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.”