Wintersong(67)

“Good evening, Elisabeth.”

The whisper of a cool breath against my neck. I shivered, icy fingers traveling down my spine. I faced the Goblin King and dropped a curtsy.

“Good evening, mein Herr.”

He brought my hand to his lips, all courtesy and charm. He was as resplendent as a peacock in a beautiful moss-green frock coat made of silk brocade, gold and copper thread woven into a pattern of autumn leaves. His satin breeches were cream, his stockings snow white, the toes of his pointed black shoes turned up like goblin feet in illustrations I had seen as a child. He was stunning, both as a king of goblins and as a man. My breath caught in my throat.

“How are you, my dear?” The Goblin King held both my hands in his own. His were gloved; mine were bare. “Was the klavier to your liking?”

I stiffened. I thought of the gleaming instrument in the room next to mine, waiting for me to sit down and compose. The beauty of its shape and sound had pushed at me, pressing down on my defenses.

“Are you mocking me?” I asked.

The Goblin King was surprised. “Why would I mock you? Did you not enjoy my gift?”

I pulled my hands out of his grasp and turned away. I could not accept this gift from him; its very existence reminded me of the hollowed-out space inside me that longed to be filled.

“Don’t, please,” I said. “It wasn’t a gift; it was an assault.”

Those mismatched eyes immediately shuttered, turning his face cold and pitiless. I did not realize until he disappeared that I had been speaking with the soft-eyed young man. Der Erlk?nig appeared in his place.

“Shall we, my queen?” His distance was colder and bitterer than a winter wind. He offered his arm and I took it as he guided me to the great table in the middle of the hall. Once I had been seated on one end, the Goblin King disappeared and reappeared at the other end within a blink.

The large table was situated next to an enormous hearth, larger than I was tall, in which a monster of a boar was spitted and roasting over a roaring fire. Out of the shadows came a multitude of servers, each bearing a dish or a platter I had never seen or heard of before. Two servers lifted the boar from the fireplace and set it, still steaming and smoking, on a lake-sized plate surrounded by an assortment of goblin fruits.

“Let us say grace,” the Goblin King said, once the servers had retreated.

My fingers were already wrapped around the fork and knife in front of me, and I shamefacedly returned them to my lap. My husband was more devout than I. I was curious about his faith, but kept silent as I bowed my head. The Goblin King asked for the Lord’s blessing upon our meal—in Latin.

Where had he learned Latin? My own Latin was rudimentary at best, half-remembered from Sunday school lessons I had given up in favor of hobnobbing with Josef and the goblins in the wood. Heathens, our mother had called us, with no care or concept for God. But Josef and I hadn’t minded; we were Der Erlk?nig’s own, and he did not believe in God. And yet this Goblin King sat before me, learned in Latin and schooled in music. Just who was he?

“Amen,” he said once he had finished the benediction.

“Amen,” I intoned. We commenced eating. I was amused by the shape of my utensils: the fork, fashioned into a thin, slender goblin hand with its many-jointed fingers and pointed claws serving as the prongs; the knife, suggesting a long fang slipping from a smiling mouth. The servers returned, carving up the boar and transferring the meat—steaming, red, undercooked, still dripping a little with blood—onto a large platter.

We ate without speaking, as I picked at the roast and other winter root vegetables. I spied assorted dishes, custards and flans and other delicacies, but they all turned my stomach. Cooked with a goblin flair, they looked strange, unnatural, rotten: the chocolates muddy, the pastries frosted with slime.

“What, does the food not please you either, my queen?”

I looked up from my repast. The Goblin King wore a sour expression, his lips pulled tight. He picked at his own plate, a meager portion barely touched.

“No, mein Herr.” I rephrased my words. “Your offerings do not tempt me.”

“No?” He drove his fork into his roast with increasing force. “And what would it take to please you, my dear?”

He was in a sullen mood, his lower lip pushed into a pout that rivaled K?the’s. He was like a child denied his favorite toy, a spoiled child accustomed to getting his way.

So I said nothing, giving the Goblin King a nonchalant shrug as I took a large sip of wine.

“So particular, my queen,” he remarked. “You will be here for the rest of your life; you might as well enjoy yourself.”

I had no response to that, so I took another sip of wine.

The meal progressed in silence, a silence that stuck in both our throats. Neither of us ate much, but the goblin servers continued to bring out course after course after course. I tried my best to honor each dish, but the Goblin King had given up all pretense of eating. He drank cup after cup after cup of wine, growing more and more irritable when his servers did not refill his goblet quickly enough. It was the most I had ever seen him drink, but he seemed completely sober. Papa would have been laughing—or crying—by now.

I watched the Goblin King fidget from beneath my lashes. I knew he longed to break the stillness that was not still between us. His mood grew fouler with each passing moment. He slid the platters and bowls on the table back and forth, watching the food slop on the surface and onto the floor, forcing the goblins to clean up after him. I could see the words forming on his tongue, but he clamped his lips shut and swallowed them down, determined not to be the one who broke first.