Page 49 of The Goblin and The Dancer

“It’s Grik, isn’t it?” one of the ballerinas asked shyly as he paused and bowed to her. “Rosanna’s in her dressing room.”

Grik paused outside her door. He straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair—it popped back up again—and knocked.

It swung open, and Rosanna smiled down at him with delight, happily accepting the single pink rose he offered her and tucking it into the sash of the gown of the exact same color she was wearing.

“You look beautiful,” Grik told her shyly.

“And you look so handsome.” Rosanna smiled down at him and, at long last, Grik didn’t feel like he should curl up and hide. He felt handsome.

Grik reached up and offered her his arm, and Rosanna laid her hand lightly on his.

Heads turned as the goblin escorted the elf down the hall.

A few looked at them strangely, others whispered. But, for once in his life, Grik didn’t pay any attention. His heart was too full of love to have any space for resentment.

The goblin doorman swung open the front entrance and swept off his hat in a bow as they passed. He winked at Grik as he closed the door behind them, and Grik and Rosanna hurried down the steps on their way to the city’s best restaurant to meet Paul for dinner.

After returning home to La Caen from that hazardous venture into the underworld, Paul had reported to his commanding officers that his limp had no hope of improving, and been subsequently medically discharged from the army, with full honors for his courageous service. It was the thing the elf had once feared the most, but he bore it bravely and received another award for his courage—a job at one of the most prestigious military academies in the city. Paul now spent his days pouring his knowledge and character into young lads who dreamed of being like him. And if that weren’t enough—it never was for the overachieving elf—Paul also taught fencing and self-defense to ladies in a private studio on the weekends.

He was still doing what he was made to do and what he was best at: defending and protecting and instructing others to do the same.

But Thursday was his night off, and Paul always spent it with Grik and Rosanna.

The three of them had had dinner together many nights since their adventure. It was an expense, but the three of them couldn’t seem to help it. Every day felt like a celebration now that they were free—and free of more than just the underworld. Besides, there was a pert young waitress at the restaurant who had gotten on quite well with Paul and who clearly much admired him. Rosanna and Grik had quickly formed plans about that and kept insisting to the oblivious Paul that they attend the restaurant more often. And they always asked for the pretty elf with the sparkling brown eyes to be their waitress.

Rosanna and Grik paused for a moment in the shadow of the brilliantly illuminated Metropolitan Dance Hall, looking out into the streets of a wintery La Caen—the clatter of carriages, a peddler selling steaming cinnamon buns on the corner, storefronts bright and welcoming. Somewhere ahead of them there was a street musician playing pipes in a long silver stream of music. And trickling out of the Metropolitan, laughing and talking, was a mass of elves and goblins, mingling freely together and bidding one another good-night.

Rosanna suddenly squeezed Grik’s arm.“This is what I wanted, Grik,” she murmured contentedly. “Just this.”

Grik knew what she meant. They belonged now—and there was nothing better to wish for after that.

The streets were full of people, all rushing to midnight cabarets, restaurants, or home, and Rosanna and Grik were part of the happy crowd as they made their way slowly down steps that were crusted with ice and glittering in the glow of a thousand streetlamps.

As they stepped out onto the street, Grik looked up at the sky, his heart as light as the snowflakes falling on his face.