Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(71)

“And I’m tired,” I said. “Of living up to yours.” We were so close we could feel the brush of each other’s breaths on our lips.

“What have I ever asked of you?” he asked.

Sobs choked my throat. “Everything,” I hiccoughed. “My sister. My music. My life. All because you wanted a girl who ceased to exist a long time ago. But I’m not that girl, mein Herr. I haven’t been in a very long time. So what do you want from me?”

Stillness overcame him, the calm in a storm, but I was the rage and wind and the fury. “I told you what I wanted,” he said quietly. “You, entire.”

I laughed, a high and hectic sound. “Then take me,” I said. “Take all of me. It is your right, mein Herr.”

The Goblin King sucked in a sharp breath. The fury inside me changed key, minor to major. The sound of his breathing transformed me, and I stepped closer.

“Take me,” I insisted. I was not angry anymore. “Take me.”

I yearned and I burned. There were scant inches between our flesh, separated only by the thinnest layers of silk brocade and linen. Every bit of my skin leaped and hoped for his touch; I could feel the radiance of his warmth against my skin, the space between just as alive as we were. My trembling hands seemed to lift of their own accord, fingers sliding along the buttons of his waistcoat, burying themselves in the lace cravat at his throat.

“Elisabeth.” His voice quivered. “Not yet.”

I wanted to tug at the lace at his throat, to pull him to me and crush our lips and our bodies together. But I didn’t.

“Not yet?” I asked. “Why?”

I could feel how much he wanted me, wanted this, but still he held back. “Because,” he whispered. “I want to savor this.” One hand twined itself in my hair. “Before you are gone too soon.”

I laughed bitterly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The corner of his lips twisted. “The longer you stay, the sooner you leave.”

That damned philosopher again. “What does that mean?” I asked.

“Life,” he said softly, “is more than flesh. Your body is a candle, your soul the flame. The longer I burn the candle …”

He did not finish.

“A candle unused is nothing but wax and wick,” I said. “I would rather light the flame, knowing it will go out, than sit forever in darkness.”

We both stood in silence. I waited for him to close the distance between us.

But he didn’t. Instead, the Goblin King gently pushed me away.

“I said I wanted you, entire.” He pressed a finger against my breast, where my heart beat erratically beneath his touch. “And I will have you, when you truly give your all to me.”

Again, that hollow place within me echoed with pain.

“When you finally free that part of you that you so desperately deny,” he said, cupping his free hand around the back of my neck, “the part of you I have wanted ever since I first met you, then I will have you, Elisabeth.” He leaned his head close to mine. “You, entire.”

I could feel the feathery strands of his hair against my lips. I turned up my face to meet his, mouth half-open to receive his kiss.

But he did not kiss me. Instead he withdrew, leaving me bereft and empty.

“Only then,” he said. “I won’t settle for second best. I won’t settle for half your heart when I want your whole soul. Only then will I taste your fruit, and savor every last drop until it is gone.”

I shuddered with the effort of holding back my tears. His smile was crooked.

“Your soul is beautiful,” he said softly. His eyes swept over the wedding gown on the klavier. “And the proof is there. In your music. If you weren’t so afraid to share it with me, if you weren’t so scared of that part of you, you would have had me long ago.”

And then the Goblin King was gone, gone in a swirl of silk, and the faint scent of ice on the breeze.

*

I sit at the klavier, minutes or hours later, fingering the smudges on the fabric of my wedding gown. The words of the Goblin King echo in my mind’s ear—you, entire; you, entire—a refrain I cannot shake. It is not my body he demands; it is my music. I am more than the flesh and bones that house my spirit. I want to give him that innermost part of me now, more intimate than any carnal knowledge we could learn together. But I do not know how. It is easier to give him my body than to give him my soul.

I pull a sheet of staff paper toward me and pick up the quill. I dip it into the inkwell, but do not write. I see the marks I made on the night of our wedding, but the notes blur together. This is all so secret, so sacred, and I do not know if I can bear to share it with anyone else. I am my wedding gown—fragile, flimsy, ephemeral—the ash smudges that are my music will fade and disappear with time. And still I cannot bring myself to write.

Tears, along with drops of ink, stain the paper before me, dotting the staff like a measure of eighth notes. Somewhere in the distance, on the other side of the far wall perhaps, a violin begins to play. The Goblin King. I bring my hands to the klavier and follow. Without our bodies to get in the way, our true selves take flight and dance. His is intricate complexity and mystery; mine is unconventional and emotional. Yet somehow we fit, harmonious and complementary, contrapuntal without dissonance. I think I’m beginning to understand.