Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(84)

The ugliness of Thistle’s truth left me breathless. I felt sick; I could not stomach another bite.

“Oh yes,” she went on, plucking another berry from the tray. “One by one, your senses will leave you. Which of them can you bear to give up first, mortal?”

Which of them? None of them. Could I give up the taste of strawberries? The perfume of a summer’s evening, the feel of silk against my skin, the privilege of beholding the Goblin King with my own eyes? The taste of his kisses, the touch of his hands skimming the hills and valleys of my curves, the sound of his violin? And music, oh, God, music, would I ever be able to bear the agony of its loss?

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know.”

Thistle stole another strawberry from my salver. “Then eat, drink, and be merry while you can, for tomorrow …” She did not need to finish her sentence.

For the first time in a long time, I felt the weight, the enormity, of what I had sacrificed. I had spent so long in the world above denying myself that I knew just how well the loss of my senses would devastate and diminish me. Especially now that I understood the fullness of what the body could offer.

“How long?” I asked. “How long before—before it all fades away?”

Thistle shrugged. “You have as long as memory holds, I suppose.”

“What does that mean?”

Thistle’s eyes glittered. “Do you know what keeps the wheel of life turning, mortal?”

I was taken aback by this sudden turn in the conversation. “No.”

My goblin girl grinned, but it was a malicious grin, full of contempt and ridicule. “Love.”

I gave a disbelieving laugh. “What?”

“I know, what a foolish notion. But it doesn’t make it any less powerful, or true.” Thistle leaned forward, breathing deep my sorrow, anger, and confusion. “As long as the world above remembers you, as long as you have a reason to love, your taste and touch and smell and sight and sound shall remain to you.”

I frowned. In the distance, I could still hear the violin playing its unidentifiable but familiar song, like a beacon, like a call.

“You mean, as long as someone remembers me, I will live, entire?”

Thistle watched me. “Do they love you?”

I thought of Josef, and of K?the. “Yes.”

“And how long do you think their love will last, when all trace of you that ever was is gone, when their rational, waking minds tell them you don’t exist, when it would be easier to forget you in the face of reason?”

I closed my eyes. I remembered the strange half-dream of a life granted to me by Der Erlk?nig when K?the had been first taken from me. It had been easy, so easy to slip into that version of reality, a reality where my sister did not exist. But I remembered too the wrongness of it all, that despite all evidence to the contrary, the hole in my heart could only be explained by her absence. I thought of Josef then, and my heart clenched with fear. My baby brother, the other half of my soul, had gone on to bigger and better things. It would be so easy to forget me in the midst of all that fine company. But the piece of a dream returned to me, sheet music open on a stand. Für meine Lieben, in Lied im stil die Bagatelle, auch Der Erlk?nig.

I opened my eyes. “Their love will last as long as they draw breath,” I said fiercely.

Thistle scoffed. “So they all say.”

We fell into silence. I could still hear that damnable faraway violin, but Thistle seemed oblivious to its strains. I picked up a strawberry from the salver and brought it to my lips, savoring its scent, the hint of summer sunshine beneath its red sweetness. I took a bite, and its flavor burst over my tongue, flooding me with memories. Me and Mother making strawberry jam as Constanze baked a cake. K?the’s lips pink with contraband sweets. Josef’s fingers sticky with sugar, leaving marks across the neck of his violin that took ages to clean off.

And with a start I realized I recognized the music that played in the distance. A queer, haunting little tune, almost like a bagatelle.

It was mine.

And the violin was Josef’s.

I cast aside the remnants of my meal and walked to the klavier. Thistle remained with me, a little homunculus hovering over my shoulder, pesky and persistent. I shooed her away, so she sent my papers flying out of spite. I gave her a pointed look, but she stared back mulishly until I mouthed I wish. With a harrumph, she snapped her fingers, and my notes and papers immediately arranged themselves into a neat pile beside the klavier.

But instead of continuing work on the Wedding Night Sonata, I sat down and played the piece I had called Der Erlk?nig, accompanying my brother from another world, another realm.

As long as the world above remembers you.

My music. Of course. All things on this earth and beneath it passed away, but music was immortal. Even if I was dead to the world above, a part of me would live each time my music was heard.

Thistle brought the salver of strawberries and set it atop the klavier, bright, red, and tempting. I ate every last one, grateful for the little sweetnesses that remained to me.





PERCHANCE TO DREAM




When I awoke, it was with Josef.

I stood in an unfamiliar room, beautifully appointed and richly furnished. My brother sat at a writing desk in a nightshirt and cap. The hour was late, and the candles burned low beside him. His fingers, ink-stained and dirty, were wrapped around a quill, laboriously scratching words onto paper.