Wintersong

  “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.

  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, Käthe 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.

  And beneath that memory, yet another. And another, and another. Assaults on my tender heart I had suffered until I learned to put my music away in a cage. I had pushed me, the real me, back behind the façade of a good girl, a dutiful daughter. I ceased to be me and became Liesl, the maiden in the shadows. I had been that Liesl for so long, I did not know my way back to the light.

  “Because,” I choked out, “I need you to break me in order to find me.”

  I rested my left hand against the klavier. The Goblin King sucked in a sharp breath.

  “You do not know what you ask.”

  I looked into his eyes and pressed a key.

  “I do.”

  The note hung in the air between us as his pupils expanded, then contracted. Those mismatched eyes shifted from frightened to feral and back again as Der Erlkönig warred with his better nature.

  “You don’t.”

  I pressed another key. “I do.”

  A long, shuddering sigh escaped him. His hands moved to my shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching, as though he did not know whether to draw me close or push me away. I pressed yet another key, then another, and then
another, calling the wolf from hiding.

  “I want you to find me,” I whispered. “Every last bit of me.”

  The Goblin King drew away. Our eyes met, and in that moment I saw not the wolf, but the austere young man.

  “Elisabeth,” he said. “Have mercy on me.”

  My eyes were steady upon his face. “I am not afraid of you.”

  “No?” The Goblin King closed his eyes. “Then you are a fool.”

  And when he opened his eyes again, the austere young man was gone.

  * * *

  Our lips meet in a clash of teeth and tongue. The retiring room falls away, and we fall together, the Goblin King and I. We land on a soft bed of leaves that crackle and rustle with every twitch of our limbs, every sigh of our bodies, and the world around us is dark, secret, safe.

  His hands hold my face, drawing me in as though he could drink in my breath, my blood, my life. He is certain and sure; I am artless and awkward. My hands clutch at his back, pressing him close, wanting to feel every bit of him against me like a second skin. The diamonds sewn into the bodice of my gown bite into me, and I itch and I sting and I burn.

  You do not know what you ask, he murmurs over and over again into my mouth. You cannot know.

  I do not know but I want to learn. I want him to push me to my limits, to find my edges, then call me back. Find my edges, I plead, then obliterate them.

  I tear at the fine lace at his throat, find the buttons and seams of his shirt with my fingers. His skin is cool as I pull at his clothes, and the thrill of this touch, this contact, sends shivers through me. I scrabble and claw at my dress, wanting to shuck my finery the way a snake sheds its old self, leaving behind nothing but the impression of the body that once inhabited it. I want to be naked and new, to experience his touch afresh.

  Stop, he says, but I don’t stop. I don’t know how to stop. I’m afraid if I stop, I will never start again. So I keep going, trying to work my arms free of my gown.

  Elisabeth. The Goblin King pins my wandering hands beneath his forearm, the weight of his body heavy against me. But it’s not the feel of him pressing me into the bed that brings my breath short; it’s the look in his eyes. I see the austere young man, and suddenly I am embarrassed of my eagerness, my willingness to make myself a fool.

  I turn my gaze away, cheeks burning. The hand that reaches up to touch my face is cool, and the Goblin King is gentle.

  Look at me.

  But I can’t.

  Elisabeth.

  I look, and the austere young man is still there, waiting for me to follow him into the woods. I am no longer ashamed of my wanting, and I tilt my head to kiss him. He warms to my breath and I follow him as we grow wilder and wilder. We stop for breath and now there is a hint of the devil in his angelic face. The wolf has come out to play.

  And then we are grasping at each other, gasping, grabbing. We hold each other close, but it’s not close enough, it will never be close enough. Our hands map the hills and valleys of our bodies, exploring, discovering. The fingers of his hand run up my thigh and I gasp, tangling my hands in his thistledown hair.

  Time stops. He stops. I stop. We look at each other, a question in his gaze, a reply on my tongue. But we do not speak, and the moment is frozen within my heart—this ask and this answer.

  “I wish…” I say hoarsely, but I don’t know what it is I’m wishing for.

  “Your wish is my command,” the Goblin King says softly.

  I could stop. We could stop. I could fold myself back into the small spaces of my heart, where my music and magic lie hidden, secret and safe.

  “You don’t…” His words trail away, and the rest of his sentence hangs unspoken between us. You don’t have to.

  A choice. He gives a choice, and it is the truest gift he has ever given me.

  “Yes.” My voice is clear. “My answer is yes.”

  He presses against me, lost in the wilderness, and the side of his arm catches against my throat. I cough, but the Goblin King does not hear. My gasps are strangled and tears start in my eyes. Fullness. There is fullness.

  It hurts. I hurt. I wish lingers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. I don’t want him to stop. He’s found my edges. I have found my limits. But beyond the border of pain, there is something else.

  Freedom.

  I start to cry in earnest, a rush, a torrent of emotion, of beauty, of shame. My mind goes blank and I am nothing but my body. Liesl is gone, and I am reduced to my elemental parts: music, magic, imagination, and inspiration. The sensation is frightening in its intensity, and I call out a name, wanting the Goblin King to anchor me back to myself.

  His head snaps up and our eyes meet. His eyes, glassy and dark and opaque, grow clear as the wolf retreats and the austere young man returns. But when he does, his gaze falls on the tears staining my cheeks, and he jerks away.

  No, don’t go, I want to say, but I can’t speak. I’m here, I’m here. I’m here at last.

  “Oh no,” he says. “Oh no no no.” He retreats, hiding his face in his hands.

  The Goblin King curls up at the corner of the bed, his back turned to me. As my wits return one by one, I realize we are in the Goblin King’s bedchamber. I crawl toward him, heedless of the shredded remains of my dress, and wrap my arms around him.

  “I am,” he whispers, “the monster I warned you against.”

  “You are,” I say hoarsely, “the monster I claim.”

  “I don’t deserve your mercy, Elisabeth.”

  We lie there in silence, the rise and fall of our breaths our only movement.

  “No,” I say at last. “Not my mercy, but my gratitude.”

  The Goblin King laughs, a choked, almost hopeful sound. He turns to hold me close. “Oh, Elisabeth,” he says. “You are a saint.”

  But I am not a saint. I open my mouth to protest, but the salt of his tears stains my lips, startling me into silence. I listen to the beat of the Goblin King’s heart slow and fade into sleep and whisper to myself the truth he does not hear.

  I am not a saint; I am a sinner. I want to sin again and again and again.

  ROMANCE IN C MAJOR

  A light shone down upon me. I opened my eyes, and for a moment I was lost, unsure of where I was. I shaded my hand; a mirror—a silver-backed mirror—hung above the Goblin King’s bed, showing me a scene of an unfamiliar town.

  The town was small, sitting beneath a tall peak I did not recognize. Perched atop the summit was an abbey, the cloisters overlooking the town, a priest looking down his nose at the penitent masses. My mirror showed me the Goblin Grove, my sacred space. I wondered if this was the Goblin King’s.

  The sun was high overhead in the world above. My husband slept soundly beside me, his breathing soft and even. We had fallen asleep resting against each other, but during the night we had drifted apart, founding our separate kingdoms on opposite sides of his bed. Our borders were delineated by a pile of bedclothes. We had touched each other in the most intimate ways possible, but neither of us could bear the other’s closeness. Not yet.

  There was nothing visible of the Goblin King but a mess of tangled hair and a bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the blankets. I was naked, I was sore, and between my thighs was a mess of blood. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to be away from here, back in my own chambers, clean and alone. The memory of what we had done the night before returned to me, and a pleasant burn spread through my loins. But with the pleasure came a wash of pain. I needed to be alone, recollect my thoughts, and center myself.

  Slowly, carefully, I slid out of bed and began to clean myself up. The Goblin King did not stir, lost to the waking world. He slept blissfully, like a babe after a long night of crying, and I remembered the feel of his tears against my skin. I couldn’t face him, not after he had shed those tears and stained my soul. I had touched him, known him, seen every last bit of him, and it was his tears that brought me shame.

  “I wish I were back in the retiring room,” I said softly t
o the waiting air.

  And there I was, back beside the klavier in the retiring room. My legs wobbled, bringing me crashing to my knees. Distantly, I registered the pain, but everything was muted, muffled.

  My wedding night. My true wedding night.

  The world was changed somehow. I was changed. The Goblin King had walked into the tidy room of my life and upended its contents. I was left picking up the pieces, struggling to fit them back together into some semblance of what I had known before. My life was divided into two neat and perfect halves: Before and After.

  Liesl. Elisabeth. I had been Liesl until the moment we gathered each other in our arms, when I granted the Goblin King mercy as he absolved me of my shame. I had emerged from the other side of our tryst a different woman: no longer Liesl, but Elisabeth. I tested the edges of this new identity, slipping it on, seeing how it fit.

  The retiring room looked different by the light of day. The large mirrors hung on one side lent the illusion of enormous windows, sunshine from the world above streaming through them. I saw a fortress on a hill high above a river, a bright red-and-white flag fluttering in the breeze. Salzburg. Snow still piled in drifts, but along the Salzach River, the palest hint of green shimmered among the trees. The first hint of spring. I smiled.

  I sat at the klavier, hands poised over the keyboard. Then I paused. A great weight had been lifted from me, my soul cleared of a corrupting shame. But the freedom frightened me, and I did not know how to proceed. So I played a few chords, inversions of major C, before expanding them out into arpeggios. Safe. Sure.

  From inversions and arpeggios to scales. I ran through every key, falling into the mindless movement like a meditation. Like a prayer. My mind began to reorder itself, to fold its memories and thoughts back into their proper drawers, neat and tidy and clean. Once my fingers were sufficiently limbered up, I took my wedding gown from its rack beside the instrument and laid it across the hood of the klavier. I was ready to move forward at last.

  No more halfhearted noodling. No more careless scribbling. I would take my music, rough and unpolished, and turn it into something worthwhile.