Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(11)

I stopped in my tracks. K?the had a strange little smile on her face, a smile I had never seen before, the thin, weak smile of an invalid facing a new day. Her lips looked bitten, and her skin was wan and pale. I felt bizarrely betrayed, by K?the or the tall, elegant stranger, I wasn’t sure. I did not know him, but he had seemed to know me. He was just another thing K?the had taken from me, another thing she had stolen. Wasn’t he?

I was about to march straight into the Goblin Grove and drag my sister back home to safety when the stranger drew back his hood.

I gasped.

I could say the stranger was beautiful, but to describe him thus was to call Mozart “just a musician.” His beauty was that of an ice storm, lovely and deadly. He was not handsome, not the way Hans was handsome; the stranger’s features were too long, too pointed, too alien. There was a prettiness about him that was almost girly, and an ugliness about him that was just as compelling. I understood then what Constanze had meant when those doomed young ladies longed to hold on to him the way they yearned to grasp candle flame or mist. His beauty hurt, but it was the pain that made it beautiful. Yet it was not his strange and cruel beauty that moved me, it was the fact that I knew that face, that hair, that look. He was as familiar to me as the sound of my own music.

This was the Goblin King.

I came upon that realization with no more surprise than if I had come across the local baker. The Goblin King had always been my neighbor, a fixture in my life, as sure as the church steeple and the cloth merchant and the poverty that dogged my family’s heels. I had grown up with him outside my window, just as I had grown up with Hans and the milkmaid and the purse-lipped ladies of the village square. Of course I recognized him. Had I not seen his face every night in my dreams, in my childish fancies? Yet … hadn’t it all been just that—pretend?

This was the Goblin King. That was my sister in his arms. This was my sister tilting her head back to greet his lips. That was the Goblin King bending down to receive her kisses like sacred offerings made at the altar of his worship. This was the Goblin King running long, slender fingers down the line of my sister’s neck, her shoulder, her back. That was my sister laughing, her bright, musical bell of a laugh, and this was the Goblin King smiling in return, but looking at me, always looking. I was entranced; my sister was enchanted.

Enchanted. The word was a dash of cold water, and my senses returned with a jolt. This was the Goblin King. The abductor of maidens, the punisher of misdeeds, the Lord of Mischief and the Underground. But was he also not the friend of my childhood, the confidante of my youth? I hesitated, torn by conflicting desires.

I shook my head. I had to rescue my sister. I had to break the spell.

“K?the!” I screamed. The woods resounded, and a raucous cacophony of startled crows took up my cry. Ka-kaw! Ka-kaw! Ka-K?the!

This time the Goblin King took note. He raised his head and we locked gazes over my sister’s stupefied form. His pale hair surrounded his thin face like a halo, like a thistle cloud, like a wolf’s shaggy mane, silver and gold and colorless all at once. I could not tell what color his eyes were from where I stood, but they were likewise pale, and icy. The Goblin King tilted his head in a duelist’s nod and gave me a small smile, the tips of his teeth sharp and pointed. I clenched my fists. I knew that smile. I recognized it, and understood it as a challenge.

Come rescue her, my dear, the smile said. Come and rescue her … if you can.





VIRTUOSO




“K?the!”

I rushed forward as my sister collapsed. Panic galvanized me, turning my blood to steel, and I ran to catch her before she fell. My sister leaned against me, her body limp, her pallid face tight and drawn.

“K?the, are you all right?”

She blinked slowly, her blue eyes glassy and unfocused. “Liesl?”

“Yes.” I frowned. “What are you doing here?”

We knelt in the Goblin Grove, which was not my sister’s usual haunt. She had led me on a merry chase, searching over hill and dale for her when so much needed to be done before Master Antonius awoke. I was vexed with her—should have been vexed with her—but my thoughts were curiously sluggish, as though thawing after a long winter.

“Here?” K?the struggled to sit up. “Where are we?”

“The Goblin Grove,” I said impatiently. “Where the alder trees grow.”

“Ah.” A dreamy smile touched her lips. “I came because I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

Her words shook something loose in my mind, my thoughts scattering to the floor like falling leaves. But they were only scant impressions—feathers, ice, pale eyes—that disappeared as soon as I tried to hold them, like snowflakes in my hand.

“The music.”

“What music?” That half-woken memory tickled again, an itch I could not scratch.

“Tut,” she said, turning her smile on me. “You, of all people, should have recognized it. Can you not hear the sound of your own soul singing?”

A grotesque grin crossed my sister’s face, bloodless lips stretched thin over a gaping, wine-dark maw. I recoiled.

“Is something the matter?”

I blinked and her smile was gone. There was a little pucker to K?the’s lips, petulant and pouting, and she was wide-eyed, apple-cheeked, and beautiful once more. But there were dark smudges beneath her eyes, her complexion pale and wan.