then watched it wobble away through the cobbled streets in the soft gray light, all the trunks and leather luggage tied with ropes to the top, including the little wood box their great grandfather had once taken to war. Augustin Weber it had said, the paint long faded. The carriage wobbled past notices of public hangings and signs for health tonics, which were pasted to lampposts and to the sides of houses.
That night the two younger sisters brought out their father’s maps and traced with their fingers the route from Munich to the capital. They estimated how far the coach could have gotten that day, and what sort of inn would house their older sisters that night. “Their dresses will be wrinkled,” Constanze said. “They stuffed too much inside the trunk.”
“They’re staying with Thorwart and his wife; they’ll help them.”
“His wife mightn’t speak to them; she doesn’t speak to anyone. She’s given up on mankind. I heard Mama say it once.”
By now they had taken down another book of engravings of Vienna, and turned the pages slowly, holding up the candle. From the other room they heard their mother rolling over in bed. They were always aware of her loneliness.
Constanze looked more closely at the picture on which a fat blob of white wax had dropped. She blew on it and scraped it off with her fingernail. “I think it must be the most beautiful city in the world,” she said at last and smiled. “Oh Sophie, may it be! I think truly we’d be happy there, even Mama.”
Aloysia returned three days before Christmas, appearing suddenly on the street, pulling her heavy bag after her. She abandoned it halfway up the stairs and ran the rest of the way up to their rooms. She had about her that smell of old leather and horses that clings to the garments of those who take long coach rides. And stuck to the bottom of her thick traveling shoes and along her dress’s hemline was straw from the innyards. Constanze and their mother, who had been making meat dumplings, met her at the door. “What? For the love of heaven, tell us, what news, what news?” Maria Caecilia cried. For days they had been running down at any sign of the post.
Sophie, hearing their voices, hurried to the door with a cry, then stopped in amazement at the sight of her sister. Aloysia looked as she had the day long ago when she was twelve years old and had just heard her closest friend had died of scarlet fever. “Blessed Mary, what has happened?” Sophie cried. “What’s the matter? We’ve been holding our breath since you left.” She made the sign of the Cross. “Oh what’s the matter?”
Maria Caecilia cried, “What news?”
“They heard four arias,” Aloysia said breathlessly.
“And?”
“They kept looking at me when I sang.”
“Yes, but then ... tell us.”
“They made me an offer to begin rehearsals on my first role just after the first of the year. ”
“Praise God, praise Christ,” their mother gasped. “But is there a contract? Is it secure? You don’t know how we’ve been waiting for you.” They pulled Aloysia inside by her cold hands. “Where are your gloves? How was the journey back? What did you wear to sing?”
“The green wool.”
They pulled her to the warm kitchen still talking, one voice louder than the next. “Which arias did you sing?”
“Did you show your full range?”
“Did you show your triplets and ornamentation?”
“Who accompanied you? Alfonso ... he’s middling on the clavier. Or did they have a fortepiano?”
“They had a beautiful fortepiano, and yes, he played—”
“Did you curl your hair in back and put it up?”
“I hadn’t time to do those things; one of the carriage horses was sick, and we got there hours late. Frau Thorwart came flying out at us, saying we were expected at once, that very hour. Uncle Thorwart had gone the day before and said we were coming, you see.” She was panting as if she had just run for miles. “And we went at once, and they were waiting.”
Sophie turned and looked toward the door, then back again to her sister. “But Aly,” she said, “where’s Josefa?” Then the only sounds in the kitchen were those of the water boiling in the black pot and the crinkling flames beneath it.
Aloysia closed her eyes for a moment, then looked toward the black kettle. She dropped wearily to a chair by the table. It never ceased to amaze Sophie that beautiful faces could at times