His agreement surprised me. I reached over, put my finger down on the paper, and drew three invisible notes. It was the same chord, separated out so that each note came after the other. “This would be better,” I said quietly.

Woferl looked at the paper for a long moment. He dipped his quill back into its inkwell, and then crossed out the old chord and replaced it with mine. I watched him carefully as he wrote, expecting to hear an edge in his voice should he choose to speak to me again.

But when he looked at me again, there was a small smile lingering on his lips, his satisfaction at a good measure of music.

“It is better,” he echoed.

* * *

Gradually, Woferl began to ask for my advice again. When I wrote my own music in secret, he would look on, murmuring in appreciation when he enjoyed a measure. He did not come with me to explore the house, but when I wandered the garden, he would watch me through the window. And sometimes, if he were in a particularly good mood, he would slip his small hand into mine, holding us together until some distraction drew him away again.

Papa recovered slowly in his bedroom, with his windows open to the country air and his bedside drawer constantly adorned with fresh flowers from the garden. His mood was better too, now that we were far away from the chilly London streets. I would hear him laughing with Mama sometimes, or them speaking together in hushed voices on warm afternoons. The sound was as sweet as the summer rain.

Woferl had been in good health too. His cheeks were round and rosy, and his childish giggles rang through the house. As we were still forbidden from touching the clavier, we spent most of our days playing together. I invented musical games to humor him and hid trinkets all over the house that he would then have to find.

One day, Woferl dragged Sebastian into our room and begged him to draw us a map of the kingdom. I listened in surprise. The rift between Woferl and me had been because of the kingdom—and yet, now he was asking for it to be drawn as a map. Sebastian did, and my brother laughed and clapped his hands in delight at the funny little boxes he would draw for us, his crooked castle on the hill and squiggly trees.

I looked on, amused but uneasy at my brother’s enthusiasm. The kingdom did not look so powerful or frightening on paper. My brother was well. My father’s health was slowly returning. And as I watched Sebastian amuse Woferl, I began to wonder whether, perhaps, the kingdom had truly been nothing more than a faery tale. It was easy to think so here, in this rose-scented house soaked in sunlight. I had not seen Hyacinth since the château. Woferl did not have any more nightmares.

Maybe he had left us entirely. I lay awake at night, trying to make sense of it. It had been so long, I began to hope that perhaps Hyacinth had forgotten about my betrayal and wouldn’t seek revenge for the way I’d turned away from him.

Perhaps he was never real at all.

Still, now and then, I’d find myself looking into the shadows of my room and wondering whether I saw a slender figure hiding there. I had completed three tasks for the princeling. He had promised, if I helped him, to grant my wish in return.

Was my relationship with Hyacinth really to end this quietly? Was I destined to fade into the air as my brother moved on without me and my father followed him? Would Woferl turn to me one day and point to some empty corner, whispering to me that Hyacinth had returned to him alone?

By the time Papa recovered enough from his illness to bring us back to the city, winter had set into London and the days were darker and even colder. It was a bitter contrast to our sun-soaked days in the countryside. Our concerts were adequately attended, but a far cry from our earlier stops. After several more months of disappointing performances, Papa decided that he had had enough of England and arranged for us to leave.

“There is no love for God’s music here,” he complained to my mother on our carriage ride to the pier at Dover.

“Perhaps there is too much, Leopold,” my mother replied. “Herr Johann Christian Bach himself is the queen’s music master.”

At that, Papa nodded in bitter agreement. Herr Bach had helped us win an audience before the royal English court in the first place. But how were we to compete with the London master of music? “Ah, Anna,” he said with a sigh. “Too many musicians make their living here. We’ll go elsewhere. The envoy from The Hague has approached me again. I have already made arrangements with the Duchess of Montmorency.”

Mama’s expression did not waver, but I could plainly see the disappointment on her face. “I thought that we would not see the Dutch,” she said. “We have been away from Salzburg for so long.”

“The Princess-Regent Carolina and her brother are anxious to see us,” Papa replied. “They wish the children to perform and have requested a bound volume of Woferl’s compositions ready for the prince’s eighteenth birthday.”

“A volume?” my mother asked. “How many?”

“I thought six sonatas could be ready for publication as soon as we arrive.”

Six sonatas. I could tell that this was no idle guess, but the number the Dutch had asked for, and that Papa had already promised.

At Mama’s frown, Papa lowered his voice into his affectionate tone. “Anna,” he said, “it will go better than London, I assure you.”

“Do you not remember what happened in Prussia?”

“Prussia.” Papa grimaced and waved a dismissive hand. “This is different. The Dutch will pay us in guilders, not kisses. Think of it.” He took my mother’s hands. “There will be concerts every night, crowded with patrons, and opera houses and gardens overflowing with people who cannot get their fill of good music. Every nobleperson will be eager to receive us. Princess Carolina is a great admirer of ours and insisted on our presence.”

I looked down at my brother to see him listening quietly and biting his lip, his face intent. He knew as well as I did that it was no use arguing once Papa had made up his mind. The Dutch envoy knew that our London tour had soured in the end, and it was this weakness he sought to exploit by tempting my father to make up for those performances. Besides—I could see the light in Woferl’s eyes, his brightening at the challenge before him despite his exhaustion.

Still. Six sonatas. Woferl had written two during our stay in the country. He would happily write four more. But in such a short amount of time? We must have dipped farther into our savings than I thought, for Papa to agree to such an impossible deadline. Had our landlord, Herr Hagenauer, sent Papa a letter again, asking for our rent?

“Very well,” my mother said, and that was that.

So we prepared and packed. Woferl began writing in earnest. I’d wake to see him asleep with a quill still in his hand, an unfinished page of music crumpled under his arm.

* * *