Page 27 of The Goblin and The Dancer
Did that mean he was willing to forget Rosanna? No! He couldn’t forget Rosanna. Even if he were back in the Metropolitan Dance Hall, seeing Rosanna for the first time as he walked by the open door of one of its practice studios, he knew he could not have stopped his soul from reaching out to her.
If she had looked away, perhaps it would have been different.
But she had not looked away.
Standing there at the barre, examining her technique in the mirror, she had turned, as quick as a blossom spinning in the breeze, as she caught sight of his reflection. And then she had smiled at him and raised a hand in greeting, as if she too were reaching out.
No, he could not go back. No matter how hard he tried, he could not have silenced the longing for beauty, the desperate need to edge towards something better than him—if not to bask in her light, then to at least hide in her shadow.
He loved her. And now she had hugged him. It was worth being in the dark.
But was it worth the horrible deed of what had brought him here?
That he could not answer.
Something scuttled over Grik’s foot, rearranging his thoughts into a single thread of terror as he clutched instinctively at Paul.
“Rats,” Paul remarked. “We must be closer to the surface than we believed. That’s good to know!”
Grik nodded, trying to steady his racing heart and get his goblin thinking straight to figure out a route for egress once this whole miserable business was over.
“What are we going to do when we get back?” Grik whispered. He preferred to think that they would survive this, and planning their subsequent movements helped make it seem a bit more real.
Paul shrugged. “There’s no good worrying about that now; we have enough problems.”
Grik managed a distressed sound in the back of his throat to indicate his disagreement. Paul either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him, because he walked confidently on. Grik wondered how one could choose not to worry about something. That sounded impossible. It was one more thing to envy in the soldier beside him.
Maybe Paul didn’t understand.
“Ratiga doesn’t like us, you know,” Grik pointed out with a cough. “In fact. I think she hates us.”
“Really? I didn’t notice,” Paul said sarcastically.
“I just wanted to make sure you realized that,” Grik murmured.
“By the way.” Paul suddenly stopped walking as if struck by a sharp memory, and he swung about to hold the lanterns over Grik’s face. Grik looked up into the light, blinking, unable to see the elf’s face, only the dark shadow standing over him.
“What was the idea with that sacrifice scene back there?” Paul sounded irritated: it was the same tone someone might use if their job had been snatched out from under them.
“I was trying to save you,” Grik said stiffly. He didn’t add that he was only trying to save Paul because he had almost killed him earlier. He didn’t dare.
He expected a snide response. Instead, there was a brief silence, and then Paul asked with genuine curiosity, “Even me?”
The stiffness around Grik’s chest loosened a little, as if the genuine interest in Paul's voice were a key turning in a lock.
“Yes,” Grik admitted in a small voice.
There was another peculiar silence broken only by a brief, “Huh,” by Paul, and then he swiveled and walked on. Grik followed him. Both were quiet again, but something had changed. Grik felt it as surely as he felt his own unsteady heartbeat.
And the guilt was there again, tapping at his mind, clawing at his heart.It’s the least you could do after trying to kill him. He doesn’t know . . .
A drop of water splattered against his head and slithered down his neck, and Grik shuddered.
He spoke again, if for no other reason than to drown out his teeming thoughts. “If we’re killed trying to be heroes, who’s going to save Miss Rosanna?”
“You aren’t going to get killed,” Paul said shortly. “You’re under my command, so I’ll see you safe.”
Grik was torn between annoyance at being so neatly placed into the role of subordinate and surprise at being told that Paul intended to look out for him.
