by Marie Lu
It was the temple of my youth, the representation of so much that I had hoped for. Perhaps it had always existed and would always exist, ready for the next little girl to make a wish.
I did not imagine Hyacinth in the kingdom. I had long ago forgotten what he looked like.
Later that evening, I put away my old music notebook and my broken pendant, storing them in a place where I would not look every day.
TWENTY-THREE YEARS LATER
SANKT GILGEN, AUSTRIA
1792
In February, as I rest in Sankt Gilgen with my husband and children, I receive a familiar guest from Salzburg who is coming to speak about Woferl’s childhood. He arrives on a sunny, cold afternoon, right as I am braiding my daughter Jeanette’s hair.
I have been expecting my guest. When my husband greets him at the door, he walks in with his usual air of merriness, shaking his hand before turning to me. He is slower now, his bones more brittle. Still, though, he is energetic in the way that he brushes leaves from the velvet of his justaucorps, and turns to smile at me.
I smile back, help Jeanette off my lap, and curtsy to him. “It is good to see you, Herr Schachtner,” I say. “Thank you for coming. I hope you’ve been well.”
He looks at me. How much has changed since that first blustery morning when he heard me play. I am married now, mother to three young children. As for Herr Schachtner himself, he has become an old man, bent from the world.
“Thank you, Frau Berchtold,” Herr Schachtner says. He bows to me. “How have you been keeping?”
“Well enough,” I say. “Better than before.” My words lodge in my throat for a moment before they come free. “It is slowly getting easier to accept Woferl’s absence.”
He gives me a sad smile and shakes his head. “Ah, I’m glad to hear it.” We stay silent for an awkward moment, the consequence of many years apart and the lack of my father’s presence. Papa would have known what to say.
Then Herr Schachtner clears his throat and reaches for a chair. “Let’s begin, then,” he says. “What is it that Herr Schlichtegroll needs to know?”
“He wishes to compile a biography of Woferl,” I reply, “and has requested some information from his early life. I would like to have another’s voice added to my own, so I thought of you. I’m sure you may remember some things about Woferl that I may have forgotten.”
Herr Schachtner nods. Some of his early energy disappears as he begins to think of my brother. “Very well,” he murmurs. He has brought with him a stack of papers, old letters and concert announcements, and he starts to sift through them. I bring over a stack of my own, and together we sit to pore over each one.
“Did you have a chance to speak to him before he died?” he asks me after a while, after we’d begun to compile a small list of anecdotes.
I look at him. “No,” I say. “I spoke to him once, several years ago, but I did not know of his illness last winter until he had already passed.” I pause there, suddenly uncomfortable with a topic that I’ve already needed to discuss on several occasions. I do not like to remember it. Sometimes I still wonder, on nights when the others have fallen asleep, what had ultimately caused my brother’s early death. Woferl had been in the middle of a composition shortly before he fell ill. I never tried to ask his wife what the composition was. I was too afraid of recognizing in it some familiar, ethereal sound.
Perhaps Woferl had always been the boy suspended between worlds, never meant to stay here for long.
“There are still masses, you know,” Herr Schachtner says. “All Salzburg mourns for him. I’ve heard of gatherings held in Vienna and Prague as well, attended by hundreds.”
I picture Vienna, a city once plagued with smallpox, now in silent mourning for Woferl. I wonder how grand his mass was, or if it was simple like that of his funeral. I wonder if Marie Antoinette, the little archduchess to whom Woferl had once proposed, would have attended his mass if the French had not imprisoned her in the Tuileries Palace.
Herr Schachtner and I trade stories, some that we both know, some that I have to remind him gently of. I recall how Woferl had picked out thirds on the clavier with me, and his little frown when one of the keys seemed out of tune. Herr Schachtner remembers his fervent composing, even at a young age, and the tears that would spring to his eyes whenever he was forced to pause. I bring out my old music notebook, now yellowing with age, and point out pages where Woferl had composed menuetts or where my father had written notes. When Herr Schachtner asks me about the page torn in my notebook, I simply shrug and tell him I cannot be sure what had happened.
“You and Woferl were so close,” Herr Schachtner remarks, when I become carried away in telling one of his childhood stories. A smile emerges on the edges of his mouth. “You were quite the pair, weren’t you? You played for the kings of Europe, those who have changed our countries and written our histories.”
The memory returns of our jostling carriage rides, the stories my brother and I would make up to entertain each other. I smile too, cherishing the warmth of this nostalgia. “Yes,” I reply gently. “I suppose we were.”
Herr Schachtner returns to his stack of papers, pulls out the next one, and holds it out to me. “Sebastian, your old servant, had this in his possessions. I found it and thought you might know more about it than I will.”
I stare at the paper, momentarily unable to speak. It is the old map that Woferl and I had once asked Sebastian to draw for us, a map of the Kingdom of Back. Some of his sketching has faded away now, and the castle on the hill is smudged and ruined. I look at the little moat Sebastian had drawn, the upside-down trees and the white sand beach. I hear in my mind the crunch of leaves beneath our feet, the splash of water as we swim in the kingdom’s ocean. I remember the dark, damp stairs in the castle tower, the scarlet sky and the children and the winding, crooked path.
I do not try to remember the faery’s name.
“It was a childhood memory,” I say after a while. “We called it the Kingdom of Back.”
“The Kingdom of Back?” Herr Schachtner laughs a little. “How did such a name come about?”
Woferl had whispered it to me one afternoon, a long time ago. But to Herr Schachtner, I say something different. The kingdom, and all its secrets, were meant only for my brother and me. “I can no longer be certain,” I say. “We used it to pass the time we spent in the carriage and on our journeys.”
Herr Schachtner studies my face, as if he knows that there is more I want to say about it. I choose my words carefully, changing the kingdom into something that the rest of the world can understand. “We thought of ourselves as the rulers of this place,” I say. “I suppose it was where we could escape to, with our joys and sorrows, and let them out to play.” I look at Herr Schachtner. “Just a simple childhood game.”
Herr Schachtner nods, satisfied with my story, and moves on to the next paper.
* * *
We sit together late into the afternoon. When it finally comes time for him to leave, he promises to visit me again and bring gifts for the children.
“I will let you know how Herr Schlichtegroll does with his writings,” I say. “I hope he will portray Woferl as a great man.”
Herr Schachtner bows to me. Then he seems to remember something and pauses halfway out the door to face me again. His hand digs into the pocket of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’d almost forgotten. I have something for you.”
I wait patiently.
The Herr pulls out a tiny package for me, wrapped in white silk and tied with a simple ribbon. “His widow, Constanze, told me that she found this among Woferl’s possessions shortly after he died. She said that he meant this for you, as he had a little note on it with your name. She asked me to give it to you.”
I turn the package over in my hands. Sure enough, a tiny scrap of paper is attached to its bottom. Für Nannerl, it says. I look at Herr Schac
htner, who holds out his hands to me.
“I’ve no idea what it is,” he says. “But I’m sure he would have liked you to receive it.” He bows once again, tipping his hat to me. “Farewell, Marianne. History will remember the Mozart name.”
I thank him, curtsy, and then watch his coach leave.
When he is gone, and I am still alone, I return to my seat and open the package. It’s very light, as if it holds only air, and for a moment I think that when I open it, the silk will simply fall away to reveal nothing at all, a final bit of mischief from Woferl.
But when I unfold the silk, I find in my lap a seashell painted bright blue, a shell shaped like a near-perfect circle, with flecks of white showing through the paint inside its grooves. Like grains of sand.
“Mama,” says a small, sweet voice beside me. I look down to meet the wide eyes of my little Jeannette, who has tilted up onto her toes to see what I am holding. “What is it?”
I smile at her, then lower my hand to show her the shell in my palm. “It is a gift from your late uncle,” I tell her.
She studies it, turning her head this way and that at the curious object. Her hair is like mine, dark and wavy, held back in a simple state with pins. “Where did it come from?” she asks.
I am prepared to tell her something brief and careless, so that she does not ask again. Perhaps it is not worthwhile to mention the dreams and fears of our youth, of all that I had experienced. Perhaps it is unwise to trouble such a small girl with the pains of my past.
Then, from some distant place, a memory stirs. It is a whisper in the air, the voice of a mother.
Speak for the ones who will come after you, looking to you for guidance.
I fold the shell back into the silk wrap, re-tie the ribbon around it, and put it in the pocket of my petticoat. Then I pick Jeannette up to sit in my lap. My arms wrap securely around her. She snuggles against me.
“I am going to tell you a story you already know,” I say to her. “But listen carefully, because within it is one you have never heard before.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Kingdom of Back is actually a story I first wrote twelve years ago and have been finessing ever since. I grew up playing piano; Mozart’s music always impressed me because it was easy to learn but incredibly difficult to master. And to think that he wrote so much, so young! How was this possible? I found myself constantly drawn to movies, articles, and books about him—but in what I read or watched, there was never any mention of him having a sister. The only hint that she existed lay in occasional paintings I came across online depicting Mozart as a boy or young man, playing the violin while a young woman accompanied him on the clavier. Who was she, and why did she appear so frequently at his side?
It wasn’t until I read Mozart: A Life by Maynard Solomon (a wondrously detailed book I highly recommend) that I learned Wolfgang had a sister—and not just a sister, but one who both played the clavier with extraordinary skill and composed as competently as her brother. Nannerl, as she was affectionately known, was five years Wolfgang’s senior and every bit a child prodigy. Before their father, Leopold, began teaching Wolfgang how to play the clavier, he taught Nannerl, marveling at how quickly she learned. In 1764, Leopold wrote in a letter, “My little girl plays the most difficult works which we have . . . with incredible precision and so excellently . . . although she is only 12 years old, [she] is one of the most skillful players in Europe.”
A twelve-year-old girl who was one of Europe’s most skillful players. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of Nannerl. Her brother was so celebrated! Yet here was his sister, his equal in talent, almost completely forgotten by history.
I learned that Nannerl and Woferl were incredibly close as children, often performing together as their father toured them throughout Europe. Woferl idolized Nannerl his entire life, as is evident in his letters, and most likely was inspired to play music because of her. It was during my reading of this time in their lives that a tiny detail caught my eye. With nothing to do during the long months they spent traveling in carriages, Nannerl and Woferl invented for themselves a magical place they called the Kingdom of Back. It became their way of passing the time during their often years-long tours, and they became so absorbed with it that they asked their manservant, Sebastian, to draw a map of the kingdom for them.
A world of fantasy and magic, invented entirely by the Mozart children. It was too interesting a premise for me to pass up, and I immediately knew I wanted to write a story around it. As the book evolved, it became a broader tale about Nannerl herself, what dreams and wishes she might have had, and what her compositions might have meant to her. How must it have felt to love something that the world refused to let her pursue? I am a writer, and telling stories is as much a part of me as my heart—I cannot fathom the agony of being barred from writing simply because of my gender. The thought of Nannerl living during a time when she not only couldn’t share her compositions but also had to watch her brother take the world by storm . . . it turned her story into a personal one for me.
While there is no conclusive evidence that Nannerl ever composed under her brother’s name, there are claims that her handwriting appears in the music notebook that belonged to her and was also used by Wolfgang during his lessons. In fact, a 2015 Telegraph article by Jonathan Pearlman reports that an Australian professor may have identified Nannerl’s musical handwriting in pieces that her brother used to practice piano. What’s more, we know that she composed her own music. In letters exchanged between the siblings, Woferl would enthusiastically ask her to send him her compositions. Could she have lent her hand to some of his work? We may never know for sure, but I’d like to think it is possible.
Tragically, none of her work has survived . . . under her own name, at least.
In the end, Nannerl lived to be seventy-eight years old. Her brother Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died when he was only thirty-five, but in a way attained immortality through his work.
What legacy could Nannerl have left if she’d been given the kind of attention and access that her brother enjoyed? What beautiful creations were lost to us forever because Nannerl was a woman? How many other countless talents have been silenced by history, whether for their gender, race, religion, sexual orientation, or socioeconomic circumstances?
I wrote this book for the Nannerls of today and tomorrow, in the hopes that when they are ready to share their brilliance with the world, the world is ready to give them the attention and honor that they deserve.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I began writing The Kingdom of Back as a naïve, shaky twenty-three-year-old, still fresh out of college and finding my voice. I submitted the story to Kristin Nelson in all the wrong ways an aspiring writer could submit it—unfinished, just one hundred pages in, poorly formatted. Kristin saw something in the manuscript and was kind enough to encourage me to send the rest of the story when I finished it. I did, she took me on as her client, and that was the beginning of our partnership. Twelve years later, we have finally come full circle. This was the book that started us on our way, Kristin, and I remain forever grateful to you for being the first to believe in me and this story. The Kingdom of Back was always dedicated to you.
To the incredible, inimitable Jen Besser, who gave this book a wonderful home, to the absolutely brilliant Kate Meltzer, who helped shape this book into something a hundred times better than its original form, and to Anne Heausler, for saving my butt with every single copyedit: I cannot thank you all enough.
Immense gratitude to JJ, who read The Kingdom of Back over a decade ago. Thank you so much for your support and understanding of my strange, quiet story. Huge thanks to Tahereh Mafi, incredible writer and wonderful friend, who took the time to read the rough draft and give me invaluable feedback. Your wisdom is priceless.
Deepest thanks to Jen Klonsky and the fantastic Putnam/Penguin team for giving The Kingdom of Back so much love and care, from its
breathtaking cover and interiors to sharing it with the world. Nannerl’s story is so special to me, and it means everything to me to know it is in your good hands. Much love to you all.
To the librarians, booksellers, teachers, and book champions around the world who work tirelessly to put books in the hands of readers: thank you so, so much for your support. Writers can’t do what they do without you. I’m forever indebted.
Finally, to all the Nannerls out there. Whatever barriers are in your path, it is my deepest hope that you can shatter them, because we desperately need your talent.
Keep going. Don’t give in. Light up this world.
MARIE LU is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Young Elites, Legend, and Warcross series. She graduated from the University of Southern California and jumped into the video game industry as an artist. Now a full-time writer, she spends her spare time reading, drawing, playing games, and getting stuck in traffic. She lives in Los Angeles with her illustrator-author husband, Primo Gallanosa, and their family.
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