Three pairs of black eyes blinked at me. Then Thistle and the tailor exchanged looks.
“She doesn’t have one,” Twig said.
“She doesn’t?” I glanced around the shop, mannequins of all shapes and sizes standing in an array. “Why not?”
Thistle gave Twig a vicious pinch, but the taller goblin girl waved her off.
“Because,” Twig said, “she lived.”
The room spun around me, the mannequins and goblins tilting and twirling in a swirl of color and shadow.
“She lived,” I echoed. “How do you mean?”
The goblins were unwontedly quiet. The brave maiden must have found a way to escape the Underground with her life, without having condemned the world above to an eternal winter. How was that possible?
“What was her name?” I whispered.
“Her name is lost to us,” Twig said.
“Forgotten, not lost,” Thistle interrupted. “Stricken from our memory. We do not honor her.”
“Understand this, mortal,” the tailor said. “What the old laws giveth, they taketh away. Do not think she walked away from us unscathed, unbroken, or whole. You are dead, maiden. Your life is ours.”
“I thought my life belonged to the Goblin King.”
The goblins burst into their strange laughter. “And to whom,” Thistle said, “do you think his life belongs?”
Their smiles were row upon row of jagged teeth. I shuddered.
“Now, why don’t we find you a nice gown for your dinner with Der Erlkönig?” the tailor asked. “We have some lovely new fabrics taken from the world above. Still warm from their owners’ now-cooling bodies, if I don’t miss my guess.”
I recoiled. “What did—how did—” I could not finish for the horror that strangled my throat.
“Ah, the days of winter,” the tailor said, licking his steel-tipped whiskers. Did I imagine things, or were there bloodstains upon his clothes? “The earth belongs to us as the old year dies, mortal. Walk away from the Underground, and the earth belongs to us forever.”
Magdalena, Maria Emmanuel, Bettina, Franziska, Ilke, Hildegard, Walburga; my predecessors and rivals and sisters. Every single one of them had married Der Erlkönig. Every single one of them had given up her life. Had they known the true cost of their sacrifice? Had I? They had long since faded away to dust, but something of their spirits lingered, the seams of their threadbare gowns holding in the last remnants of their souls. Their ghosts surrounded me now, and I could hear the whispers of their voices across time, beckoning, pleading, calling. Join us. Join us. But one voice was absent. The nameless, brave maiden.
She lived, I thought. She walked out of the Underground, and lived.
COME OUT TO PLAY
The dining hall was another cavern, much like the ballroom. Its tall ceilings rose high above me like the arches of a cathedral, while icicles of stone dripped down low, strung with fairy lights. It was like standing in a monster’s giant maw, its teeth threatening to close down on me at any moment, as I waited for my lord and husband to escort me to my seat.
I strove to calm myself. It was difficult with the stays about my ribs, holding my lungs in their iron grip. The breaths I took were restricted, doing nothing to slow my fluttering heart. Did it flutter with nervousness or excitement? I wasn’t sure.
Thistle, Twig, and the tailor had brought back an array of gowns for me to choose from. Most were terribly ill-suited to me—the colors too bright, too pale, the shapes all wrong, the fit made for someone taller, someone more slender, someone simply more. The thought of wearing another woman’s—another dead woman’s—castoffs made my skin crawl, and I refused them all, driving my attendants mad. The tailor finally tossed me a drab old robe and threatened to dress me in it.
To his surprise, I accepted. The tailor took the robe and fashioned it into a simple dinner gown. His long, spindly fingers clacked as he worked, ripping the seams until he had enough material to stitch into something wearable. The speed and dexterity of his fingers astonished me; within a few moments he had put together a dress with a full skirt and modest bodice. The gown was dull and ashy brown in color, the color of dirt, the color of mud. It was also, I thought, the color of sparrow feathers.
“Good evening, Elisabeth.”
The whisper of a cool breath against my neck. I shivered, icy fingers traveling down my spine. I faced the Goblin King and dropped a curtsy.
“Good evening, mein Herr.”
He brought my hand to his lips, all courtesy and charm. He was as resplendent as a peacock in a beautiful moss-green frock coat made of silk brocade, gold and copper thread woven into a pattern of autumn leaves. His satin breeches were cream, his stockings snow white, the toes of his pointed black shoes turned up like goblin feet in illustrations I had seen as a child. He was stunning, both as a king of goblins and as a man. My breath caught in my throat.
“How are you, my dear?” The Goblin King held both my hands in his own. His were gloved; mine were bare. “Was the klavier to your liking?”
I stiffened. I thought of the gleaming instrument in the room next to mine, waiting for me to sit down and compose. The beauty of its shape and sound had pushed at me, pressing down on my defenses.
“Are you mocking me?” I asked.
The Goblin King was surprised. “Why would I mock you? Did you not enjoy my gift?”
I pulled my hands out of his grasp and turned away. I could not accept this gift from him; its very existence reminded me of the hollowed-out space inside me that longed to be filled.