“A lot of effort to build a city that will never be lived in,” I murmured. My eyes swept over the elaborately carved arches, the graceful façades and storefronts—all for nothing.
“It wasn’t always this way,” Twig put in. “Goblins never gathered in cities; we always conducted our business in the open air, in groves and other sacred places in the world above.”
“What changed?”
Twig shrugged. “Der Erlkönig. When he took the throne, he brought many strange customs with him.”
I frowned. “My Goblin King?” I corrected myself. “This Goblin King?”
Thistle wore a dark look. “Der Erlkönig is Der Erlkönig. It is only you mortals who care where one ends and the other begins.”
“Look here, we’ve arrived at the clothier,” Twig said jovially. She bustled me past a dark threshold into a large room. I was about to admonish Twig for her transparent attempt to distract me, when I became distracted indeed.
The clothier was laid out like a large shop, with dresses in the “window displays,” and gowns hanging on dress forms. A large mirror made of polished copper stood in the corner, and fairy lights illuminated the space: glowing, floating dust motes that gave everything a soft, diffuse look. Käthe would have loved this.
The thought of my sister was sharper than needles and pins, my heart a pincushion of sorrow. I thought of her running her hands over the sumptuous bolts of fabric at the clothier’s in our village, her summer-blue, beauty-loving eyes drinking in the rich velvets, the elaborate brocades, the vibrant colors, the shimmering silks and satins. How I both loathed and loved visiting the shops with my sister. Loathed because I would never be as lovely as she, loved because her delight was infectious. I brushed away the moisture from my lower lashes.
“Ah, fresh meat.”
I jumped when another goblin materialized at my feet. He wore a knotted measuring ribbon about his neck, with a few pins in his mouth. The tailor. Upon closer inspection, I realized the pins in his mouth were in fact whiskers. Steel-tipped whiskers.
“Yes, this is Der Erlkönig’s latest.” Thistle pushed me forward.
The tailor sniffed. “Not much to look at.” He peered into my face. “Looks familiar, though.”
I shrank beneath his scrutiny.
“Well!” the tailor said, sweeping his hand over the shop. “Welcome to my humble atelier. We’ve been dressing brides of Der Erlkönig since time immemorial, so you’ve come to the right place if you are in need of attire befitting a queen. What can I do you for?”
My eyes wandered over the beautiful gowns on display. They were all several years out of date—some even older than that. I ran my hands over the gowns. Although the fabrics were sumptuous, rich, and beautiful, the gowns themselves had been skillfully repaired. Nothing, not even goblin hands, could stop the wear and tear of time on these gorgeous pieces. The more I looked, the more I realized that everything around me was crumbling, decaying, dying.
It was only then that I understood these dresses had belonged to my predecessors. My rivals. I immediately quashed the thought.
The tailor sidled forward, his long, multi-jointed fingers caressing the dress form closest to me.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Beautiful, isn’t it? The color of storms and oceans, or so we’ve been told. This dress,” he continued, “belonged to Magdalena. She was beautiful—the way you mortals reckon, anyhow—beautiful, but stupid. Oh ho, we had fun with this one, we did, but we used her up too soon. Her fire died, leaving us cold and dark.”
The dress form beneath the gown was tall and well-formed, the bosom and hips generous, the waist tiny. The dress, a robe à la française, was made from a deep, jewel-toned blue silk, and I could imagine the dramatic coloring of the woman who had worn it: pale skin, dark hair, and blue eyes to match her gown. A breathless beauty, a glittering jewel, and I imagined the Goblin King partaking of her loveliness over and over again, biting the sweet peaches of her cheeks until she was gone.
“And this one,” Thistle chimed in, pointing to another dress form, “belonged to Maria Emmanuel. Prissy, she was. Refused to do her duty by her lord. She was consecrated to someone else—a carpenter? Something like that. Don’t know what the king saw in her, but they were both possessed of a strange devotion to a figure nailed to a wooden cross. She lasted the longest, this prudish nun, not having given herself to king and land, and during her rule, our kingdom suffered. Yet she lasted the longest for that, although she too died in the end, pining for the world above she could see but not touch.”
This dress form was slim, the gown that hung on it made of an austere gray wool. I could imagine the woman who wore this dress—a pious creature, veiled like a bride of Christ. No beauty, but her eyes would be a clear, luminous gray, shining with the fervor of her passion and faith. Not like Magdalena, whose loveliness would have been carnal and earthly; Maria Emmanuel would have glowed with an inner light, the beauty of a saint or a martyr. The Goblin King was a man of varied tastes, it seemed.
On and on, Thistle and the tailor went through the litany of brides, but their names and histories blurred quickly from my mind, their lives faded from memory. This was not a clothier’s shop; this was a mausoleum, the dress forms all that remained of each previous bride. Reduced to the fabric she wore. I wondered what gown my dress form would wear, once the Goblin King had used me up.
“What of the first Goblin Queen?” I asked. “Where is her dress form?”