Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(77)

I had no response. We were as far from each other as we could be in that moment; he on one end of forever, me on the other.

“Your intensity, your ferocity,” he said quietly. “I crave it, Elisabeth. I do.”

He sat down on the bench and pressed a key, then another, and another. Each note resounded in my breast, echoing in that hollow, hallowed place where my music lived.

“I would give anything to feel again.” His voice was low, so low I could scarcely hear it. “And for a long time, I thought I never would. Then I heard you play your music for me back in the Goblin Grove. For the first time in an eternity, I hoped—I thought—”

Another silence fell over us, thick with secrets and things unsaid. I could taste the questions at the back of my tongue, but swallowed them down.

“Your music,” he said at last. “Your music was the only thing that kept me sane, that kept me human instead of a monster.”

A breeze raised goose pimples along my arms and down my back. The Goblin King did not look at me as he continued to play, stringing notes together like beads on a necklace.

“And that,” he said, “is the ugly truth, my dear. I could have your hand in marriage, your mind, your body, but what I truly want, I cannot have.” He turned his head away. “Not unless I break you.”

Not unless he broke me.

It wasn’t until this moment that I understood.

“I am not afraid of you,” I said quietly.

“Oh?” The Goblin King lifted his head. “I am the Lord of Mischief, the Ruler Underground,” he said, mismatched eyes glinting. “I am wildness and madness made flesh. You’re just a girl”—he smiled, and the tips of his teeth were sharp—“and I am the wolf in the woods.”

Just a girl. Just a maiden. But I wasn’t just a girl; I was the Goblin Queen. I was his Goblin Queen, and I wasn’t afraid of the wolf, that untamable wildness that could tear me limb from limb and bathe itself in my blood.

I walked toward the klavier and sat down on the bench beside him. The Goblin King’s eyes flashed with surprise, pleasure, and not a little wariness.

“I may be just a maiden, mein Herr,” I whispered. “But I am a brave maiden.”

I raised my shaking fingers to the keyboard and formed a chord. C major. I felt the Goblin King’s body bend in a long sigh.

“Yes, Elisabeth,” he breathed, lifting his hand to cup my cheek. “Yes.”

But I did not play. Instead I brought my right hand up to cover his, then pushed it down to rest against the column of my neck.

“Elisabeth, what—”

He tried to pull away, but I had him in my grip. I leaned into him, daring him, tempting him, to push against where my life fluttered beneath his thumb. I could sense the wolf shaking in him, chafing at his bonds. I wanted the wolf; I wanted his hunger, a ravenous desire that could obliterate me. I wanted to be obliterated. I wanted to be made anew.

“You are,” I said, “the monster I claim.”

He was trembling now. “You do not know what you ask.” Panic touched his words, even as savagery played across his features.

“Oh, but I do.”

A memory rose to the surface: little Liesl waiting patiently on the landing at the top of the stairs. Waiting for her Papa to return from an audition with a famous impresario. Sepperl was only three years old then, already showing incredible promise on the violin, and Liesl was eager to show her father just what she could do. She had diligently practiced a Tomasino chaconne on the quarter-sized violin until it was perfect. But when Papa came home, he came home stinking of ale, his Stainer violin missing from its case. Liesl played for him as he entered the inn, a triumphant piece of welcome, but he snatched away the violin and snapped it in half over his leg. You will never amount to anything, he said. You are half the talent your brother is.

“I could hurt you,” the Goblin King said, and I felt that promise in his hands. My lifeblood in his grip, my throat bared to him in submission.

“I know.”

Another memory, bubbling up from beneath the pain of the previous one. Josef playing a piece I had written, Papa coming into the back room to praise his son for his efforts. So wild, so untamed! Papa had said. We must get this published, my boy; you have the potential to change music as we know it! Josef demurring, telling our father that the true author of the piece was me. Papa’s face hardening. A decent effort. But you must be less lofty in your ideals, Liesl. You must grow up and stop indulging in these romantic flights of fancy.

“Then why, Elisabeth?” the Goblin King murmured. “Why?”

Ten years ago. Ten years ago, when I was nine, and composing alone, and in secret. I had stolen two candles we could ill afford and was up until the wee hours of the morning, profligate with my music, my papers, my flames. And Papa, Papa asleep in bed with Mother, a rare occurrence that was sure to leave Mother smiling and Papa generous. The world was asleep, and I was alone.

Until Josef found me. Liesl? he’d asked in his sleepy baby’s voice. Liesl, why are you awake?

Anger, anger and jealousy, flaring as quick as lightning. My hand twitching, knocking a candle over, sending burning wax everywhere.

It hit Josef in the face.

His cries waking the house, Papa shouting, Mother crying, K?the trembling, Constanze hiding, and all around me, fire. My work, in flames. A hand cracking upon my cheek, leaving a mark redder than the burn on Josef’s skin. His would fade into nothing. Mine would disappear too, disappear along with three years of careful work, all gone in flames and ash.