Wintersong(35)

Elisabeth.

A breath on the back of my neck. I am dizzy, I sway, but I stand. A breath, then a kiss. I cannot see, but I know it is him. The Goblin King.

I lean into him, but he holds me upright. He murmurs my name down my neck, down my spine, his long, elegant fingers traveling along the curves of my hips, my waist.

Elisabeth.

I do not know what to call him, but I cry out his name.

My fingers reach, but he is gone.





THE GAMES WE’VE PLAYED

I opened my eyes.

And immediately regretted it.

The room tilted and spun, the bed rocking back and forth like a boat on the sea. I shut my eyes and moaned. I was dying. Or worse.

Presently, my wits began to return. I was not dying; I was merely suffering the ill effects of my lapse in judgment. I tried to recall the events of the previous night—day?—but nothing returned. Hazy memories, the remembered sensation of bare skin against skin.

Bare skin. I sat up, clutching my head as pain shot through my temples. To my horror, I was naked beneath my sheets. Where was I?

The bed was my bed, the barrow my barrow. The portrait of the Goblin Grove hung over the fireplace, the same Louis Quinze table and chair set, the same grotesqueries. I took stock of myself, running a trembling hand over my body. Aside from the headache, I was unharmed. Intact. Untumbled. I did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

My beautiful ball gown lay rumpled on the floor, discarded in haste with little regard for preservation. There were wrinkles and tears in the fabric, and the stays had been shredded. It was beyond salvaging.

I cast my eye about for my old dress and chemise, but there were no other clothes in my room. Despite the nausea roiling through me, I was desperately thirsty and hungry. I pushed back my bedclothes and got up.

“Mortals look so different naked, don’t they?”

I threw up my hands, trying to cover my nakedness as best I could. I had not seen Twig and Thistle enter my room; had they always been there?

“Yes. Pink,” Twig said, agreeing with Thistle.

“How did you get here?” My throat was hoarse and dry, and squeaked like a badly played oboe.

Thistle and Twig shrugged in unison. Twig held an earthenware jug and a cup, while Thistle had a loaf of bread. “We thought you might need this.”

They set their offerings on the Louis Quinze set. Twig poured me a cup of water. I eyed the cup; after the goblin wine, I was wary of any drink the goblins might offer me.

“It’s not poisoned,” Thistle said irritably, seeing my hesitation. “His Majesty told us not to, ah, tamper with your food.”

I needed no more urging. I gulped down the water: ice-cold, delicious, and tasting of alpine springs. I poured myself a few more cups. Once my stomach was settled, I tore into the bread.

After I had eaten and drunk, I felt more human. More alive. It was only then I noticed that I was still stark naked.

“Look, she’s growing pinker!” Twig pointed out my flush of embarrassment. I hurried back to my bed and pulled off one of the sheets to wrap around me.

“Stop staring at me,” I snapped.

Twig and Thistle cocked their heads. They were clothed in scarce more than rags and leaves stitched together. Their clothing seemed less about modesty and more about status—indeed, the goblins I had seen at the ball were more humanlike in appearance than these two, and dressed in clothing much like ours.

“What have you done with my clothes?”

Thistle shrugged again. “Burned them.”

“Burned them!”

“His Majesty’s orders.”

I was furious. He had no right to dispose of my things like that. My clothes had been my last link to the world above. The longer I stayed Underground, the more I felt as though I were being skinned and peeled alive, little bits of human Liesl stripping away.

“Take me to him,” I said. “I want an audience with the Goblin King. Now.”

The goblin girls exchanged looks.

“Is that what you wish?” Twig asked.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “I wish for you to take me before the Goblin King.”

“All right.” Identical pointed grins spread over their faces. “As you wish, mortal,” they said. “As you wish.”

*

I blinked.

I was in an entirely different room, naked but for the bedsheet draped about me. This room was much larger than my barrow, its packed-dirt ceilings supported by the great roots of a spreading tree, like the buttresses of a cathedral. An audience chamber, I thought.

Despite the spaciousness, the chamber was cozy: the furnishings simple, the decorations spare. No tapestries, no statuaries; the only thing that dominated the room was the enormous bed at its center, wrought of roots and rock.

Then I realized I wasn’t in the Goblin King’s audience chamber. I was in his bedroom.

Thistle and Twig had granted me my wish. They had taken me before the Goblin King the exact moment I demanded it. I had wished and now I was here.

Constanze always told me to never play games with the goblin folk. Never say I wish, never give them an opening.

Panicking, I scrambled for a way out. I had to leave before he awoke, before he saw me.

A moan from the bed stopped me, a disconcertingly familiar sound. It was the sound of Papa trying to make it through the day. The sound of Mother’s disappointment in her husband’s failures. The sound of Josef after a long day of practice. The sound of K?the during her monthly courses. The sound of pain.