“And what of Nannerl? She’s a young woman now.”
“Very young, still.”
My father sighed. “We can barely afford to keep Sebastian as it is,” he said, “and we must take the children before the courts while we can. I’ve already received an invitation from the empress.”
I saw the corner of Mama’s mouth twitch. “Is a celebration to happen in Vienna?” she said.
“The empress’s daughter Maria Josepha is to be married to King Ferdinand IV of Naples. They will hold a huge feast and have days of celebrations—all of the royal courts and our patrons are to be there. Think of it, Anna!” Papa’s eyes lit up. “We’ll earn ten years’ salary in a week.”
My mother’s voice lowered so that I could barely hear her. “It is not safe—”
Papa’s voice cut into her words. “Archduchesses do not marry daily.”
Their conversation ended there. I watched them sit in silence for a moment, their figures flickering in the candlelight. Finally, they rose and headed to their bedchamber. I watched them go until their door closed, then went back to my bed and crept underneath the covers.
When the flat at last became still, I sat awake in the dark and thought. In the adjacent room, I could hear Woferl stirring in hisbed. Already, Papa had started arranging our trip, and before long, we would have our belongings packed once again into the carriage, be waving our farewells to Salzburg.
I shivered and pulled my blankets higher until they came up to my chin. It was not a coincidence, our trip to Vienna. I thought of the letter I had burned, the ink staining the paper until it blackened and disappeared against the coals.
Come to me in Vienna, and I shall take you to the ball.
What he would do there, I couldn’t guess. How he wanted my brother, I didn’t know. There were too many possibilities, and my mind whirled through each until I exhausted myself with fear. The part of myself I understood shrank away at the thoughts. The part of myself lost in the kingdom stirred and smiled.
All I knew for certain was this: we were headed to Vienna, just as Hyacinth had predicted. And he would be waiting for me there.
THEDEVIL’SDANCE
It had been years since my first performance in Vienna before Emperor Francis I and Empress Maria Theresa. Now I barely recognized the city.
Banners hung from balconies in bright and festive colors, and fireworks lit the night sky. People streamed past our carriage with laughter and cheers. The air smelled of wine and of smoke from the fireworks, of bakeries busy putting out celebratory breads and cakes. Our driver shouted impatiently at the crowds that thronged before our carriage; as we lurched forward in increments, I kept my face turned to the commotion outside. People spilled into and out of the opera houses, dressed in their finest, and still others danced behind tall windows or simply out in the street.
Woferl pointed to the people. “They are like colorful birds,” he said, and I thought of the opera we’d attended together so long ago, where I’d seen Hyacinth playing cards from a balcony seat.
My gaze swept the squares, searching for his sharp smilein the throngs, listening for the off-key notes of the kingdom in between the music that filled the streets. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary yet.
We found lodgings that night on the second floor of a house in the Weihburggasse, at the courtesy of Herr Schmalecker, a goldsmith. He greeted my father with a wide grin when we stepped out of the carriage, then immediately started to help him bring our belongings inside. I stared at the house. It was finer than our own in Salzburg.
“It is splendid to see you, Herr Mozart!” he said to Papa. “What a time to stay in Vienna, don’t you think? The city has been like this for several days already.”
Papa smiled back at him. “You are most gracious, sir. We will not forget this kindness.”
“No need to thank me, the pleasure is all mine. Do you think it such a burden for someone to host the Mozarts?” He laughed heartily, as if amused by his own joke, and my father laughed along with him. I smiled quietly next to my mother, while Woferl watched them move the luggage.
We dined with Herr Schmalecker’s family that night. I spent my time moving my slices of baked chicken around with my fork, my thoughts clouded with visions of Hyacinth. Outside we could hear the sounds of merriment continuing late into the night, but in the living room it was quiet, except for Herr Schmalecker’s booming voice.
“How long will you stay in Vienna this time, Leopold?” he asked my father. I glanced to Papa. He looked tired, although he kept a civil tongue.
“We’ll stay until the marriage, and perhaps several weeks after.”
“How splendid!” Herr Schmalecker laughed loudly. “I sawthe princess-bride in public a day ago. She stood on the palace balcony with the majesties. What a lovely one. She”—he paused to wave his fork at my father—“and the youngest one, that little Antonia, will make the best children, I tell you.” I looked to Herr Schmalecker’s side. His wife, a frail young creature with pale, dusty skin, sat eating her supper without a word to her husband. Two of his children played together with a bit of carrot underneath the table, and a third child slept at the table with her head tucked in her arms.
Papa did not tell Herr Schmalecker to speak of the princesses in more proper terms. If Woferl had said something similar, he would have surely sent him away to bed without his supper. I concentrated on the festive sounds outside and continued to pick apart my food.
The celebrations intensified as the days passed. On one occasion, Woferl and Mama and I accompanied our father to see the operaPartenope, and on another we attended a ball to toast our happiness for the princess-bride. I sat in the balcony and spent most of the time distracted, my eyes darting frequently to the seats around us. That slender figure. Those glowing eyes. I searched and searched for him until I was exhausted.
We went out daily, perhaps so that Papa could distract himself from wondering when the court would call for us to perform. Woferl practiced religiously on the clavier and violin when we stayed in our rooms. He continued to compose, this time starting on a new symphony that kept him up late into the night and sometimes early into the morning.
I continued to compose too, but I always waited to begin my work until the house had fallen silent, lest my new work end up again in Papa’s hands. The noise from the festivities helped meto conceal my soft movements—my feet on the cold floor, the dipping of a quill into its inkwell, the faint scratching on paper. As I wrote, the composition I’d been developing grew louder, changing from its soft opening into something harsher, as if the noise from outside had agitated it. My hands shook now when I added to it, so that I had to stop at times to rest and steady myself.
