seemed like the regal train of a monarch. Her hair was down about her shoulders, as if she had just risen from that bed, where the sheets still held the warm scent of man and wife. She smelled of it as she leaned forward to kiss them, her tangled hair brushing their cheeks.
Constanze and Sophie embraced her. How odd to have her apart from them; it was a crack in their lives that did not mend.
Aloysia stretched out on the sofa pillows. On her feet dangled Sophie’s slippers, which she had taken months ago when she had rushed home for her possessions, her face flushed with anger and tears, throwing randomly in her portmanteau someone’s chemise, someone’s hairbrush, her broken rosary, and many other things. Now, lying on the sofa in her own rooms, all rushing was gone. She yawned, and said idly, “How are things at home?”
“The same,” said Sophie with a sigh. “Five boarders, including Steiner, who studies theology and never pays on time. How’s the baby? Oh I wish she were here to hold; I love babies.”
“You’ve always loved little things, but you mightn’t if you knew what trouble she gave me being born; I thought I was dying. I suppose she’s well; her wet nurse in the country seems like an honest woman. We’re going to drive out tomorrow to see her; someone who likes my singing is lending his carriage. You can come if you like. She’s an odd little thing. My husband says she looks like me, but I can’t see it.”
Aloysia stretched and glanced at Joseph Lange, who had again taken up his paintbrush. He felt it and returned the look. The two younger sisters reached for each other’s hands. Come back, they wanted to cry. When would she be coming home? Would she ever now?
Aloysia reached for the pitcher to pour some beer; at that moment something silver glittered at her throat. Sophie squinted and leaned forward. “Why, that’s Josefa’s locket,” she cried, instantly proprietary on behalf of her older sister. She could see Josefa on her knees, feeling under the bed, crying, “Where’s my locket? Where’s my locket?”
The beer was poured, a few drops making their way down the outside of the glass. “What, do you think I took it without asking?” Aloysia said. “I did borrow your slippers, Sophie, I admit that. I’ll return them soon, I promise. As for the locket, Josefa said I could have it. Last month when I came for my things she thrust it at me, saying, ‘I don’t want it anymore.’ She’s more and more odd, you know. Her deportment’s dreadful, even onstage. Never mind. I guess she’s done with her mourning for her lover in Munich.”
Aloysia sat up a little, and looked around the room as if momentarily surprised to find herself here. “Mon Dieu,” she murmured. “How we are all turning out differently than we thought ... but enough of that. Come see my new dresses. I’m singing in private houses as well as the opera, and it does pay very nicely.”
In the bedroom she spread out a new pink dress, a dark green one, and a petticoat that would be displayed through the front dress panels, layers and layers of white eyelet embroidered with little pink flowers. Aloysia looked carefully at her sisters. She kissed Sophie, and said, “I can’t believe you’re fifteen. Your birthday was months ago, and I’m sorry I missed it. I’ll buy you a present; you know I always do, though it’s often late. But look at you both—before we know it, you’ll both be in love and married as well. By that time Josefa might actually be less abrasive and find someone to marry her. I’ll be the most famous singer in Europe by then, and we’ll visit one another and be civil. Yes, it will happen; I know it.”
Sophie stood with her toes turned in a little, rubbing the bridge of her nose to ease the place where the spectacles rested. “I’m not going to marry,” she said. “I want to be a nun and dedicate myself to charitable works.”
“Oh, that again, you tiresome child. All girls want that for a time—the perpetuation of virginity, the dedication to the sorrowful mysteries, and all those things we were taught when Papa took us to church. But tell me ...” Her fingers caressed the eyelet of the petticoat, and she blinked a little faster. “How is ... Mother?”
Constanze sighed. “Mama’s much the same. Her back aches; her