I looked at the boy the second time because Papa had announced to the crowd that they could test Woferl’s talents for themselves. He challenged the people to sound out a note, any note at all, and see Woferl name it correctly on the clavier. The shouts came fast and furious. I watched my brother take them with a smile, sometimes even with a roll of his eyes, which always seemed to get a laugh from the audience.

The boy joined in this game too, and that was why I looked at him. He would call out a note, and my brother would name it correctly without a moment’s hesitation. But the boy glanced at me whenever he spoke. I found this curious, even humorous—and did the same, looking in his direction each time I recognized his voice. He wore a faded blue justaucorps, with bright brass buttons that winked in the light, and a simple white wig that came down into a tail behind his neck. He was very pale, like my brother. His brows appeared raised each time I looked at him, as if he were perpetually surprised.

I found myself unable to linger on his face. Every time I did, the flush would rise on my cheeks, and I would glance away.

I lost sight of him after the performance had ended and the audience had started to disperse, some of them gathering near the orchestra to speak to us. Papa greeted each person with a smile and a handshake. They would take my hand and bow or curtsy to me. The largest crowds clustered around Woferl, of course, and he continued to perform for them in his own way, climbing up onto the clavier’s bench and singing a tune for them, and then laughing when they cheered and clapped. Each bit of attention he coaxed from the audience made him desperate for more, and his antics grew as his audience demanded them, until he had everyone roaring with applause.

Somehow, his new tricks prickled my nerves. I felt the tightness of my new dress, the ache in my belly. I felt keenly my height against his, his impressively small stature beside mine. While he soaked up the crowd’s attentions, my hands stayed folded obediently in my lap. My smile remained demure. The older, the less magnificent. My father’s words echoed in my mind.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked away from my brother and saw the boy from the crowd standing there, his eyebrows still slightly arched, a smile on his mouth.

“Fräulein Mozart?” he said, as if he could not be sure who I was.

Now that I saw him closely, I noticed that his eyes were a light brown, almost like honey. I curtsied to him. “Nannerl,” I said. “I hope you enjoyed our performance.”

He bowed to me. “My name is Johann. My family lives here in Frankfurt. I’ve heard about you and your brother for a long time, and when I knew you would be coming to Frankfurt, I had to see both of you.” His smile grew wider. “You were spectacular. I held my breath the whole time.”

The air was warm in August, but I had not felt it hot against my face until now. I curtsied again in an attempt to hide my blush. My heart fluttered in my chest like a trapped creature, and I worried for a moment that he could hear it.

“Thank you,” I said in a soft voice. “I’m flattered.”

“Are you staying long in Frankfurt?”

I shook my head. My eyes darted nervously to where Papa was still busy greeting others, and then back to Johann. “I think we might be here until the end of the month.”

“Then I shall try to attend another of your performances.” He smoothed down the edges of his jacket with hesitant fingers.

I smiled, embarrassed by my silence. My own hands hung awkwardly at my sides. I finally decided to hold them together against my petticoat, even though they felt exposed there. Everything of me, my face and neck and arms, felt exposed. “Thank you,” I said at last. “I would like that.”

He grinned. “It was a pleasure, truly, to hear you play.”

Before I could respond, Papa saw us. He looked at Johann first, then back at me, and his eyes flashed in the light like fleeting fire. I swallowed. My father said nothing, but his eyes continued to linger as he approached us, and the line of his jaw had tightened.

Johann bowed to my father first. “I have never heard a performance like this, Herr Mozart,” he said. “I wish that my parents had come with me. I think they would have enjoyed it.”

Papa’s expression did not change. “Thank you,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.

When he said nothing more, Johann bid us a hurried farewell and returned to what remained of the crowd. His eyes darted at me before he left. I did not dare return his look. Papa’s attention was fixed entirely on me now, the others around us forgotten.

“Who was that, Nannerl?” he said to me.

I kept my head low, and my eyes downcast. “I don’t know, Papa,” I murmured. “He said his name was Johann. He said he and his family live here in Frankfurt.”

“I will not have you carrying on a casual conversation with boys like that. Surely you must know better. Do that often, and rumors will spread about you, especially in places like Frankfurt, and especially about a girl as well-known as you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” I said.

His gaze wandered away into the crowd. I knew he was searching for Johann, to see if he lingered nearby. “Young ladies with no manners,” I heard him mutter. “Perhaps I should not take you on these trips, if you are going to learn such poor behavior from the locals.”

On the stage, Woferl was still entertaining the crowd, winking at a group of women to earn laughter and coos from them. The audience responded with delight. My father was unbothered. His frown stayed on me.

“Papa,” I started to protest. “He only wanted to tell us that he enjoyed our performance. He said nothing else.”

My father shot me an angry stare. I shrank away at it. “Do not be naïve, Nannerl,” he said. “All men are villains. They want only to benefit. Remember that, and do not speak again to a stranger unless I have given you permission to do so.”

My heart was beating very fast now. “Yes,” I replied quickly. “Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” With that, the argument ended. Papa looked away from me and back toward the dispersing people.

All men are villains.

He was afraid, I realized, and I wonder now if it was because he knew his proclamation made him a villain too.

WHO DIRECTS THE ORCHESTRA?

Papa was pleased with how we performed in Frankfurt. Our purses were full again, our expenses for the trip covered. My father spent the night counting out the coins, nodding and smiling at Mama, and in the morning, he bought her a necklace hung with a sapphire teardrop at its base that shone like starlight. For Woferl he bought a tidy new notebook of paper, so that my brother could continue his relentless composing.

For me, he bought a new cap to match my dress.

He was so pleased that when a local count invited him to the opera, my father paid for us all to come with him.