Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(112)
“Oh, Elisabeth,” he said. “I would go anywhere with you.”
I turned around. His eyes deepened in color and for a moment, just for the merest glimpse, I could see what he would have been like as a mortal man. If he had been allowed to live the course of his life, from the child he had been to the man he would have become. A musician—a violinist. I ran back into the circle of alder trees, wanting the circle of his arms around me. I reached out my hands, and his fingers brushed mine, but we passed through each other like water, like a mirage. We were each nothing but a shimmering illusion, a candle flame we could not hold.
And yet, the Goblin King was still here, in the Goblin Grove, with me. He stood in the Underground while I stood in the world above, but our hearts beat within the same space.
“Don’t look back,” he said.
I nodded. I love you, I wanted to say. But I knew those words would break me.
“Elisabeth.”
The Goblin King was smiling. Not the pointed smile of the Lord of Mischief or Der Erlk?nig, but a crooked one. Twisted to one side, lopsided and goofy, it cracked my heart open and I bled inside.
He mouthed a word at me. A name. “You’ve always had it, Elisabeth,” he said softly. “For it is to you I gave my soul.”
His soul. I held my music—our music—to my heart. We were sundered forever, never to be with the other again. The grief shattered me, broke me into sharp, jagged pieces. I wanted the touch of his hand, for my austere young man to put me back together, scarred but whole.
But I was already whole. I was Elisabeth, entire, even if I was Elisabeth, alone. The knowledge of it gave me strength.
I straightened my shoulders. The Goblin King and I held each other’s gazes for the last time. I would not look back. I would not regret. He smiled at me and pressed his fingers to his lips in farewell.
Then I turned and walked away, into the world above, and into the dawn.
Ever Thine,
Ever Mine,
Ever Ours.
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN,
THE IMMORTAL BELOVED LETTERS
To Franz Josef Johannes Gottlieb Vogler,
care of Master Antonius
Paris
My dearest Sepperl,
My heart, my love, my right hand, I have not abandoned you. It is true your letters did not reach me, but it is not because you’ve offended or because I’ve left you. No, mein Brüderchen, your letters did not reach me because I was unreachable, because I was gone.
You have undertaken a journey, and so have I: a journey far beyond and just beneath the Goblin Grove. It is a tale full of magic and enchantment, such as Constanze might have told us when we were children, only it is true. Only it is real. Do my stories have a happy ending? You must tell me, for I cannot decide.
I thank you for the news of your gala performance of my little bagatelle and its reception. I pray you do not reveal its true authorship quite yet, despite how popular you claim it’s become. Strange to think of elegant, sophisticated Paris enamored with the works of a queer, unlovely little girl, and I can’t imagine what they would say when the composer of Der Erlk?nig revealed herself as Maria Elisabeth Vogler, the daughter of innkeepers.
I would rather not imagine. I would rather see it for myself.
K?the talks of nothing but publication now, especially after seeing the fee you sent her after selling the print rights to Der Erlk?nig. She has taken it upon herself to meet with Herr Klopstock, the traveling impresario, to learn all she can about managing musicians, but I think it is Herr Klopstock’s brown eyes that intrigue our sister more than the details of the work. She misses you. We all miss you.
As for your other request … stay, Sepp. Stay in Paris with Master Antonius, with Fran?ois. There is no need to come home, no need, for I shall send you a piece of it.
Enclosed are some pages from a sonata I have written, although the last movement is still unfinished. I send it to you with my love, and a leaf from the Goblin Grove. Tell me what you think, and then tell me what the world thinks, for I think it is my best yet, my most honest and my most true.
Yours always,
Composer of Der Erlk?nig
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When my editor first asked me if I wanted to include acknowledgments in my book, I immediately said, “Sure! Absolutely!” without necessarily thinking just what an impossible task that would be. In many ways, writing acknowledgments was a lot harder than writing the whole of Wintersong. Who do I include? What if I forget to include someone? WHAT IF I INADVERTENTLY OFFEND SOMEONE POWERFUL WITH THE ABILITY TO MAKE OR BREAK MY BOOK? So, in order to cover my bases, I am hereby issuing a blanket statement of gratitude to anyone and everyone who has read, worked on, touched, or even looked at my book: Thank you so, so very much. Your help and support mean so much more than you could ever know.
I’ve never been particularly good with thanks, either giving or receiving, but I would be remiss if I didn’t single out those who have been my most staunch and stalwart champions, starting with the person who asked if I wanted to write these acknowledgments in the first place.
To my editor, Jennifer Letwack, who was my first and best champion in-house, the person who saw potential in this strange in-between manuscript and stuck with it through category changes and other unexpected turns in this crazy roller-coaster ride we call publishing. Thanks for not (letting me know just how much you were) panicking when I turned in a draft with an entirely different ending or a completely different prologue than expected, or any other time I’ve come back to you with “But how about …?” Many thanks as well to Karen Masnica and Brittani Hilles for being early enthusiasts of Wintersong (and fellow fans of Labyrinth), to Danielle Fiorella for the amazing cover (and letting me have input!), to Anna Gorovoy for the beautiful design (and letting me contribute my own artwork!), and to Melanie Sanders for guiding the book through production.