It was too cold for November. The chill was in the air, the dry, freezing air; it did not seem to reach the windows, did not frost them over, but merely hung in the centre of the room: a cloud of coldness that could not be dispelled even by the fire. Wolfgang sighed, looking up from his work; he reached over and stoked the fire, trying to expose the unburnt bits of wood. It worked to an extent, but nothing could remove the chill that he felt inside of him.
Was it just him that was cold?
He shuddered at the thought that had crossed his mind more than once in the last week. There was something wrong – not with the air, not with the weather, but with him.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he wrapped his waistcoat tighter round himself and buttoned it at the front, noticing how thin he had become lately. It was back – the depression was back, the miserable affliction that had kept him in its grip for so much of the last year. He had thought himself recovered, but evidently he was wrong. Something was gnawing at his bones, and he didn't like it.
Still, he had to be grateful that it wasn't gnawing at his imagination. From his pen flowed new, exciting innovations – from his pen flowed music the likes of which had never been heard before. Even when he felt the rest of life would drive him mad, music kept him sane. He had to be grateful for that.
That's what Constanze said, at any rate. Dear Constanze – always trying to keep his spirits up. She was worried about him, he knew that. Of course she would be. Perhaps he shouldn't have told her about his most recent commission.
He scrutinised the letter again, trying to work out whose hand had formed the overly neat italic hand. It looked forced, or done with extreme care. Then he rubbed his forehead and sighed, knowing that divining the hand would tell him nothing: it had probably been written by a scribe or proxy or someone other than the one who had decided on the words.
A Requiem. Someone wanted a Requiem Mass written for them – well, for a recently deceased wife. There was something wrong with the story. He should have been able to see through it. But his mind felt as if it was stuffed full of wool. All he could do was begin writing and hope that it was just an innocent request.
He put pen to paper, scoring the first part, imagining soaring voices and mournful strings grieving the passing of the poor woman. It would be a grand work, even if he did say so himself. He just wished he knew whether it was a genuine commission, or if someone –
He had had disturbing thoughts about this commission lately. He hadn't told Constanze, but he had begun to have nightmares. Nightmares in which he was dead and this Requiem was being played – his own Requiem Mass. He had written his own requiem. Usually he shuddered the nightmares off – tried to forget them. But every time he sat down to write the piece, the dreams came back to him. The dark, haunting tune wouldn't escape his head; the images of his own grave were clear before his eyes.
His eyes would drift then, coming to rest on the name to which the letter was addressed. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. A name well-known; he couldn't blame them for commissioning him out of all the musicians in Vienna. All the people with class and status wanted him to compose things for them. But was this one of them?
He shook his head very definitely, at once replying to the question and clearing his thoughts. He needed to be in a good state of mind for this piece. If it was a real commission, it needed to be good.
He dipped his quill in the ink and began once again to write.