Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(10)
THE MAD, THE FEARFUL, THE FAITHFUL
there was no more salt to be had.
The food was bland and the guests complained, but we had neither the time, the funds, nor the credit to replenish the stores Constanze had ruined. Still, we managed for a while yet, but when K?the privately told me that there wasn’t even enough salt for baking, I knew things had become quite dire.
“What do we do?” my sister whispered as we took stock of the stores in the cellar. We had enough flour, root vegetables, and cured meats to carry us over for the next few weeks, but little else. Ever since Papa died, the butchers, the bakers, and the brewers of town had been unwilling to extend his widow and daughters the same credit, and demanded payment in hand.
“I don’t know.” I rubbed at my temples, trying to soothe away a headache growing there. I had not slept well, troubled by dreams I could not remember upon waking. Images melted away like snowflakes when I opened my eyes, but unease remained like a bitter chill long after I had risen. “Are you sure the money is quite gone?”
K?the fixed me with an exasperated look. I knew as well as she that our coffers were long since gathering dust. The inn held on to profit like a sieve held on to water.
“Perhaps we can ask Hans if we could borrow some salt,” I suggested.
K?the stiffened. Ever since my sister had ended their betrothal, we had seen little of our erstwhile family friend. He had since married a distant cousin from Munich, and they were expecting a babe come next spring. No, we could not ask Hans. Not anymore.
“What of . . . what of the parish?” K?the said slowly. “Surely someone at the church could help us.”
I frowned. “You mean accepting charity?”
My sister fell silent. “What other choice do we have?” she said gently.
“We’re not paupers!”
“Yet.” Although her voice was soft, I felt the words like an arrow to my chest.
“Josef could—” But I did not finish the sentence.
“Josef could what?” K?the’s eyes flashed. “Send us money? How? By what means?” She shook her head. “He has no position, no job, and no master now. We can’t afford to bring him home, nor can we afford to go to him. Our brother is stranded, Liesl, just like us.”
Sepperl. My heart tightened with pain at the thought of my brother so far away. Was he alone? Afraid? Lost? Hurt? Josef was fragile, frightened, and friendless but for Fran?ois. What would happen to them both without Master Antonius’s protection? Perhaps I could find a way to get to them. To Vienna. Shed our names, our pasts, and start anew. Find jobs. Play music.
“Liesl.”
The ideas came one after another, bubbling up to the surface of my mind faster and faster, fizzing my blood with possibilities. After all, did we not have gifts? Were we not talented? Perhaps I could find work as a music teacher. Perhaps my brother would find a position in a nobleman’s orchestra. Why struggle to keep our heads above water when the present was dragging us down to debtor’s prison?
“Liesl.”
My mind was on boil, the thoughts drifting into steam. We could cut ourselves free and float away. Burn down the inn, dance in the embers, revel in the ashes. We could, we could, we could—
“Ow!” I looked up, startled. K?the had pinched me. “What on earth was that for?”
Instead of spite, there was an expression of worry on my sister’s face. “Liesl, have you heard a single word I’ve said?”
I blinked rapidly. “Yes. Going to the church. Accepting God’s charity.”
She studied me. “It’s just . . . you had a strange look in your eye, is all.”
“Oh.” I absently rubbed at the red pinch mark on my arm, trying to rally my thoughts into some semblance of order. “Well, you can’t blame me for being a little reluctant to go begging.”
K?the’s lips tightened. “We can’t feed ourselves on pride, Liesl.”
As loath as I was to admit it, she was right. For a long time, we had managed on our creditors’ goodwill and Papa’s promises to pay. Anything remotely valuable we had owned had disappeared into Herr Kassl’s pawn shop to cover our debts, and we had nothing left to give. The weight of the Goblin King’s ring lay heavy on my breast, strung on a simple length of twine. Whatever the ring’s true value, it was worth infinitely more to me. My austere young man had given it to me when we made our vows, and again when we broke them. The ring was a symbol of the Goblin King’s power, but more than that, it was a promise that his love was greater than the old laws. One could not place a price on a promise.
“I can go if you’d like,” my sister offered. “I can speak with the priest.”
The memory of the church steps lined with salt rose suddenly in my mind. I remembered then that the rector was the oldest person in our village—the oldest save for Constanze, perhaps. A man of the church, but I suspected he was also a brethren of the old faith.
“No, I’ll go,” I said quickly. “I’ll speak with the rector.”
“The rector?” K?the asked, surprised. “That creepy old bat?”
“Yes.” Dimly, I recalled seeing the rector leaving leftover communion wafers and wine out on the back steps of the church when I was a child. For the fair folk, he had said. Our little secret, Fr?ulein. I was certain he was one of Der Erlk?nig’s own.