"Little Sister, don't you do what your big sister done."
“Did you have a good view of the fray?”
I was delighted when he came straight to me. He looked paler than usual.
“Yes, indeed, Herr Mozart,” I replied.
Strong hands took me by the waist and swung me unceremoniously down from my perch.
“So! Did I win or did I loose, little sister?”
“I think you gave them something to think about.”
He tossed his curly blonde head; his clear eyes sparkled. In spite of his delicacy of build and the clownish jacket, at that moment there was something about him which was dangerous and…indisputably male.
“I certainly hope so, Fraulein Konstanze Marie. I had a belly full of boorish Aristos in France.”
“Would you like some punch?” I asked. I felt hot and excited. I’d never liked him so much.
He took not only the punch, but my arm as well. We found a couple of chairs which had been vacated because of a too close proximity to the crackling stove.
“I shall sit here and roast,” he said. “That wind drove winter straight into my bones.” he said. As soon as we were seated, he started to shiver. “And, in that dress,” a blue wink flashed in my direction, “you probably need heat almost as much as I do.”
As if nothing untoward had happened, he turned and began a conversation with Papa and Herr Raaff. They politely commiserated with him upon the death of his mother. Then, world travelers all, they discussed Paris, the filth, the pack of cut-throats who were the French nobility, and the incredible expense of the place.
I sat quietly and listened, enclosed in a circle of my elders. No one by the stove made any comment about Mozart’s song, although they certainly had heard. There seemed to be universal agreement, even between my parents, that Aloysia and her friends had only got what was coming to them.
When Mozart said he had to leave, I went to get his overcoat. It took quite a long time as I had to dig through a pile in one of the frigid bedrooms. At last, I found his coat and the weather-stained tricorn. Dirty woolly beads covered his mittens—my mittens—showing they’d had plenty of use.
With a sigh, I gathered his things and made a shivering dash to the parlor. When I arrived, I discovered the place in cheerful turmoil. Fiddlers tuned their instruments while guests milled, either organizing into sets for dancing or helping by moving the chairs and the table aside.
Von Schfhautl and von Ramler were arguing over which one would first partner Aloysia, flooding the room with a patter of melodious Italian. My sister, radiating pleasure, watched them argue, smiling in her cat-that-ate-the-canary way.
The merely polite and curious were leaving. Our true st friends had retired into the homey comfort of the kitchen.
“I’d love to stay and dance, but I’m afraid my poor father will have an apoplexy if I don’t get a letter off to him soon,” Mozart said to my Papa.
“Well, remember what I told you. You’re more than welcome to stay with us.”
Our maid was having her supper at last, so I was dispatched to the chilly landing to help with Mozart’s coat. As we went out, the fiddlers struck up a popular contradanse. The tune made my body tingle, made me hope that when I returned, someone would want to dance with me.
As I helped him into his heavy gray coat, he heaved a heartfelt sigh. When he turned around, shrugging the weight over his shoulders, I saw tears welling in his blue eyes. After the rude song, he had ignored Aloysia so thoroughly that his distress took me by surprise.
Not knowing what to say, but wanting to give comfort, I bobbed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Of course, as soon as I did, I knew it was wrong. He was not family, and the blonde stubble my lips brushed reminded me he was no boy.
I tried to bolt, but it was too late. Strong arms trapped me.
“Maybe I had the right idea when I came in,” he whispered. Firmly backing me against the wall, he gave me the first real kiss I ever had.
We were perfectly matched in size; we didn’t even bump noses. I could smell the long journey on his coat: wood-smoke, sweat, dirt, and horses. Beneath his clothes I could feel a lithe, hard, young man’s body, nothing like the roly-poly feel of Papa.
His mouth tasted, not unpleasantly, of spice and rum. It shocked me, however, when a delicately invasive tongue touched mine.
“What’s the matter?” he asked as I jerked away. “Haven’t you ever had a real kiss?”
When the only reply I made was a dazed stare, he said, “Well, that settles it. These Munichers are as dumb as they look.”
The finely drawn mouth, a teasing smile in place, approached once more. With the addition of a few laurel leaves among those blonde curls he’d have looked exactly like one of those sensual, half-grown pagan deities who adorned the walls of the opera house.
“Allow me to instruct,” he whispered.
I turned my head to evade the would-be teacher, but he knew how to persuade. Tenderly, he kissed across my cheek until he reached my neck. After tugging aside the fichu, a flood of sweet whispers and gentle nibblings were bestowed upon the bare skin, shoulder and throat, releasing a feeling that spread like spilled honey.
My heart raced and my breath came short. He pressed the tender attack, all the time holding me tightly. By the time his mouth traveled back to mine, I was hot to kiss him back, to kiss in any way he wanted.
I’m not sure how long it went on, that eager and open-mouthed druck und schluck, but eventually the sound of farewells in the parlor brought us out of it.
“Damn!”
After one last breathtaking squeeze, he released me and stepped—actually he sprang—in the direction of the stairs. His eyes were dancing, as full of mischief now as they’d been full of passionate blue sincerity only an instant before.
“If that really was your first kiss, Konstanze Marie Weber, I’d say you have a surplus of natural talent.”
The flush that came was so violent my cheeks ached. I knew I ought to slap him, but my naughty teacher was already descending the stairs in leaps of two, his unfastened overcoat flapping wildly.
As departing guests came out into the hall, I brushed mutely past them, incapable of even a polite phrase. My poor head was spinning. My knees felt weak. My lips burned. I wanted to curl up in a warm corner and ponder, but as I inched through the door the new oboe d’amore player grabbed my hands. His fat, cheerful face flamed with my Papa’s potent punch.
“Ah, here you are, Fraulein Konstanze! Come, Sugarplum, let’s have a dance.”
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