She laughed. “Oh, child,” she said. “There will always be those envious of our gift. The touch of the Underground upon us. I adore Otto, but I cannot pretend he married me solely for love.”
I picked at my luncheon. Josef’s jealousy at my connection with the Goblin King was a festering sore between us, but it wasn’t the only injury slowly turning septic. My brother had more right than most to the Underground and its magic. He was of that magic, even if he did not know it. Even if I did not want him to know it. I was afraid of what that knowledge would do to him. To us.
“How—how do you deal with it?” I whispered.
The Countess paused mid-bite. “With what?”
“With the loneliness.” I dared not look at her.
It was a while before she answered. I could feel those eyes, sharp and searching, on my face, and I did not know whether to shun or welcome her sympathy.
“You have a destiny,” she said at last. “And I will not lie to you and say that it is an easy path to follow. There is no one in living memory who has done what you have done: walk away from the Underground and live. Not even I, the last descendant of the first Goblin Queen, know what that is like.”
I could not swallow for the lump in my throat. I was alone. I would always be alone.
“But if your brother truly loved you, he would understand,” the Countess said softly. “You are both touched by the Underground in your own ways.”
I stiffened, alarm running down my spine. The truth of my brother’s changeling nature was a secret I had shared with no one, not even with the one who deserved to hear it most. “What do you mean?”
She tilted her head, an enigmatic smile on her face. “He has an extraordinary gift with music. It is said that art and genius are fruits of the Underground. We are Der Erlk?nig’s own, after all.”
My shoulders relaxed. “I see,” I said. I bit my lip. “But is it enough?”
“For you or for him?” Her eyes were shrewd.
“Both,” I replied. “Either. Jealousy can be poison.”
I should know. I had been jealous of my brother his entire life.
“Only you and he can say,” she said, her voice gentle. “For some, love can overcome jealousy. For others, jealousy will overcome love. Who you are and who he is is a matter only the two of you can resolve.”
I stared down at the half-eaten, torn-apart bread roll in my hands.
“Come,” the Countess said after a bit, brushing crumbs from her hands and skirts. “Let us go.”
“Go?” I looked up to see her putting away the dishes and napkins back into our picnic basket. “Go where?”
“Where I go when I’m feeling sorry for myself.” Her smile was gentle, her expression full of both pity and understanding. “Now, help me to my feet, child, and I shall call Konrad to bring the horses.”
*
I did not ride, but according to the Countess, there was no better way to get to the monastery.
“The monastery?” I asked with surprise. I remembered my brother pointing out the burned-out building as we drove into the valley. “But I thought it was destroyed.”
“It was,” she said. “But the ruins are still structurally sound and it boasts some of best views of the valley.”
“Is it . . . is it safe?” I did not mean the ruins.
“From the Hunt?” the Countess asked, guessing at my fear. I nodded. “Yes, as long as you’re with me.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, her green eyes glinting. “There is an ancient protection in my bloodline.” Her green gaze slid to Konrad, who was bringing the horses around. “Because of what my foremother did when she walked away.”
I frowned. “But the Hunt still rides after me. How did she escape retribution?”
The question had been sitting like a burning ember in my chest ever since I had first learned of the brave maiden. Ever since I had seen the gallery of the previous brides in the tailor’s shop Underground, a gown on a dress form the only remaining bit of proof any of them had ever existed. I had received a story and name with each one: Magdalena, Maria Emmanuel, Bettina, Franziska, Like, Hildegard, Walburga. Women who had given themselves to death for a myriad reasons: despair, pleasure, adventure, deceit. But the very first bride—the brave maiden—her name was stricken from goblin memory, her legacy to be forgotten and forbidden by the old laws. How she did escape . . . for good?
“All in good time, my dear,” the Countess said. “Now let Konrad help you up onto your horse, there’s a good lass.”
I eyed the beasts with fear and suspicion. Although we stabled horses at the inn, I had never ridden one before. The Countess assured me that she was a poor rider herself, and that I need not fear, for we would take it easy up the slopes to our destination.
A quarter of an hour later, I was perched precariously atop a white mare called Vesna.
“Named after the goddess of spring,” the Countess said, riding up on her own horse—a dun-colored gelding—and patting Vesna on the rump. For all her claims to be a poor rider, the Countess sat astride her mount with the ease of one raised to a genteel life. She rode for pleasure, not for labor, and kept a brisk pace, leaving me and Vesna to follow as best we could. I wished I were sitting astride my horse, but Vesna had been fitted with a lady’s saddle, and I did not have a lady’s seat. Instead, I clung to her reins for dear life as we jostled and jounced our way up the mountain paths to Snovin Monastery.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the Countess breathed once we reached the summit. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and the morning’s exertions, her eyes bright and sparkling. On her mount she had four good legs, and I could see how the freedom exhilarated her. I, on the other hand, could barely feel my hands for the chill and the death grip to which I had subjected them for the past hour and a half.
“Indeed,” I squeaked, my throat tight with nervousness. I was held together with prayer and stiff muscles, but bit by bit, my bones stopped rattling and I was able to enjoy the scene before me.
My hostess was right, the picture before us was beautiful. Up close, I could see that the monastery had been built of a golden stone that still gleamed despite the ravages of time, and from our vantage point we could see around us for miles. I saw for the first time the nearby town of New Snovin, the red-tiled buildings shining bright in the afternoon sun like poppies in a field. The Countess explained that the town had been moved from its original location years ago due to plague and famine; indeed, we had passed the empty remains of several old houses and cottages on our way to the monastery. It was why Snovin Hall had seemed so isolated; the town immediately surrounding it had been abandoned years before.
We passed under a rusted iron gate into a large stone courtyard that very much resembled a village square.