Josef was at the sideboard, pouring himself another drink. The concerto played on, lovely as ever. Karl’s feet were cold.
“How did you know?” Josef asked. “All these years I’ve wondered how you knew.”
Karl started to argue but had no strength left for it. Mozart brought it all back to him, conjuring the dead past like a fairy tale necromancer.
Just as Josef said it would.
He remembered his momentary search for some advantage over the child, and his subsequent revelation, spurred by the sound of someone still clamoring in the kitchen.
“The serving girl,” Karl said aloud.
“She took care of me,” Josef offered without looking at him. “She was kind to me.”
With a sigh, and no little resignation, Karl moved to his leather chair and slumped into it. Josef, fresh drink in hand, rounded him and stared down, carrying himself like a stern father. Karl only nodded. He remembered the girl employed in their kitchen, the one who, he knew, snuck food and candy to the houseboy who slept in the basement.
The dead girl who had appeared to him in the concert hall just a few hours ago.
“You remember,” Josef said. It wasn’t a question.
Karl nodded, hanging his head. Tears stung his eyes. “I remember.”