I jumped, but a breeze from the broken windowpanes ruffled my hair, like a reassuring sprite sent to soothe my ruffled nerves. No malicious magic here, though the ballroom was steeped in the uncanny and unknown. A thousand Liesls stared back at me from broken mirrored panels, our eyes wide with wonder, our complexion wan with weariness.
Mirrors. Every other reflective surface in the house had been covered, including polished stone and brass and copper. It seemed strange that the Procházkas had not bothered here, but perhaps it had taken too much effort. The ballroom was not much larger than the one in their Viennese Stadthaus, but the mirrors and ceiling height gave it the illusion of a much bigger space.
I explored the panels, lightly touching the cracked silvered glass, and discovered two walls I could slide aside like a screen. To my surprise, I found an array of old and dusty instruments as well as some chairs and music stands—a musicians’ gallery. A clever construction, for the musicians could remain hidden out of sight while they played for the guests, opening up the entirety of the ballroom for dancing. I ran my hands over the violoncello and an old viol, the strings long since rotted away, leaving trails in dust as thick and as white as snow. An ancient virginal with an inverted keyboard sat off to the side, its lid closed, its bench still standing. It was likely similarly rotted and decayed inside, but I couldn’t help but press a few keys despite myself, feeling a sharp pang for the clavichord I had left behind in Vienna.
The notes rang in tune.
I snatched back my hand, my myriad reflections mirroring the gesture out of the corner of my eye. Something else moved beyond the edges of my vision, half a breath later than the rest. Looking around, I searched for a rat or some other vermin scurrying about when I found myself staring into a pair of blue eyes.
Liesl?
“K?the?” I asked, not daring to breathe.
Our images ran forward, hands outstretched, as though we could grab each other through the glass. Behind me, a thousand Liesls trailed behind, all running for my sister standing in the shadow paths.
Liesl! she said in a voiceless cry. Liesl, where are you?
“I’m here, I’m here,” I said, choking on the salt taste of my tears as they ran down my cheeks.
Where is here? K?the squinted, as though trying to peer into my world from the mirror.
“Snovin,” I said. “Snovin Hall.”
The Procházkas’ house?
“Yes! I’m here, I am safe. I am well. Where are you?”
Get out of there! K?the said, her eyes round with terror. You must leave at once!
“How?” I asked. “Have you received my letter? Is there any way you could send help?”
Oh, Liesl, she said. We’ve been trying for weeks to send word. The night of the black-and-white ball, two people were found dead in the gardens, their throats slashed with silver, their lips blue with frost.
“Elf-struck,” I whispered.
Yes, K?the said. Bramble found me and Fran?ois and brought us to the Faithful for safety.
“The Faithful? Who is Bramble?”
The Faithful are those who have been touched by the Underground, like you and me. Those with the Sight, or those who have escaped the clutches of the old laws. They are keepers of knowledge, and a family bound by belief, not blood. Oh, Liesl, you must leave. You’re in terrible danger!
My throat tightened. “The Faithful? Der Erlk?nig’s own?”
My sister’s reflection shook her head. The Procházkas call themselves Der Erlk?nig’s own, but they are not of the Faithful. The Faithful keep watch, but the Procházkas do harm.
“Do harm? How do you mean?”
Do you remember the stories of the young girl they took under their wing? How she disappeared and a young man was found dead on the grounds of their country home?
A cold, sinking feeling settled into my bones, weighing me down with fear. “Yes. Rumors—”
They’re not rumors! K?the screamed, but no sound escaped her lips. No one knows what they do up there in the remote hills of Bohemia, but they are not to be trusted. That maiden and the youth were not the first. Her name was Adelaide, and she was one of the Faithful.
Adelaide. The Procházkas’ so-called daughter. My fingers went numb.
Bramble has been teaching me of the shadow paths, she went on. But they know, Liesl. They know to cover the mirrors, to hide their faces from the unseen world. They made a terrible sacrifice to the old laws to escape the Wild Hunt.
“What?” I cried. “What did they do?”
Blood of the Faithful, unwillingly given, to seal the barriers between worlds.
“How do you know this?” I clenched my fists with despair. “Who told you?”
Bramble, she said. A changeling.
I no longer felt my heart beating in my chest. “A changeling? Are you sure?”
My sister tore out her hair. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m sure! All that matters is that you and Josef get out of there!
“How? Where do I go? How will you find me?”
You must— She cut herself off abruptly.
“K?the?”
Oh no, she said, her face pale with fright. He comes.
“Who?”
I can’t stay long, K?the said. Der Erlk?nig will find me. Her expression was hard. Go. Get yourself to the nearest town and follow the poppies.
“The symbol of House Procházka?”
No, she said. The souls of those stolen by the Hunt. The souls of the Faithful. They protect us still, Liesl. They— Her eyes grew wide with panic. I must go.
“K?the—” But my sister was gone, leaving nothing but the stunned image of my own face staring back at me. “K?the!”
“Liesl?”
I whirled around. Josef stood behind me, confusion writ across his features.
“Sepperl!”
“Liesl, who were you talking to?” He carried his violin case, as though he had come to the ballroom to play like a musician in the gallery.
“You didn’t—did you see . . . ?” But I couldn’t finish the sentence. Of course he hadn’t. Even now I was beginning to doubt my conversation with my sister, surrounded by static reflections of Josef and myself—skepticism and concern on his face, fear and a crazed expression on mine. I looked like a madwoman, I realized, my hair in disarray, my eyes wild and overlarge on my face. I laughed, and even my laughter sounded insane.
“Perhaps you should have a seat,” Josef said carefully. He set down his violin and pulled forth a chair from the musicians’ gallery. He gently led me to it and sat me down, his touch tentative and unsure, as though I were a nervous filly about to bolt.
“Sepperl,” I said, my voice shaking. “Am I going mad?”
He cocked his head and smoothed the strands of hair away from my face with calloused fingertips. “Does it matter?”
I burst into laughter again, but it sounded more like sobs. “I don’t know. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”