Josef shrank beneath his master’s glower. “Yes, maestro,” he whispered.
“If you are good—and only if you are good—you may play Vivaldi for the encore.” The old virtuoso pinned his pupil with a beady glare. “None of that Der Erlk?nig nonsense. This audience is used to the music of the greats. Do not insult their ears with that monstrosity.”
“Yes, maestro.” Josef’s voice was scarcely audible.
Fran?ois took note of the boy’s flushed cheeks and clenched jaw, and wrapped his warm hand around his beloved’s tightened fists. Be patient, mon coeur, the touch seemed to say.
But the other boy did not reply.
Master Antonius parted the curtains and the boys walked out before the audience to polite applause. Fran?ois sat himself down at the pianoforte while Josef readied his violin. They shared a look, a moment, a feeling, a question.
The concert began as planned, with the pupil playing selections composed by the master, accompanied by the youth at the keyboard. But the audience was old, and they remembered how divine the master’s playing, how transporting the sound. This boy was good: the notes were clear, the phrasing elegant. But there was something missing perhaps—a soul, a spark. It was like hearing the words of a favorite poet translated into a foreign tongue.
Perhaps they had expected too much. Talent was fickle, after all, and those who burned brightest with it often did not last.
The angels take Antonius if the devil does not get to him first, they once said of the old virtuoso. Such gifts were not meant for mortal ears.
Age had gotten to Master Antonius before either God or the Devil, but it did not seem as though his pupil were graced with the same divine spark. The audience dutifully clapped between each piece and resigned themselves to a long evening of little significance, while from the wings, the old virtuoso fretted and fumed at his pupil’s diminishing returns.
Another set of eyes watched the performing pair from the opposite wing. The eyes were the startling, vivid green of emeralds or the deep waters of a summer lake, and in the dark, they glowed.
Selections finished, Josef and Fran?ois moved on to a Mozart sonata. The room fell quiet, dull, laden with the inattentive lull of genteel boredom. A soft snore rose from the back of the salon, and in the wings, Master Antonius silently seethed. Yet still those green eyes watched the boys from the shadows opposite. Waiting. Wanting.
When the concert was over, the audience rose to their feet, perfunctorily calling for an encore. Josef and Fran?ois bowed, while Master Antonius gripped his wig, sending plumes of powder into the air. Vivaldi save us, he thought. The Red Priest hear my prayer. Josef and Fran?ois bowed once more, sharing another private look, the answer to an unspoken question.
The youth settled himself back by the keyboard, dark fingers and white-laced wrists poised over black sharps and natural ivories. The boy tucked his violin under his chin and raised his bow, the horsehair quivering with anticipation. Josef gave the tempo and Fran?ois responded in kind, the two of them weaving a tapestry of melody between them.
It was not Vivaldi.
The concertgoers sat straighter in their seats, their attention sharpened on the edges of their confusion. They had never heard such playing before. They had never heard such music before.
It was Der Erlk?nig.
In the wings, Master Antonius buried his face in his hands with despair. On the other side of the salon, the green eyes gleamed.
A chill wind seemed to blow through the room, though no breeze ruffled the lace or feathers at the audience’s necks. The scent of earth, of loam, of deep, dark places seemed to grow around them, a cavern of sound and sensation. Was that the plink of a dripping cave or the distant rumble of a wild stampede? Beyond the corners of their eyes, the shadows began to writhe, the cherub-faced putti and ornately carved flowers on the columns in the corners of the salon taking on a sinister aspect. They did not look too closely, for fear that the angels and gargoyles had transformed into demons and goblins.
All save one.
The vivid green eyes observed the changes wrought by the music and disappeared into darkness.
When the encore was done, there was a moment of silence, like the world holding its breath before a storm. Then the thunder broke to raucous shouts and applause, for the audience would cheer lest they cry for the tumultuous anxiety and elation that roiled through them all. Master Antonius ripped the wig from his head in disgust and left the scene in a huff.
He passed a beautiful green-eyed woman on the way, carrying a silver saltcellar in the shape of a swan. They tipped their heads in passing as the old virtuoso retired to his rooms and the woman limped toward the salon. He did not see her begin to pour a line of salt on the threshold to the concert. He did not hear the hooves for the praise raining down upon his pupil, and missed the postman arriving with a message.
“Master Antonius?” the courier asked when the green-eyed woman answered the door. A bright scarlet poppy was pinned to her bodice.
“He has retired for the evening,” the woman said. “How may I help you?”
“These are to be delivered to his pupil, a Herr Vogler?” The postman reached into his satchel and removed a bundle of letters, each written in the same desperate hand. “They are addressed to his old residence in Paris, but it wasn’t until now that we were able to find him here in Vienna.”
“I see,” the woman said. “I shall see that they are delivered to the proper person.” She tipped the courier a gold coin, who tipped his hat in response before riding off into the night.
The green-eyed woman stepped over the salt into the salon, taking care that her skirts did not break the line of protection. Back in the shadows, she scanned the letters for a signature.
Composer of Der Erlk?nig.
She smiled and tucked the letters into her bodice before hobbling off to congratulate the boy and his black friend.
And upstairs, Master Antonius tossed and turned in his bed, trying to drown out the sound of hooves, howls, and hounds, wondering if the Devil had come for him at last.
The following morning, the scullery maid was turned out for stealing salt and the old virtuoso was found dead in his room, lips blue, with a curious silver slash at the throat.
THE PRICE OF SALT
the next day dawned bright and bitter as I woke to the sound of Mother and Constanze arguing. Their voices carried all the way from my grandmother’s quarters down to Josef’s room where I slept, and if I could hear their shouting from this tucked-away corner of the inn, then all of the guests could as well.