I woke the next night, trembling. From my open door I could see candlelight still flickering in Woferl’s sickroom. I rose then, wrapped my blanket around me, and made my way to him.

Mama slept quietly in the chair at the corner of the room, while my father lay with his head in his arms at the writing desk. I saw an unfinished letter to Herr Hagenauer crushed beneath his elbow. I walked carefully, so that I would not wake them, and sat down beside Woferl’s bed. Through the flickering candlelight and the windowpane I could see the hints of floating shapes, the cloaked figures that seemed to haunt us in a way that others could not notice, waiting patiently beside the glass. I turned to look at Woferl, who tossed and turned in his fitful sleep.

“Nannerl?” he whispered.

I blinked. Woferl suddenly turned his head in my direction, although his eyes—still swollen shut—could not see me. Instinctively, I reached for his hand and pressed it between mine. His skin was hot to the touch.

“I’m here, Woferl,” I said.

He tried to smile, but the pain stopped him. “You came to see me,” he said.

I swallowed. “Of course,” I said. “You are my brother.”

“Do you think I will get better? Is the smallpox very bad?”

The weakness in his voice cracked my heart. “It is not so bad,” I lied. The shapes outside the window grew larger, so that I could see their bony arms and long, spindled fingers. “The smallpox will disappear in just a few days.”

Woferl shook his head. He did not believe me. “I wish I could see you,” he whispered. His hand slipped out of mine and reached up for my face. I let him touch my cheek and held it there for him, so that he could feel the coolness of my skin.

My music notebook called to me. I thought I could hear its notes coming from my room, fragments of my composition. A tingle ran through my body at the sound.

Hyacinth. He had come to call. The time was near.

“Nannerl,” Woferl said suddenly. He turned his face to me. “I’m sorry about your compositions.”

At that, I turned sharply back to him. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I swallowed, afraid of what he might say next. “What do you mean?”

“The six sonatas that Papa took from you. He should not have done that.”

I was silent. My hands pulled Woferl’s away from my cheek so that he could not feel the tremble of my jaw. How long ago was it that our father betrayed me? I had tried to bury it away in my heart, didn’t think Woferl would ever speak aloud to me about it. Now the memory of it all came roaring back, stabbing so hard at me that I winced in pain.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a small movement. A tiny patch of mushrooms was growing on the dresser top, right beneath the light of the candle. They were a shiny black and dotted with scarlet.

Woferl struggled to get closer to me. “I didn’t tell him, you know,” he said. “I didn’t tell Papa about your music. I did not think that he would ever find them, but he did, for he was searching for a pair of cuff links he had lost. I could not stop him from going there.”

He spoke frantically, as if he knew he was fading away. I patted his hand, clucking to him softly so that he would not work himself into a frenzy. “I know,” I whispered. “It’s all right.”

“They are yours,” Woferl went on. “And they are better than anything I could have written.” He took a deep breath. “All I’ve ever wanted, Nannerl, was to be like you. It is still all I hope for. I need you to know. I need you to know.” He repeated it several times, urgent in his fever.

All I’ve ever wanted.

And suddenly I realized that, here, kept safe within the small chest of my brother, was my wish all along. I’d despaired so much of ever seeing it come true, had spent so much effort turning toward my father for validation, that I’d never taken the time to look in Woferl’s direction for it.

It was my wish not to be forgotten, to have a place within hearts when I was gone. To be remembered by the world.

But it was my brother’s wish to be like me. He was the one who handed me quill and ink. He was the one who remembered.

Tears blurred my vision. All around us, vines had begun creeping up the walls and around the bedposts, their leaves a glittering black, their flowers tiny and white. Nannerl, the whisper came, calling for me. The kingdom had finally come to claim my brother.

Woferl gave me a thoughtful expression. I hurriedly wiped away my tears. Although I knew he could not see them, he seemed to know I was crying.

“You did not look through the final volume,” he said at last.

“No,” I answered. “How could I? I saw your name printed on the cover.”

“You did not see the final copy of Die Schuldigkeit, either. I remember you walked out of the room, complaining of the air.”

I thought back to the oratorio we had written together. “I did not have the strength to see your signature on it.”

“I did not sign either with my name, you know. I could not do it.”

I continued to look at him, more surprised now than anything. Such a thought had never crossed my mind. “What did you sign them as, then?”

“I signed them Mozart.”

I leaned forward. “Just Mozart?”

“Yes. For both of us. We are both Mozart, are we not?”

Woferl paused and made a gesture with his hands, as if to write something down. I broke out of my thoughts long enough to see it, then rose and walked over to where Papa slumped on the writing desk. I carefully took the quill and inkwell, my hands brushing past ivy leaves and tendrils as I did, and then a sheet of paper. I returned to Woferl’s side. With both hands, I helped him find the quill and dip it in the inkwell. He touched the paper, then pressed the quill down.

He smiled at me. I was too stunned to say anything in return. I simply leaned closer, then laid my head gently against his swollen cheek. His breathing became shallower, a hissing tide between lulls. I hummed for him. He tightened his grip on my hand.

The glow of blue fireflies had begun to flood the room, darting impatiently from one place to the next. This was the moment Hyacinth had been waiting for. I could hear him calling for me, the music of my composition seeping into the air and his whispers accompanying it.

Nannerl. My Fräulein. It is time.

Woferl was suspended between two worlds. The time had come to lead him out of this world forever and into the kingdom beyond.

When he had fallen asleep, I took the quill and ink and placed them back on the writing desk. Then I left the sickroom, returned to my own room, and found the music notebook tucked underneath my bed. I cradled it in one arm. Black mushrooms dotted the floor, but disappeared wherever my feet landed.