Wintersong(87)

On other occasions, the Goblin King would play some short pieces on the klavier while I read by the fire. Those were my favorite evenings, when music, not words, filled the silence between us. Tonight my husband played a few Scarlatti sonatinen while I took up a volume of Italian poetry. I did not read Italian, and only understood as much as I needed to know how quickly, how slowly, or how elegantly I ought to play a piece of music. The book was for show; it allowed me to watch the Goblin King from beneath lowered lashes under the pretense of reading.

After that first evening, he never invited me to play my music for him again.

In the beginning, it had been a relief. But as the evenings wore on, the relief turned into guilt, then annoyance, then anger. He was so maddeningly, infuriatingly complacent. He was so assured I would come to him of my own volition, that I would break and lay my music at his feet like a gift, that he could afford to watch me from the klavier with that distant, compassionate look on his face.

But he was wrong. I was already broken, and the music was still trapped inside. It prickled, tickled, and itched in my gut, threatening to claw out of my throat in a scream.

“Is everything all right, Elisabeth?”

No, everything was not all right. It had not been all right since I became Der Erlkönig’s bride, since he stole my sister away, since he gave me that flute in the marketplace, since before I could remember. It had not been all right since I locked my music away, both in my box and in my heart.

But I could not tell him so. “I’m fine,” I said instead.

His gaze sharpened, the pupils of his eyes dilating to drown the gray and green in black. The Goblin King knew how to interpret my breaths before pauses, the lengths of my measures of rest, my caesuras of speech. He followed my cues as attentively as a musician in an orchestra, waiting for the maestro to take the lead. And he knew whenever I broke tempo.

His eyes swept me from head to toe, lingering on my exposed shoulders and arms, the expanse of my collarbones and décolletage. “What’s the matter?”

I suppose I had not been particularly subtle. For the first time, I had taken care with my appearance; after the encounter by the Underground lake, I had forced Twig and Thistle to take me to the tailor to stitch me a new gown. To stitch me some armor. I had had the tailor modify a gown made of a beautiful cream and gold silk taffeta. It was fashioned like a chemise, the skirt gathered beneath what little bosom I had before flowing out behind me in a train. The entire construction was held together by diaphanous straps at my shoulders, leaving my arms bare. Diamonds were craftily sewn into the bodice—hundreds, thousands, a myriad—twinkling like stars in a night sky. Twig and Thistle arranged my hair into a coronet of braids about my head, fitted with more little diamonds that sparkled brightly against my dark locks. For the first time, I found myself hoping the Goblin King would find me pretty.

It seemed ridiculous; I was plain and he was gorgeous, but the desire that throbbed between us was real and had nothing to do with beauty or the lack thereof. And it was there, always there, smothering me, strangling me, until I could not breathe for wanting.

So I answered the Goblin King’s question the only way I could. “Do you not like my new dress?” I blurted out.

That certainly surprised him. “I—uh—what?”

“My dress,” I said. “Is it not to your liking?”

His eyes were both bewildered and wary. “It is lovely, Elisabeth.”

“And me? Am I lovely?”

The Goblin King frowned. “You are in a mood tonight, my dear.”

He had not answered me. Suddenly I could not bear to remain seated. I rose to my feet and paced back and forth before the fire. I was in a mood—for a fight.

“Answer me,” I said. “Do you think me lovely?”

“Not with the way you’re acting at the moment.”

I laughed, a nigh hysterical sound. “You sound like my father. It’s a simple question, mein Herr.”

“Is it?” The Goblin King gave me a sharp look. “Then tell me, my dear, what would you like to hear? The simple answer, or the honest one?”

I trembled, although whether it was from hurt or fear, I did not know. “The truth,” I said. “You’re the one who showed me that the ugly truth is preferable to a pretty lie.”

It was a while before he spoke. “I think you know the answer, Elisabeth,” he said in a low voice.

I closed my eyes to stop the tears. Despite everything, I had hoped it would be different. That his desire could somehow make me lovely, could transform me from a sparrow into a peacock.

“Then why?” My voice tripped over the jagged edges of my sorrow. “Why do you want me?”