Page 1 of The Goblin and The Dancer
Chapter One
Grik the goblin shuffled his feet in time to the music that floated up from the orchestra pit. As one of the janitors of the Metropolitan Dance Hall, he was supposed to be cleaning, but he had crept away from his work to hide in a tangle of ropes and equipment so that he could peek at the dancers from backstage. And at one dancer in particular.
The troupe soared across the stage, their soft, pastel-colored costumes swirling around them. Twelve young elven women bent and swayed and leaped like flowers tossed before a breeze in a delicate display of marvelous skill.
But it was Rosanna, the lead dancer, who was the most magnificent. She danced as if it were more natural to her than walking, or even breathing. Her violet-colored eyes were bright with happiness and her golden curls—the same honey color of the floor in the troupe’s practice studio—bobbed around her flushed face. A perfect face, with perfect skin utterly unlike Grik’s. But it was her dancing that really made her come to life. It was her dancing that kept her from looking like a perfect doll and turned her into something real and vibrant and gloriously alive. As she performed a dizzying leap and spun effortlessly in front of her cavalier, Grik was absolutely certain that she was magical. She had to be; it was the only explanation.
And he was in love with her.
He thrust his mop into the air the way the cavalier had lifted Rosanna above his head. He wondered what it would be like to have his hands on Rosanna’s waist, to hold her close like that. His face went hot at the mere thought of it, and his pulse pounded in his ugly head.
He watched Rosanna dance and sighed to himself as he swayed awkwardly to the music that she danced to so effortlessly. Not only was she the most beautiful dancer in the troupe, she was the most graceful and the most talented. But, better than that, she was the kindest. As a janitor, Grik had observed more than his share of backstage drama. He winced at the barbed words and the accusations that seemed to drift through the air like the powder the dancers brushed across their cheeks before each performance. But then Rosanna would dart into the room like a gentle butterfly, inserting herself softly and earnestly between arguments and soothing hurt feelings. She always had a kind word for everyone, even the lowliest workmen who rarely received even a glance from the dancers.
Even for Grik.
Elves and goblins didn’t really mix. They lived side by side and worked in the same buildings, but their worlds, their culture, and their conversations were still largely separate. Some were prejudiced against one another, but, for the most part, relations were friendly, though distant. They bore very little ill will; they just didn’t understand one another. And the thought of an elf and goblin fancying one another was unheard of.
That was Grik’s secret. He liked the elven world—and he liked Rosanna.
Sometimes he dared to believe that Rosanna liked him too.
He always froze when she looked his way. When she spoke to him, it seemed to take all the breath out of him and he could only mumble awkward responses before running away to hide, utterly overwhelmed that she deigned to see him. Despite his shyness, Rosanna still made a point of singling him out in crowds with her smile.
As if he was something special. As if she cared about him.
If she had been merely beautiful and merely kind, Grik didn’t think he would have fallen in love with her—for that would be like falling in love with a pretty statue.
She had a wound. He had seen it in her face. Sometimes the happy smile wavered and her eyes flinched, as if wincing at some secret pain. Sometimes he saw her wiping away a tear and hiding a sob in a handkerchief. Sometimes, when she practiced, she would suddenly miss a step that Grik was certain she knew by heart, suddenly as clumsy as a goblin and looking as if she didn’t know who she was. When that happened, she looked like the loneliest person in the city.
Grik knew what that felt like. He had felt so alone in the world; he had always assumed he was the only one to carry a secret wound. But Rosanna had one too. Perhaps they weren’t separated by an impassable chasm after all. Perhaps Rosanna was more like a goblin than he had ever dared to dream. That secret pain, and the ugliness of all hurts, somehow bound them together. Rosanna wasn’t utterly unlike him. That was what made him love her.
Grik tapped his huge fingers in time to the music and removed the single rose he had slipped carefully into his toolbox earlier that evening. He held it close to his heart, letting the petals tickle his chin. Tonight, he would finally tell Rosanna that he was her secret admirer.
For months he had been leaving little gifts and notes in Rosanna’s dressing room. He wanted to shower her with jewels and pretty clothes and sweets and all the wonderful things in the world. But, for now, he had to content himself with flowers, chocolates, and fanciful, homemade gifts that he spent many hours laboring over by candlelight.
Grik scraped and saved to buy the little luxuries. He didn’t mind—not when it was for Rosanna. At night, lying in his stone house in Stone Town, he would clutch the thought of those presents to himself as if they were a warm cup of broth. Every hour of work flitted by easily on the wings of anticipation as he thought carefully over how he would surprise and delight Rosanna.
His anonymous gifts caused a great stir in the theater. The backstage gossip was rampant as everyone tried to guess who could be leaving Rosanna presents.
And tonight he was going to admit that it was him.
Grik had thought that he would never, ever be brave enough to confess his feelings to Rosanna. The very thought of it still made him feel sick—but not as sick as it made him feel to go on not telling her. His secret spun and jumped inside of him in its own wild ballet, and it had to get out, to leap onto the stage, despite the audience, a bit of music that had to be danced to.
He watched Rosanna twirl, and the expectation of speaking with her made him as faint and dizzy as if he had been the one spinning around and around. But he was also filled with a strange optimism. Perhaps it was the smile Rosanna had given him earlier that day when he had opened the front door of the Metropolitan for her. Maybe it was the way she had said his name when he had timidly wished her good luck for the performance.
“Thank you, Grik!”The words rang in his ears like the sweet music from the orchestra, giving him hope. Giving him courage.
He blinked and clutched his rose as he looked towards the stage. The music was over, and the enchantment on stage ended. The curtains closed in a whoosh of velvet, muffling the wild applause that still poured from the audience.
Grik pressed back deeper into the shadows as the dancers filed off the stage, complaining of tight slippers, tittering over handsome faces in the crowd, congratulating themselves, or yelling at assistants to help them in their dressing rooms.
Only Rosanna remained behind on the stage. She looked as if she couldn’t bear to step off of it. She didn’t look towards the curtain and the applauding audience beyond it, as other, vainer dancers might have. She was looking at the floor, as if she were gazing at some invisible pattern that her slippers longed to follow.
Grik waited for her to go back to her dressing room so that he could finally have a moment—one private moment—to tell her how he felt about her.
He looked from Rosanna to the stage. The audience had thrown dozens of flowers at her, and all he had was a rose. He comforted himself with the thought that his rose was the best rose to be had in the flower markets of La Caen—he should know; it had taken him hours to pick it out. And it was her favorite color—a deep, rosy pink. The same color as her mouth, Grik thought, feeling warm all over.
Rosanna twirled half-heartedly in the center of the stage and, for an instant, was almost as clumsy as Grik. He saw the pain travel across her face again, like clouds brushing away sunshine. Her shoulders slumped a little, as if all the euphoria that had made her dance so lightly had been replaced by a horrible weight. Grik’s heart lurched as a tear trace its way down her cheek.
