*
I played everything I knew, every étude and écossaise, every chaconne and concerto, every sonata and song. I embroidered, I embellished, I improvised, I improved. I played and played and played until the flames died down, until my fingers turned white with frost, until my throat grew hoarse with ice. I played until the darkness creeping in on the edges of my vision became the entirety of it, until I could no longer see the approaching dawn.
*
Someone takes me in his arms.
“Hans?” I ask weakly.
There is no reply.
Only the sensation of long fingers running along the length of my neck, soft and gentle as spring rain. They rest against my collarbones. The caress is light, and somehow reminds me of the flute in my hand.
Then I know no more.
Part II
THE GOBLIN BALL
A linnet in a gilded cage, -
A linnet on a bough, -
In frosty winter one might doubt Which bird is luckier now.
But let the trees burst out in leaf, And nests be on the bough,
Which linnet is the luckier bird, Oh who could doubt it now?
—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI, A Linnet in a Gilded Cage
FAIRY LIGHTS
The sound of giggles woke me.
“K?the?” I murmured. “It is early yet.” It was too dark to be dawn, too dark for my sleepy sister to be awake. I reached under the covers for her warmth, but there was nothing.
My eyes opened with a snap. The room was dimly lit, but I wasn’t home, wasn’t in my bed. I was comfortable, for one thing. The mattress K?the and I shared was old, full of lumps and sags, and no matter how many hot bricks wrapped in wool we cuddled, no matter how many blankets we piled over our heads, it was never warm enough.
I sat up. The room brightened. Small twinkling lights hovered beside me, and I gasped with delight. I reached to touch one, but was met with an angry zzzzzzzt! and a sharp, sizzling pain that lasted half a moment. The light pulsed irritably before resuming its steady glow.
“Fairy lights,” I breathed.
Fairy lights.
The fey. Goblins. Der Erlk?nig.
“K?the!” I cried, throwing off my covers and scattering the fairy lights into a frenzy.
But there was no reply.
I was Underground.
I had done it. I had won this round.
Now fully awake, I saw I was in some sort of barrow, the ceilings, floors, and walls made of packed dirt. But there were no doors, no windows, no way to escape. The room was as sealed as a tomb. The bed was carved from the roots of a very great tree, the roots curved and bent into sinuous shapes, almost as if it had been grown.
I got to my feet. A crackling fire gave off cheery pops and hisses in a beautiful travertine fireplace. I ran my hand over the mantel. The creamy white stone was shot through with gold, the joins seamless, as though it had been laid from one continuous slab of stone. Such fine craftsmanship seemed incongruous in this tomb of roots and dirt.
I wandered every inch of my barrow, searching for a window, a threshold, some means of escape. The barrow was well-appointed with little luxuries and creature comforts, outfitted like a graceful lady’s private quarters. An upholstered chair and table in the Louis Quinze style graced the hearth, and a beautiful rug woven with glittering threads covered the packed-earth floor. Above the mantel hung a large painting of a winter landscape, and scattered about here and there on side tables and dressers were delicate, decorative objets d’art.
At first glance, it was all harmonious elegance and feminine delicacy. Yet upon closer inspection, little grotesqueries revealed themselves. Instead of smiling cherubs, little hobgoblins leered from the carved furniture finials. The carpet beneath my feet depicted stylized spiderwebs and flowers dying on the vine. The pretty little objects decorating my room were not charming little china shepherdesses; they were demon-faced nymphs with a flock of hunchbacked goblins. Their shepherds’ crooks had been replaced with reapers’ scythes, their dresses torn and ravaged, revealing breasts and hips and thighs. Instead of pretty pouts, their lips were twisted into satyrs’ smiles. I shuddered.
The winter landscape above my mantel was the only bit of art in my barrow that did not reveal itself to be full of hidden ugliness. It showed a forest shrouded in fog, disconcertingly familiar. The mist seemed to move and writhe at the corners of my vision. I peered closer. With a jolt I realized it was a painting of the Goblin Grove. The painting was so skillfully rendered that its brushstrokes were practically invisible, more like a window than a work of art. My fingers reached to touch it.
Giggles erupted behind me.