“What is this?” He squinted and leaned closer.
I didn’t say anything, but waited.
“Oh.” Josef paused. “An entire new piece?”
“Don’t judge too harshly, Sepperl.” I tried to laugh off my sudden embarrassment. “It’s full of mistakes and errors, I’m sure.”
Josef tilted his head. “Do you want me and François to play it for you?”
I flinched. “I had thought,” I said, unexpectedly stung, “that we would play it together.”
He had the grace to blush. “Of course. Forgive me, Liesl.” He took his violin and rested it beneath his chin. He scanned the first few lines and then nodded at me. I was suddenly nervous. I shouldn’t be; this was Josef, after all.
I nodded back and Josef lightly bounced his bow up and down, setting the tempo. We gave it a measure, and then began.
The first notes were tentative, unsure. I was nervous and Josef was … Josef was unreadable. I faltered, my fingers slipping on the keyboard.
Josef continued to play, reading the notes I’d written with mechanical precision. You could have set a watch by his playing, exact and ruthless. Numbness began to spread from my fingers, traveling through my hands, up my arms, my shoulders, my neck, my eyes, my ears. I had written this piece for the Josef I had known and loved, for the little boy who never skipped out on an opportunity to run away to find the Hödekin dancing in the wood. For the child who had shared half my soul, strange and queer and wild, for the brother who kept faith with Der Erlkönig.
He wasn’t there.
It was as though my brother had been replaced by a changeling. The music did not transform, did not transcend in his hands. The notes were muddy, mundane, terrestrial. Suddenly it was as though I could see the cobwebs of delusion I had woven about myself, through which I could see another world and another life.
Josef finished the piece, holding the last note’s fermata with exacting length.
“A good effort, Liesl.” He gave me a smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “A definite start.”
I nodded. “You’ll be leaving for Munich tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes.” Josef sounded relieved. “At first light.”
“Get some rest, then.” I patted him on the cheek.
“And you?” he asked, inclining his head toward the piece on the klavier, the piece he had just finished playing. “You will write, won’t you? Send me more music?”
“Yes,” I said.
But we both knew it for a lie.
* * *
Energy was high when the coaches arrived to bear Josef, Master Antonius, and François to Munich. Guests and patrons and friends from the village turned out to bid them farewell. Papa wept as he embraced his son, while Mother—stoic-faced and dry-eyed—laid her hands over Josef’s head in a quiet benediction. I avoided Constanze’s gaze. Her eyes were dark and clouded, her mouth set in a mutinous line.
“Glück, Josef.” Hans pounded my brother good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about your family; I’ll take care of them.” He caught my eye and gave me a bashful smile. My heart fluttered, but with nervousness or guilt, I wasn’t sure.
“Danke,” Josef said absently. His eyes were already distant, already gone.
“Auf wiedersehen, Sepp,” I said.
My brother looked startled to see me standing beside him. I was easily lost in the shadows—plain, drab, unremarkable—but Josef had always managed to find me. Tears started in my eyes.
“Auf wiedersehen, Liesl.” He took my hands in his, and for a moment, it was as though the world had never changed, and he was still my beloved Sepperl, the other half of my soul. His blue eyes shone bright as he wrapped me in his arms. It was a boy’s hug, unself-conscious and sincere, the last my little brother would ever give me. When—if—we next saw each other, he would be a man.
François came to escort Josef to the coach, to Munich, to greatness, to acclaim. Our eyes met over my brother’s head. We did not share the same tongue, but we spoke the same language nonetheless.
Take care of him, I said.
I will, he replied.
I made myself stand and watch as the coach drew away, as it disappeared down the road, swallowed up by mist, distance, and time. One by one, my family returned to their lives: Papa to his chair by the hearth, Mother to her place in the kitchen. Hans lingered longest, his hand on my shoulder. At last I turned to join what remained of my family inside, but Hans stopped me.
“Hans,” I said. “What is it?”
He shushed me. “Come. I have something—something I want to show you.”
Frowning, I let him lead me past the creek toward the woodshed. Once there, he pushed me against the wall.
“Hans.” I struggled against him. “What—”
He shushed me. “It’s all right,” he said. This was the most of Hans’s body I had ever felt against my own: his hand on my wrist, his chest against mine, his thighs against my hips, the heat of his skin warming mine. “It’s all right,” he repeated, and gripped me closer. There was an urgency to his touch, a need that stirred my blood.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
But I knew. I had both dreaded and desired it.
His hand pressed against my lower back, pushing our lower limbs together. His right hand released my wrist to slowly come up to caress my cheek. “What I’ve wanted to do ever since I met you,” he breathed.