Several days later, Papa became gravely ill.
At first, he complained of chills, a weary back, and a sore throat, something he waved away as a passing irritation. The next day, he had doubled over on his bed with his hands clutched over his stomach, and Mama and Sebastian had to send for a doctor. Fever settled over him in a heated cloud.
Woferl and I continued our clavier lessons alone, as quietly as we could. I kept my thoughts to myself and did not dare to share them with my brother. My shattered pendant stayed in the bottom of my dresser.
Woferl never mentioned my moment with Johann. My father never found out.
He blamed his illness on the English weather, the fog, and the rain. Without his making arrangements and setting up meetings, several more of our performances were canceled.We were forced to dig into the money we’d earned in Germany. This only deepened Papa’s frustration, which in turn seemed to worsen his state.
I found myself lingering outside my parents’ bedchamber, watching my mother wringing out a towel to place on my father’s head. I would stare at his pale, sickly face and silently will him back to health. My brother, still reluctant to talk to me, would quietly ask me how Papa was doing. I never knew what to say. Our practice sessions felt strange without his shadow towering beside us.
After several weeks of little progress and performance cancellations, Mama finally moved us to the English countryside outside of London, to a small Georgian house on Ebury Row, so that Papa could recover in peace. The house was plain but spacious, and when we first arrived there I looked out of the carriage window to admire the pastures and estates.
On our first day, Mama requested our clavier be pushed to a corner and covered with a sheet of cloth. We were not to play while our father stayed ill.
This did not stop Woferl from composing music. I saw him working at night, jotting down measures into the music notebook that Papa had given him after our Frankfurt tour.
One afternoon, I found Woferl hunched over his writing desk overlooking the garden and approached him. He did not speak, but his eyes darted up at me, and I noticed the shift of his little body as he turned himself unconsciously toward me.
“May I see what you’ve written?” I offered.
Woferl did not look up. His hand continued to scribble a fluid line of notes on the page. “After I’ve finished,” he said at last. “I am nearly done with my symphony.”
It was a response. My heart lifted slightly at that. He had not spoken to me like this since the incident at the château. Perhaps Papa’s illness has finally softened the grudge between us.
I waited. When Woferl finished his page and turned to a new sheet, I tried again. “Tomorrow I am going to explore around the house, and walk in the garden. Will you come with me?”
Woferl said nothing. I looked over his shoulder this time, so that I could see the measures he wrote out. The symphony was light and fluid, with the same liveliness I remembered from its first pages, which I had seen some time ago. I read my way silently down the page, picturing the harmony in my mind. My eyes settled on the last measure Woferl had written down.
It was a chord, three notes played together with no separations. “That does not belong,” I said automatically, without thinking.
Woferl frowned. I saw his eyes jump to the same chord, even though I had not pointed anything out.
“You’re right,” he replied. “It doesn’t quite fit.”
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 atthe 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.
