Marrying Mozart by Stephanie Cowell

there a chocolate with sweet chestnut paste?” she asked, her long loose hair falling over the box like a benediction. “The candle won’t last but a minute more.”
    “There it goes!”
    They all watched as it sputtered once; the wick slowly fell over into the last puddle of wax, glowed briefly, and died. The room smelled of waxy smoke and sweet chestnuts. In the smoky darkness, the paper in the candy box rustled as the girls rummaged.
    “Papa says Herr Heinemann’s teeth are blackened from too much sugar,” Sophie whispered with her mouth full. “And Uncle Thorwart ate the whole top layer. He’s getting awfully fat; he wears those English coats and will have to have a larger one made. Ah, it’s cold outside. Can you feel the wind creeping under the sill?”
    Constanze pulled her quilt closer. “Listen,” she whispered even more softly. “Don’t go to sleep yet. I almost forgot. This is terrible and sad! When I ran down the stairs before to say good-night to Cousin Alfonso, I saw the tailor’s daughter, whom we haven’t seen in weeks, and now I know why. She’s with child for certain. She couldn’t hide it.”
    Aloysia now crawled closer to the others. “What? Without the blessing of the Church and the sacrament of marriage? We must thank God we were not brought up to do such things and bring terrible shame on our family.”
    Now they could see a little by the moonlight through the curtainless window. Huddled together, their wool nightgowns pulled down to cover their toes, they grew serious over the plight of the tailor’s daughter. What a terrible thing! Every good girl knew that she must withhold until certain conditions, financial and social, were met. Flirtation was allowed, of course, even a passionate kiss on the lips on rare occasions. (The others felt Aloysia stiffen.) In empty alleys, in cloakrooms of great houses, near any room with a soft, inviting bed, however, vigilance must be upheld.
    There were stories of too many glasses of good wine drunk, girls half dazed, an unremembered night but for a petticoat stained with blood that would not wash out. (The first spilled blood of unmarried virgins did not wash out. Their mother had always assured them of that, and their aunts had nodded solemnly and sworn it by heaven.)
    Sophie blew her nose and wound her rosary in her fingers.
    “How did Papa meet Mama exactly?” she asked eagerly. “Both our aunts have a different story. It was a love match though, Mama said. I think they ran away. Aunt Elizabeth says her parents were against it. They were rich, and Papa was poor but full of prospects.”
    “I thought Mama’s family lost their money when she was ten.”
    “No indeed, seventeen.”
    “I’ll ask her.”
    “She’ll tell you something different every time.”
    “Oh, shut up! We were speaking of marriages in general.”
    With voices even lower, the conversation turned to sanctified marriage, and they sat more erect in the darkness. They told one another the stories of courtships and marriages: marriages of wealthy women and the elegance of their dresses, marriages of scrub girls, marriages betrayed and reconciled; of fidelity and infidelity, great dowries, large settlements, and true love, which was the rarest thing of all. Exhausted by so many marriages, they fell asleep one by one, until only Sophie and Josefa remained awake, now lying in heaps under blankets on their two close beds, faces almost touching, whispering.
    Sophie said, “You could have sung that song at sight, Josy.”
    “Yes; when he writes another, I will.”
    “I like Mozart; he has a nice smile. I thought he would follow Aly down the hall, but he didn’t. I wonder why he didn’t. Maybe he’s in love with someone else. Maybe it’s you. Does she love Leutgeb, do you think? He and she were behind the hall door for the whole first movement of the trio, so perhaps she does. And what will Mama say to that?”
    “Oh, really, I don’t care. Such nonsense.”
    “I noticed