in his hands, the dark circles under my brother’s eyes. I thought of my mother, wringing her hands. I looked down at his smooth, elegant fingers wrapped around mine, his presence here with me when others were not.

“Yes,” I replied.

THE OGRE AND THE SWORD

The air was cool and alive tonight in the Kingdom of Back, as if all this land had taken in a deep breath, stirring, at the return of their princeling. The west wind caressed us, delighted by Hyacinth’s presence, and Hyacinth smiled at its touch, tilting his face up so that the wind could kiss his lips. As I followed him through the trees, I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, shivering beneath my lace and velvet. My dress dragged along the ground, picking up bits of dirt and grass.

Hyacinth! Hyacinth! the faeries called as we went, dancing excited circles of blue light around their princeling. He’s here! They drew close to him, kissing his cheeks and skin affectionately, but he waved them off, his breath fogging in the midnight air.