Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(19)

I turned away. Papa shouted and toasted and drank to celebrate his son, and Mother—stern, stoic, unsentimental Mother—wept unashamedly into her apron. Constanze nodded her approval from her nest by the hearth, while K?the …

My heart stopped.

Where was K?the?

Gone, a soft voice murmured in my ear.

Startled, I looked over my shoulder. No one was there, but my ear tingled from the brush of someone’s lips. The jubilation continued on around me, but I was excluded, standing outside everyone else’s excitement.

“K?the,” I whispered.

Gone, the voice said again.

This time I saw him.

He was standing in a far corner of the main hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The tall, elegant stranger.

The Goblin King.

He was the still point around which everything revolved. He was reality where everything else was a reflection. He stood out in sharp relief when everything else was muted, as though we were the only two alive and present in a world of illusion and shadow. He smiled at me, and every fiber of my being reached for him. His very grin could command my flesh to dance.

He nodded, indicating the door that led outside. He moved through the crowd like a wraith, a geist passing through the revelers like mist. They never noticed the touch of his hand as he gently moved them out of the way, only pausing in their conversations as if they felt an unexpected chill. But not a soul saw the Goblin King as he walked among them—it was me, and me alone.

He paused at the threshold of the door, glancing over his shoulder. He lifted a pale brow.

Come.

It was more than a summons; it was a command. I felt the call in my bones, the tug upon my flesh, but still I resisted.

Those icy eyes glittered, and I was afraid. I trembled, but not with cold. I ached, but not with pain. My feet began to move of their own accord, and I followed the Goblin King out of the light and into the darkness.





THE TALL, ELEGANT STRANGER




“He plays well, your brother.”

I blinked. The world around me was dark, and it was a long time before I began to make shapes out in the gloom. Trees, and a full moon. The Goblin Grove. I had no memory of how I had gotten here.

A velvet voice stroked down my spine. “I’m quite pleased, quite pleased indeed.”

I turned around. The Goblin King was lounging against one of the alder trees in the grove, one arm draped against the trunk, the other resting casually against his hip. His hair was in wild disarray, ruffled and feathery, like thistledown, like spiderwebs, illuminated by the full moon into a halo about his head. His face held all the beauty of angels, but the grin upon his face was positively devilish.

“Hello, Elisabeth,” he said softly.

I stood dumb and silent. How did one respond to Der Erlk?nig, Lord of Mischief, Ruler of the Underground? How did one address a legend? My mind spun, trying to reel in my emotions. The Goblin King stood before me, in flesh and not in memory.

“Mein Herr,” I said.

“So polite.” His voice was as dry as autumn leaves. “Ah, Elisabeth, we need not stand on formalities here. Have we not known each other your entire life?”

“Liesl,” I said. “Then call me Liesl.”

The Goblin King grinned. The tips of his pointed teeth gleamed. “I much prefer Elisabeth, thank you. Liesl is a girl’s name. Elisabeth is the name of a woman.”

“And what do I call you?” I strove to keep my voice from shaking.

Again that predator’s smile. “Whatever you like,” he murmured. “Whatever you like.”

I ignored the purr in his voice. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Tsk, tsk.” The Goblin King waved one long, slender finger at me. “I had thought you a worthy opponent. We were playing a game, Fr?ulein, but you don’t seem much inclined to engage me.”

“A game?” I asked. “What game?”

“Why, the best game in the world.” He leaped from his languid pose by the alder tree, suddenly alert, suddenly sharp. “One where I take something you love and hide it. If you don’t come find it, it’s mine to keep.”

“What are the rules?”

“The rules are simple,” he said. “I find it, I keep it. I’ll note that you haven’t made much of an effort to play. A pity,” he pouted. “We used to play so often when you were a child. Don’t you remember, Elisabeth?”

I closed my eyes. Yes, I had played with Der Erlk?nig when I was young, after K?the had gone to bed, before Sepperl was old enough to talk. Back when I was still myself, whole and entire, before time and responsibility had whittled me to a sliver of myself. I would run to the Goblin Grove to greet the Lord Underground. I would be dressed in a gown of the finest silk and satin, he trimmed in lace and brocade. The musicians would play and we would dance, dancing to the music I heard in my head. It was when I first began to write down my musical scribblings, when I first began to compose.

“I remember,” I said in a low voice.

But did I remember something I had imagined, or something real? There was pretend, and then there was memory. I could see little Liesl dancing with the Goblin King, a Goblin King who was always just a little older, just a little out of reach. A Goblin King who fulfilled all her childish fantasies, who told her she was pretty, who told her she was cherished, who told her she was worthy of being loved. Was that a memory? Or a dream?