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your suspicion gotten the whole truth from my brother and his daughter, and I have begged him to lock her up on bread and water before she inveigles any more good young men. They still, I fear, will find ways to write to each other. Intercept any letters you can. He must not involve himself for many years, and I fear for the warmth of his blood. He is more emotional than prudent, though he won’t hear it from me. We have put our whole lives into him, and he must not permit distractions from his work.
    Yes, the flute quartet is exceptional, as is the little pianoviolin duet he sent to Nannerl. His gifts blossom rapidly, so the amount of time we must be content to have you both remain in Mannheim must be carefully considered. If they do not recognize Wolfgang’s genius soon, I must suggest you travel even farther with him. I have enclosed what money I can spare, though things are dear. Our daughter wears herself out giving clavier lessons; she is a saint of God. The enclosed longer letter you will give to him: my thoughts on the flute quartet’s excellent middle movement and news of the latest musical intrigue as it will affect us, written in code. The world is a terrible place, one can get through it only being as somber a Catholic as one can and trusting in no man but those dearest to us.
     
    I am your devoted Husband,
    Leopold Mozart
    Maria Anna Mozart glanced at the enclosed letter with its code. Wise, she thought, nodding. Who could trust anything in the world indeed, and in Salzburg the Archbishop had his spies everywhere.
     
    Taking a new sheet of paper, she replied,
    My dear Husband,
     
    Yes, thank God he is far away from Augsburg. As for young women though, Husband, there is nothing as ubiquitous as young women. They are everywhere, and we must be very vigilant. If he does keep his wretched cousin in his heart (forgive me for speaking unkindly of a member of your family), his heart will at least be safe and he will not notice any other girl. Therefore, I find it best not to intercept these letters, as long as we remain so many fortunate miles away, for what harm can be done between a young man and woman with so many miles between them?
    I take care of my health as well as I can.
    She dusted the letter with sand to dry the ink, and folded it. Her long face, with its look of concern, was tired. She folded her hands, coughed several times, and began her evening prayers.

W olfgang Amadeus Mozart sat before the looking glass in his garret room on a cold November twilight a week after the meeting with Leutgeb in the beer cellar. He was dressing for his first and long-hoped-for appearance at the palace at a gala celebrating the Elector’s name day, the Feast of Saint Carlo Borromeo.
    Mozart was already several men, perhaps more than he realized, but the ones he knew well he kept strictly divided. The man who caroused in the cellar and closed his fingers around the whore’s brown nipple was worlds away from the serious young musician who meticulously put the finishing touches on his dress. As carelessly as he had eaten the beer hall chops, he now just as carefully buttoned on his shirt with the great lace, and his embroidered coat and breeches, each item of clothing unwrapped from under the more common cloth that protected it from the smut of the parlor fire and dust of the street. On his cheeks he dabbed the smallest amount of rouge. The white periwig had been newly brushed that afternoon. On top of that he placed his three-cornered hat, then descended the many dark flights of stairs to set off by foot for the palace, his low-heeled shoes tapping rapidly on the cobbles. A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall.
    At the palace gates he made his way through the many arriving guests until a footman took him to a little room that was without any manner of fire. After a time he began to walk up and down, rubbing his hands together to keep them flexible enough to play. When he pushed back the heavy draperies, he could