Mozart's Sister by Nancy Moser

trio: Wolfie, me, and the music. A team and, even
more, a partnership. A holy bond, greater than life or even death.
    The king rose. "Bravissimo!" He clapped as he walked toward us.
But when he saw me up close, he started. "Oh my dear, Mistress
Mozart. Tears?" He pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from his
waistcoat and dabbed at my cheek. For my ears alone, he said, "The
angels themselves were moved, my dear." He pressed the handkerchief into my palm, and I knew it would be a prized keepsake,
not of worth for itself but for the moment it brought to mind.
    In truth, the rest of the concert was a blur. I played well and did
all that was expected of me, but for some reason, I did not recapture
the glory of that first piece-nor did it leave me completely.
    Even later, during the carriage ride home, Papa's happiness at being paid the equivalent of two hundred sixty-four florins did not
touch my mood.

    Mama reached across the carriage and put her hand on mine.
"Nannerl? Are you ill?"
    Papa's eyebrows lowered. "You're not getting sick, are you?
We've been asked back to play again, and-"
    I shook my head. I was far from in.
    Wolfie poked me and mimicked throwing up.
    "No," I said, just wanting to be left alone. "I'm fine."
    "You did very well," Papa said. "It was a great success.
Nowhere have we experienced such a welcome. And the audience
was not like those at Versailles, who often treated our performance
as an intrusion into their true goal for the evening-their inane
conversation. Tonight, the lords and ladies were attentive, and I
could tell their interest spurred you to play your best." He leaned
forward and put a hand on each of our knees. "I am very proud
of you, children."
    On any other night I would have soaked in his praise, but
tonight I could only pretend to be pleased. For there was a sorrow
in my heart that railed against the elation I had felt during the first
piece. It perplexed me, and I took solace looking out the window
at the dark night, at the candle-lit windows as we passed.
    I'd experienced a good thing. A grand thing. So how could I
feel sad?
    Then I thought of Papa's words: "I could tell that their interest
spurred you to play your best."
    He was wrong.
    It had not been the kind words or the applause that had spurred
me to play well, but a near-desperate desire to recapture the ecstasy
of that first piece. But no matter how hard I'd tried, no matter how
much I'd willed myself to leave the reality of the moment in order
to find the fleeting breadth and breath of the music, it had evaded
me like mist running from captive arms. Oh, dear music, come to me!
Embrace me again!
    I felt Mama's eyes and looked in her direction. She gave me a
pensive smile. She knew something was wrong, yet I couldn't share.
She would think I was odd, or ungrateful, or even a bit mad. To have so much, yet long for an elusive something that held no definition-not in words, and certainly not in will.

    But then, with an intake of breath and a hand pressed to my
chest, I realized what was truly bothering me.
    Fear. The fear that I might never find the moment again. I
closed my eyes and offered a fervent prayer.
    But even as I sought His comfort, my throat tightened with a
horrible thought that He may not grant my wish. Ever.
    Suddenly I was consumed with a terror that threatened to
strangle me. "No!" I said. I reached for the handle of the carriage
door, knowing, yet not caring, that we were moving through the
London streets.
    "Nannerl!" Papa yelled. He grabbed my hand roughly and
pushed me back into my seat. "What are you doing?"
    I couldn't explain; I couldn't put voice to it. My head shook
back and forth, ineffectually speaking for me.
    I saw Wolfie pressed against the other end of our seat, his shoulder against the wall of the carriage, his face confused.
    "Wolferl. Change with me," Mama said.
    They exchanged places, and within moments Mama's arms were
holding me close, pressing away the fear