Wintersong(34)

“You wound me, Elisabeth,” he said. “I thought we were friends.”

“You became my enemy the moment you stole my sister.”

It was a long time before the Goblin King replied.

“Tonight is for indulgence without consequence. Tonight you are my guest, Elisabeth, and your sister shall come to no harm. Tomorrow,” he said, arch and sly once more, “we can return to being enemies.”

The sound of my sister’s laughter returned to me, echoing about the cavernous ballroom. “Your word, mein Herr.”

“I said your sister will come to no harm,” he said. “Do not press me further than that. Now,” he said, turning me to face him. “Let us dance, Elisabeth.”

The musicians struck up another song, one I didn’t recognize. The tempo was slow and in a minor key, seductive and sinister. The Goblin King pulled me into his embrace.

He pressed his hand to my lower back, pushing our hips close together. Our hands met palm to palm, fingers intertwined. He was not masked and neither was I. Our eyes met. Despite the closeness of our bodies, it was the touch of our eyes that made me blush.

“Mein Herr,” I demurred. “I don’t think—”

“You think too much, Elisabeth,” he said. “Too much about propriety, too much about duty, too much about everything but music. For once, don’t think.” The Goblin King smiled. It was a wicked grin, one that made me feel unsafe and excited at the same time. “Don’t think. Feel.”

We swept around the ballroom floor, our feet keeping rhythm with each other, even as my heart kept a frenetic pace. I flinched whenever our legs entangled themselves within the folds of my gown, whenever a step caused his chest to brush against mine, whenever more of him touched me than necessary.

“Breathe, Elisabeth,” he said softly.

But I could not. It wasn’t the stays trapping my lungs in an iron grip; it was the Goblin King. His proximity, his unbearable nearness. I had wanted Hans to know me intimately, but I was familiar with him. I could imagine his body beneath my hands—solid, comforting, dependable, predictable, just like the rest of him. But I did not know the Goblin King, not as a man, not as someone with flesh and hands and hips. My soul thrilled with recognition at the sight of his face, but the reality of him frightened me. He was an old friend in myth and legend; he was a stranger in breath and body.

The Goblin King sensed my discomfort. After the dance was over, he stepped back and gave me a courteous bow, kissing the back of my hand.

“I thank you for this dance, my dear,” he said formally.

I nodded, unsure of my voice. I tried to pull my hand out of his grip, but he held on all the tighter.

“But we are not finished yet.” He leaned in, lips moving against the curve of my ear. “The game resumes tomorrow.”

With that, he released me and melted into the crowd. I stood, dazed, wanting to follow him, wanting to crawl back to my barrow room and hide. Every face in the room belonged to him; I found an echo of his cheekbones, his chin, his arched brows in the masks of the attendees.

“Wine, Fr?ulein?” A goblin servant materialized by my side, holding a tray with several goblets. I hesitated. Years of watching Papa struggle with drink had made me wary of intoxication. And yet, the burden of being Liesl, responsible older sister and dutiful eldest daughter, wore on me. I wondered what oblivion was like.

A responsible older sister. I scanned the room for K?the. I found her straightaway; she was like a flame in darkness with her golden hair, her bright, pastel-colored gown. She sat upon an enormous carved throne at the head of the ballroom, surrounded by a bevy of fawning suitors. They fed her “grapes” and “bonbons” as she took sips of wine from a crystal-studded goblet. Her gorgeous gown was in disarray, her hair falling loose from its elaborate pompadour. She kicked out at one of them, giggling and showing quite a bit of leg. One of her swains caught her foot, and then ran a hand along her delicate ankle, slowly moving up her stockinged leg to her calf, then along her bare thigh …

“Mistress?” The goblin servant had not moved. I stole another glance at K?the, then looked at the goblets on the tray. I had wished for wantonness, hadn’t I? I fingered the edge of a wineglass. I wanted to be like K?the, to turn off my rational mind just for one minute, one hour, one day.

You think too much.

I lifted a goblet of wine off the tray.

Your sister will come to no harm.

“Ooh—ooh!” K?the said in a scandalized voice.

I brought the goblet to my lips. The wine was a dark red, darker than rubies, darker than blood, the deep black-red of blackberries. And sin.

Don’t think. Feel.

I drank.

*

The taste is heady on my tongue. The world is bright, the sounds are clear, and everything is beautiful. Touches, touches everywhere. A hand on my waist. Fingers in my hair. Wine-red lips that taste of temptation. They leave stains on my neck, where my skin meets my clothes, the rising swell of my breasts and the valley between them. Ticklish brushes against my ankles, a rising breeze. My skirt above my knees, games of bluff. Yes, no. Yes. No. Yes. Fingers walk up the inside of my thigh. No.

His face. I wrap my arms around him, but it is not the Goblin King, only another wearing a mask. I let him taste my skin, but I am looking. I am still searching.

I twirl around the room, passed from arm to arm, partner to partner. With each switch I look, I search, I yearn. My stays are loosened, my shoes are lost. I am not thinking now. The freedom is headier than the wine.