Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(76)

But I could not tell him so. “I’m fine,” I said instead.

His gaze sharpened, the pupils of his eyes dilating to drown the gray and green in black. The Goblin King knew how to interpret my breaths before pauses, the lengths of my measures of rest, my caesuras of speech. He followed my cues as attentively as a musician in an orchestra, waiting for the maestro to take the lead. And he knew whenever I broke tempo.

His eyes swept me from head to toe, lingering on my exposed shoulders and arms, the expanse of my collarbones and décolletage. “What’s the matter?”

I suppose I had not been particularly subtle. For the first time, I had taken care with my appearance; after the encounter by the Underground lake, I had forced Twig and Thistle to take me to the tailor to stitch me a new gown. To stitch me some armor. I had had the tailor modify a gown made of a beautiful cream and gold silk taffeta. It was fashioned like a chemise, the skirt gathered beneath what little bosom I had before flowing out behind me in a train. The entire construction was held together by diaphanous straps at my shoulders, leaving my arms bare. Diamonds were craftily sewn into the bodice—hundreds, thousands, a myriad—twinkling like stars in a night sky. Twig and Thistle arranged my hair into a coronet of braids about my head, fitted with more little diamonds that sparkled brightly against my dark locks. For the first time, I found myself hoping the Goblin King would find me pretty.

It seemed ridiculous; I was plain and he was gorgeous, but the desire that throbbed between us was real and had nothing to do with beauty or the lack thereof. And it was there, always there, smothering me, strangling me, until I could not breathe for wanting.

So I answered the Goblin King’s question the only way I could. “Do you not like my new dress?” I blurted out.

That certainly surprised him. “I—uh—what?”

“My dress,” I said. “Is it not to your liking?”

His eyes were both bewildered and wary. “It is lovely, Elisabeth.”

“And me? Am I lovely?”

The Goblin King frowned. “You are in a mood tonight, my dear.”

He had not answered me. Suddenly I could not bear to remain seated. I rose to my feet and paced back and forth before the fire. I was in a mood—for a fight.

“Answer me,” I said. “Do you think me lovely?”

“Not with the way you’re acting at the moment.”

I laughed, a nigh hysterical sound. “You sound like my father. It’s a simple question, mein Herr.”

“Is it?” The Goblin King gave me a sharp look. “Then tell me, my dear, what would you like to hear? The simple answer, or the honest one?”

I trembled, although whether it was from hurt or fear, I did not know. “The truth,” I said. “You’re the one who showed me that the ugly truth is preferable to a pretty lie.”

It was a while before he spoke. “I think you know the answer, Elisabeth,” he said in a low voice.

I closed my eyes to stop the tears. Despite everything, I had hoped it would be different. That his desire could somehow make me lovely, could transform me from a sparrow into a peacock.

“Then why?” My voice tripped over the jagged edges of my sorrow. “Why do you want me?”

“I’ve answered this before, Elisabeth, I—”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. You loved the music in me. My soul is a beautiful thing. Once I give you myself, entire, you’ll—” I hiccoughed. “You’ll give yourself, entire.”

The Goblin King said nothing, only watched me with his mismatched gaze.

“But that means nothing to me, mein Herr. Your words mean nothing to a queer, unlovely little girl.”

There was a scrape across the floor as the Goblin King pushed back the bench to get to his feet. His treads were light and nearly soundless, a wolf’s in the snow. Yet I could sense him cross the space between us. He placed a hand upon my brow.

“Loveliness of the spirit is worth more than loveliness of the flesh,” he said gently. “You know that.” I opened my eyes and slapped his hand away. I felt the shock of that slap reverberate through both our bodies, from his startled expression to the stinging of my palm.

“Now that,” I said, “was a pretty lie.”

For a moment, I thought the Goblin King would try to console me, soothe me the way a parent would placate a cranky child. Then a spark lit his eyes, a glint of malice. His mouth twisted, and the sharp tips of his teeth gleamed in the firelight.

“You want the ugly truth, Elisabeth?” he said. “Very well then, you shall have it.” He paced the floor before me, a wild creature pacing its cage. A wolf prowled in his heart, and it wanted very badly to be free. “I wanted you because you are queer and strange and unlovely. Because a man could spend an age—and believe me, I have—with an endless line of beautiful brides, their names and faces blurring before him. Because you—queer, unlovely you—I would remember.”

The Goblin King smiled at me by way of a snarl. My pulse quickened in response, and deep within me, the knots I had tightened about my heart began to loosen. My blood rose to meet his and I stood from my chair, breathing hard.

But he turned away before I could touch him, before his wildness could mingle with mine. I let my hand drop.

“What is eternal life but a prolonged death?” the Goblin King asked. “I live in tedium unending, dying just a little more each day, unable to truly feel.” He walked back to the klavier and ran his hand lightly over the keyboard.