“I am a princess,” she continued. “Papa is the Prince-Bishop’s Kapellmeister, and we all live in Salzburg.”
K?the and I had been born in Salzburg, when Papa was still a court musician and Mother a singer in a troupe, before poverty chased us to the backwoods of Bavaria.
“Mother is the toast of the city for her beauty and her voice, and Josef is Master Antonius’s prize pupil.”
“Studying in Salzburg?” I asked. “Not Vienna?”
“In Vienna, then,” K?the amended. “Oh yes, Vienna.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she spun out her fantasy for us. “We would travel to visit him, of course. Perhaps we’ll see him perform in the great cities of Paris, Mannheim, and Munich, maybe even London! We shall have a grand house in each city, trimmed with gold and marble and mahogany wood. We’ll wear gowns made in the most luxurious silks and brocades, a different color for every day of the week. Invitations to the fanciest balls and parties and operas and plays shall flood our post every morning, and a bevy of swains will storm the barricades for our favor. The greatest artists and musicians would consider us their intimate acquaintances, and we would dance and feast all night long on cake and pie and schnitzel and—”
“Chocolate torte,” I added. It was my favorite.
“Chocolate torte,” K?the agreed. “We would have the finest coaches and the handsomest horses and”—she squeaked as she slipped in a mud puddle—“never walk on foot through unpaved roads to market again.”
I laughed, and helped her regain her footing. “Parties, balls, glittering society. Is that what princesses do? What of queens? What of me?”
“You?” K?the fell silent for a moment. “No. Queens are destined for greatness.”
“Greatness?” I mused. “A poor, plain little thing like me?”
“You have something much more enduring than beauty,” she said severely.
“And what is that?”
“Grace,” she said simply. “Grace, and talent.”
I laughed. “So what is to be my destiny?”
She cut me a sidelong glance. “To be a composer of great renown.”
A chill wind blew through me, freezing me to the marrow. It was as though my sister had reached into my breast and wrenched out my heart, still beating, with her fist. I had jotted down small snatches of melody here and there, scribbling little ditties instead of hymns into the corners of my Sunday chapbook, intending to gather them into sonatas and concertos, romances and symphonies someday. My hopes and dreams, so tattered and tender, had been sheltered by secrecy for so long that I could not bear to bring them to light.
“Liesl?” K?the tugged at my sleeve. “Liesl, are you all right?”
“How—” I said hoarsely. “How did you…”
She squirmed. “I found your box of compositions beneath our bed one day. I swear I didn’t mean any harm,” she added quickly. “But I was looking for a button I’d dropped, and…” Her voice trailed off at the look upon my face.
My hands were shaking. How dare she? How dare she open my most private thoughts and expose them to her prying eyes?
“Liesl?” K?the looked worried. “What’s wrong?”
I did not answer. I could not answer, not when my sister would never understand just how she had trespassed against me. K?the had not a modicum of musical ability, nearly a mortal sin in a family such as ours. I turned and marched down the path to market.
“What did I say?” My sister hurried to catch up with me. “I thought you’d be pleased. Now that Josef’s going away, I thought Papa might—I mean, we all know you have just as much talent as—”
“Stop it.” The words cracked in the autumn air, snapping beneath the coldness of my voice. “Stop it, K?the.”
Her cheeks reddened as though she had been slapped. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why you hide behind Josef.”
“What does Sepperl have to do with anything?”
K?the narrowed her eyes. “For you? Everything. I bet you never kept your music secret from our little brother.”
I paused. “He’s different.”
“Of course he’s different.” K?the threw up her hands in exasperation. “Precious Josef, delicate Josef, talented Josef. He has music and madness and magic in his blood, something poor, ordinary, tone-deaf Katharina does not understand, could never understand.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again. “Sepperl needs me,” I said softly. It was true. Our brother was fragile, in more than just bones and blood.
“I need you,” she said, and her voice was quiet. Hurt.
Constanze’s words returned to me. Josef isn’t the only one who needs looking after.
“You don’t need me.” I shook my head. “You have Hans now.”