The tasks I’d completed for Hyacinth stayed with me. I thought through each one as I watched my brother grimace in his sleep, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. Surely it was all a coincidence, the way Woferl’s illnesses seemed to line up with these vivid dreams I had.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that his illnesses were linked to the kingdom and to my tasks there. It felt as if my brother’s fate and the princeling’s and mine were all tethered together as tightly as a violin string. Woferl’s hot hand pressed against mine. I held on to him and stared at his pitiful figure, his eyes dancing under their lids. His lips moved silently. Now and then, they seemed to form Hyacinth’s name, as if his essence was hanging somewhere in the air. But I heard nothing.

Was my brother dreaming of the princeling? Was Hyacinth visiting with him secretly?

A spark of envy burned in my heart, followed immediately by guilt.

If I were the one lying sick here, I knew my brother wouldn’t hesitate to stay by my side every evening, humming to me little tunes that he’d written, kissing my cheeks, and asking me to grow stronger. He wouldn’t sit in silence and allow jealousy to invade his mind. The realization made me tighten my grip on his hand.

Would it change what I did for Hyacinth, if I knew that the link between all our fates were real? I lowered my eyes, ashamed that I didn’t know the answer right away. He was so small for his age, his body so vulnerable. I thought of all the times he would curl close to me for protection, and my heart softened in affection. I lowered my face to his and whispered for him to get well.

Night after night, I returned to hold Woferl’s hand and watch the shadows dance across his face. I stayed until, slowly, slowly, he began to pull out of the darkness. The fog disappeared from his eyes. He began to look alert again. He would wake up in the morning and ask for parchment and ink.

The arguments between my mother and father stopped. My worries about the kingdom’s effect on Woferl’s health faded away again. And all of us breathed a collective sigh of relief.

* * *

I believe that Papa must have felt some regret for his behavior during this time. He had worked Woferl and me relentlessly for weeks, making us go over and over our pieces, watching us practice late into the nights even when Woferl shivered from the cold. His outburst at me over Johann seemed to guilt him too. While we waited for Woferl to recover, he told me that our audiences felt compelled to speak to me, that I was an alluring talent. Sometimes he fumbled over his words, grew frustrated with himself, and turned his eyes away from me.

I don’t know if it had anything to do with me witnessing him at his writing desk weeks ago, or if my task for Hyacinth had pleased the princeling enough to earn me a bit of luck.

Whatever the reason, after Woferl recovered from the fever, Papa decided to give us a day of reprieve shortly after we arrived in France, taking us to visit La Roche-Guyon with no performances planned.

La Roche-Guyon was a small commune in the northern part of the country. The La Rochefoucauld family had invited us to visit their château, and Papa never missed a chance to develop new relations with nobility. He lined me up with my brother on the day we were to meet them and warned us not to mention where we would next visit, that the last leg of our journey would take us to Great Britain.

Woferl found this a great source of mischief. “Do you think Papa will be angry with me, if I do mention it?” he said to me.

I gave him a stern look. “If Papa says not to do it, then don’t,” I replied. “You’ll get nothing out of it.”

Woferl tapped his shoes in a rhythm against the carriage floor. “How do you know?”

“I just do.” I let the conversation end there, and did not reply when Woferl spoke again. I knew perfectly well why Papa would ask us to do such a thing, and the La Rochefoucauld family would be grateful for it, as the end of the French and Indian War did not leave a sweet taste in their mouths for the British.

We arrived in La Roche-Guyon on a bright, blue morning, up to the top half of a large hill where the road ended at a cobblestone walkway. It was a warm day, not unlike the afternoon when we had performed in Frankfurt, and the sun seared my cheeks as we walked, leaving a slight blush on my skin.

It reminded me of the heat on my face when I’d spoken to the boy named Johann. If he were here, would he comment on the sky, the river, the color of my dress against the sandstone walls? Would he take my hand in his, or push loose strands of my hair behind my ear, the way Hyacinth had done?

I shook my head, embarrassed, and pushed my thoughts away. Lately, I’d caught myself dwelling on the dream of my kiss and wondering what such a sensation might feel like in my world, with Johann. I’d seen my father kiss my mother before, although he didn’t put his hands against her face and pull her toward him. She didn’t lean toward him with wonder in her eyes.

Would kissing Johann feel like theirs? Polite and distant? Or would it feel like the brush of cold sugar, sweet and wintry and intimate, from Hyacinth? Would it be something different altogether?

Papa glanced back at us once. I immediately lowered my head, afraid that he might have seen my daydreams spelled out plainly on my face. The blush on my cheeks deepened.

Madame Louise-Pauline de Gand de Mérode and her husband were already waiting for us. The young lady greeted Mama with delicate, gloved hands. “It is a pleasure to have your company,” she said to my mother. Her face looked pale and sickly, like she had just recovered from several weeks in bed, but I marveled at her voice, calming and full of warmth.

Monsieur Louis-Alexandre, a severe man outfitted with a long face, shook hands with Papa and spoke quietly to him before nodding at both Woferl and me. I curtsied whenever someone took notice. Woferl followed my lead in this, thankfully, but I could see his eyes darting here and there, eager to explore our new surroundings in this foreign country, his mouth twitching with curiosity.

“You will behave yourself, won’t you, Woferl?” I whispered to him when our parents began to follow the La Rochefoucaulds up the cobblestone walkway. We walked behind them, far enough to talk amongst ourselves.

“I’ll try,” he declared. “But I need to tell you something.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Woferl lifted a finger and pointed up toward the château that we now headed toward, the castle that belonged to the La Rochefoucaulds. “We should go to the very top,” he said. “I saw someone waiting for us up there.”

I followed his finger until my eyes rested on the château too. At first, I didn’t think much of it, as I simply did not recognize it. It looked like an old fortress tucked into what was once a cliff, with heavy brick towers and tiny, glassless windows. It sat high up on the hill, so that from where we stood we could see the banks of the Seine River.

I looked back at Woferl. He only stared at me, his expression confused, as if he couldn’t understand why I did not see what he saw.