Or perhaps Hyacinth had turned his back on me entirely and chosen to fulfill my brother’s wishes instead. This thought, that my guardian might have abandoned me in favor of Woferl, haunted me the most.

“You should not be so upset with him, Nannerl,” my mother said to me one day. We were on our way to London now, having arrived on British soil just a day earlier.

I froze at her words. “Why?” I asked cautiously, unsure if she was referring to Hyacinth or Woferl.

“He is your brother, my darling, and he loves you very much.” Mama took my hand. “Try to be patient with him. He is still very young, and his mischief overwhelms him at times. When you marry and have a son of your own, you will understand.”

I thought back to the château, the castle on the hill. After a moment, I said, “I am not upset with him, Mama. He is upset with me.”

London did not have much sun or sky when we arrived. An oppressive fog settled over the city, dampening everything, and people on the streets huddled into their coats when they went by, uninterested in us. Only Woferl seemed unbothered by the weather. He would grin his broad grin at those we met, sing for them, and tell them little jokes that would make them laugh. He made sure to time his antics for whenever I was ready to speak. The attention would stay on him, as it always did—except now, even my brother ignored me. I’d sit in silence, feeling like I was slowly disappearing into a world that no one could see.

* * *

After a week in England, we settled into a small inn near the edge of Bloomsbury, just shy of central London. It was here that I met the boy Johann again.

I saw him one morning when I was outside the entrance of our inn, waiting to see my father come back after his visit to the king and queen. Woferl did not want to wait with me, of course, so he had disappeared somewhere with Mama and Sebastian. I shivered in the cold air. There was the stale scent of fog, and the aroma of beer and salt and vinegar that wafted out from the taverns.

He passed our inn with the bottom of his face wrapped in a scarf. His shoulders were hunched up from the cold, and his hands were stuffed firmly into the pockets of his coat. I only caught a glimpse of his raised eyebrows, and his warm dark eyes.

“Johann?” I said, before I was even sure of it.

The boy had already passed me by, but he stopped in his tracks and looked around in confusion. I dared not call out his name a second time. Papa would be home soon.

I thought for a moment that Johann would keep going, convinced that my voice had just been a part of his imagination. But before he could turn away, he caught sight of me standing in the doorway of the inn. I felt embarrassed for my silence, and the blush rising on my face. Still, I did not turn away.

Johann hurried over to me. He pulled the bottom of his scarf down a bit so that he could speak, and his breath rose in a cloud. “Is it you, Fräulein Mozart?” he said. His face brightened, and he gave me a quick, awkward bow. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

I could not help but smile at him; it was comforting to hear our familiar language. “Neither had I,” I replied. “What are you doing in London?”

Johann blinked to moisten his eyes in the cold, and I noted how frozen his lashes looked, the strands beaded with icy dew. He pointed farther down the street. “My father wants me to attend university next year, to study law. We came to London to see the schools.” He raised an eyebrow at me, his smile wry. “I may end up back in Germany, as I can’t say any here have stirred him. I liked Oxford, but you should have seen his face. He was shocked by the brashness of the students—loud and unapologetic, always protesting something or other.”

I put a hand to my mouth and stifled a surprised smile. “It sounds delightful,” I remarked, impressed by the idea of such spirit.

Johann shrugged, still smiling. “What about you?” he said. “Are you here with your family? Come to perform for the London public?”

“My father has gone to see the king,” I said. “Woferl and I are to play for him soon, I imagine.”

“You will be able to see him, without a doubt.” Johann put his hands back into his pockets, too cold to gesture with them. “I’ve heard the Americans are unhappy with the king’s taxes and are giving Parliament an earful. He is desperate for entertainment to lighten his mood.”

“Then I suppose we must thank the Americans.” It was so easy to laugh with this boy. With Woferl gone from my side, and Hyacinth quiet, I found myself savoring the warmth of this small moment.

He told me about his family, then, and about his father. I learned that we had much in common. He and his sister—who was my age, he told me—were the only surviving children of his parents. His father, passionate about Johann’s education, had enlisted an army of private tutors and scholars to teach him literature, art, languages, history. He told me that he loved to paint.

I felt a sudden urge to tell him about the Kingdom of Back—all of it, the beauty that took my breath away, the darkness that haunted my waking dreams. He was a painter, someone who also lived in other lands. Perhaps he would understand.

“How long are you staying in London?” Johann asked me.

“I’m not sure. A month, at the least.”

“I will try to see you again,” he said. His smile turned shy then, and his gaze was full of warmth. “If I cannot, may I have permission to write to you?”

My father will never let you, I thought. But he had slipped past my defenses, and the crisp London air had made me bold. “Yes,” I said. I told him about our flat at Getreidegasse no. 9, and the house outside London where we would stay for the next few weeks.

Johann’s face glowed. I wondered what I looked like to him—a foolish girl in front of this older boy, unable to think of more to say. I was not raised as the type of girl to keep secrets from her father, and yet, I had so many of them. But I still found myself smiling back at Johann, thinking only of when I could hear from him again.

Johann tightened his scarf around his face, then uttered a muffled farewell to me before he continued down the street. The wind blew his dark hair into a flurry. I was too afraid to return the goodbye, so the word stayed huddled in my throat instead. Finally, when he disappeared into the crowds, I looked the other way, where Papa would come hurrying back.

There, I saw Woferl standing at the edge of the inn, partially hidden behind the corner.

I froze. He must have seen everything.

Woferl’s face was turned to me. I wondered how long he must have stood there, and what he may have heard. He did not smile at me, nor did he look angry. He simply stared.

“Woferl,” I called out to him.

He did not answer me. I swallowed hard, suddenly wondering if Hyacinth was beside him and had made himself invisible to me. The thought made me tremble. My brother, when he loved me, would keep any secret of mine close to his heart. But the rift between us still felt heavy in the air, like an off-key note, and there was something wary in his gaze that pulled him away from me, something that made me afraid of what he might do.