Or, at least, it began that way. As Clara played, feeling more like a wind-up doll than a pianist, her thoughts flew to her fingers, and without any effort at all, the song segued into The Nutcracker Sonata.
It twisted gently, sweetly around her fingers and into the audience, then grew daring, loud, thick with marching chords. B, because you’re brave. The right hand added trilling melodies, whimsical, like Nutcracker’s humor. And then, the song crescendoed into a battle, the darkness of rats, beating them back, the fire of rifles and cannon, and finally, the climax of the song—victorious, triumphant, brilliant.
With one last ringing chord, Clara finished the song, breathless, sweating, unsure of what exactly she had just played. She looked up, suddenly hearing the thunderous applause and Brava! Brava! of audience members. They got to their feet, cheering.
Clara felt a little dizzy. She curtseyed, barely keeping her balance, and hurried offstage. Professor Schonemann was there, waiting for her in the wings.
“Miss Stahlbaum!” he crowed, taking her hand in his and shaking it broadly. “You did not tell me you were working on a different song! It was—beyond anything I have heard before! Brava—your father would be proud! We are all proud!”
“Thank you,” said Clara breathlessly.
She turned, and suddenly saw Johann standing just beside her, about to go onstage. He was dressed to perfection—white vest, white bow tie, white gloves, starkly black suit with tails, and perfect seams, as though creased with a ruler. Not a hair was out of place, everything slicked and combed. His dark eyes flashed as he took her in.
Funny, Clara thought. After two years of dreaming about him, her heart leaping with every thought, Clara faced him now, and felt nothing. She said, “Good luck,” and she meant it.
Johann ignored her, instead brusquely pushing past her onstage, almost shoving her out of the way.
Clara was stunned. She touched her shoulder where Johann had pushed past.
“Ah, Clara, I am sorry,” said Professor Schonemann, patting her on the back. “I’m afraid that is Johann. Very competitive. He is jealous, of course.”
Clara hardly knew what to think. Johann, jealous of her? Enough to hurt her? Tears pricked her eyes, but not because of Johann. Because her soul whispered: Nutcracker would never have done that.
Clara hurried out of the backstage, down the hall, through the theater doors and into the snowstorm, her dress dragging in the snow. She fell against a streetlamp across from the theater, and inhaled tightly, trying to breathe the tears away. She had an audience to face, her family, the other pianists, after all. The streetlamp cast light over her. In the silent street, if Clara closed her eyes, feeling the fragile snow touch her face, she could remember the city that smelled of gingerbread and peppermint.
It could have been hours that Clara leaned against the streetlamp, the only sound among her the falling snow. But really, it had only been a few minutes. The snowglobe of silence was shattered when a baritone voice behind her spoke up.
“He shouldn’t have done that. That pianist, I mean. Push you aside like that. Sorry,” he added, “I was watching the concert from backstage.”
Clara quickly composed herself, hurriedly wiping her face.
“It’s nothing, sir,” she said. “Anyway, it’s not that. I’m just missing a very dear friend.”
And then the voice said:
“Clara.”
Nikolai Pyotr Stefan Volkonsky. Clara knew it was. She turned about so quickly her skirts twisted. There he was, standing before her, wearing a fine evening suit, his black coat draped over his arm, a picture of awkward gentility. Not eight feet any longer, but still tall. He was just as she had seen him in the fairy book: his dark hair a little unruly, large ears, sparkling green eyes, and great, beaming smile. Clara knew and loved that smile, for how often she had seen it.
“Nutcracker!” Clara cried, and ran to his arms, which opened up and swooped her around, spinning with the snow. It was wonderful. His hand no longer paddles, Clara felt each finger, not soft, just—firm. He pulled her into an embrace, both yielding and strong, and when he released, they kept their hands clasped.
“I thought I had lost you—”
“I thought I wouldn’t see you again—”
“Sorry—”
“No, sorry, you go—”
“No, you—”
“Ha ha ha—”
“It really was me you were missing?” Nutcracker’s—no, Prince Nikolai’s—bright green eyes were hopeful.
“Of course it was you!” Clara cried.
“Really?” said Prince Nikolai.
“Really,” said Clara. “I adore you.”
“Really!” said Nutcracker, positively bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Well! Well! Well, good. Johann is a pancake of a man. Would he have traipsed around the country searching for you as I did today? Answer: no. He would not.”
“You really have been searching for me?”
“By the stars, yes. We landed in a city called France early this morning. Had to ask where to find this concert. Someone recognized the name Johann Kahler and gave us directions. And then of course we had to take a train—we hadn’t the money, but Drosselmeyer had the foresight to bring some jewels and we managed to make an exchange with the ticket clerk. Are jewels rare here?”
“Imperia definitely has more jewels, yes,” said Clara.
“Then it was a good exchange. You should have seen how fast he grabbed at them, ha. He gave us the whole roll of tickets. We had the entire train to ourselves. Took us a little more than thirteen hours by rail, so we were a good six-hundred and seventy-two miles away, or thereabouts. We didn’t find the concert hall until late, and all the seats were taken but the ushers took pity on us and our jewels and we arrived backstage just as you began your song. It was magnificent, Clara. An audial feast.”
“Your song,” said Clara, beaming. “It was all you.”
“My song!” Nikolai crowed. “Yes, it was magnificent, wasn’t it? It ended very well, I thought. Very well indeed.”
Clara beamed at him, taking in the snow falling on his dark hair, his ears and shoulders, leaving white splotches. The mischievous glint in his eye, the smell of peppermint and soap. Unlike his Nutcracker counterpart, he was clean-shaven. Like his Nutcracker counterpart, his hands drowned hers, all knuckles. Clara squeezed them, wanting to snuggle him like mad.
“Oh, ow, not too hard,” he said, gently tugging them away and taking off his glove, revealing red and blistered fingers. “I had to play my way back here.”
Clara gasped and examined them, hurting for him. “You—played the Far Away Fantastique by yourself?”
“I did,” said Nikolai proudly. “I managed it myself. I couldn’t trust anyone else to do it. No one would have meant it as much as I did. It took me two weeks, though, practicing every hour of the day. With an instructor, too. One who didn’t smack my knuckles, but I suppose she didn’t need to this time. I learnt the notes and worked to get them right. Two weeks. I finally got the song good enough. I felt it Clara. I felt it more than any other pianist would have.”
Nikolai fumbled in the coat over his arm, pulling several sheets of music from the pocket, as well as an embossed invitation. He handed the envelope to her, and with a raised eyebrow, Clara broke the wax seal—a bicephalous fairy—and pulled out a vellum invitation to Prince Nikolai Stefan Pyotr Volkonsky’s coronation.
“You’re still invited,” he said, bringing sheet music out from his suitcoat. “And your family, too. Will you come? I’ve brought The Imperial Palace Prelude. You can play us all back.”
Clara hesitated.
“Nutcracker, I can’t,” she said, gently reminding him. “You’re a prince. And I’m—your Assembly or—Drosselmeyer or whoever arranges your marriage, they would never choose me.”
“Drosselmeyer, arrange my marriage?” said Nikolai, looking horrified. “I think I’d become a monk!”
“Well whoever does it wouldn’t—”
> “The fairies, Clara!” Nikolai cried. “The fairies arrange my marriage!”
Clara blinked.
“What,” she said.
“The fairies, Clara. The fairies! Those hopeless little romantics found the empress for my father, and his father, and—all the Volkonsky’s. It’s practically legend. And now you, Clara.”
“What,” said Clara.
“I wasn’t certain at first...but...it became clearer to me the more I got to know you. And then the fairies took you away. That’s when I realized: it didn’t matter what the fairies wanted.” Nikolai pulled her hands into his. “I wanted to marry you.”
Clara kept blinking. The snow dizzily whorled around her.
“That is,” said Nikolai nervously, “perhaps you could come back to Imperia, to the coronation, and then, ah, then we could at least, perhaps, discuss the matter.”
He smiled hopefully.
In the midst of the snowfall, globes of light descended, lighting upon streetlamps, on the theater gate, fluttering around Clara and Nutcracker like a glittering snowglobe.
Clara hardly noticed them. She looked up at Nutcracker, her vision blurring.
“The fairies,” she said weakly. And now she realized why the fairies had joined them in the theater. It wasn’t only to see Nikolai become human again. If they were little romantics, they were wanted to see what happened after. Clara’s first kiss. The proposal. Very probably a great fairy tradition to see emperors stumble through it.
Clara suddenly felt even more blushy than before. Nikolai squeezed her hands and pulled her closer, and Clara’s heart began beating more quickly as he leaned in, and she felt the warmth of his face draw near.
A crisp voice that was so firm it could only be General Drosselmeyer’s broke in:
“Miss Stahlbaum.”
Clara and Nikolai stepped apart quickly to see the stately figure of the General standing at the concert hall entrance. He had not changed a bit; he still wore his uniform with blazing medals. And, of course, his eyepatch. He bowed deeply to both of them.
“My lady,” he said, deferring to Clara. “The audience has requested you. They are wishing for an encore.”
“We will be there presently,” said Nikolai firmly. He turned to her. “They must have liked my song! Will you play it again?”
Clara laughed. “You can’t do that for an encore. Anyway. I already know what I’m going to play.” She slipped The Imperial Palace Prelude from Nikolai’s arm, where he had tucked it. “A song they will, most definitely, not forget.”
Nutcracker’s eyebrows rose, and Clara began laughing.
“Kiss me, for luck?” she said.
So he did.
(and many many thanks)
Editors:
Lisa Hale
Julie Romeis Sanders
Laurie Klaas
Kelsey Thompson
Special Thanks to:
Jake Wyatt
Lyssa Chiavari
Edward Necarsulmer IV
The Largeys
Cindy Petersen
Ashley Crosby
The sissies & the fam
That sweet UTA train host who always wishes me luck whenever he sees me writing
And The Handsome ❤
Marketing Team:
Smith Publicity, Inc.
Heather Wallwork was a music major, until she changed her ways and became a storyboard artist. Since then, she has been a story lead for Disney and the bestselling author of the books Illusionarium and Entwined (as Heather Dixon). Currently, she works in Salt Lake City as an animation director. You can find more of her work at www.story-monster.com.
Other Books by Heather
Entwined
Illusionarium
The Enchanted Sonata Page 24