“Perhaps you should speak with your two companions first—especially with the young lady.” He passed the bowl of soup to Johann. “She has been waiting outside the door for quite some time. I think she has something important to discuss with you. I told her you would awake soon.” He smiled. “That young woman is an extraordinary person, by the way. Not at all a simple juggler. Did you know that her prayers alone brought you back from hell?”
Johann winced. A vague memory surfaced in his mind. During his fit he had stroked Greta’s hair and said . . .
Had he told her that she was his daughter? Or had he only dreamed it?
Apple of my eye.
Suddenly Johann felt certain that he had told Greta the truth. How had she reacted? At least she was still here, despite the lifelong lie. She was waiting outside his door. His mouth felt very dry.
“She . . . she wants to talk to me?”
Agrippa laughed. “Why else would she be waiting outside the door? May I call her in now?”
“No. I mean . . . wait, please.” Johann started to sweat.
All those times he put it off, all those lies were finally catching up with him. No test at Heidelberg University had ever been as difficult as the one he was facing now.
“Are you feeling worse?” asked Agrippa with concern.
“I . . . I’m all right,” Johann said and ran his hand through his hair. “You can ask her in now. I believe I need to speak with her.”
Agrippa nodded. “I think so, too. I was going to make her wait until tomorrow, but when I saw her look of determination, I knew: that girl is very strong-minded—almost like you.”
When Greta entered the room a few moments later, Johann could tell right away that he wasn’t mistaken: she knew—it was written all over her face. Her eyes studied him as if she was seeing him for the first time. Agrippa had left them alone, and Greta now stood in front of his bed with a straight, rigid back, like a traveler about to depart. No one spoke for a while.
“I told you, didn’t I?” said Johann eventually. “During my fit. You know that I . . . that I . . .”
“That you are my father,” said Greta, completing the sentence for him. “I still struggle to say it out loud.” Her voice sounded bitter. “And I struggle to believe it.”
“It’s the truth, Greta,” he said softly. “You are my daughter.”
“Why didn’t you say anything in all these years? Why did you—you and Karl—lie to me the whole time? All those years! It is just . . . disgusting!” She looked down on him with contempt, no warmth in her eyes at all. “I only came to hear it from your mouth one more time. Do you know how I feel? As if my whole life up until now wasn’t real. You robbed me of my real life!”
“I . . . I had reasons,” said Johann weakly.
“What sort of reasons could someone have to deny their daughter?” Greta waved dismissively. “I don’t even want to hear them. Maybe it would be better if I continued to believe that you’re just some distant relative who happened to save me. Or maybe it’s not even true, who knows? You’re just as great a liar as you are a magician.”
“I am your father.”
“Prove it. How can I be certain that you’re telling the truth for once?”
Johann could have told her about all the little ways in which she reminded him of himself—the looks, the gestures—or he could have shown her the heart-shaped birthmark they both carried on their right shoulders, or pointed out their shared tendency for melancholy. But then he remembered something else.
“You foresaw my death,” he said. “Did you not? You foresaw my death in my hand.”
Greta froze. “How do you know?”
“Because it is an ability you inherited from me, Greta. I, too, can see a person’s death in their hand. It’s a terrible gift. I wasn’t yet eighteen when I felt it for the first time.”
“Me . . . me too.” Greta sat down on the stool by the bed.
“It’s like a throbbing, right? Then the lines begin to glow, and an awful premonition hits you like a blow.” Johann reached for her hand. “A long time ago I saw it in the hand of someone dear to me—Peter, a fiddle player and the leader of our troupe of jugglers. And I, too, didn’t dare tell him the truth—just like you didn’t want to tell me. Isn’t that so?”
Greta nodded silently.
“Do you believe me now? I am your father. And I would understand if you walked out that door right now and never wanted to see me again. But then I wouldn’t be able to set things right.”
Greta looked up. “How do you think you can ever set things right?”
“By telling you all, Greta. I promise you there won’t be any more secrets between us.” The words came gushing out. Johann knew that it would be better for them to go their separate ways. He was a danger to Greta—to everyone who traveled with him. But he couldn’t bring himself to send her away. He loved Greta more than anything else.
“I must travel to France. I will explain the reason shortly,” he continued. “If you come with me, I will tell you everything. We have a long journey ahead of us, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk. About Tonio, too, and . . . and about your mother.”
“About my mother?” Greta looked at him darkly and with crossed arms, clearly torn. But there was real interest in her eyes now, mixed with fear of the truth.
“You better start right now,” she said eventually.
Around the same time, Agrippa walked through the hallways of his house toward the dining room. His face was pale and sunken, as if he had aged by years in the last few days.
And maybe I have, he thought. Everyone must pay their price.
He didn’t know what the girl wanted from Johann. But it had
