Wintersong(63)

My breath caught. The instrument was beautiful, made of a rich, warm, dark wood that gleamed under the fairy lights. I ran my hands reverently over the keys, polished to a dull shine. It was a full octave larger than the klaviers in our inn, and when I pressed a key, a clear, full sound filled the room. None of the tinny, brassy resonance that plagued the instruments at home.

I lightly tapped out a melody, allowing myself to fall into a reverie. I had been lost, but now a piece of myself had been returned to me. Then I noticed the stack of paper and ink on a small table beside the klavier.

Staff paper. Parchment already lined with a musical staff, waiting only for a clef, a key, and a signature. I stiffened.

Another trick, I thought. Another taunt of the Goblin King.

The room held the silent echoes of a mocking laugh. I was tempted to dash the inkwell against the keyboard and tear the staff paper to shreds. But the memory of a tall, elegant stranger in a marketplace stayed my hand. A tall, elegant stranger who approached a plain, homely girl because he had heard the music within her and wanted to set it free.

My fingers twitched, longing to work my hands into the keys, longing to set my feelings to paper. The wedding gown hung in my bedchamber, so close, yet so far away. I wanted to take its ash and turn it to ink.

But I didn’t.

I turned and walked back to my barrow room, the fairy lights winking out one by one, snuffed out like candles. I did not know what time it was. The painting of the Goblin Grove above my hearth showed the thin gray scene of snow falling. The hour could be predawn. It could be late dusk. It was hard to tell, the light flattened by the gentle snow falling down on its black branches.

I squinted. I could swear the snow was falling. Moving. The snowflakes were coming down, settling across the wintry landscape. Whether it was the lack of sleep, or the crusty remnants of tears blurring my vision, I could not tell. I moved closer.

My eyes were not playing tricks on me. The snow was falling on the Goblin Grove in the world above. It was like a window, a view I might have seen from my bedroom back at the inn. I was pierced with a sudden yearning for home. For Josef. For K?the. Mother and Papa. Even Constanze. I even missed the girl I had been: Liesl the dutiful daughter, the loving older sister, the secret composer. If my life had been stunted, at least I had known my place. What place had I here? Who was I in the Underground? A neglected queen, an unloved, unravished wife. A maiden still. I found rejection wherever I went, even among the goblins.

My humiliation was still raw and tender within me, so I focused on the enchanted painting instead. The Goblin Grove beckoned, and I reached for the portrait, against the warnings of Twig and Thistle.

I was startled when my fingers met glass. I leaned forward to examine it, and my breath covered its surface in mist, completely obscuring the Goblin Grove in fog.

When the mist cleared, the scene had changed. I stumbled backward, tripping over the broken furniture and shattered knickknacks in my chamber. I cut my palm on something sharp, but I scarcely noticed the pain. Instead of the Goblin Grove, a young man sat at a writing desk, scribbling furiously.

“Sepperl!”

He did not hear me. Of course he did not hear me. My little brother was taller than when I saw him last—taller, thinner, leaner. He dressed like a gentleman now, his frock coat of pastel blue brocade, his breeches of fine satin, fine lace crowding his throat. He looked prosperous and, I thought with a pang, like a person I would not recognize in passing.

The door behind him opened, admitting Fran?ois. Josef’s face brightened, and my breath hitched in my throat. My brother had once looked at me that way, as though I held his soul in my hands. But his soul was no longer in my care; I had been replaced.

Josef asked something, and Fran?ois shook his head. Josef’s shoulders slumped, his fingers crumpling the parchment in his hand. A composition? No, no notes. Words. A letter—

Fog covered the glass once more. “Sepperl!” I cried, but when the mist disappeared again, my anguished call died in my throat.

A young woman knelt beside a bed. For a moment, I thought I beheld my own reflection, until I noticed the gleam of gold peeking out from beneath her headscarf.

K?the.

Wearily, she put aside her stained apron and made ready for bed. She was about to pull back the covers and crawl beneath them when she paused. Reaching beneath the pillow, K?the pulled out a sheaf of paper.

With a jolt I realized it was the little Lieder, the composition I had left behind. Für meine Lieben, I had written. For my loved ones.

My sister fingered the lock of hair tied with twine to the piece. Her blue eyes swam with tears and she hugged the piece to her chest. I was not dead to the world above. The mist closed in again.

The sacrifice I had made, my marriage to the Goblin King, seemed foolish now. My life, my future, my loved ones—I had thrown it all away for selfishness. Because for once, just once, I had wanted to be wanted. Desired. The Goblin King had said he wanted me, and I had taken that desire and staked my entire life on it.

Was my sacrifice worth it? I felt hollow and bereft, yet the grief in my heart had palpable weight, bearing me down to the ground. I could not breathe. I carried the burden of my love for my family, and it threatened to suffocate me.





THOSE WHO HAVE COME BEFORE

“Is she all right?”

“Don’t know. It’s hard to tell with mortals. They wither and fade so quickly.”

“She’s filthy.”