Wintersong(93)

I’m so sorry, I thought. I’m so sorry I betrayed you.

My hands shook on the klavier. The Goblin King opened his eyes.

“Is everything all right?”

I smiled at him, really, truly smiled at him. Warmth filled me, a soft, tickling sensation. It was a long moment before I recognized the emotion for what it was: happiness. I was happy. I could not remember the last time I had been happy.

“What?” He was suddenly bashful.

“Nothing,” I said, but my smile grew broader.

“It’s never nothing with you.” But he smiled too, and its sweetness hurt. He looked years younger with that smile. He was entirely that soft-eyed young man now, no trace of Der Erlkönig in his face.

“Sometimes,” I said, shaking my head, “I wish you didn’t know me so well.”

He laughed. There were no sharp edges to him anymore. The mood changed between us, growing heavier, weightier. We continued working in silence, but thoughts and feelings flowed between us without words, the push and pull, ebb and flow of the music gently rocking us with its sound.

Our conversation wound to a close as I finished working through the theme.

“Beautiful,” the Goblin King murmured. “Transcendent. It—it’s bigger than Heaven and the world above. Just like you.”

Roses bloomed in my cheeks, and I averted my head so he would not see.

“You could change the course of music,” he said. “You could change the world above if you—”

He did not finish his sentence. If I—what? Published my music? Managed to get past the barriers of my name, my sex, my death? My final fate hung between us, an invisible but insurmountable obstacle. I would not change the course of music. I would die here, unheard and unremembered. I tasted the unfairness at the back of my throat, bitterness and bile.

“If the world above were ready for me, perhaps,” I said lightly. “But I fear I am too much for them—and not enough.”

“You, my dear,” the Goblin King said, “are more than enough.”

The compliment from another’s lips would have sounded coy, flirtatious, even arch. A pretty sentiment designed to flatter and then bed me. I had heard such blandishments from guests in our inn, directed even to one as plain as me. Yet I did not think the Goblin King intended to flatter; on his lips, the words sounded like unvarnished truth. I was more than enough. More than my limitations, more than adequate, simply more.

“Thank you.” If I had been Käthe, I would have deflected the compliment with a coquettish wink or a snide remark. But I was not Käthe; I was plain, blunt, and forthright Liesl. No. Elisabeth. Plain, earnest, straightforward, and talented Elisabeth. I took his words for the gift they were, and for the first time, accepted them without pain.

After a long while—hours? minutes?—the first movement of what I was beginning to call the Wedding Night Sonata was done. Despite the anger and rage in its notes, the key was C major. The shape of the first movement was there now, with most of its supporting structure fleshed out. I played it on the klavier to hear it in full, but I could not adequately convey both the main part and the accompaniment with just two hands.

Instinctively, I reached for Josef. But my brother was not there.

A sharp pain stabbed me in the heart, as though someone had taken a dagger and plunged it into my breast. I gasped and pressed my hand there to stanch the wound. I was certain my hand would come away with blood. But there was nothing there.

“Elisabeth!” The Goblin King rushed to my side.

It was a moment before I could recover enough breath to speak.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m fine.” I shook off his solicitous hands and gave him a wobbly smile. “Just a fit. It will pass.”

His face was unreadable, opaque, as inscrutable as any one of his goblin subjects. “Perhaps you should rest.”

I shook my head. “No. Not yet. I need to hear this in its entirety. As a whole. It’s just,” I said with a wry smile, “I lack another pair of hands.”

His expression softened. “Perhaps I—perhaps I can assist you. With your music.”

I stared at him. The Goblin King turned away.

“Never mind,” he said hastily. “Just a thought. Forget it; I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“Yes.”

He stopped and lifted his head, looking straight into my eyes.

“Yes, you may,” I corrected. “Please,” I said, when I saw the uncertainty in his face. “I would like to hear this piece played on a violin.”

We held each other’s gazes for a beat longer. Then he blinked.

“Your wish is my command, Elisabeth.” He smiled. “I always did say you had power over me.”