Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(4)

“Chocolate torte,” I added. It was my favorite.

“Chocolate torte,” K?the agreed. “We would have the finest coaches and the handsomest horses and”—she squeaked as she slipped in a mud puddle—“never walk on foot through unpaved roads to market again.”

I laughed, and helped her regain her footing. “Parties, balls, glittering society. Is that what princesses do? What of queens? What of me?”

“You?” K?the fell silent for a moment. “No. Queens are destined for greatness.”

“Greatness?” I mused. “A poor, plain little thing like me?”

“You have something much more enduring than beauty,” she said severely.

“And what is that?”

“Grace,” she said simply. “Grace, and talent.”

I laughed. “So what is to be my destiny?”

She cut me a sidelong glance. “To be a composer of great renown.”

A chill wind blew through me, freezing me to the marrow. It was as though my sister had reached into my breast and wrenched out my heart, still beating, with her fist. I had jotted down small snatches of melody here and there, scribbling little ditties instead of hymns into the corners of my Sunday chapbook, intending to gather them into sonatas and concertos, romances and symphonies someday. My hopes and dreams, so tattered and tender, had been sheltered by secrecy for so long that I could not bear to bring them to light.

“Liesl?” K?the tugged at my sleeve. “Liesl, are you all right?”

“How—” I said hoarsely. “How did you …”

She squirmed. “I found your box of compositions beneath our bed one day. I swear I didn’t mean any harm,” she added quickly. “But I was looking for a button I’d dropped, and …” Her voice trailed off at the look upon my face.

My hands were shaking. How dare she? How dare she open my most private thoughts and expose them to her prying eyes?

“Liesl?” K?the looked worried. “What’s wrong?”

I did not answer. I could not answer, not when my sister would never understand just how she had trespassed against me. K?the had not a modicum of musical ability, nearly a mortal sin in a family such as ours. I turned and marched down the path to market.

“What did I say?” My sister hurried to catch up with me. “I thought you’d be pleased. Now that Josef’s going away, I thought Papa might—I mean, we all know you have just as much talent as—”

“Stop it.” The words cracked in the autumn air, snapping beneath the coldness of my voice. “Stop it, K?the.”

Her cheeks reddened as though she had been slapped. “I don’t understand you,” she said.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why you hide behind Josef.”

“What does Sepperl have to do with anything?”

K?the narrowed her eyes. “For you? Everything. I bet you never kept your music secret from our little brother.”

I paused. “He’s different.”

“Of course he’s different.” K?the threw up her hands in exasperation. “Precious Josef, delicate Josef, talented Josef. He has music and madness and magic in his blood, something poor, ordinary, tone-deaf Katharina does not understand, could never understand.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again. “Sepperl needs me,” I said softly. It was true. Our brother was fragile, in more than just bones and blood.

“I need you,” she said, and her voice was quiet. Hurt.

Constanze’s words returned to me. Josef isn’t the only one who needs looking after.

“You don’t need me.” I shook my head. “You have Hans now.”

K?the stiffened. Her lips went white, her nostrils flared. “If that’s what you think,” she said in a low voice, “then you’re even crueler than I thought.”

Cruel? What did my sister know of cruelty? The world had shown her considerably more favor than it had ever shown me. Her prospects were happy, her future certain. She would marry the most eligible man in the village while I became the unwanted sister, the discarded one. And I … I had Josef, but not for long. When my little brother left, he would take the last of my childhood with him: our revels in the woods, our stories of kobolds and H?dekin dancing in the moonlight, our games of music and make-believe. When he was gone, all that would remain to me was music—music and the Goblin King.

“Be grateful for what you have,” I snapped back. “Youth, beauty, and, very soon, a husband who will make you happy.”

“Happy?” K?the’s eyes flashed. “Do you honestly think Hans will make me happy? Dull, boring Hans, whose mind is as limited as the borders of the stupid, provincial village in which he grew up? Stolid, dependable Hans, who would keep me rooted to the inn with a deed in my hand and a baby in my lap?”

I was stunned. Hans was an old friend of the family, and while he and K?the had not been close as children—as Hans and I had been—I had not known until this moment just how little my sister loved him. “K?the,” I said. “Why—”

“Why did I agree to marry him? Why haven’t I said anything before now?”

I nodded.

“I did.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Over and over. But you never listened. This morning, when I said he was boring, you told me he was a good man.” She turned her face away. “You never hear a word I say, Liesl. You’re too busy listening to Josef instead.”