On the day we were to leave, Papa helped the coachman drag our things into the boot and paid the last of our fees to the innkeeper. He was in a good mood this morning, humming a strange tune under his breath that I didn’t recognize. I kept my face turned down and concentrated on checking my trunks and tidying my dress, tying my new hat securely with a veil.

I watched my father as we rode. He talked in a low voice to my mother, trying to convince her that the payment the Dutch offered was well worth what they asked.

“That is because what others cannot do, Woferl can,” he said, turning to my brother with a rare smile. “It is the miracle they seek, and you are it.”

I waited for Papa’s glance to fall on me too, to include me in his good mood and the miracle that was our family. But he ignored me and went back to his conversation with Mama. I swallowed and looked out the window.

We rested, spent the night at an inn, and crossed the Channel the following day. When our carriage finally clattered over a bridge overlooking one of The Hague’s canals and we looked out to see a towering opera house crowded with people, Papa exclaimed how right we were to have come here, how glad he was for all of us.

On our first night in The Hague, Woferl snuggled close to me in bed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

He shook his head and refused to lift his head. “I’m afraid of my nightmares,” he whispered. As he said it, something shifted in the dark corners of the room.

* * *

When I stirred the next morning, hazy with the fog of unremembered dreams, Papa was already bustling about, tugging on his coat while Mama adjusted his collar. “It is the perfect gift,” he was saying to her.

I sat up in bed and watched as my father set a book on the room’s desk and then hurry out the door. Mama followed behind him.

My eyes went back to the book. Vaguely, I remembered that Papa was planning to bind Woferl’s music for the prince and princess into a volume. I blinked, surprised to see the book already finished. Woferl had been writing nonstop, but I thought I knew how much he had finished and how much more he had yet to go. Had he really already composed enough for the book? The volume seemed a good thickness. Papa must have included some of my brother’s older works, in an attempt to fill it.

Out of curiosity, I rose from the bed and went over to the writing desk to peek at the volume before Papa and Mama returned. Behind me, Woferl continued to sleep. With delicate fingers, I ran a hand across the front of the book and then opened its cover.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. It was like a mirror, except in a sheet of black notes. I knew these notes. Every single one.

I flipped the first page, then the next, then the next, faster and faster.

I closed my eyes, dizzy, expecting to wake up out of this dream and be back in my bed. But when I opened my eyes, the volume was still here in my hand. My music was still staring back up at me.

My music. Not Woferl’s. Mine.

My hands were shaking so hard now that I feared I would tear the fine paper. I let out a gasped sob and took a step back—stumbling so that my legs gave way—and sat on the floor with my dress spilled in a circle around me. In the corner, Woferl stirred slightly in bed and rubbed his face sleepily. “Nannerl?” he murmured. “What is it?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t understand.

How could this possibly have happened? I looked in a daze around the room, then pushed myself up and rushed to my trunk. I rummaged through it frantically. My clothes, shoes, hair ties all went flying, until finally I stared down at an empty bottom.

I steadied myself against the trunk.

The neat little stack of my folded parchments, all the compositions I’d created and carefully stored away over the past months. They were gone.

In bed, Woferl sat up now, more awake and alarmed at the expression on my face. “Are you all right?” he said. “You’ve turned so pale.”

The world spun around me. “Did you tell Papa, Woferl?” I whispered, the words springing unbidden out of me.

“What?” Woferl replied. And when I looked him directly in the eye, he did not blink. He was a picture of confusion, pale from the hurt in my words. His gaze flitted to the mess of my belongings strewn around my trunk.

“Did you tell Papa about my compositions?” I said. My voice trembled.

Understanding suddenly blossomed on my brother’s face, followed by horror. “I would never,” he said.

I leaned against my empty drawer. My thoughts spun over and over until I swayed. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But I forced myself back onto my feet and stumbled over to look at the volume still open on the table. The pages were there. The notes were there. And my compositions were gone from my trunk, stolen away by my father.

Or by a princeling.

Hyacinth, Hyacinth, Hyacinth. The name tolled like a bell in my thoughts.

I’d been so foolish to think that he had somehow stepped quietly out of our lives. Here he was again, flitting his fingers through the air. He had always known where to hit me the hardest, had been waiting to use this against me should I ever turn my back on him. I had given up my end of our bargain. In return, he had taken my wish and given it to my brother instead.

This was Hyacinth’s revenge. The cruelty he had planned for my punishment.

Woferl called to me again from bed, but I could barely hear him. I paged through each piece in the volume until I reached the end.

Six of my sonatas, with minor changes. They had been published in a bound volume, like I’d always dreamed of, but they did not have my name anywhere on them. Instead, they were signed by Woferl.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had stolen my music.

THE AGREEMENT

I did not scream or cry. I did not answer Woferl when he continued to ask me if I was all right. I did not change my demeanor around Sebastian or breathe a word of it to my father or mother.

What was the use?

Instead, I turned my fury inward and let it consume me.

Later the same afternoon, I retired to bed early, dizzy and sore. By the next day, I’d developed a fever that made my skin hot to the touch, and started to vomit. My muscles ached so much that I had to bite back my tears. Sebastian carried me to my bed that day. My skin turned white and slick with sweat, my eyes grew swollen and tired. Rose spots appeared on my chest. My hair, drenched with moisture, stuck to my neck and forehead and shoulders in strings. I struggled to breathe, my lungs rasping from the effort.

Mama, in a panic, sent for a doctor that the Dutch envoy recommended and brought him to our hotel the same evening. He hovered over me in a haze of color, so that I could barely make out his grave face. He told my mother that my heartbeat had slowed, that I might be in serious danger. He bled me, then fed me a bitter tonic and left.