Wintersong(25)

“Glück, Josef.” Hans pounded my brother good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about your family; I’ll take care of them.” He caught my eye and gave me a bashful smile. My heart fluttered, but with nervousness or guilt, I wasn’t sure.

“Danke,” Josef said absently. His eyes were already distant, already gone.

“Auf wiedersehen, Sepp,” I said.

My brother looked startled to see me standing beside him. I was easily lost in the shadows—plain, drab, unremarkable—but Josef had always managed to find me. Tears started in my eyes.

“Auf wiedersehen, Liesl.” He took my hands in his, and for a moment, it was as though the world had never changed, and he was still my beloved Sepperl, the other half of my soul. His blue eyes shone bright as he wrapped me in his arms. It was a boy’s hug, unself-conscious and sincere, the last my little brother would ever give me. When—if—we next saw each other, he would be a man.

Fran?ois came to escort Josef to the coach, to Munich, to greatness, to acclaim. Our eyes met over my brother’s head. We did not share the same tongue, but we spoke the same language nonetheless.

Take care of him, I said.

I will, he replied.

I made myself stand and watch as the coach drew away, as it disappeared down the road, swallowed up by mist, distance, and time. One by one, my family returned to their lives: Papa to his chair by the hearth, Mother to her place in the kitchen. Hans lingered longest, his hand on my shoulder. At last I turned to join what remained of my family inside, but Hans stopped me.

“Hans,” I said. “What is it?”

He shushed me. “Come. I have something—something I want to show you.”

Frowning, I let him lead me past the creek toward the woodshed. Once there, he pushed me against the wall.

“Hans.” I struggled against him. “What—”

He shushed me. “It’s all right,” he said. This was the most of Hans’s body I had ever felt against my own: his hand on my wrist, his chest against mine, his thighs against my hips, the heat of his skin warming mine. “It’s all right,” he repeated, and gripped me closer. There was an urgency to his touch, a need that stirred my blood.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

But I knew. I had both dreaded and desired it.

His hand pressed against my lower back, pushing our lower limbs together. His right hand released my wrist to slowly come up to caress my cheek. “What I’ve wanted to do ever since I met you,” he breathed.

And then he kissed me.

I closed my eyes and waited, waited for the fires within me to ignite. I had imagined, dreamed of, and yearned for this moment for a long time: the moment Hans would take me in his arms and press his lips to mine. Yet in the precise moment it came to pass, I felt cold. I could feel his lips, his breath, and the tentative brush of his tongue against mine, but he aroused no emotion save vague surprise and detached curiosity.

“Liesl?”

Hans had pulled away, trying to read my expression. I thought of K?the, but it was not the shape of my sister’s body that lay between us.

You might prefer the pretty lie to the ugly truth, the Goblin King had said.

I had. This entire life was a pretty lie, and I had thought myself strong enough to resist it. What a fool I’d been, to fall for the Lord of Mischief’s tricks.

“Liesl?” Hans repeated, hesitant and unsure. This was all a lie, but what a beautiful, beautiful lie it was.

So I kissed him back.

In the dark of the night, with my back turned to my sister so she would not notice, I had pretended to feel Hans’s hands on me, his fingers questing for all the secret hollows and crevices of my body. I imagined his lips and tongue and teeth, I imagined desire so forceful he nearly burst with it, matching the roughness in my restless limbs with his own violence.

The intensity of my kisses startled him, his surprise resonating through him from head to toe. He released me.

“Liesl!”

“Was this not what you wanted?” I asked.

“Yes, it is, but—”

“But what?”

“I didn’t expect you to be so forward.”

Somewhere, deep in the forest, I thought I could hear an echo of the Goblin King’s laugh.

“Is this not what you wanted?” I repeated, angrily wiping at my mouth.

“Of course,” Hans replied, but I heard the uncertainty in his voice. The fear, the disgust. “Of course it is, Liesl.”

I shoved him away. Fury unfurled from me, a rising wave of frustration.

“Liesl, please.” Hans grabbed my sleeve.

“Let me go.” My voice was as dead as I felt inside.

“I’m sorry. I just—I just thought you were pure. Chaste. Not like all those other girls, easily spent, easily satiated.”

I went rigid. K?the.

“Oh?” I asked tightly. “What other girls, Hans?”

His brows furrowed. “You know,” he said vaguely. “The others. But they don’t matter to me, Liesl. They’re not the sort of girls you marry.”

I slapped him. I had never raised my hand against anyone in my life, but I hit him with all the strength I had. My palm stung where it struck his cheek.

“And what sort of girl am I?” I asked in a low voice. “What sort of girl do you marry, Hans?”