“Elisabeth.” His voice quivered. “Not yet.”
I wanted to tug at the lace at his throat, to pull him to me and crush our lips and our bodies together. But I didn’t.
“Not yet?” I asked. “Why?”
I could feel how much he wanted me, wanted this, but still he held back. “Because,” he whispered. “I want to savor this.” One hand twined itself in my hair. “Before you are gone too soon.”
I laughed bitterly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The corner of his lips twisted. “The longer you stay, the sooner you leave.”
That damned philosopher again. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“Life,” he said softly, “is more than flesh. Your body is a candle, your soul the flame. The longer I burn the candle …”
He did not finish.
“A candle unused is nothing but wax and wick,” I said. “I would rather light the flame, knowing it will go out, than sit forever in darkness.”
We both stood in silence. I waited for him to close the distance between us.
But he didn’t. Instead, the Goblin King gently pushed me away.
“I said I wanted you, entire.” He pressed a finger against my breast, where my heart beat erratically beneath his touch. “And I will have you, when you truly give your all to me.”
Again, that hollow place within me echoed with pain.
“When you finally free that part of you that you so desperately deny,” he said, cupping his free hand around the back of my neck, “the part of you I have wanted ever since I first met you, then I will have you, Elisabeth.” He leaned his head close to mine. “You, entire.”
I could feel the feathery strands of his hair against my lips. I turned up my face to meet his, mouth half-open to receive his kiss.
But he did not kiss me. Instead he withdrew, leaving me bereft and empty.
“Only then,” he said. “I won’t settle for second best. I won’t settle for half your heart when I want your whole soul. Only then will I taste your fruit, and savor every last drop until it is gone.”
I shuddered with the effort of holding back my tears. His smile was crooked.
“Your soul is beautiful,” he said softly. His eyes swept over the wedding gown on the klavier. “And the proof is there. In your music. If you weren’t so afraid to share it with me, if you weren’t so scared of that part of you, you would have had me long ago.”
And then the Goblin King was gone, gone in a swirl of silk, and the faint scent of ice on the breeze.
* * *
I sit at the klavier, minutes or hours later, fingering the smudges on the fabric of my wedding gown. The words of the Goblin King echo in my mind’s ear—you, entire; you, entire—a refrain I cannot shake. It is not my body he demands; it is my music. I am more than the flesh and bones that house my spirit. I want to give him that innermost part of me now, more intimate than any carnal knowledge we could learn together. But I do not know how. It is easier to give him my body than to give him my soul.
I pull a sheet of staff paper toward me and pick up the quill. I dip it into the inkwell, but do not write. I see the marks I made on the night of our wedding, but the notes blur together. This is all so secret, so sacred, and I do not know if I can bear to share it with anyone else. I am my wedding gown—fragile, flimsy, ephemeral—the ash smudges that are my music will fade and disappear with time. And still I cannot bring myself to write.
Tears, along with drops of ink, stain the paper before me, dotting the staff like a measure of eighth notes. Somewhere in the distance, on the other side of the far wall perhaps, a violin begins to play. The Goblin King. I bring my hands to the klavier and follow. Without our bodies to get in the way, our true selves take flight and dance. His is intricate complexity and mystery; mine is unconventional and emotional. Yet somehow we fit, harmonious and complementary, contrapuntal without dissonance. I think I’m beginning to understand.
I dip my quill into the inkwell once again, and join up my teardrops into a song.
CHANGELING
Liesl!
Someone called my name, and I struggled against the weight of darkness pressing me into sleep.
Liesl!
The voice was familiar—dear—to me, but I could not remember where I had heard it before. When I had heard it. With one great effort, I wrenched my eyes open.
I was in the Goblin Grove. A bright red shape walked toward me and I knew her before I even saw her face. Who else would steal my red cloak?
Käthe! I called, but I was voiceless.
My sister scanned the forest, as though she had heard some echo of her name. But her eyes did not settle on me, did not find me standing in front of her.
Käthe! I tried again, but I was invisible.
“Liesl.” Käthe paced the Goblin Grove. “Liesl, Liesl, Liesl.”
My sister chanted my name over and over, a summons or an incantation. With shaking hands, she reached into her satchel and withdrew a sheaf of papers. My heart leaped in my chest. It was the piece of me I had left behind, the composition I called Der Erlkönig.
Then Käthe reached into her satchel again, drew out a piece of foolscap and a lead pen. To my surprise, the paper was covered with little figures—hands, eyes, lips, dresses. I had not known my little sister could draw, and draw well.
Resting the foolscap against her knee, Käthe began scribbling furiously. I leaned closer to see what she was sketching—a tree?—but Käthe wasn’t drawing; she was writing.