Wintersong(54)

I turned my face away.

“Elisabeth.” The way the Goblin King said my name made my heart flutter. “Will you marry me?”

This time, it was a long time before I replied.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”





Part III

THE GOBLIN QUEEN

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perish’d thing; Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him, my King.



—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI, A Better Resurrection





CONSECRATION

The Goblin King took K?the away without another word. She was in my arms one moment and gone the next, gone before I could say goodbye, before I could tell her I loved her.

I do not know how long I sat there in the oubliette. My mind was blank, devoid of any sorrow or thoughts or music. I should have felt grief. I should have felt fear. But instead I felt nothing but immense weariness, an exhaustion so profound it was like death. Hours, or days, or minutes passed before I felt the light touch of a hand on my head.

“Elisabeth.”

A young man looked down at me, his mismatched eyes soft, the tilt of his mouth tender. It was the tenderness that undid me, undid the strings I’d bound about my heart. Longing, fear, grief, resentment, and desire came tumbling out. I began to cry.

The young man reached out to wipe my tears away, and in his touch there was nothing but kindness. I wanted to take his compassion and wrap it about me for comfort.

An apology hung in the space between us, though he did not speak.

I’m sorry, Elisabeth.

But why would he sorrow for me? My grief belonged to me and me alone, and I could not, did not want to share it with anyone. I did not mourn my life, for it had not been a life worth living. But I mourned the lives I would not have: my sister’s, my brother’s, my family’s. I would never see Josef find acclaim as a musician. I would never travel with K?the to see the great cities of the world. I would never again hear my name upon their lips.

The Goblin King gathered me in his arms, and I let him carry me back to my barrow room. His way through the Underground was short and straight, but he could bend time and distance to his will, after all. He set me down before my door, still locked with that absurd contraption. Then, with a courteous bow, the Goblin King disappeared.

It was a pleasure to open that door and turn the lock, hearing the solid thunk and clang as the mechanism slid into place. I had done this so many times to my own heart; it was a pleasure to do it to the world.

I was empty. A vessel filled with nothing. Whatever spirit filled me had fled years ago, leaving me with ghost and body alone.

I lit a candle.

I had heard acolytes at the nunnery held a candlelight vigil the night before they consecrated themselves to Christ, much as young brides did the night before their wedding, before they consecrated themselves to their husbands. But how far was I from His grace, deep beneath the earth? While I had dutifully attended Mass with the rest of my family on Sundays, I had never felt the presence of God or His angels. It was only when I heard Josef play that I believed in Heaven.

I would endure this vigil alone, with no prayers in my heart. For what could I possibly pray? A fruitful marriage with lots of children? Could I even bear any, a monstrous thing half-human, half-goblin? Or could I pray for something altogether more selfish, like the life I had never had, a life lived to the fullest?

So I prayed for nothing. I knelt with my hands clasped before the candle, and watched as the flame burned low into the night.

*

I say goodbye to the world above.

Farewell, Mother, careworn and abiding,

Farewell, Papa, faded brightness hiding.

Farewell, Constanze, I took your tales to heart,

Farewell, Hans, and your fumbles in the dark.

Farewell, K?the, I’m sorry I did you wrong.

Farewell, Josef, may you play ever-long.

Farewell, all, to you I give my love.





THE WEDDING

There was a bright light in my bedroom when I awoke. I did not remember falling asleep, but at some point during my vigil, I had stirred from my place before the candle and sat by the hearth in my room. I watched the flames flicker and dance before my eyes and composed a hymn—my first—humming and working at the melody until I had gotten it right. I had had no paper on which to write down my thoughts, but it did not matter. That hymn was sacred to that night and that night alone—no one would ever sing it, for God or for me.

The light shone down from the fireplace, slanting in like the morning sun. I squinted. The painting of the Goblin Grove above the mantle—which to my last recollection had depicted a dark landscape—now showed the woods in all their daylight glory. It appeared as though snow had fallen, and the sun shone crisp and bright on its blank whiteness.

I frowned. The light was shining through the painting into my barrow, like a window to the outside world. I got to my feet, bones aching, fingers poised to touch this miraculous thing.

“Tut, tut, what did we say about touching?”

Twig and Thistle were in my room.

“What did I say about knocking?” I returned.

“You didn’t,” Thistle said cheerfully. “You wished for a door and a lock. You didn’t wish us to use it.”