“Well, are you going to read it?” My sister went on with making supper. “Let’s see what this mysterious nobleman wants with the composer of Der Erlk?nig, eh?”
I broke the wax sealing the letter and unfolded the page. “Dear Mademoiselle Vogler,” I read aloud. “Forgive me for this most unconventional and improper method of correspondence. You and I are strangers to each other, but pray do not be alarmed when I write that I feel as though we have already been acquainted.”
“Ooh, a secret admirer?” K?the teased. “Liesl, you sly thing!”
I shot her a stern look. “Do you want me to read this or not?”
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “Do go on.”
“Last month, I happened upon the performance of an unusual piece of music, played on the violin by an unusual young man. I cannot adequately express the extent to which the music moved me, a profound and deep resonance, as though the notes touched upon a nerve of fire in my very soul.”
I caught my breath. An unusual piece of music, played on the violin by an unusual young man.
Josef.
When my sister harrumphed impatiently, I coughed, willing myself to continue for her benefit.
“I confess I was possessed of an obsession with your work. Not a single person in Vienna could tell me the name of the composer, only that the piece had been published in an obscure collection of curated works by Giovanni Antonius Rossi before his death. I knew the old man well, and do not hear much, if anything, of his voice in the piece.”
Josef must have taken my strange little bagatelle and had it published under Master Antonius’s name. In fairness, the decision made sense, for the old virtuoso was a known musician with an established output. Yet as grateful as I was to have found an audience for my work, the knowledge that Der Erlk?nig was not published under my own name niggled at me, a worm of discontent burrowing its way through my heart.
“The young violinist has been as mysterious as you, my dear genius,” I went on. “After the old virtuoso’s passing, he and his companion vanished entirely. Unfortunately, I am afraid I was forced to take matters into my own hands.”
The feeling of vague disquiet sharpened into one of foreboding. The creeping sensation of trespass, of violation, of having my privacy invaded rose up like vines from the author’s words, threatening to strangle me with dismay. I read on in silence.
After Master Antonius’s death your correspondence was discovered among the old virtuoso’s effects. I saw that the letters were addressed to a Franz Josef Vogler and I managed to preserve them before they were discarded, unread. The letters were dated these several months past, with a most curious signature in each one: Composer of Der Erlk?nig.
I went utterly still. I thought of Josef’s anguished summons, the plea for me to join him in Vienna. Guilt twisted my heart into knots. I should have answered him sooner. I should have found a way to get to him. I should have tried harder to get in touch, I should have, I should have, I should have—
“What, Liesl?” K?the said. “What is it? Don’t leave me hanging.”
Shaking, I cleared my throat and continued reading aloud.
“I—I do not take pride in my next actions, but I simply had to . . . had to know the identity of the composer of the work. I . . . I . . .” But my voice failed me, trailing into nothing.
I read one of the missives, the letter went on. Forgive me, mademoiselle, for this gross trespass upon your privacy, but I discerned immediately the nature of your relationship with Herr Vogler—namely, that you are his sister and his muse.
My hands were trembling so badly I could barely make out the words on the page.
Fearing that they were friendless and alone in this world, I went through great pains to discover the whereabouts of your brother and his companion. Never fear, mademoiselle, for they are safe and well provided for by yours truly, a most devoted patron and sponsor of their careers. Now if you could find it in your heart to forgive an overeager enthusiast of your music for this breach in confidence, I write you now to urge you to join us in Vienna. A talent such as yours must not be wasted in a backwater Bavarian town and should be celebrated to great acclaim. Funds, influence, power: I lay all that I possess before you as your kindly benefactor. I will take no offense should you decline my offer, but can only urge you to accept, as I look forward to hearing more from the remarkable mind behind such otherworldly music.
As a token of good faith, I present to you a payment of fifty florins, to be spent at your discretion. Spend them as foolishly or as wisely as you choose, for they are my gift to you in thanks for the gift of your music. However, should you choose to spend them by purchasing coach fare to Vienna for yourself and your family, give my name to the factor in your town and he will advance whatever additional funds you need to make a new life here.
Yours faithfully,
Graf Procházka von und zu Snovin
“Liesl?” K?the prompted. “Liesl!”
The letter slipped from my numb fingers, fluttering to the floor. Dropping her knife with an exasperated sigh, K?the snatched it up before it touched the ground and read the words of our unknown benefactor for herself.
“I just—my goodness—how—” My sister could not properly string her words together, the strand connecting her thoughts breaking, scattering them everywhere. She looked up at me, her blue eyes alight with joy and relief and . . . hope. It shone brighter than the sun and I had to look away, lest I be blinded. My eyes watered, and I told myself it was due to my sister’s radiance, not the rush of relief. “Could this possibly be real?”
Numbly, I picked up the leather pouch and opened it. Gold glinted in the late afternoon sun, and I poured the coins out over the table. K?the gasped.
“What does this mean?” she cried.
What did this all mean indeed? I tried to smile, but felt strangely removed from the matter. Surely beneath the numbness of shock there was a wellspring of excitement and anticipation, but everything seemed as though I were in a dream. The scene unfolding around me had a slow, surreal feel, as though I were still asleep, caught between waking and slumber. A path had opened before me that I had not seen before. I had wanted to compose music. I had wanted to escape. There was a time when I was the Goblin Queen, when my wishes had weight, when I could twist and shape the world to my will, and now opportunity lined itself up like dominos before me.
But if there was anything I learned from my time as Der Erlk?nig’s bride, it was that nothing came without a price.
“This . . . this is a godsend! Think of all we could do for the inn!” K?the counted the fifty florins with all the meticulous exactitude of a miser. “. . . forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine”—she laughed with delight—“fifty!”
I realized then I had not heard that laugh in an age, the halls of the inn silent of its musical peals, as bright as a bell. I had not known then how I had relied upon her laugh to chase away the storm clouds in my heart.