Page 2 of The Goblin and The Dancer
Rosanna finally walked off the stage. A stagehand began to tease Rosanna about her secret admirer, saying that he was the reason her head was in the clouds, and they hazarded a guess about who he might be. Grik held his breath, fearing that he would hear some other name on Rosanna’s lips . . . and hoping that she might whisper his.
Rosanna didn’t respond to the stagehand or make any guess of her own; she only smiled a little at his talk as she headed down the hallway to her dressing room.
Grik shuffled after her, ducking past stagehands as they hurried to dismantle the set. People rushed back and forth, talking, shouting, and working. Life behind the stage was its own little world, but it was one that Grik only occupied on the outskirts, for the fear that he might not actually belong in this place, just as he feared he didn’t belong anywhere.
After many years of practice, Grik had become adept at staying out of people’s way. He knew how to make himself as small as possible and was fast at giving way to everyone else and tucking himself into corners. But tonight he was so consumed with thoughts of Rosanna that he wasn’t paying proper attention to where he was going. He suddenly collided with a hard, tall object.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, you little fool! You nearly made me fall!”
Grik craned his misshapen head back to look up at the man he had bumped into. A dashing and handsome man clad in the scarlet uniform of the National Army towered over him. He was one of the many elves who fought on the borders of Auverne to keep their country safe from marauding orcs and monsters. The epaulettes on his shoulders and the medals next to his lapel showed that he wasn’t just any soldier, but an officer and a hero of his regiment.
Grik looked up at the striking face above him and was ashamed all over again by how he must appear in this man’s eyes.
Grik had the same pointed ears, but the similarity ended there. Where their skin was pale and smooth, his was rough and mottled and vaguely green—more like the skin of a lizard. His hair was not the smooth, perfect blond or brown tresses of an elf, but black and stubbly. Elves rarely grew taller than five feet, while goblins were far stubbier, a mere three to four feet in height.
The soldier’s smooth voice jerked Grik from his unhappy thoughts.
“Goblins,” he growled. “I spend my life defending our country from monsters, and then I come home on leave and I’m tripping over them in the hallways of our public buildings. It’s a disgrace.”
The man’s voice was as smooth and rich as cream, and Grik was painfully aware of his own rough and scratchy voice as he muttered a half-hearted apology.
Proud blue eyes looked Grik up and down with distaste from beneath thick, straight brows. He had dark hair and a chiseled face with pale skin and delicate, pointed ears—not like the huge, hideous things stuck haphazardly to the side of Grik’s head. The only thing to mar the soldier’s outward perfection was his obvious injury. He carried an expensive cane with an ornate handle that he leaned heavily upon. He was slightly out of breath, as if walking pained him.
“What are you looking at?” the soldier snapped.
“Your leg,” Grik answered and then wished he hadn’t, for he thought the soldier might grab him by the neck and throttle him. For a moment, the soldier flushed as red as his uniform, but then a lordly expression chased away the brief flash of anger and shame.
“A mere war wound. I got this in the line of duty, defending our country from vermin that looked something like you.” His gaze skimmed over Grik with open disgust, and he suddenly smirked. “Being a credit and of actual use to my country . . .unlike you . . . janitor.”
Grik stared up at the elf, speechless with hurt and fury. He might be ugly, but a goblin was just as much a person as an elf. He wanted to fly at the man, to punch him in the leg, where it would hurt the most, but before he could speak or do anything, the soldier flicked a thin, graceful finger to the rose in Grik’s hand.
“Dear me, don’t tell me you fancy one of the ballerinas here.” The soldier laughed, long and cruelly.
Grik writhed inwardly with outrage, but his shame was greater than his pride, and he mumbled hastily, “It’s not from me. I’m . . . I’m delivering it for someone.”
The soldier smirked. “Well, that at least makes sense.”
He pushed past Grik, but his attempt to strut was pathetic since one foot dragged along behind him.
Grik wanted to laugh at the soldier, to mock him, but as he took a step back he felt his own awkward gait and knew it was just as ugly—uglier—than the soldier’s limp.
Grik looked after the soldier and hated him with every fiber of his being, a rage that was swallowed up in helplessness as the soldier stopped in front of Rosanna’s dressing room and knocked on the door.
Grik pressed the rose to his chest, mind swirling. Who had he been fooling? How could a goblin janitor compete against an elvish soldier? This man was used to fighting for what he wanted and destroying anything that got in his way. Grik had no doubt that the soldier would easily stomp on him if he dared to interfere in his wooing—and enjoy doing it.
The soldier knocked again on the dressing room door, and it swung open. Rosanna had already changed and was clad in a soft wool coat. Her hair had been removed from its bun and was now spilling around her face and shoulders.
Rosanna greeted the soldier with a smile. “Why, Paul! Hello.”
So that was his name. Grik hated it. He wondered desperately if her expression was a shade friendlier than usual. He loved Rosanna’s friendliness, but why did she have to be nice to Paul?
Rosanna was exclaiming softly over Paul’s wound. One slim hand reached out to rest on the soldier’s shoulder.
Grik’s gaze dimmed in a kind of red fury and horror, as if his whole vision was swallowed up by that cursed scarlet coat.
Paul’s chin was up as he smiled and rattled on in a way that made Grik want to tear him to shreds. The soldier suddenly pressed a bouquet into Rosanna’s arms—a bouquet that Grik had been too upset to notice before.
They were dark-pink roses. Rosanna’s favorite. The soldier had known.
