7
" Past the woodshed, past the creek that ran behind our inn, deep in the wild heart of the forest, was a circle of alder trees we called the Goblin Grove. The trees grew in such a way as to suggest twisted arms and monstrous limbs frozen in an eternal dance, and Constanze liked to tell us that the trees had once been humans- naughty young women- who displeased Der Erlkönig. As children we had played here, Josef and me, played and sang and danced, offering our music to the Lord of Mischief. The Goblin King was the silhouette around which my music was composed, and the Goblin Grove was the place my shadows came to life.
I spied a scarlet shape in the woods ahead of me. Käthe in my cloak, walking to my sacred space. An irrational, petty slash of irritation cut through my dread and unease. The Goblin Grove was my haunt, my refuge, my sanctuary. Why must she take everything that was mine? My sister had a gift for turning the extraordinary into the ordinary. Unlike my brother and me- who lived in the ether of magic and music- Käthe lived in the world of the real, the tangible, the mundane. Unlike us, she never had faith. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
8
" Me," I said a little more loudly. "Why me?"
"Why not you?" he returned. "Why not the girl who played her music for me in the Goblin Grove when she was a child?"
He had said so much, yet nothing I wanted to hear. That he desired me. That he had chosen me. That he... I wanted to hear the truth in his eyes said aloud. I could feel his gaze upon every part of my body; on my neck, where my shoulder disappeared into the torn sleeves of my blouse, the line of my collarbone as it led to my décolletage, the swell and ebb of my breasts as I breathed. I had waited for this my entire life, I realized. Not to be found beautiful- but desirable. Wanted. I wanted the Goblin King to claim me as his own.
"Why me?" I repeated. "Why Maria Elisabeth Ingeborg Vogler?"
I held his eyes with mine. He had his pride, but so had I. If I were to make good on the promise I made that little dancing boy in the wood all those years ago, I needed to hear validation from his own lips.
"Because," he said. "Because I loved the music within you."
I closed my eyes. His words were the spark to the tinder lining my blood; they touched my heart and warmth blazed from within, spreading through me like wildfire. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
12
" We look amazing," I repeated, as if I could make up for our brother's rudeness.
And we did look amazing. Käthe and I were dressed as an angel and a demon, but to my surprise, my sister had chosen to be the devil. She looked majestic in her gown of black velvet, her golden curls draped with black silk and lace, cleverly twisted together and pinned to resemble horns growing from her head. She had rouged her lips a bright red, and her blue eyes looked imperious from behind her black mask. For a moment, the image of moldering gowns on dress forms rose up in my mind, a polished bronze mirror reflecting an endless line of faded Goblin Queens. I swallowed.
The dress my sister had made for me was nearly innocent in its simplicity. Yards and yards of fine white muslin had made a floating, ethereal gown, while Käthe had somehow fashioned a brocade cape into the shape of folded angel wings, which grew from my shoulder blades and cascaded to the floor. She had braided gold into a crown about my head for a halo, and I carried a lyre to complete the picture. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Shadowsong (Wintersong, #2)
13
" Once I had finished conducting business with Herr Kassl, I went in search of my sister. Käthe was easy to find, even in this sea of faces in the square. Her smiles were the broadest, her blue eyes the brightest, her pink cheeks the rosiest. Even her hair beneath that ridiculous hat shone like a bird of golden plumage. All I had to do was follow the path traced by the eyes of the onlookers in the village, those admiring, appreciative glances that led me straight to my sister at the center.
For a moment, I watched her bargain and haggle with the sellers. Käthe was like an actress on the stage, all heightened emotion and intense passion, her gestures affected, her smiles calculated. She fluttered and flirted outrageously, carefully oblivious to the stares she drew like moths to the flame. Both men and women traced the lines of her body, the curve of her cheek, the pout of her lip.
Looking at Käthe, it was difficult to forget just how sinful our bodies were, just how prone we were to wickedness. Born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward, or so saith Job. Clothed in clinging fabrics, with every line of her body exposed, every gasp of pleasure unconcealed, everything about Käthe suggested voluptuousness. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
15
" Farewell, Mother, careworn and abiding,
Farewell, Papa, faded brightness hiding.
Farewell, Constanze, I took your tales to heart,
Farewell, Hans, and your fumbles in the dark.
Farewell, Käthe, I’m sorry I did you wrong.
Farewell, Josef, may you play ever-long.
Farewell, all, to you I give my love. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
16
" The Goblin King gripped my shoulders tight and pulled me against him. One arm snaked across my neck, the other wrapped around my waist. I felt every last bit of him through the thin cloth of my wedding gown. He trembled as he held me. I was breathing hard, my breathing made harder by his arm pressing against my throat.
I arched my back and closed my eyes. I covered his hand about my waist with my own, and brought my other hand up to touch his face. Beneath my fingers, the feathery pieces of his hair, the curve of a cheekbone, the strength of his jaw. His head bent, bringing his mouth to graze against where my neck met my shoulder. A soft kiss, a light bite. A nip. I moaned. The echoes of that moan ran up and down his body. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
19
" The tailor sidled forward, his long, multi-joined fingers caressing the dress form closest to me.
"Ah, yes," he said. "Beautiful, isn't it? The color of storms and oceans, or so we've been told. This dress," he continued, "belonged to Magdalena. She was beautiful- the way you mortals reckon, anyhow- beautiful, but stupid. Oh ho, we had fun with this one, we did, but we used her up too soon. Her fire died, leaving us cold and dark."
The dress form beneath the gown was tall and well-formed, the bosom and hips generous, the waist tiny. The dress, a robe à la française, was made from a deep, jewel-toned blue silk, and I could imagine the dramatic coloring of the woman who had worn it: pale skin, dark hair, and blue eyes to match her gown. A breathless beauty, a glittering jewel, and I imagined the Goblin King partaking of her loveliness over and over again, biting the sweet peaches of her cheeks until she was gone.
"And this one," Thistle chimed in, pointing to another dress form, "belonged to Maria Emmanuel. Prissy, she was. Refused to do her duty by her lord. She was consecrated to someone else- a carpenter? Something like that. Don't know what the king saw in her, but they were both possessed of a strange devotion to a figure nailed to a wooden cross. She lasted the longest, this prudish nun, not having given herself to king and land, and during her rule, our kingdom suffered. Yet she lasted the longest for that, although she too died in the end, pining for the world above she could see but not touch."
This dress form was slim, the gown that hung on it made of an austere gray wool. I could imagine the woman who wore this dress- a pious creature, veiled like a bride of Christ. No beauty, but her eyes would be a clear, luminous gray, shining with the fervor of her passion and faith. Not like Magdalena, whose loveliness would have been carnal and earthly; Maria Emmanuel would have glowed with an inner light, the beauty of a saint or a martyr. The Goblin King was a man of varied tastes, it seemed. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
20
" Magdalena, Maria Emmanuel, Bettina, Franziska, Ilke, Hildegard, Walburga; my predecessors and rivals and sisters. Every single one of them had married Der Erlkönig. Every single one of them had given up her life. Had they known the true cost of their sacrifice? Had I? They had long since faded away to dust, but something of their spirits lingered, the seams of their threadbare gowns holding in the last remnants of their souls. Their ghosts surrounded me now, and I could hear the whispers of their voices across time, beckoning, pleading, calling. Join us. Join us. But one voice was absent. The nameless, brave maiden.
She lived, I thought. She walked out of the Underground, and lived. "
― S. Jae-Jones , Wintersong (Wintersong, #1)
