by Marie Lu
My father went on, talking of taking us to France, to Paris. He had already begun soliciting, asking for the names of the kapellmeisters in each French town we could pass, and whether or not the townspeople cared for musical performances.
“They will not stay young forever,” Papa finished. “The older they are, the less magnificent their skills will seem.” Then he turned away, mumbling, in the direction of Woferl’s closed bedchamber door. He stepped inside, then shut the door behind him.
In the silence, my mother looked at me and noticed my expression. She sighed. “You must forgive him his anxiety in times like this,” she told me. “He is only looking out for our well-being. He says such things because he is desperately proud of you and your brother, and wants to ensure you are spoken of in high regard.”
“Are these times really so bad?” I said. “Why is Papa so worried?”
Mama gave me a stern look. “These are not questions a young lady should ask. Concentrate on what your father expects of you, and nothing more.”
I followed my mother’s example and did not speak again. No question was ever one a young lady should ask. It was useless to bring up my performances, that I had been tiding us over all this time. Papa was still waiting to hear my brother again. And I could feel it, my father’s mind pulling away from the memory of my talent. I was retreating into the dark spaces of his attention.
I thought of Hyacinth. My fingers ached, longing for the chance to write again. He had been gone so long. I needed him to return, before he forgot me too.
* * *
Slowly, to my relief, Woferl began to emerge from his bed. He started to chatter once more. I would find him in the music room in the mornings, seated on the clavier. A pink flush came back to his white cheeks. I took comfort in seeing him return to us, in all the familiar scenes that had been absent for the past month. Perhaps my worries about Hyacinth’s involvement were just nonsense, after all.
And then, one morning, the quill and ink were out again, and he was scribbling away.
My heart leapt. It meant that I could start writing again too.
Papa spent longer hours at the clavier with Woferl and with me, as if to make up for the time we’d lost. He made Woferl play so late into the night that my brother could not concentrate anymore, then slapped Woferl’s hands when he saw my brother’s eyes drooping at the clavier.
I’d seen Papa’s temper strain many times before. But Woferl had suffered so long during his latest illness, and I’d been so truly unsettled that Hyacinth had done something to him, that now I felt the urge to defend him rise in me.
“Maybe he should rest now, Papa,” I said as Woferl wiped tears away, the dark circles prominent under his eyes. His small shoulders hung low like a wilted plant. “I’m sure he will play better in the morning.”
Papa did not look at me. He watched as Woferl started once again to play through the beginning of a sonata. The music did not have its usual joy, and Woferl’s hands could not play with their usual crispness. After several measures, Papa stopped him.
“To bed, both of you,” he said wearily. Shadows hid his eyes from me, so I could not guess what they looked like. “I’ve heard enough for today.”
That night, Woferl curled up tight beside me and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. He had recovered, but his strength had not fully returned to him. It was strange, his quietness. I draped my arm around him, touched my lips to his forehead, and let him rest.
I continued to write my music in secret. By now I had accumulated a small stack of papers at the bottom of our bedroom’s drawers, little sonatas and whimsical orchestra pieces, and had started to scatter them around in different spots so that they did not all sit together. I would write when Woferl and I had a rare moment alone.
One day Woferl, who sat near the clavier and watched me work, spoke up again, a welcome respite from his silence.
“You should show Papa your music,” he whispered. He rose from the windowsill and came to sit beside me on the clavier’s bench, pressing his small, warm body to me. When I looked down, I saw that his feet still dangled some distance from the floor.
“Papa will not like it,” I said. “I’ve told you this before.”
“You don’t know that,” he replied. He turned his eyes to the sheet of music before him, his face full of wonder. “How can someone not like this?”
I sighed. “Woferl, it’s very kind of you to like my music, but you are not Papa. What can he possibly use it for? He certainly would not let me publish them, or perform them for an audience. He may tell me to stop writing altogether then. He will think it is a waste of my time, when I should instead be practicing for our performances.”
“Why?”
I always disliked this question from him. “I am a lady. It is simply not proper for me,” I decided to say. “I would need to have your fame, and your ability to draw a crowd, to even risk such a thing.”
Woferl frowned. I had never spoken of our performances like this before, as if we did not play together, as if we were separate. “But you have my fame,” he said. “You draw your own crowds.”
I looked down at him. He meant it in earnest, I could see that, but I knew it was not true. Still, I put my arm around him and squeezed his shoulder once, my silent thanks, before I turned back to the half-filled sheet before me. “Let me finish,” I said. “It is almost your turn at the clavier.”
I saw Papa alone that evening. It was very late at night, and Mama had already retired to bed, and I had carried a sleeping Woferl from the music room to our own bedroom. I had returned to the music room to fetch a candle. On my way back, I caught a glimpse of Papa sitting by himself at the dinner table and paused.
Both of his elbows were propped up on the table, and his head sat in his hands. I watched him for a moment, my face partially hidden behind the edge of the wall. Papa had rolled his sleeves up to the middle of his arms, messily, and gotten a stain on one of them. Mama would have to wash his shirt in the morning. His powdered wig lay forgotten on a nearby chair. I saw his dark hair in mild disarray, combed through with his fingers, loose strands everywhere. He seemed not like the stern figure often standing beside the clavier, but a tired soul, vulnerable and small.
In this light, I could see what he might have looked like as a young man, wide-eyed and smooth-faced, how my mother must have seen him before the weight of family and fortune carved lines into his skin. Perhaps he had been carefree in his youth too. A teenage Woferl.
I could not picture my father playing childish pranks on his peers, though, or clapping his hands with laughter at a story. He must have always been serious, even when he was handsome and charming enough to have coaxed my mother into his arms. And something about the intensity of his presence, the gravity of him, made me feel bold.
What if I did as Woferl suggested and told him about my compositions? Would it cheer him? Surely, he could feel some sense of pride, however fleeting, in knowing that his daughter could write music as competently as his son? I remembered Woferl’s words, and then my own. Perhaps he would let me perform them, just now and then, a small refrain in the middle of a private concert, some opportunities before my performing years ended.
An urge rose in me then, to tell my father about my secret. To hear the approval in his voice. My pendant felt suddenly heavy in my pocket. I thought about what Hyacinth would say. Did he want me to do this? I took a deep breath, wondering how I could word it to Papa.
I am composing my own music. It is mine, from my hand alone. I wrote it for myself and I wanted to share it with you. Do you see me?
Papa must have heard me take my breath. He lifted his head from his hands and looked around as if in a momentary daze, then settled on me. For a moment, his eyes softened, as if in guilt or sorrow. He looked like he wanted to say something to me. I waited, my heart pounding, my entire body tilted in anticipation toward him.
Then my father’s gaze retreated behind a wall. My courage wavered. I held back the words from the tip of my tongue.
“Have you stood there long?” he said.
I shook my head quietly.
He looked away from me and rubbed a hand across his face. “For heaven’s sake, child, go to bed. It is not polite to stand in doorways, spying on others.”
The moment passed as quickly as it came upon me. I could no longer remember what I wanted to say. What was I thinking? Seconds earlier I had nearly spilled open my secrets to him—now, it seemed absurd to mention such an idea to my father. He would have torn my music in half, tossed the ruined sheets into the fire. The thought made me pale.
I murmured an apology, stepped away from him, then turned toward the bedroom. Silver light sliced the floor into lines. When I moved past the windows, I thought I could glimpse the twin moons of the Kingdom of Back hovering in the sky, moving slowly and steadily closer to each other. Exhaustion suddenly weighed against my chest, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. In the morning, I would forget this moment. So would he.
Someone was waiting for me right behind my bedroom door. He was so quiet that I startled in the dark.
It was Hyacinth.
He had grown a little taller since the last time I saw him, and his face was more beautiful than ever. He had heard me calling for him through my music, however unconsciously I had done it. I stared at him, caught between fright and joy.
Whatever expression he saw on my face, it made him shake his head in sympathy. “You’ve performed well on your own,” he said. His fingers brushed against my cheek. “Why are you sad, my Fräulein?”
His words were so quiet and gentle, his look so attentive, that I felt an urge to cry. I swallowed, waiting until my eyes dried, and then whispered, “My father is unhappy.” I looked to where my brother lay curled in bed, withered from exhaustion and already asleep. “Woferl has been very ill lately. It has made him withdrawn and quiet.”
Hyacinth’s glowing eyes roamed around the room before they finally settled on the window that overlooked the Getreidegasse, and the lands beyond.
“Perhaps I can do something to help your family,” he said to me, taking my hand in his. “It is time for your next task. Are you ready?”
I thought of my father with his head bowed in his hands, the dark circles under my brother’s eyes. I thought of my mother, wringing her hands. I looked down at his smooth, elegant fingers wrapped around mine, his presence here with me when others were not.
“Yes,” I replied.
THE OGRE AND THE SWORD
The air was cool and alive tonight in the Kingdom of Back, as if all this land had taken in a deep breath, stirring, at the return of their princeling. The west wind caressed us, delighted by Hyacinth’s presence, and Hyacinth smiled at its touch, tilting his face up so that the wind could kiss his lips. As I followed him through the trees, I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, shivering beneath my lace and velvet. My dress dragged along the ground, picking up bits of dirt and grass.
Hyacinth! Hyacinth! the faeries called as we went, dancing excited circles of blue light around their princeling. He’s here! They drew close to him, kissing his cheeks and skin affectionately, but he waved them off, his breath fogging in the midnight air.
“Away tonight, loves,” he cried, gripping my hand. “I have my Fräulein with me.” I couldn’t help but smile, secretly pleased by his singular attention.
The faeries hissed their disapproval at me, scattering as Hyacinth waved his hand at them and then coming back together to tug sharply at my hair. I scowled, batting them away. “You must be firm with them,” he said to me, the glow of his eyes reflecting against his shoulder. “It is hard for faeries to understand subtlety.”
We paused in the middle of a clearing in the forest. Here, I gasped aloud.
The twin moons of the land hovered at either end of the clearing’s sky, where the trees’ roots reached up against the night. The moonlight illuminated the stalks of edelweiss that filled the field, painting them all in a silver-white glow. I’d never seen so many flowers in my life. They carpeted the entire clearing, transforming it into a scene of snow. Overhead, the sheet of stars was so brilliant that they seemed to be raining stardust down upon us.
Hyacinth smiled at my awe. “Look closer. Aren’t they lovely?”
When I peered more closely at the flowers, I realized that their glow did indeed come from a thin layer of glittering white dust that coated them. When the moonbeams cut through the forest around us at just the right slants, I could see it—the shine of dust in the air, floating gently down by the millions, and when I looked down at myself, my arms and dress were sprinkled with starlight.
I smiled and, on impulse, leaned down to touch the shimmering edelweiss growing around me. Each time my fingers brushed their petals, a note sang out, so that running my hand through them sounded like a soft chime of bells. I closed my eyes for a moment to savor the sound.
Hyacinth turned his face up toward the stars. They seemed to lean down toward him in response. The princeling, came the whisper, echoing around us.
“Why are we here?” I breathed, mesmerized.
He took my hand, then pulled me toward him, pressing his palm against the small of my back. I blushed at the warmth of his skin against mine. “Because I’m taking you up to see the stars,” he replied.
A peal of bell-like laughter answered from above, and a moment later, a dozen threads dropped from the sky. Upon their ends were silver hooks that winked in the night, each one’s curve large enough for a person to sit upon.
Hyacinth grabbed the one nearest to us, tugging twice on it, and up in the sky, a star winked back. He lifted one foot to press down against the hook, as if to test it. Then he pulled me up with him so that we stood together on it.
I started to open my mouth, but my words scattered to the winds as the hook suddenly yanked up, slicing us through the cool air in a shining line. The forest shrank into a mass of tiny limbs below us. I squeezed my eyes shut. Hyacinth laughed at me as my arms tightened in panic around his waist.
When we finally stopped moving, and the pit of my stomach had settled, I hesitantly opened my eyes.
The forest was gone. The meadow had long ago vanished somewhere far below us. We now stood on a hook suspended in a world of clouds, white wisps drifting around us in a mist. Overhead, the stars that I’d always seen as dots were now bright balls of light, blue and gold and scarlet, a sheet stretching to infinity in every direction. They looked so close I thought I could reach out and pluck them from the sky.
The bell-like laughter echoed from somewhere overhead, and I looked up to see the line of our hook disappearing around the top of a glowing star hovering right above us.
“Starfishers,” Hyacinth said. “They like to tempt the gullible, who always take their bait. Then they pull them up into the sky and dangle them there for weeks on end, taunting them until they let them back down again.”
He smiled when I shied away from the sharp hooks. “But they will not harm their princeling, or you,” he added. Still, I noticed him ducking instinctively away from the burning balls of light overhead, as if afraid that the stars might scorch him. “Come.” He stepped off the hook and leapt onto the soft blanket of clouds below us, then held his hand up to me. I took it, stepping down too. The clouds felt like moss made of air between my toes. “I brought you up here so that you can see what I need,” he said.
We walked over to the edge of the clouds. Here, Hyacinth lowered into his usual crouch, while I lay down on my stomach to peer over the side. He swept a hand out toward the world under us.
My gaze followed his gesture to the landscape below, where the expanse of forest spread out beneath us like a darkly woven rug, its edge cut by a ribbon of white sand and the still, silver ocean beyond. I recognized the shore where the witch’s grotto of n
ight flowers had been. Edelweiss covered every field and clearing in sight, their snow-white patches billowing like magic under the moonlight. It was an untouched land, strange in every way—but recognizable too. Here and there, I saw a coastline peeking through the clouds that reminded me of the boundaries of Europe I’d seen on maps. The sight so surprised me that I tugged on Hyacinth’s hand.
“There!” I gasped.
“Everything here is backward.” He smiled. “The kingdom is a mirror of your world.”
A mirror of our world. My eyes roamed across the rolling land. In the northern regions, I could see fires lighting hearths in a village buried in the snow, golden menorahs in their windows. In the east, a massive field of soldiers in blue and white charged across a plain, their movement like the ripple of a flag. I looked on elsewhere as a line of young women, their limbs bound, stood on the gallows as guards held torches to their feet. And far out, where the land shifted to an endless expanse of black ocean, ships as small as dots sailed from the shores in pursuit of the New World.
“How is it a mirror?” I asked him.
“When you hold an image up to a mirror, you see every detail of that image exaggerated, things happening all around you that you might have missed in your everyday life.” He nodded down toward the ships crossing the Atlantic Ocean. “Look hard enough, Fräulein, and the kingdom will show you every truth that your world doesn’t.”
A new wind blew past, numbing my fingers and toes. I turned my gaze back down to the mirrored world. Dots of dark-red blood stained the ships’ decks and the snow piled against the village houses’ charred windowsills. Fire consumed the gallows, and cries came from the battlefield.
Every truth. I swallowed hard, but my eyes stayed on the scene, determined to remember it.
Hyacinth’s hand stopped. There, the forest ended abruptly at the banks of a river that encircled the entirety of a castle and its surrounding cluster of villages.
