Wintersong(29)

I looked at the lantern Constanze had given me. It had a small well of oil at its base, along with a wick of flame. Perhaps I could spill a little bit onto the woodpile I had made, just enough to prompt a fire. But I worried that the damp would defeat that too, and what little light I had would be gone with it.

No, I needed something else to burn: something dry, something seasoned, something like … paper.

I remembered my box of compositions.

I wanted to laugh. I thought I had known the meaning of sacrifice. I thought I had known the meaning of suffering. But no, I had been a fool. What did it mean to sacrifice my music to the Goblin King? I had thought a few tunes would be enough. But I was wrong. So very wrong. He wanted more. He wanted my very soul.

Hands shaking with more than cold, I reached into my satchel and pulled out my box of compositions. It was nothing but an old lockbox I had found in the garret—long emptied of its coins but filled with treasure nonetheless. The lock was rusted through, but the clasp still worked, and the box stayed shut until I opened it. I opened it now.

My compositions were scattered in its depths, dead leaves on autumn loam. Music scribbled hastily on foolscap, on parchment stolen from my father’s account books, on fancy stationary our guests sometimes left behind. All paper. All flammable.

“Is this what you want, mein Herr?” I asked. “Is this the sacrifice you asked for?”

No response from the wood but a waiting silence, as if the air held its breath.

With a cry I scattered my music over the woodpile. Then before I could lose my nerve, I splashed the burning oil from my lantern over it.

The pages caught fire immediately. Flames flared into life, then died down. No, I would not burn my life’s work for nothing. I kicked their burning ashes further into the kindling, and the rest began to catch light. Twig after twig, branch after branch, a small, smoky, but steady fire began to grow.

For you, mein Herr, I thought. Is this enough?

Nothing again but that waiting silence. First the pages, then my soul. This last scrap of self, he demanded it all. This was the meaning of sacrifice.

I pulled out the slice of cake Constanze had given me. Unwrapping it, I broke off a piece and cast it into the fire. The sweet smell of its ashes rose into the night air. I took one bite. Subtle sweetness melted across my tongue, subtle sweetness and strength.

“Let us share a meal, you and I,” I said to the waiting stillness. “But first, some music.”

I lifted the flute and began to play.

*

I played everything I knew, every étude and écossaise, every chaconne and concerto, every sonata and song. I embroidered, I embellished, I improvised, I improved. I played and played and played until the flames died down, until my fingers turned white with frost, until my throat grew hoarse with ice. I played until the darkness creeping in on the edges of my vision became the entirety of it, until I could no longer see the approaching dawn.

*

Someone takes me in his arms.

“Hans?” I ask weakly.

There is no reply.

Only the sensation of long fingers running along the length of my neck, soft and gentle as spring rain. They rest against my collarbones. The caress is light, and somehow reminds me of the flute in my hand.

Then I know no more.





Part II

THE GOBLIN BALL

A linnet in a gilded cage, -

A linnet on a bough, -

In frosty winter one might doubt Which bird is luckier now.

But let the trees burst out in leaf, And nests be on the bough,

Which linnet is the luckier bird, Oh who could doubt it now?



—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI, A Linnet in a Gilded Cage





FAIRY LIGHTS

The sound of giggles woke me.

“K?the?” I murmured. “It is early yet.” It was too dark to be dawn, too dark for my sleepy sister to be awake. I reached under the covers for her warmth, but there was nothing.

My eyes opened with a snap. The room was dimly lit, but I wasn’t home, wasn’t in my bed. I was comfortable, for one thing. The mattress K?the and I shared was old, full of lumps and sags, and no matter how many hot bricks wrapped in wool we cuddled, no matter how many blankets we piled over our heads, it was never warm enough.

I sat up. The room brightened. Small twinkling lights hovered beside me, and I gasped with delight. I reached to touch one, but was met with an angry zzzzzzzt! and a sharp, sizzling pain that lasted half a moment. The light pulsed irritably before resuming its steady glow.

“Fairy lights,” I breathed.

Fairy lights.

The fey. Goblins. Der Erlk?nig.

“K?the!” I cried, throwing off my covers and scattering the fairy lights into a frenzy.

But there was no reply.

I was Underground.

I had done it. I had won this round.

Now fully awake, I saw I was in some sort of barrow, the ceilings, floors, and walls made of packed dirt. But there were no doors, no windows, no way to escape. The room was as sealed as a tomb. The bed was carved from the roots of a very great tree, the roots curved and bent into sinuous shapes, almost as if it had been grown.

I got to my feet. A crackling fire gave off cheery pops and hisses in a beautiful travertine fireplace. I ran my hand over the mantel. The creamy white stone was shot through with gold, the joins seamless, as though it had been laid from one continuous slab of stone. Such fine craftsmanship seemed incongruous in this tomb of roots and dirt.