I was crying. I did not know a ghost could cry.
“François insists we try and get the piece published. He thinks it is a work of genius. He is clever and I trust his judgment.”
Josef glanced over his shoulder, his eyes turning soft and tender. I followed his gaze. François slept on the couch in the room, his arm thrown over his eyes.
“But I do not want to proceed without your permission. I want to know this is what you want.”
Yes, I cried. Yes!
“François does not understand my delay. He does not seem to understand that it is you who holds the power. So I await your word every day, every hour, proof incontrovertible of my older, more talented sister’s existence. My partner-in-arms, my connection to the Underground.”
I longed to wrap my arms around him, my Sepperl, my darling baby brother and partner-in-arms. But my hands passed through him and my heart broke. I could never again set foot in the world above, never again embrace my family.
“We are settled in Paris now, so please, please, please write to me, care of Master Antonius.” His hand shook, turning Master Antonius’s name into an illegible scrawl. Josef swore in French.
“I do not love Paris, although I don’t imagine that surprises you. If you’ve gotten my other letters, you will know how much I miss our little inn and the Goblin Grove, despite all the impressive sights of the great cities of Europe. I keep thinking how much Käthe would love it—it’s all fancy balls and dignitaries and people dressed up in frippery and finery. I am ill-suited to this life, Liesl. The travel takes its toll, and I am constantly weak. We scarcely had time to recover from our journeys before it was another concert, another salon.”
As Josef wrote that last word, something within him seemed to change. A great sigh left his body, and he seemed to grow smaller, weaker somehow. Travel and time had taken the last of the baby fat from my brother’s face, honing his cheekbones, sharpening his chin. It was only then I realized that Josef looked ill. Drained.
“My homesickness affects my playing. I know it, and Master Antonius knows it.”
He pressed down harder on the nib of his quill as he wrote Master Antonius’s name, much harder than necessary.
“The old violinist is a great performer and I have learned much studying with him. But he isn’t patient, not like you or François, and he …”
Josef stopped writing, struggling with the words. But I could see what he could not say. The tense set of his shoulders. The way his lower lip and jaw jutted out with stubbornness. The way he kept glancing at François, as though the black boy were both his shield and his refuge. He crossed out the last few words and continued.
“Nobody understands. François does his best, but while he understands my heart, I can’t always find the words to tell him what I feel. He’s so clever; he can speak French, Italian, and even a little English. But he finds German difficult, and I am a dunce with languages, according to Master Antonius.”
My hands tightened into fists. I should have known—I had known—on the night of Josef’s audition that Master Antonius was not the mentor my brother needed. That vain, selfish man would never raise my brother up; he would only put him down.
“The world outside our little sphere, far from the Goblin Grove, is hopelessly mundane. There is no magic, no enchantment. I feel severed from the land of my birth, and I can feel my talent fade and grow dull. I feel blinded, deafened, muted. The only time I feel connected to the earth again is when I play your music.”
Josef paused again, and set his quill down. He stared out the window, a dreamy expression on his face. His left fingers moved up and down an invisible fingerboard, while his right hand moved in smooth, practiced motions. I thought he had finished writing, but Josef picked up the quill and began again.
“I dream of our family often—Käthe and Constanze and Mother and Papa. But never you. You are never there. It’s like you don’t exist sometimes. Sometimes I fear you are a figment of my imagination, but the music beside me tells me you are real. I fear I am going mad.”
His fingers gripped the edge of his writing desk so hard, his knuckles turned white.
“I dream of our family, but at other times, I dream of a tall, elegant stranger.” Josef glanced at the slumbering François with a look of guilt on his face. “He says nothing, only stands there, hooded and shadowed. I am filled with both terror and relief at the sight of him. I beg him to reveal his face to me, but whenever he pulls back his hood, he is me. I am the tall, elegant stranger.”
If I had breath, it would have been knocked from me. Something terrible was at work here. Something ancient. Something beyond my understanding.
“I wish you would come, Liesl. I wish you would come and bring the magic and music with you. If you cannot come yourself, then send the next best thing. Send me your music. I am so lost without you, without our connection to the Underground.”
I tried to gather my brother in my arms, but like the ghost I was, I only passed through him, nothing more than a breeze in the chamber. Josef looked up again, frowning as the candle flame flickered before him.
“Your ever-loving brother,” he finished. “Sepperl.”
He lightly sanded the still-wet ink and set the letter out to dry. Then he picked up his candle in its holder and walked over to François. Josef spread a blanket over the sleeping boy’s form and stood there a moment, watching him sleep. Tenderness, affection, and anguish, all in one. It was a look of love.