I leaned into the notes, my body pushing and pulling with the music. I closed my eyes and imagined the Goblin King standing behind me, his hands resting about my shoulders. Sixteenth notes in a chromatic scale. Those same hands, fingers splayed, running down my throat to my collarbone, down my shoulders, down my décolletage. Falling notes, glissando, slower eighths. I let out a sigh.
There was an echo of that sigh in the room.
Let the Goblin King listen to me now. Let him hear my frustration and forgiveness.
As I played, as I composed, I waited. I waited for the soft touch of a hand against my hair, the whisper of a breath upon my neck. I waited for his shadow to fall across the keys, for teardrops to fall on my shoulder. I waited and waited and waited until the sun came up, until the darkness faded to show no trace that the Goblin King had ever been there.
* * *
It didn’t work. I had been so certain—so sure—that my music, the music he had so desperately wanted of me, would be enough to draw the Goblin King from his guilt. But as the minutes, the hours, the days passed, my husband kept his distance. He had not touched me, not spoken to me, not looked at me since our disastrous encounter after he brought me back from the world above.
I missed him.
I missed our conversations by the fire, when he had read aloud from the writings of Erasmus and Kepler and Copernicus, when I had set aside my self-consciousness and performed for him the works of occasional poetry I had learned. I missed our childish games of Truth or Forfeit, his hand tricks and jests. I missed working with him on our Wedding Night Sonata, but most of all I missed his smile, his mismatched eyes, and those long, elegant fingers of his that worked both music and magic.
Well, if the Goblin King would not come to me, then I would drag him out from hiding myself.
The second movement of the Wedding Night Sonata was nearly finished, and it had nothing of the Goblin King’s voice within it. I set down my quill.
“Thistle,” I said to the waiting air.
The goblin girl materialized before me.
“What do you want now, Goblin Queen?” she sneered.
“Where is Der Erlkönig?” I asked.
“In the chapel. As is his wont these days.”
“Lead me to him.”
Thistle raised an eyebrow, or she would have, had she had eyebrows at all. “You are braver than I reckoned, mortal, to interrupt His Majesty during his devotions.”
I shrugged. “I believe in God’s unending forgiveness.”
“It’s not your God’s forgiveness you’d be needing.”
Nevertheless, Thistle agreed—after I had wished it—to guide me to the chapel to retrieve the Goblin King’s violin. Thistle left me at the entrance and then disappeared as soon as I released her.
The chapel was empty.
I was furious with my goblin girl, berating myself for allowing myself to be swindled by her tricks. I should have asked Twig instead. I turned to leave, but not before a violin before the altar caught my eye.
The Goblin King’s violin.
I walked up the aisle to retrieve it, to take his voice and his guilt away. Above, the stained glass windows glowed with an otherworldly light. There were no pews or seats in the space; after all, there was no priest to conduct a service, no parishioners to attend. A plain wooden crucifix hung above the altar, and in the chancel rested the Goblin King’s violin in its stand on a small table.
As soon as my hands touched its warm, aged wood, a sigh echoed around me.
I nearly dropped the violin from surprise. I turned around, but there was no one there.
“I don’t know if Thou art there, my Lord, but I am here, come once more, kneeling and asking forgiveness. Asking for guidance. I am so far from Thee and Thy grace in the Underground, yet still I yearn for Thy presence.”
The voice came from one of the niches lining the aisle, devotional spaces where one might light a candle for prayer. I tiptoed my way toward the one on my left, from which the voice emanated.
The Goblin King knelt at a small table, head bowed before a small gilt image of Christ. Several candles burned beside him, illuminating the face of Our Lord with a gentle, golden glow.
“As the years pass, one would think the immortal would become accustomed to death. After all, everyone else withers and fades. For one such as me, it is merely a fact of existence. Do mortals wonder at the passing of summer into autumn? Of autumn into winter? No, they trust that the world will turn again, and life and warmth will return. And yet …”
The Goblin King lifted his head. I pressed back against the rock wall, hidden from view.
“And yet I keenly feel the bitter chill of each winter. The frostbite of death never lessens its terrible sting. I have watched so many of my brides bloom and fade, but …”
His voice faltered.
I shouldn’t be here. I should leave the Goblin King to his private confessions. I turned to go.
“But Elisabeth …”
I stopped.
“Elisabeth is not like the flowers who have come before. Their beauty is fleeting, transient. One learns to admire them while they last, for they will be ashes tomorrow. Once their petals faded to brown, I swept them away.”
My ears were not meant to hear his soul poured out before God. Yet I could not move. Did not want to move.
“They would call me cruel, I suppose. She would call me cruel. But to be cruel, cold, and distant was the only way I knew how to survive.” He laughed, but it was more a scoff than a chuckle. “Why does an immortal need to worry about survival? Oh, my Lord, every day is a struggle to survive.”