I sit at the klavier, minutes or hours later, fingering the smudges on the fabric of my wedding gown. The words of the Goblin King echo in my mind’s ear—you, entire; you, entire—a refrain I cannot shake. It is not my body he demands; it is my music. I am more than the flesh and bones that house my spirit. I want to give him that innermost part of me now, more intimate than any carnal knowledge we could learn together. But I do not know how. It is easier to give him my body than to give him my soul.
I pull a sheet of staff paper toward me and pick up the quill. I dip it into the inkwell, but do not write. I see the marks I made on the night of our wedding, but the notes blur together. This is all so secret, so sacred, and I do not know if I can bear to share it with anyone else. I am my wedding gown—fragile, flimsy, ephemeral—the ash smudges that are my music will fade and disappear with time. And still I cannot bring myself to write.
Tears, along with drops of ink, stain the paper before me, dotting the staff like a measure of eighth notes. Somewhere in the distance, on the other side of the far wall perhaps, a violin begins to play. The Goblin King. I bring my hands to the klavier and follow. Without our bodies to get in the way, our true selves take flight and dance. His is intricate complexity and mystery; mine is unconventional and emotional. Yet somehow we fit, harmonious and complementary, contrapuntal without dissonance. I think I’m beginning to understand.
I dip my quill into the inkwell once again, and join up my teardrops into a song.
CHANGELING
Liesl!
Someone called my name, and I struggled against the weight of darkness pressing me into sleep.
Liesl!
The voice was familiar—dear—to me, but I could not remember where I had heard it before. When I had heard it. With one great effort, I wrenched my eyes open.
I was in the Goblin Grove. A bright red shape walked toward me and I knew her before I even saw her face. Who else would steal my red cloak?
K?the! I called, but I was voiceless.
My sister scanned the forest, as though she had heard some echo of her name. But her eyes did not settle on me, did not find me standing in front of her.
K?the! I tried again, but I was invisible.
“Liesl.” K?the paced the Goblin Grove. “Liesl, Liesl, Liesl.”
My sister chanted my name over and over, a summons or an incantation. With shaking hands, she reached into her satchel and withdrew a sheaf of papers. My heart leaped in my chest. It was the piece of me I had left behind, the composition I called Der Erlk?nig.
Then K?the reached into her satchel again, drew out a piece of foolscap and a lead pen. To my surprise, the paper was covered with little figures—hands, eyes, lips, dresses. I had not known my little sister could draw, and draw well.
Resting the foolscap against her knee, K?the began scribbling furiously. I leaned closer to see what she was sketching—a tree?—but K?the wasn’t drawing; she was writing.
Dear Josef.
A letter. She was writing a frantic, hurried, panic-filled letter.
Liesl is gone. Liesl is gone. Liesl is gone.
K?the ignored both her spelling and her penmanship in a rush to get down her words. Liesl is gon and no one rememburs her name. I am not going mad. I am not. I hav held the pruf of our sister in my hands, and I am riting nao to entrust it into yurs. Pubblish it, Josef. Play it. Play her music. Then rite me bac, rite Mother bac. Tell everyone that Liesl exists. That Liesl lives.
She did not even bother to sign her name. Then, holding the letter before her like a precious artifact, K?the took one trembling, hesitant step beyond the Goblin Grove.
A strangled, inarticulate cry ripped through the forest. I jumped back as K?the tore the foolscap in her hands, violently, angrily. She threw the pieces away and they scattered about her like falling petals. Bits of paper floated toward me, and I reached out to touch one, afraid I would pass through it like mist.
The paper was solid in my hand. I gathered them all, and tried to piece them together; a bit of a hand, the tip of a finger, the corner of a smile, the shine of an eye. I searched for me, for evidence of my existence, but there was nothing. Only blank, empty space where my name used to be.
The world grew dark around me. I covered my face, and wept.
*
The sound of a violin. My heart thrilled, recognizing its sweet strains, its exquisite emotional clarity.
Josef.
I removed my hands from my face. My brother and Fran?ois stood before me, playing for an audience. As they finished together—in sync, in unison—the audience leaped to their feet. I could feel the applause but not hear it; I could see the cries of Encore! Encore! etched on their lips, but the room was as silent as a tomb.
After a cursory bow, Josef removed himself from the salon with an abruptness that bordered on rudeness. Fran?ois said something placating to the confused listeners and then hurried after Josef. I followed them into an adjoining chamber, small, private, and intimate. Fran?ois furiously gestured to the audience outside. The boys argued, Fran?ois agitated and incensed, my brother curiously laconic and morose. Josef shook his head and said something that stopped the black boy short.