Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(7)
The green-eyed woman stepped over the salt into the salon, taking care that her skirts did not break the line of protection. Back in the shadows, she scanned the letters for a signature.
Composer of Der Erlk?nig.
She smiled and tucked the letters into her bodice before hobbling off to congratulate the boy and his black friend.
And upstairs, Master Antonius tossed and turned in his bed, trying to drown out the sound of hooves, howls, and hounds, wondering if the Devil had come for him at last.
The following morning, the scullery maid was turned out for stealing salt and the old virtuoso was found dead in his room, lips blue, with a curious silver slash at the throat.
THE PRICE OF SALT
the next day dawned bright and bitter as I woke to the sound of Mother and Constanze arguing. Their voices carried all the way from my grandmother’s quarters down to Josef’s room where I slept, and if I could hear their shouting from this tucked-away corner of the inn, then all of the guests could as well.
“Guten morgen, Liesl!” my sister cried when I emerged from the kitchens into the main hall. A few guests were already gathered there, some to eat, others to grumble and grouse about the noise. “Will breakfast be ready soon?”
K?the’s voice was full of forced cheer, her cheeks pulled tight in a conspicuous smile. Behind her, I could see the disgruntled faces of our customers. If Papa were still alive, he would have smoothed tensions over by making merry with his violin. If Papa had been alive and sober, that is. If he had ever been sober.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mother’s words were as clear as shards of glass. “Look at me, Constanze. Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”
“Ahaha,” I tittered nervously, trying to match my sister’s smile, but it sat ill upon my face. “Soon. Breakfast will be ready soon. I just—I, ah, I need to, um, ask Mother about something.”
K?the glared at me, although her pleasant expression never faltered. I squeezed her hand and nimbly sidestepped her grasp, making my way upstairs to the dragon’s lair for a reckoning.
The door to Constanze’s room was shut, but Mother’s anger was loud and sharp. She never lost her skill for projection from her days as a singer in a troupe, and knew how to make her voice a force to be reckoned with. I did not bother to knock and turned the handle instead, bracing myself for the scene inside.
The door didn’t budge.
Frowning, I jiggled the handle and tried again. The door remained stuck fast, as though there were something blocking the entrance. Whatever it was seemed braced against the bottom of the door, a chair or a dresser, perhaps. I shoved my shoulder against the jamb.
“Constanze?” I called, trying to modulate my voice so the guests wouldn’t overhear. “Constanze, it’s Liesl.” I knocked again, and pushed harder. “Mother? Let me in!”
There was no sign that either of them heard me. I put more weight against the door and suddenly felt it give a little, moving inward with an unexpected scraping sound. I pushed harder and harder, winning inch after inch against an invisible opponent. Finally, there was enough room between the door and the jamb for me to squeeze through.
I immediately tripped upon entering, stumbling over an enormous mound of dirt, twigs, and leaves, scraping my knees in the process. “What on earth—”
I was hands-deep in a pile of soft loam, freckled with bits of rock and stone. I looked up. Constanze’s room was in a shambles, every corner of it covered in dust and detritus from the woods outside. For a brief moment, I had the disorienting sense that I was not inside, but standing in a winter forest, the ground dusted with a light covering of snow. Then I blinked, and the world rearranged itself back into its proper order.
It was not snow. It was salt.
“Do you know the price of salt?” Mother cried. “Do you know how much this will cost us? How could you do this, Constanze?”
My grandmother crossed her arms. “For protection,” she said stubbornly.
“Protection? Against what? Goblins?” Mother gave a bitter laugh. “What about debtor’s prison? What can you do to protect us from that, Constanze?”
With a sinking heart, I could see that Constanze had somehow dragged bags of salt up from the cellar the previous night and upended them, dumping several pounds’—several months’—worth on to the floor. This was more than the lines across every threshold and every entrance we had drawn together on the last nights of the year. My grandmother had not spilled salt as a precaution, but as insurance.
Mother caught sight of me by the door. “Oh, Liesl,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She ducked her head, fishing about her apron pocket for something I could not see. It was only when the light of the late morning sun struck her cheek that I realized she had been crying.
I was thunderstruck. Mother, who had suffered twenty-odd years of emotional abuse from Constanze, never once cried before her children or her mother-in-law. It was a point of pride for her to endure with stoicism the very worst excesses of my father and my grandmother, but this had broken her. She was sobbing over spilled salt, agonized tears of anguish.
I did not know what words of comfort to offer, so I reached into my pocket for my handkerchief and silently handed it to her. The only sound was Mother’s wretched weeping, a sound which terrified me more than any screaming match. Mother was resilient. Resolute. Resourceful. Her hopelessness more than her hiccoughs frightened me.