must be made to last forever. Aloysia would be a Swedish baroness by the sea.
She went forward with her arms out, tears in her eyes.
Three weeks passed.
The voices of the choirs singing masses had risen up as usual in the churches that Christmas, accompanied at home by the baking of cookies and pastry and the roasting of geese until golden brown. Then the worst of winter set in. Cold wind blew through the streets; there were no fresh vegetables or fruit to be had; gingerbread stands were closed; and fires, no matter how hearty, seldom warmed rooms sufficiently. The only sensible thing was to go to bed with a hot brick wrapped in flannel to keep one warm. Snow fell, and fewer travelers came through. Many people had departed before this time to winter in more lively cities. And now Maria Caecilia’s two sisters were also leaving to return to Zell.
They passed Aloysia, who was sitting on the cold landing before the door. Bumping into her drawn-up knees, they cast morose glances toward the rooms they had just left and the sound of bitter shouting.
Aunt Elizabeth stood upright to her full height, her crooked hat with the ancient bowed feather almost touching the ceiling. “I find it lacking in charity that your parents should argue so loudly, niece! Where are the consoling joys of man and wife?”
Gretchen added in her stuttering, vague way, “I have my theories on such things. Darling Aly, have I mentioned them to you?” Her face, which was plain as lumpy pudding, looked hopeful.
“I think so, Auntie,” replied Aloysia dully.
Elizabeth sniffed. “Have you wrapped your feet well, Gretchen? It will be cold in the carriage.”
Both aunts bent down and planted sticky kisses on Aloysia’s pale cheek. “Good-bye, dear Aloysia,” they said, blessing her. “Don’t sit here too long; we had a dear friend who died of sitting on cold stairs. There was nothing that could be done for her, though physicians came. She was laid out in the parlor with candles. We’ll return for your marriage. Your mother has hinted of fine things. You will wear the black petticoats we sewed for you girls? Black is a practical color—doesn’t show dirt, needs less washing.”
“Oh yes, Auntie, of course. Good-bye, dear Aunties.”
After the aunts had managed to get down the stairs, yelling all the while at the boy who helped them, Aloysia remained outside her family’s cluttered rooms, clasping her knees and shivering. It was the very spot to which Josefa had retreated two months before, but then that landing had always been the place of retreat when one of the four sisters wanted to be alone. Still written on the wall from years before in Josefa’s tiny, bold print was a list of ten things that would make life perfect. (A bed all to myself, never having to recite my French verbs, being loved best...) One had to bend down low to see it. It could only have been written by a lanky, grubby child stretched low on a creaking step. Tiresome! Josefa never could speak good French, though she read Rousseau.
Your mother hinted of fine things; we will return for your marriage. Aloysia played with a lock of her hair. The Swedish Baron had departed for his own country; Uncle Thorwart had been apologetic. There were other fish in the sea, he had said. If the court moved to Munich, there would be more opportunities.
Aloysia rubbed her hands, sticking them deep in her skirts to warm them. The name of the Baron had been angrily crossed out in the book. The enchanting handful of singing engagements in houses lit by hundreds of candles were over as well, and all the money the family had earned had been spent on entertainment and food. Yesterday Sophie had trudged to the pawn shop again with their mother’s jewelry.
Even now Sophie slipped grimly out of the family’s rooms; her new, gold-framed spectacles made her look like some young university boy. She was followed by Constanze, who sank to the steps and began to sew.
“How can you hold the needle? It’s so cold!” Aloysia murmured. “And how can you have the patience?”
“I must do something.” The small face bent over her work.
“I hope the neighbors don’t see us sitting here.”
“Why? They’ve heard everything already. Mother has broken two plates and thrown a pile of music at Father. I saved the blue serving bowl and hid it in our wardrobe with the wineglasses.”
“Don’t squint at the stitches, Stanzi; it will make