Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(72)

“Elf-struck,” I whispered.

Yes, K?the said. Bramble found me and Fran?ois and brought us to the Faithful for safety.

“The Faithful? Who is Bramble?”

The Faithful are those who have been touched by the Underground, like you and me. Those with the Sight, or those who have escaped the clutches of the old laws. They are keepers of knowledge, and a family bound by belief, not blood. Oh, Liesl, you must leave. You’re in terrible danger!

My throat tightened. “The Faithful? Der Erlk?nig’s own?”

My sister’s reflection shook her head. The Procházkas call themselves Der Erlk?nig’s own, but they are not of the Faithful. The Faithful keep watch, but the Procházkas do harm.

“Do harm? How do you mean?”

Do you remember the stories of the young girl they took under their wing? How she disappeared and a young man was found dead on the grounds of their country home?

A cold, sinking feeling settled into my bones, weighing me down with fear. “Yes. Rumors—”

They’re not rumors! K?the screamed, but no sound escaped her lips. No one knows what they do up there in the remote hills of Bohemia, but they are not to be trusted. That maiden and the youth were not the first. Her name was Adelaide, and she was one of the Faithful.

Adelaide. The Procházkas’ so-called daughter. My fingers went numb.

Bramble has been teaching me of the shadow paths, she went on. But they know, Liesl. They know to cover the mirrors, to hide their faces from the unseen world. They made a terrible sacrifice to the old laws to escape the Wild Hunt.

“What?” I cried. “What did they do?”

Blood of the Faithful, unwillingly given, to seal the barriers between worlds.

“How do you know this?” I clenched my fists with despair. “Who told you?”

Bramble, she said. A changeling.

I no longer felt my heart beating in my chest. “A changeling? Are you sure?”

My sister tore out her hair. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m sure! All that matters is that you and Josef get out of there!

“How? Where do I go? How will you find me?”

You must— She cut herself off abruptly.

“K?the?”

Oh no, she said, her face pale with fright. He comes.

“Who?”

I can’t stay long, K?the said. Der Erlk?nig will find me. Her expression was hard. Go. Get yourself to the nearest town and follow the poppies.

“The symbol of House Procházka?”

No, she said. The souls of those stolen by the Hunt. The souls of the Faithful. They protect us still, Liesl. They— Her eyes grew wide with panic. I must go.

“K?the—” But my sister was gone, leaving nothing but the stunned image of my own face staring back at me. “K?the!”

“Liesl?”

I whirled around. Josef stood behind me, confusion writ across his features.

“Sepperl!”

“Liesl, who were you talking to?” He carried his violin case, as though he had come to the ballroom to play like a musician in the gallery.

“You didn’t—did you see . . . ?” But I couldn’t finish the sentence. Of course he hadn’t. Even now I was beginning to doubt my conversation with my sister, surrounded by static reflections of Josef and myself—skepticism and concern on his face, fear and a crazed expression on mine. I looked like a madwoman, I realized, my hair in disarray, my eyes wild and overlarge on my face. I laughed, and even my laughter sounded insane.

“Perhaps you should have a seat,” Josef said carefully. He set down his violin and pulled forth a chair from the musicians’ gallery. He gently led me to it and sat me down, his touch tentative and unsure, as though I were a nervous filly about to bolt.

“Sepperl,” I said, my voice shaking. “Am I going mad?”

He cocked his head and smoothed the strands of hair away from my face with calloused fingertips. “Does it matter?”

I burst into laughter again, but it sounded more like sobs. “I don’t know. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Josef grew still. “Try me,” he said quietly, pulling up another chair.

So I did. I told him of Lorelei Lake, of the shadow paths, the covered mirrors. I told him of the year I spent Underground as the Goblin King’s bride, the slow death and agony of falling in love and knowing it would not last. The slipping away of my senses, the diminishment of all that was good and great in the world. I told him of the Wedding Night Sonata, and why I hadn’t been able to finish it, for the selfish act of my decision to walk away had doomed my austere young man to corruption and the world above to the ravages of the Wild Hunt. I told him and I told him and I told him, until my lips were cracked, my throat was parched, and my words had finally run dry.

My brother did not answer immediately. In the silence that followed my tale, he rose to his feet and began pacing the length of the ballroom. Although his expression was calm, there was an agitation and anger to his footsteps.

“Sepp—”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he interrupted.

“I didn’t know how—” I began, but he cut me off with an angry retort.

“Horseshit.” I flinched. I had never heard my brother swear before, and the word sounded even filthier coming from his lips. “You told K?the.”