There was a hesitation whenever he touched me now, a conscious gentleness that infuriated me. The door had been opened between us, and I wanted him to walk in and treat my body like home. But there was a line he would not cross, for although I felt his ardor in every kiss, every caress, he never entered. If I could still laugh, my laugh would have been heard even in the world above.
It was not my shame that stopped us now; it was his guilt.
“You are not attending,” I said one evening after dinner.
“Hmmm?”
We had just finished playing a series of suites in G minor by a composer unknown to me. The Goblin King had an entire repertoire of music, a library of librettos and portfolios stolen from the world above. Many of the composers’ names were lost to time, but I wondered if something of their ghosts didn’t stir each time their music was played. At first I had thought these compositions the work of the same man, for they were all written in the same hand, until the Goblin King admitted he had copied the notes down himself.
“I was a copyist once,” he said. Then he shut his mouth and did not say another word, although I pressed and pestered until his patience snapped.
He was immediately contrite afterward, which only needled me more. In the space between his anger and his apology, I had felt that spark of flame between us, and for the briefest moment, all my senses flared to life, as intense and potent as they had been in the world above.
But his guilt dampened my fire and my hope.
“You are not attending,” I repeated. “You were playing by rote; I could hear the emptiness.”
The emptiness was not just in his playing. It was in the silences between us. Where the quiet had once been full, full of music and communion, now it was hollow.
The Goblin King’s bow, still poised over the strings, trembled in his grip. The horsehair bounced lightly against the bridge, producing a nervous, fidgety sound.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m tired. I’ve been up long into the dark hours of the night these past few days.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one. I could see the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes, and had heard from both Twig and Thistle that the Goblin King did not sleep, but spent his time wandering the winding passages of the Underground.
“Then let us rest,” I said. I clapped my hands, and Twig and Thistle appeared, one bearing a decanter of brandy and a glass, the other a salver of strawberries. I poured the Goblin King a drink and held it out to him.
He did not miss the significance of the gesture. “I’m fine, Elisabeth.”
I shrugged, then took a sip myself. The liquor was weak and watery.
“Well,” I said. “How shall we pass the time, then, mein Herr?”
“I am at my lady’s command,” he said. “Your wish is my desire.”
“Is it?” I rose from the klavier and took a step forward. “Then I think you know just how I would like to pass the time.”
The Goblin King raised his bow like a sword and his violin like a shield between us. “Not tonight, my dear.”
Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not any nights in the foreseeable future. I would have cried, if I had any sorrow left. I would have shouted, if anger still burned within me. But there was nothing, nothing but hope and despair, and despair was winning.
“Very well.” I returned to my seat at the keyboard. I wanted to throw up my hands in defeat, or wrap them around his throat and throttle him. I wanted to pour my frustration out into song. But I did not know how to articulate the swirling maelstrom of confusion within me into words, phrases, sentences, so I twisted my fingers into the keyboard instead. A discordant jangle, a handful of notes that clashed and screeched. “Let us play a game.”
Something in the Goblin King loosened, though his wolf’s eyes were still wary. “What game, my dear?”
“Truth or Forfeit.”
He lifted his brows. “Child’s play?”
“The only games I know. Come, mein Herr, surely you remember our games in the Goblin Grove.”
A smile showed the tips of his teeth. “I do, Elisabeth. With pleasure.”
“Good.” Hope flickered in my stomach. “I shall start.”
I picked up the tray of strawberries and moved from the bench to the floor. I set the berries before me and tucked my legs beneath my skirts, as I had when I was a little girl. The Goblin King made no remark, only set aside his instrument and joined me on the ground. I held forth my hands, palms up. No tricks. The Goblin King took my hands in his own. No traps.
“We’ll begin with simple questions,” I said. “What is your name?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh no, Elisabeth. That is a question I cannot answer. Pick another.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
His eyes were hard. “Can’t. Won’t. Both. It doesn’t matter. Pick another. Or name your forfeit, and I shall pay it.”
I hadn’t expected the game to start off so poorly, so I hadn’t yet gathered any ideas for penalties to dole out. So I asked another question. “Fine. What is your favorite color?”
“Green. What’s yours?”
My glance fell on the salver beside me. “Red. Favorite smell?”
“Incense. Favorite animal?”
My eyes lingered on his. “Wolf. Favorite composer?”
“You.”
The response was so simple, so sincere, it took my breath away. “All right,” I said, my voice unsteady. “The questions will get harder now. I shall ask you five questions, and you must reply truthfully or pay the forfeit. Then you may ask me five.”