“Faith.” My mother laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You can’t live on faith, Liesl. You can’t feed your family with it.”
Twist, trim, tie. Twist, trim, tie. “You know how charming Papa can be,” I said. “He could coax the trees to bear fruit in winter, he can be forgiven any slight.”
“Yes, I certainly know how charming your father can be,” Mother said drily.
I flushed; I had been born only five months after my parents said their vows.
“Charm is all well and good,” she said, straining the sausages and setting them on a towel to dry. “But charm doesn’t put bread on the table. Charm goes out with his friends at night when he could be showing his son to all the great masters himself.”
I did not reply. It had been a dream of the family’s once, to take Josef to the capital cities of the world and play his talent for better, richer ears. But we never did tour Josef. And now, at fourteen, my brother was too old to be touted as a child prodigy the way the Mozarts or Linley had, too young to be appointed to any sort of permanent post as a professional musician. Despite his skill, my brother still had years left to learn and perfect his craft, and if Master Antonius did not take him on as an apprentice, then it would be the end of Josef’s career.
So there was a great deal of hope riding on Josef’s audition, not just for Josef, but for all of us. It was my brother’s opportunity to rise beyond his humble beginnings and show the world what a talent he was, but it was also our father’s last chance to play for all the great audiences of Europe through his son. For Mother, it was a way for her youngest child to escape the life of drudgery and hardship that came with an innkeeper’s lot, and for Käthe, it was the possibility of visiting her famous brother in all the capital cities: Mannheim, Munich, Vienna, and possibly even London, Paris, or Rome.
For me … it was a way for my music to reach ears beyond just Josef’s and mine. Käthe might have seen my secret scribblings hidden in the box beneath our bed, but only Josef had ever heard its contents.
“Hans!” Mother said. “I didn’t expect to see you here so early.”
The knife in my hand slipped. I cursed under my breath, sucking at the cut to draw out the blood.
“I wouldn’t miss Josef’s big day, Frau Vogler,” Hans said. “I came to help.”
“Bless you, Hans,” Mother said affectionately. “You’re a godsend.”
I ripped a strip from my apron to wrap around my bleeding finger and continued working, trying my best to remain unnoticed. He is your sister’s betrothed, I reminded myself. Yet I couldn’t help but steal glances at him from beneath my lashes.
Our eyes met, and all warmth left the room. Hans cleared his throat. “Good morning, Fräulein,” he said.
His careful distance stung worse than the cut on my finger. We had been familiar, once. Once upon a time, we had been Hansl and Liesl. Once upon a time we had been friends, or perhaps something more. But that was before we all grew up.
“Oh, Hans.” I gave an awkward laugh. “We’re almost family. You can still call me Liesl, you know.”
He nodded stiffly. “It’s good to see you, Elisabeth.”
Elisabeth. It was as intimate as we’d ever be now. I forced a smile. “How are you?”
“I am well, I thank you.” His brown eyes were guarded. “And you?”
“Fine,” I said. “A little nervous. About the audition, I mean.”
Hans’s expression softened. He came closer and took a knife from the cutting board, joining me in twisting, trimming, and tying the sausages. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “Josef plays like an angel.”
He smiled, and the frost between us began to thaw. We settled into the rhythm of our work—trim, twist, tie, trim, twist, tie—and for a moment, I could pretend it was as it had been when we were children. Papa had given us keyboard and violin lessons together, and we had sat upon the same bench, learned the same scales, shared the same lessons. Though Hans never progressed much beyond simple exercises, we spent hours together at the klavier, our shoulders brushing, our hands never touching.
“Where is Josef, anyway?” asked Hans. “Out playing in the Goblin Grove?”
Hans, like the rest of us, had sat at Constanze’s feet, listening to her stories of kobolds and Hödekin, of goblins and Lorelei, of Der Erlkönig, the Lord of Mischief. Warm feelings began to flicker between us like embers.
“Perhaps,” I said softly. “It is the last night of the year.”
Hans scoffed. “Isn’t he too old to be playing fairies and goblins?”