Our lips meet in a clash of teeth and tongue. The retiring room falls away, and we fall together, the Goblin King and I. We land on a soft bed of leaves that crackle and rustle with every twitch of our limbs, every sigh of our bodies, and the world around us is dark, secret, safe.
His hands hold my face, drawing me in as though he could drink in my breath, my blood, my life. He is certain and sure; I am artless and awkward. My hands clutch at his back, pressing him close, wanting to feel every bit of him against me like a second skin. The diamonds sewn into the bodice of my gown bite into me, and I itch and I sting and I burn.
You do not know what you ask, he murmurs over and over again into my mouth. You cannot know.
I do not know but I want to learn. I want him to push me to my limits, to find my edges, then call me back. Find my edges, I plead, then obliterate them.
I tear at the fine lace at his throat, find the buttons and seams of his shirt with my fingers. His skin is cool as I pull at his clothes, and the thrill of this touch, this contact, sends shivers through me. I scrabble and claw at my dress, wanting to shuck my finery the way a snake sheds its old self, leaving behind nothing but the impression of the body that once inhabited it. I want to be naked and new, to experience his touch afresh.
Stop, he says, but I don’t stop. I don’t know how to stop. I’m afraid if I stop, I will never start again. So I keep going, trying to work my arms free of my gown.
Elisabeth. The Goblin King pins my wandering hands beneath his forearm, the weight of his body heavy against me. But it’s not the feel of him pressing me into the bed that brings my breath short; it’s the look in his eyes. I see the austere young man, and suddenly I am embarrassed of my eagerness, my willingness to make myself a fool.
I turn my gaze away, cheeks burning. The hand that reaches up to touch my face is cool, and the Goblin King is gentle.
Look at me.
But I can’t.
Elisabeth.
I look, and the austere young man is still there, waiting for me to follow him into the woods. I am no longer ashamed of my wanting, and I tilt my head to kiss him. He warms to my breath and I follow him as we grow wilder and wilder. We stop for breath and now there is a hint of the devil in his angelic face. The wolf has come out to play.
And then we are grasping at each other, gasping, grabbing. We hold each other close, but it’s not close enough, it will never be close enough. Our hands map the hills and valleys of our bodies, exploring, discovering. The fingers of his hand run up my thigh and I gasp, tangling my hands in his thistledown hair.
Time stops. He stops. I stop. We look at each other, a question in his gaze, a reply on my tongue. But we do not speak, and the moment is frozen within my heart—this ask and this answer.
“I wish …” I say hoarsely, but I don’t know what it is I’m wishing for.
“Your wish is my command,” the Goblin King says softly.
I could stop. We could stop. I could fold myself back into the small spaces of my heart, where my music and magic lie hidden, secret and safe.
“You don’t …” His words trail away, and the rest of his sentence hangs unspoken between us. You don’t have to.
A choice. He gives a choice, and it is the truest gift he has ever given me.
“Yes.” My voice is clear. “My answer is yes.”
He presses against me, lost in the wilderness, and the side of his arm catches against my throat. I cough, but the Goblin King does not hear. My gasps are strangled and tears start in my eyes. Fullness. There is fullness.
It hurts. I hurt. I wish lingers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. I don’t want him to stop. He’s found my edges. I have found my limits. But beyond the border of pain, there is something else.
Freedom.
I start to cry in earnest, a rush, a torrent of emotion, of beauty, of shame. My mind goes blank and I am nothing but my body. Liesl is gone, and I am reduced to my elemental parts: music, magic, imagination, and inspiration. The sensation is frightening in its intensity, and I call out a name, wanting the Goblin King to anchor me back to myself.
His head snaps up and our eyes meet. His eyes, glassy and dark and opaque, grow clear as the wolf retreats and the austere young man returns. But when he does, his gaze falls on the tears staining my cheeks, and he jerks away.
No, don’t go, I want to say, but I can’t speak. I’m here, I’m here. I’m here at last.
“Oh no,” he says. “Oh no no no.” He retreats, hiding his face in his hands.
The Goblin King curls up at the corner of the bed, his back turned to me. As my wits return one by one, I realize we are in the Goblin King’s bedchamber. I crawl toward him, heedless of the shredded remains of my dress, and wrap my arms around him.
“I am,” he whispers, “the monster I warned you against.”
“You are,” I say hoarsely, “the monster I claim.”
“I don’t deserve your mercy, Elisabeth.”
We lie there in silence, the rise and fall of our breaths our only movement.
“No,” I say at last. “Not my mercy, but my gratitude.”
The Goblin King laughs, a choked, almost hopeful sound. He turns to hold me close. “Oh, Elisabeth,” he says. “You are a saint.”
But I am not a saint. I open my mouth to protest, but the salt of his tears stains my lips, startling me into silence. I listen to the beat of the Goblin King’s heart slow and fade into sleep and whisper to myself the truth he does not hear.
I am not a saint; I am a sinner. I want to sin again and again and again.