Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(90)

“I am … I am an innkeeper’s daughter.” It was the answer I would have given when I was Liesl, but it no longer felt true.

The Goblin King shook his head. “That is what you were.”

“I am … a musician. A composer.”

A small smile tilted his lips, but he shook his head again. “That is what you are. But who are you, Elisabeth?”

“I am …”

Who was I? Daughter, sister, wife, queen, composer; these were titles I had been given and claimed, but they were not the whole of me. They were not me, entire. I closed my eyes.

“I am,” I said slowly, “a girl with music in her soul. I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, who fiercely protects those dear to her. I am a girl who loves strawberries, chocolate torte, songs in a minor key, moments stolen from chores, and childish games. I am short-tempered yet disciplined. I am self-indulgent, selfish, yet selfless. I am compassion and hatred and contradiction. I am … me.”

I opened my eyes. The Goblin King gazed upon with me with naked longing. My pulse skipped, tripping over the emotions in my blood. His eyes were as clear as water, and I could see down to the heart of where he had been, my austere young man.

“You are Elisabeth,” he said. “A name, yes. But a soul as well.”

I understood then. He could not give me his name because he was no one; he was Der Erlk?nig. He was hollowed out, his name and his essence stolen by the old laws. The space within where the austere young man had been was wanting, longing to be filled.

“I am Elisabeth,” I said. “But Elisabeth is only a name. An empty word I fill with myself. But you had a word once; I see the echoes of it within you.”

I couldn’t say why I wanted his name. It didn’t matter; he was Der Erlk?nig, the Goblin King, mein Herr. But these were titles bestowed upon him, not ones he had claimed for himself. I wanted the part of him that did not belong to the Underground, but to the world above. To the mortal man he had been. The mortal man he could have been … with me.

“It is gone,” he said. “Lost. Forgotten.”

We did not speak for a long time. I held his silence close to me. His name might have been forgotten, but it was not lost.

“Well,” he said at last. “Do you accept my forfeit?” The Goblin King extended his hands, palms up.

No. I did not accept. It was not what I had asked for, but it was what I would have to take.

“Yes,” I said. “Your turn is ended.” I placed my hands in his.

“Good.” His smile hardened. “Then I shall ask you five questions, Elisabeth, and you must reply truthfully or pay the forfeit.”

I nodded.

“Why have you not continued work on the sonata?”

I winced. The Wedding Night—our Wedding Night Sonata. The first movement was finished, but I had not taken up the quill to begin work on the second. Our evenings had been filled with music, but not mine.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the truth.”

The Goblin King raised his brows. He did not accept.

“I don’t know,” I repeated. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t tried. I wanted to finish it, I wanted to write something wholly and utterly in my own voice, something the world would hear and know as mine. But every time I sat before the klavier, every time I pressed my fingers to the keys, nothing came. “I … I can’t continue. I don’t know how. It’s as if … it’s dead inside.”

The Goblin King narrowed his eyes, but I could not give him another answer. He studied me closely, but did not ask me to justify myself, and simply asked the next question.

“What do you miss about the world above?”

I sucked in a sharp breath. The Goblin King’s face was carefully neutral, and I could read nothing of his intent. Did he mean to be cruel? Consoling? Or was he merely curious?

“Many things,” I said in a faltering voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Your turn for questions is ended, Elisabeth. Answer truthfully or pay a forfeit.”

I turned my head. Although I could not say why, I could not look at him while I gave my answer.

“Sunshine. Snow. The sound of branches lashing against a windowpane during a storm. Standing before the hearth in the middle of summer, the feel of sweat trickling down my neck. And then the unexpected sweetness of a cool breeze from an open window.” I glanced at the salver of strawberries on the klavier. “I miss the sharp, green taste of lemony grass, the yeastiness of beer.”

Tears burned along my lashes, but I did not cry. Could not cry. There were no tears in me, and I felt the stinging of phantom sobs run up and down my throat.

“I even miss the parts I didn’t know to miss. The pungent, musky pong of an inn overcrowded with travelers. Leather-clad feet, baby breath, sodden wool. Men, women, children.” I laughed. “People. I miss people.”

The Goblin King was silent. I still could not bear to look at him, and our only communion was through the meeting of our hands.

“If you could,” he said softly, “if it were at all possible, would you leave the Underground?”

This time, it was I who snatched my hands away, to hide their trembling. “No.”

“Liar.” I could hear the snarl in his voice.