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 thathe 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. Thinkof 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.
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 tuneunder 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, tuggingon 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.
