My skin prickled, my fingers twitched. I itched to join the musicians, but could not scrub away the hesitation of painful inadequacy that clung to me. I was unheard, uneducated, unpublished. Papa would say I was overreaching myself.
And yet … Papa was not here. Master Antonius was not here. Not even Josef was here. No one would judge me if I walked to the first chair, took his violin, and began to play.
As though sensing my intent, the violinist lifted his head and glanced at me. The goblin musicians were not masked; their queer, puckish faces were made uglier by concentration.
“What, maiden?” the violinist leered. “Think you could do better than me?”
“Yes.” The certainty of my reply surprised me.
My reply certainly surprised the musicians, who immediately stopped playing. I plucked the bow and violin from the first chair’s hands and tucked the instrument beneath my chin. The others gaped at me, but I ignored them. Instead, I touched my bow to the strings and began a simple country air.
A Ländler, instantly recognizable to all assembled in the goblin ballroom. The musicians picked up the beat and the dancers picked up their feet. Once we were comfortable in the music, I began to embroider and expand the piece, adding a harmonic line to the melody. This was a game Josef and I had played when we were children: taking songs we knew and adding harmonies. The harmonies were usually simple thirds, but sometimes they were perfect fifths. This was how my little brother began to teach me the rudiments of theory.
The musicians looked to me once we finished the Ländler. As though they expected me to lead. As though I were the Konzertmeister. I swallowed hard. I had hidden for so long in my brother’s shadow that the light of their regard was almost too much to bear. Then I brought my bow to the strings and picked another song from my childhood, this time a simple canon. I began, then nodded to the flautist, the oboist, and the violoncellist as we played the melody as a round. The goblin musicians were enchanted by the web of sound, their unmasked, puckish faces made uglier with glee.
As we grew accustomed to each other, the musicians and I began to improvise, taking the sounds and turning them inside out, upside down. A game. Music was just a game. Somehow, I had forgotten.
A seed began to unfurl deep within me. Long ago, I had planted my music in the dark places of my soul, away from the light. There was Josef, the gardener of my heart, but not even his gentle encouragement had been enough to coax that little seed into life. I could not let it grow. Not in the world I lived in. Not in the world above. That world needed Liesl, dutiful daughter and protective sister. To let that seed bloom would encourage a weed to grow, choking out the other lives that needed my care.
But now I was free. The music inside grew into a weed, a wildflower, a meadow, a forest. I spread my roots out, feeling the rush in my limbs. My breathing was erratic, my bowing languid.
A bright laugh shattered my concentration. My bow stuttered and stumbled over the string. At once everyone paused, heads turning one by one toward the ballroom entrance. There, atop the great staircase that seemed both carved and grown at once, stood the Goblin King.
With my sister Käthe on his arm.
EYES OPEN
“Liesl!”
My sister found me straightaway. If we had been in the world above, I would have marveled at how quickly she discovered me in this sea of faces. But in the Underground, I understood. I was mortal, and so was she, and here among the goblins, our lives pulsed with intensity. I had sensed Käthe before I saw her.
But even without the telltale beat of our hearts that marked us human, I would have sensed my sister’s presence. Her beauty was polished like a gem, every facet of her sparkling appearance enhanced by the dress she wore, and the aura of glamour about her. Unlike the rest of the ballgoers, dressed in earthen shades and jewel tones, my sister was in summery pastels. She wore a sky-blue gown that shimmered with gold where the light hit it, and her own sunshine curls were piled high atop her head, dressed with pale pink roses and other spring flowers. Her face was powdered and rouged, and she looked like a painting, a portrait, a porcelain china doll.
Käthe had come in on the Goblin King’s arm, but she dropped it at the sight of me. She ran down the steps, parting a path between the sea of identical Käthe faces, holding out her arms to embrace me. In her hand she carried a mask fashioned into the shape of a goblin’s face.
“Liesl, my darling!” My sister wrapped her arms about my waist.
“Käthe!” I hugged her tightly, feeling the thud of her heart against mine.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said.
“I know, I’m sorry.” Tears clotted my throat. “I’m sorry I took so long. But I’m here now, my dear, never fear.”
“Wonderful!” Käthe exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. “Now we must dance.”
“What?” I drew back to give her a proper look. “No, no. We must leave. We must go home.”
She screwed up her face in a childish pout. “Don’t be such a spoilsport, Liesl.”
Beneath the maquillage, Käthe’s complexion was wan and pale. No amount of powder could disguise the bruised hollows beneath her eyes, no amount of rouge distract from the bloodlessness of her lips. Only her eyes were bright and brilliant: the shine of fever. Or enchantment.
I believed I had abandoned my sister to the goblins’ untender mercies. I had imagined her in torment or agony, crying out for the world above. I had thought I would find her, and we would run back home, back to the inn, back to safety.