Wintersong

  At last I came across a portrait at the very end of the corridor, unlit, secluded, and shadowed, as though hiding in shame. It was the most recent in the long line, painted in the style of the old Dutch masters: light and dark in exaggerated contrasts, the details sharp and painstakingly realistic. Its sitter was a young man, dressed in velvet academic robes and a round cap with a tassel. Despite the richness of the material, there was something austere about him, especially as he had one hand clasped around a wooden cross hanging from a cord on his neck. In the other hand, he held a violin upright in his lap, his long, beautiful fingers resting along the neck. I squinted. The scroll of the instrument looked familiar, but its edges faded into shadow, and I could make nothing of it but the vague impression of a woman’s face contorted in agony. Or ecstasy.

  I shivered.

  I could not bring myself to meet the sitter’s gaze until the very end. I thought I knew what I would find—two differently colored eyes, one green, one gray—but what I saw arrested me.

  It was a younger Goblin King in the portrait, his cheeks fuller and not so sharp, his features less defined. A young man my age. A youth. The difference in color in those eyes was in stark relief in the portrait: the left, the bright green of spring grass, and the right, the blue-gray of a twilight sky. Yet I recalled them being the muted hazel-green of dying moss and the icy gray of a winter’s pond. Faded. Old.

  Presently the fairy lights tugged at my hair and at my clothing until I moved on. The image of the Goblin King’s younger self stayed with me as I walked away. The expression in his eyes made my breath come short. Unguarded. Vulnerable. Human. I recognized those eyes from my childhood, in the soft-eyed young man I’d stumbled across in the Goblin King’s bedchamber. I saw that expression when my Goblin King looked at me now.

  I was all shaken up, my emotions upturned and in disarray. I continued walking down the corridor, suddenly eager to put as much distance between the portrait and me as I could.

  It wasn’t until the portrait gallery was far behind me when a disconcerting thought came to me:

  When had he become my Goblin King?

  * * *

  “Liesl!” Käthe enthusiastically greeted me when I appeared in her room. Like mine, her barrow chamber had no door, but one had appeared when I wished it.

  Her changed appearance was shocking. My sister had always been full-figured and plump, her cheeks cherubic, her arms full and healthy. Now she was thin, gaunt, and sickly. She wore a dressing gown over her chemise, but it hung off her shoulders, as though the body within it was nothing. Käthe was disappearing before my eyes.

  “Come sit by the fire and take tea with me,” my sister urged. She seemed at home in the Underground, playing hostess in her suite of packed-dirt rooms.

  “Käthe,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m fine.” A tea set had already been laid out on the table by the hearth, and she gestured to the chair and bade me sit. Then she poured me a cup of tea and offered me a slice of cake. “How are you, my dear?”

  I accepted the slice of cake. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know at all.”

  Käthe gave me an indulgent smile, and added another spoonful of sugar to her tea. “Eat,” she said, nodding at the untouched slice of cake on my plate.

  I studied my sister. She seemed clear-eyed and conscious; present, in a way she hadn’t been at the Goblin Ball.

  “Käthe,” I said carefully. “Do you know where we are?”

  She laughed and sliced herself another piece of cake. “Of course I do, you ninny. We’re in my quarters, enjoying a spot of tea and some time together. Now tell me,” she said, gesturing to the bare, earthen walls, “what do you think of the wallpaper?”

  “The wallpaper?”

  “Watered silk imported from Italy, of course,” she said loftily. “Just like we always imagined, Liesl.”

  My heart fluttered in my chest. The color was high in my sister’s cheeks, her movements heightened and exaggerated, as though she were playacting the role of a gracious lady. As though she were playing pretend. What if?

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “Your quarters are beautiful.” I picked up my teacup and took a sip to hide my frown. “My compliments, my dear.”

  Käthe’s eyes were alight. “Why, thank you, darling. My husband is a very generous man, as you know.”

  My cup rattled in its saucer. “Your husband?”

  She pouted. “Don’t you remember? We had the most beautiful wedding in the Munich Frauenkirche, with the archbishop presiding. Josef played your wedding mass to thunderous applause.”

  I set down my tea. “My … wedding mass?”

  Käthe gave me a pitying look. “Oh, Liesl, you must have had a rough night if you can’t remember. The wedding mass you wrote for us. Mother sang the Benedictus so beautifully it moved everyone to tears.”

  “My … music.”

  She nodded. “You’re a success all over the Holy Roman Empire now, thanks to my husband’s connections. He had the good sense to hire Josef at court too, and even funds our brother’s tours across Europe. He even has Papa on retainer as a Konzertmeister, although it’s more a courtesy than an active position.”

  “At … his court?” My voice was strangled, thin.

  “Of course his court,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He couldn’t very well hire for someone else’s, could he?”

  “Käthe,” I said. “Just who is your husband?”

  She blew out a huff and rolled her eyes. “Manók Hercege. The Hungarian count? Honestly, Liesl, perhaps you ought to let yourself have a bit of fun more often if a little indulgence will set you back like this.” Käthe traced her fingers absentmindedly along her collarbone, and I found myself mirroring the gesture, half-remembering the revels of the Goblin Ball.

  A count. A rich, Hungarian count. Käthe’s fantasy husband was a wealthy, foreign nobleman. This was not the sort of man I thought my sister would imagine herself in love with.

  “Is Man—Manók Hercege good to you?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Käthe beamed.

  “What is he like?”

  “Kind. Gentle.” Her voice was misty, distant. “Generous. Not just to me, but to all of us. Eat up,” she said again, pushing the cake at me. “Chocolate torte. It’s your favorite.”

  Then it became clear just what Käthe’s greatest dream had been: to marry rich. Not for fancy gowns or expensive jewels, but to provide for her family. My throat tightened and I gathered my sister in my arms, holding her close.

  “Liesl,” Käthe said with surprise. “Is everything all right?”

  “No,” I choked. “Everything is not all right. It’s not right at all.”

  She swatted me away. “Have some cake,” she insisted again. “After all the trouble I went through to get it for you, you should at least have a bite.”

  I nodded and picked up the plate and a fork. I recoiled. What had seemed, at first glance, like a moist chocolate torte was layer upon layer of crumbling dirt, with stripes of slime for buttercream. I pretended to tuck in for Käthe’s sake, but the moment my sister looked away, I cast the cake into the fire. The impossible scent of summer peaches rose with the smoke.

  “Did you like it?” she asked, eagerly searching my face for an answer. Her blue eyes were steady, but seemed overlarge in her pale face. Despite the high color in her cheeks, she looked sicker than ever. “My husband went all the way to Bohemia for the recipe.”

  “Delicious.” I managed to swallow my bile. “My compliments to your husband.”

  Käthe beamed, then deflated. “He travels so often, my husband,” she said. “I wish I could go with him sometimes. To see the world beyond this beautiful palace. It is beautiful,” she continued, a trifle defensively, “but it can be stifling. Almost like a prison, rather than a palace.”

  I straightened in my seat. That was the real Käthe speaking, my true little sister beneath the wish-spell that surrounded
her. The young woman who wanted to experience the world beyond the edges of the rustic life she had always known.

  “Where are Manók Hercege’s holdings?” I asked.

  “Hungary, of course.”

  “But where in Hungary?” I pressed.

  A vague expression crossed her face. “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Where did you go on your wedding tour? Vienna? Rome? Paris? London? Did your husband take you to all the greatest cities in Europe, as you had always dreamed?”

  “I—” A little wrinkle appeared between her brows, a wrinkle of pain and concentration. “I can’t remember.”

  “Think.” I grabbed Käthe’s hands. “Where we are. Where we aren’t. Where we must be.”

  My sister closed her eyes.

  “The market, the fruit, the ball, the Goblin King…”

  “Liesl.” Käthe’s voice was strained, as though coming from an incredible distance. My pulse thrummed in my ears. “Yes. I—I think I remember. The taste of peaches in winter. The sound of music. I think—I think—”

  “Go on,” I urged. I was getting to the heart of the enchantment. If only I could get closer and cut it away entirely.

  “It hurts,” she whispered. She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Sometimes I think I know where I am and I am afraid. But it’s easier not to be. Is this what it is like to be dead?”

  A trickle of blood over her lip; a nosebleed. Frightened, I wiped it away with the hem of my skirt.

  “No, dearest,” I said, gripping her hands tighter. “You’re alive.”

  The blood wouldn’t stop. Panic threaded its way about my heart, my hands, my throat.

  “You’re alive, Käthe,” I repeated. “Just hold on for a little while longer.”

  A suite of bells began to play, their bright, tinkling sound akin to my sister’s laugh. At once my sister’s demeanor changed; she grew animated and agitated, her bloodless lips stretched thin in a grotesque smile.

  “That must be him!” she said happily. “My Manók.” She rose from her chair, and stood in the middle of her barrow, waiting with her arms outstretched. I wondered who would appear—which of her tall, elegant swains from the Goblin Ball would play the Hungarian count. “Come in, my love!”

  I turned, half expecting a door to appear and let in this mysterious Hungarian husband. But no door materialized. Instead, with a breeze that sent the fairy lights swirling, the Goblin King swept into view.

  “Hello, my darling,” he said, taking Käthe’s hand in his. Those wolf’s eyes glinted at me as he met my gaze over my sister’s head. “How did you enjoy your cake?”

  THE OLD LAWS

  The Goblin King and I locked eyes with each other as my sister made our introductions.

  “Darling,” she said. “You remember my sister, Elisabeth, of course?”

  “Charmed, Fräulein.” He brought my hand to his lips. I resisted the urge to snatch it away and deliver it back with a slap.

  “Liesl.” Käthe turned to me. “My husband, Manók Hercege.”

  “A pleasure,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I do believe your sister does not approve of me, my dear,” the Goblin King said to Käthe. “She stares daggers into my soul. They stab.” He pressed his hand to his heart.

  “Liesl!” Käthe reprimanded.

  “Now, now,” the Goblin King soothed. “I’m sure Elisabeth is only doing her duty, as an elder sister must. Since she is doomed to a life of spinsterhood, she might as well pass judgment on all your swains, yes?”

  “Manók!” Käthe slapped him hard on the wrist. “Be kind. The both of you.”

  “Mein Herr,” I said tightly. “A word?”

  The Goblin King inclined his head. “Of course. Madam?” He turned to Käthe, asking to be excused from her presence. My sister nodded her consent and waved us off.

  “Manók Hercege?” was the first thing out of my mouth when we were alone.

  The Goblin King gave an elegant shrug. “I know a little Hungarian.”

  “What does it mean?”

  He grinned. “What you think it means. I am not so creative as all that, Elisabeth.”

  I frowned. “Is that your name? Have you a name?”

  The Goblin King stiffened. “That is not the topic at hand.”

  I raised my brows. But his face was shuttered tight as a house in a storm.

  “No,” I agreed. “The topic is why and how you’ve made my sister believe she’s married to you.”

  “Jealous?” He looked pleased.

  “Did you force her? Coerce her somehow? Or is this all an elaborate fantasy you’ve orchestrated to trap her here with you forever?”

  “Coerced is such a strong word,” he said. “I like to think I am persuasive on my own merits.”

  “She thinks you are a Hungarian count.”

  He waved his hand. “We all have our flaws.”

  “You can play your games with me,” I said. “But leave Käthe alone. She is not equipped to deal with you.”

  “Oh, and you are?” The Goblin King leaned forward. I willed myself to stillness. “Do tell; I am intrigued.”

  “The game is between you and me,” I repeated. “Leave my sister out of this. She’s innocent.”

  His eyes darkened. “Is your sister truly innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  “A girl well acquainted with temptation, a girl with an inviting laugh, a fickle heart, and an adventurous soul,” he said in a low voice. “A girl given to self-indulgence, who reaches for the low-hanging, forbidden fruit and eats of it against the wisdom of her older sister—can such a girl truly be called innocent?”

  I went rigid with rage. “It is not for you to judge.”

  “But it is for you?” he returned. “Are you responsible for your sister’s virtue?”

  “No,” I said. “But I will safeguard her good name.”

  “Oh, Elisabeth.” The Goblin King shook his head. “When will you be selfish? When will you ever do anything for yourself?”

  I was silent.

  “You cannot leash yourself to your sister’s quim and whims.” All pretense of charm or chicanery were gone from the Goblin King. “Someday she must make her own choices. Without you. What will you do when there is no one left to take care of, no one left to look after? Is that when you will finally look after you?”

  He had a way of attacking me with compassion. His unexpected kindness, more than his charm or beauty, was seductive. I disliked the truth in his words. And his pity. I did not want his pity.

  The Goblin King sighed. “Käthe is part of the game. The pieces have been set in motion, and she is one of them.”

  “You gave me the days of winter to escape the Underground.” I crossed my arms. “And you’ve gone and married my sister behind my back.”

  That smug grin returned to his face. “You are jealous. Well, well, well; that bodes well for me.”

  When I did not rise to his bait, he shook his head.

  “No, Elisabeth, I have not married Käthe. The old laws are binding, and when I take a bride, it is forever. She may never set foot in the world above again. This pretty vision is a spell of her own making, a beautiful fantasy to bring her comfort. I have very little power, you know.”

  I scoffed. “You are Der Erlkönig. You have all the power.”

  The Goblin King lifted a brow. “If you think that, then you know less than I gave you credit for,” he said. “I am but a prisoner to my own crown.”

  Does the crown serve the king or the king serve the crown?

  “Why a bride?” I asked after a moment. “Why—why Käthe?”

  Why not me? Why hadn’t he come for me?

  It was a while before he answered. He ran his fingers over one of the figurines on one of the side tables in the corridor. It was a wood nymph, wide-hipped, buxom, earthy. He traced the curve of her waist, down the hillocks of her thighs, and back up the shape of her leg before resting on the nymph’s collarbones, where the line of her neck met her bos
om.

  “Shall I tell you a story?” he said at last. He released the nymph figurine and stared into one of the landscapes that hung in the corridor. “A story such as Constanze might have told you and your siblings when you were children.”

  I held my breath.

  “Once upon a time, there was a great king who lived underground.”

  My grandmother’s fairy tales often began this way. I had always thought her stories were her own invention, but hearing the rhythm of the Goblin King’s words, I wondered where Constanze first had learned them.

  “This king was the ruler of the dead and the living,” he continued. “He brought the world above to life every spring, and brought it back to death every autumn.”

  The Goblin King stared at the landscape as the trees and living things blossomed and bloomed, growing green and bright before withering away.

  “The seasons turned, one after another, and with time, the king grew old. Weary. Spring came later and later and autumn earlier and earlier, until one day, there was no spring at all. The world above had gone quiet, dead, and still, and the people suffered.”

  The enchanted portrait returned to winter and snow. The seasons had stopped changing.

  “One day, a brave maiden ventured into the Underground.” His eyes turned from the portrait back to me. “To beg the king to return the world above to life.”

  “Brave?” I laughed, a thin, defiant bark of a laugh. “Not beautiful?”

  His lips twisted to one side. “Brave or beautiful, it matters not. Let Constanze tell it one way; I shall tell it in mine.”

  The Goblin King moved closer. I held my ground, pushing back against his insistent presence.

  “She offered the king her life in exchange for the land. My life for my people, she said. She begged him to accept her bargain. She knew the old laws: life for life, blood for harvest. Without it, the Underground would wither and fade away, taking with it every last trace of green from the world above.”

  He hovered over me, his fingers outstretched, reaching for the pulse in my throat. My breathing grew shallow. I waited—wanted—for him to touch me, to seize my lifebeat in his hands and take it.