by S. Jae-Jones
“I just—my goodness—how—” My sister could not properly string her words together, the strand connecting her thoughts breaking, scattering them everywhere. She looked up at me, her blue eyes alight with joy and relief and . . . hope. It shone brighter than the sun and I had to look away, lest I be blinded. My eyes watered, and I told myself it was due to my sister’s radiance, not the rush of relief. “Could this possibly be real?”
Numbly, I picked up the leather pouch and opened it. Gold glinted in the late afternoon sun, and I poured the coins out over the table. Käthe gasped.
“What does this mean?” she cried.
What did this all mean indeed? I tried to smile, but felt strangely removed from the matter. Surely beneath the numbness of shock there was a wellspring of excitement and anticipation, but everything seemed as though I were in a dream. The scene unfolding around me had a slow, surreal feel, as though I were still asleep, caught between waking and slumber. A path had opened before me that I had not seen before. I had wanted to compose music. I had wanted to escape. There was a time when I was the Goblin Queen, when my wishes had weight, when I could twist and shape the world to my will, and now opportunity lined itself up like dominos before me.
But if there was anything I learned from my time as Der Erlkönig’s bride, it was that nothing came without a price.
“This . . . this is a godsend! Think of all we could do for the inn!” Käthe counted the fifty florins with all the meticulous exactitude of a miser. “. . . forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine”—she laughed with delight—“fifty!”
I realized then I had not heard that laugh in an age, the halls of the inn silent of its musical peals, as bright as a bell. I had not known then how I had relied upon her laugh to chase away the storm clouds in my heart.
“You’ll come with me to Vienna, of course,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
Käthe blinked, surprised by my sudden turn in conversation. “What?”
“You’ll be coming with me to Vienna,” I repeated. “Won’t you?”
“Liesl,” she said, eyes shining with tears. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I said. “It’ll be just like the Ideal Imaginary.”
She laughed again, and the sound was as pure as a spring morning. The what-if games my little sister and I had played as girls had been ways to pass the time, a space we created untouched by the grime and grief of ordinary drudgery. A world where we were princesses and queens, a world as beautiful and as magical as any my brother and I had made together.
“Just imagine, Käthe.” I took her hand in mine. “Bonbons and handsome swains waiting on us hand and foot.”
She giggled. “And all the silks and velvets and brocades to dress ourselves in!”
“An invitation to a different ball every night!”
“Masques and operas and parties and dancing!”
“Schnitzel and Apfelstrudel and Turkish coffee!”
“Don’t forget the chocolate torte,” Käthe added. “It’s your favorite.”
I laughed, and for a moment, I allowed myself to pretend we were little girls again, when our wants and our dreams were as closely entwined as our fingers. “What if,” I said softly.
“Not a what-if,” my sister said fiercely. “A when.”
“When,” I repeated. I could not stop smiling.
“Come,” Käthe said, rising to her feet. “Let’s go tell Mother. We are going to Vienna!”
Vienna. Suddenly, the words on our lips were no longer a wish, but a possibility. I was excited . . . and frightened. I thought of the manic, frantic fantasies I had spun for myself and told myself it was the uncertainty of what we would find there that scared me. I told myself it was the fear of not knowing anyone save for Josef and François, of being lost and alone in a big city without our friends and family to guide us. What I did not tell myself was that it was a warning I had heard from a face wrought of goblin fingers, and a promise I was not sure could be fulfilled.
You cannot leave the Underground, mortal, not without paying the price.
I stared at the broken wax seal, the poppy flower torn in half, and wondered if we were running down the wrong road.
there was a kobold in the house, or so the girls of L’Odalisque claimed. A spiteful little sprite, it liked to play pranks on them—stealing trinkets, switching shoes, sullying their silks and ribbons with dust and dirt from the gardens. In close quarters in a house full of women, such things often went astray. A slit stay here, a slashed gown there, bits of tit for tat as they settled scores and slights with one another.
But these tricks were not the ordinary tallies of mundane retribution borne of a jilted lover, a disinterested client, an unpaid favor, the girls of L’Odalisque would protest. They were the cruel and capricious whims of an invisible spirit. No rhyme or reason but chance and discord, not mischief but malice. When Elif lost her mother’s pearl ring. When Aloysia’s perfume was switched for cat piss. When the miniature portrait of L’Odalisque’s late husband in her locket was defaced. The kobold seemed to know exactly where each person’s sore spots were and spared no one. Personal, pitiless, precise.
Maria and Caroline began carrying iron in their pockets. Edwina and Fadime made charms warding off the evil eye. L’Odalisque herself began lining the thresholds with salt, but no spell or superstition kept the sprite at bay.
It’s no use, Josef said in a distant, misty voice. The monster is in the mirror.
By now they were all used to the blond boy’s queer turns of phrase. He never quite seemed tethered to the present, seeming to trod on ether and air instead of earth and soil. Josef was neither innocent nor pure—he lived in a bawdy house, after all—yet there remained an aura of untouchability or distance to him that was both charismatic and off-putting. He was often seen wandering through the receiving rooms and reception halls of L’Odalisque’s at odd hours of the night, silent as a geist floating from chamber to chamber. The rare times he was heard to speak seemed like prophecy from on high, just as cryptic and just as obtuse as the words of an oracle.
Not a kobold, but a king. He rides ahead of the end. My end.
The girls shook their heads with affection and pity. Lost, they said. Laudanum-addled. And then, in lowered voices. Lacking.
Indeed as the days went on, Josef seemed less and less present. François watched with despair as time seemed to whittle his companion down to his essence, a being not meant for his world. The sunshine in Josef’s hair faded to the colorless gold of dusk or dawn, the blue in his summer-sky eyes dimming to a cloudy winter gray. He had grown tall and lanky with his height, his skin stretched pale over hollow bones. He was a wisp, a wight, a waif, and François wanted nothing more than to breathe life and love back into his beloved’s lungs.
Music was their only connection now, a tether growing thinner and more tenuous by the day. At first they would play suites by Vivaldi and concertos by Haydn, Mozart, and even the upstart Beethoven, much to the enjoyment of the patrons of the house.
I’m a fancy establishment now, L’Odalisque would say.
As long as you don’t raise the prices! the johns would reply.
But even in his playing Josef seemed to be drifting away. His notes were as exact and as clear as ever, but his soul was not in the moment or the melodies. His music was no less beautiful than it was before, only now it was less weighty, less . . . human. François closed his eyes, and turned his head away.
Late at night, the house could hear Josef play the melancholy airs and tunes of a childhood lost and left behind. The girls of L’Odalisque kept ungodly hours, but such was the nature of their trade. The spaces between transactions, the quiet between breaths, this was where Josef lived. He liked to stand before the mirrors in the girls’ quarters, watching the smoothness of his bowing arm, the movement of his fingers across the neck of his violin. Sometimes he wondered which was the reflection and which was the reality, for he felt as though he lived under glass, on the other side of emoti
on, the other side of home.
Until the glass disappeared.
Josef had not played Der Erlkönig since his last public performance, since the last time he had been seen in the world of Vienna above. He was frightened of the feelings the piece wrought in him—not just longing and homesickness, but rage, despair, frustration, futility, sorrow, grief, and hope. On the road with Master Antonius, he had played the bagatelle in secret, sharing the music with François like contraband. Then, Der Erlkönig had seemed both like shelter and an escape, the sensation of his sister’s arms enfolding him in a protective embrace.
But now it felt like a rebuke. Or perhaps a bruise. Having emotions at all felt tender, sore, and Josef was comfortably numb. He saw François’s sadness but did not share it. He was living under glass, and it was safe.
That night, he decided to open up old wounds.
As he was wont to do, he stood before the mirror and began to play. The instant his bow touched the strings, the world changed. The scent of pine and damp filled the room, the deep green of sleeping woods and earth. Shadows deepened the mirror-blue night with depth, and before him stood the tall, elegant stranger, also playing a violin.
Josef felt no fear or surprise, only a distant sense of recognition. He remembered this figure from his dreams, as familiar to him as an old friend. The stranger was cloaked and hooded, his face lost to darkness, but those long hands matched his bowing and fingering, phrase for phrase, the music matched in perfect unison.
And then, little by little, note by note, Josef felt the lightening of his spirit. A door had been opened, and for the first time in a long time, he was present. A faint, persistent drumming filled his ears. Hoofbeats? Or his heart?
The stranger stood in a room much like the one in which Josef was standing. He watched with fascination as the figure turned and explored the room, picking up a hairbrush here, a ribbon there. He pocketed a ring, a coin, a slipper. He unraveled a scarf, tied knots into corset strings, and hid a powder box on a shelf where no one could see. The stranger turned to Josef, and a slash of light illuminated the sharpened tips of a wolfish grin. He pressed his finger to his lips in a quiet gesture, and Josef found himself mirroring the movement. Up close, those long, elegant hands were twisted and odd, and Josef saw that there was an extra joint in each finger.
“Who are you?” he whispered to the stranger in his reflection.
The figure cocked his head. Blond curls peeked out from beneath the hood, a quizzical tilt of the chin. Josef nodded and the stranger’s grin widened. Slowly, deliberately, he raised those extra-jointed fingers to the edge of his hood and pushed it from his head.
It was his own face that stared back at him.
The kobold, the monster in the mirror, was him.
The thundering of Josef’s heart grew louder and louder, until it drowned out all sound and sense. He collapsed onto the floor, as shadows passed over the face of the moon, spectral riders on a spectral chase.
And outside, a woman with green eyes that glowed in the dark watched the clouds quake and quiver as they passed over the house of L’Odalisque, the small, satisfied smile of a hunter curling about her lips.
A MAELSTROM IN THE BLOOD
i sent our reply to our mysterious new benefactor the following day. Mother had been delighted by the news, and for the first time in an age, I saw her smile. The years fell away from her face, smoothing the furrow that had taken up permanent residence between her brows since Papa had died. Her blue eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and I was reminded that our mother was still a beautiful woman. Several of the guests must have agreed, for they gave her appreciative sidelong glances when they thought she wouldn’t see.
Count Procházka must have been very wealthy indeed, for when we presented his name to the factor in town, we were advanced an ungodly sum of money. After the coach fare, luggage, and wardrobe were taken care of, we still had funds left over. I made good with our vendors in town, establishing new lines for credit for Mother and the inn, but Käthe and I allowed ourselves one small luxury each. My sister bought trimmings for a pretty new bonnet while I bought myself paper and a fresh set of quills, neatly trimmed. It did not matter that I had not composed or touched the Wedding Night Sonata since I had returned from the Underground; I could write in Vienna. I would write in Vienna.
The next few weeks passed by in a blur, a flurry of preparations that seemed to take up every waking minute of our days. I was mostly focused on packing what few belongings we had that would travel easily: our clothes, our shoes, what few trinkets we had left that weren’t sold to the pawnbroker to pay off Papa’s debts.
“What will you do with your klavier?” Käthe asked. We were in Josef’s room, sorting through my things. “Will you have the Count send for it once we are settled there? Or do you intend to sell it ere we depart?”
I hadn’t given the matter much thought. In truth, I hadn’t given music much thought at all.
“Liesl,” Käthe said. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” I said, making a conspicuous show of sorting and organizing my notes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She ran her fingers over the faded ivory keys. I could feel her watching me as she pressed a note here, a note there. F-G-E-D sharp. A-A-A-F sharp. As she played tunelessly, aimlessly, I felt an inordinate sense of jealousy at her freedom, her nonchalance, her indifference. For my sister, music was just noise.
“It’s just,” she said after a moment, “I haven’t heard you play in a while, that’s all.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’re always busy,” she observed. “But that’s never stopped you before.”
I felt a pang—of guilt, of shame, and not a little frustration. Käthe was right, of course. No matter how tired I was at the end of the day, no matter how full my hours had been with cooking and cleaning, I had always managed to find time for music, magic, and the Goblin King. Always.
“I’m surprised you noticed,” I said tartly. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“Just because I don’t have your gifts doesn’t mean I don’t notice or care,” she said. “I know you, after all.”
To my horror, my eyes welled up with tears. I had pushed aside and made excuses for my reluctance to sit down and compose for so long that I hadn’t realized my music was a weeping wound that would not heal. Käthe’s kindness was an antiseptic, and it stung like hell.
“Oh God, Liesl,” she said, stricken. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, no.” I surreptitiously wiped at my cheeks. “It’s all right. You didn’t do anything. I’m just overwrought, is all. It’s been a long week.”
Käthe’s penetrating blue gaze was patient, but I did not elaborate. There was a part of me that wished I could confess and confide everything to her. How I hadn’t played or composed in an age because I was unable to face the enormous effort it would take to sit, to work, to labor. Because whenever I worked on my magnum opus, I felt another’s presence beside me—his touch, his kiss, his caress. Because I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me; or worse, that she would.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted, a sudden, absurd urge to giggle bubbling up my throat. “Come, why don’t we play the Ideal Imaginary World to while away the tedium of cleaning and packing? I’ll start. Once we arrive in Vienna and are settled in our new apartments, Count Procházka will throw a ball in our honor. Josef will be there, of course, playing my newest concerto. Perhaps his friend François will be there also, and they will play a duet. And you—you shall be decked out in the finest jewels, with all of Vienna’s most eligible bachelors vying for your hand, plying us with chocolates and sweets and—Ow!”
My sister had pinched me. Again. It seemed to be becoming a habit. Käthe pushed the hair from my face, frowning as she peered into my eyes. “When was the last time you slept?” she asked
I glanced down at my hands. I clenched them into fists, resisting the urge to hide them in my apron pockets.
“Liesl.”
&nb
sp; I closed my eyes.
“Is it . . . is it the Goblin King?” Her voice was soft.
I flinched. “No,” I said quickly. “No, of course not.” It may not have been the truth, but neither was it entirely a lie.
Käthe was quiet, but I could feel her eyes upon me. “I wonder,” she said after a moment, “if it’s not Vienna you’re running toward, but a kingdom you’re trying to outrun.”
I sucked in a sharp breath and opened my eyes. It was as though my sister had pulled a splinter from my heart that I hadn’t even known was there. “Käthe, I . . .” But my voice faded to nothing at the look of pity on her face.
“You can be running toward something or running from something, but you cannot do both at once,” she said gently.
Tears burned along my lashes, but I refused to let them spill. “Who says I’m running at all?” I said, forcing a laugh. Käthe’s laughter came more easily now, and I wanted her to smile, to joke, to look away from the dark corners of my soul so they would not be subject to the sunshine of her sympathy.
But my sister did not laugh. “Ah,” she said softly, “but what’s the use of running”—she lifted her eyes to mine—“if you are on the wrong road?”
* * *
As the weeks went on and our time at the inn wound down to a close, my sister’s words needled me, pinpricks of guilt and resentment poking holes in my comfortable avoidance. I hated how Käthe had made me confront my lack of composing, my inability to sit down and play. It had been easier to believe the pretty lie that I had been too busy, too tired, too preoccupied, too anything but scared to revisit the Wedding Night Sonata.
But the truth was far uglier.
I did not want to work on the Wedding Night Sonata.
The fear was easy to face. So much was lost in translation from my mind to the page, and I was afraid the music I played would fail to do justice to the music I heard in my head. I was not skilled enough, not trained enough, not good enough.