He knew he was getting closer. He could see the towers of Gravenstone over the boughs of the trees, highlighted beneath a brightening winter sky. He reached a clearing outside the swampy moat. The drawbridge was down. Ahead of him, Perchta had the princess on her steed, racing toward the castle gate.

  The prince knew he would not make it to her in time.

  And so he readied his bow. Nocked an arrow. And prayed to any god who would hear him that his arrow would fly true.

  He shot.

  The arrow crested over the moat, as if guided by the hand of Tyrr, the god of archery and war. It buried itself into Perchta’s back—straight through to her heart.

  Perchta slipped from her mount.

  The Erlking leaped from his steed, barely managing to catch her in his arms. As the stars began to fade from his lover’s eyes, he looked up and saw the prince bearing down on his castle, desperate to reach his sister.

  The Erlking was overcome with fury.

  In that moment, he made a choice. One that haunts him to this day.

  It is impossible to say if he might have saved the huntress’s life. He might yet have carried her into his castle. They say the dark ones know boundless ways to tether a life to the veil, to keep one from slipping beyond the gates into Verloren. Perhaps he could have kept her with him.

  But he chose different.

  Leaving Perchta to die on that bridge, the Erlking stood and snatched the princess from the abandoned horse. He pulled a gold-tipped arrow from his quiver and, gripping it tight in his fist, raised it above the child. It was naught but an act of coldhearted revenge against the prince, who had dared strike down the great huntress.

  Seeing what the Erlking meant to do, the prince ran at him, trying to reach his sister.

  But he was driven back by the hounds. Their teeth. Their claws. Their burning eyes. They surrounded the prince, snapping, biting, tearing at his flesh. He screamed, unable to fight them off. Fully awake now, the princess cried her brother’s name and reached out to him as she fought against the king’s hold.

  Too late. The king drove the arrow into her flesh just as the sky was set aflame by the first rays of morning light.

  Chapter 13

  Serilda wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d sat down. How long she’d had her back pressed to the cold cell wall, eyes shut, wrapped up in the story as if she were watching it happen right in front of her. But as the tale came to a tremulous close, she inhaled a deep breath, and slowly peeled her eyes open.

  Gild, still seated on the stool on the far side of the cell, was openly gawking at her.

  He looked positively aghast.

  She stiffened. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He shook his head. “You said stories are supposed to be vibrant and exciting and … and wonderful. Those were the words you used. But that story was”—he searched for the right word, finally landing on—“awful!”

  “Awful?” she barked. “How dare you.”

  “How dare I?” he said, standing. “Fairy tales have happy endings! The prince is supposed to save the princess. Kill the Erlking and the huntress, then they both ride on home to their awaiting family and are celebrated by all the land. Happily. Forever! What is this … this rubbish, what with the king stabbing his sister, the prince getting mauled by his hounds … I can’t remember all too many stories, but I’m certain that is the absolute worst I’ve ever heard.”

  Trying to temper her anger, Serilda stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re saying the story made you feel something then?”

  “Of course it made me feel something. And that something is awful!”

  A delighted smile broke across her face. “Ha! I will gladly take awful over indifferent. Not every story has a happy ending. Life isn’t like that, you know.”

  “Which is why we listen to stories!” he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. “You can’t end it there. Tell me the prince gets revenge, at least?”

  Serilda pressed a finger to her lips, considering.

  But then her gaze fell on the bobbins stacked neatly against the wall. Each one glimmered like the vein of a lost gold mine.

  She gasped. “You finished!” She stepped forward, about to grab a bobbin off the nearest stack, when Gild stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

  “Oh no. Not until you tell me what happens next.”

  She huffed. “I don’t know what happens next.”

  His expression was priceless. A little dismayed, a little horrified. “How can you not know? It’s your story.”

  “Not every story is willing to reveal itself right away. Some of them are bashful.”

  As he tried to ponder this, Serilda ducked around him and snatched up one of the bobbins, holding it toward the candlelight. “This is stunning. Is it all real gold?”

  “Of course it’s real gold,” he grumbled. “You think I would try to trick you?”

  She smirked. “I certainly think you’re capable of it.”

  His sullen face broke into a proud grin. “Suppose I am.”

  Serilda inspected the thread. Strong and pliant. “I wonder if I would enjoy spinning if I could create something so beautiful.”

  “You don’t like spinning?”

  She made a face. “No. Why? Do you?”

  “Sometimes. I’ve always found it to be”—again, he searched for the right word—“satisfying, I suppose. It calms me some.”

  She scoffed. “I’ve heard other people say that. But for me, it just … makes me impatient to be done with it.”

  He chuckled. “You like to tell stories, though.”

  “I love to,” she said. “But that’s what got me into this mess. I help teach at the school and one of the kids mentioned that spinning stories is a bit like spinning straw into gold. Like creating something that sparkles from nothing at all.”

  “That tale did not sparkle,” said Gild, rocking back on his heels. “It was mostly gloom and death and darkness.”

  “You say those words like they’re bad things. But when it comes to the age-old art of storytelling,” she said sagely, “you need darkness to appreciate the light.”

  His mouth quirked to one side, like he wasn’t willing to give this a complete smile. Then he seemed to steel himself, before reaching for Serilda’s hands.

  She tensed, but all he did was steal the bobbin gently from her fingertips. Still—she didn’t think she was imagining how his touch lingered a second longer than it had to, or how his throat bobbed as he set the gold back down on the pile.

  He cleared his throat gently. “The king’s meticulous for details. He’ll notice if one is missing.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, still feeling the tingle on her knuckles. “I wasn’t planning to take it. I’m not a thief.”

  He chuckled. “You say that word like it’s a bad thing.”

  Before she could think up a clever response, they heard the thump of footsteps outside the cell.

  They both went still.

  Then, to her astonishment, Gild closed the distance to her in a stride and this time, he did grab her hands, taking them both into his. “Serilda?”

  She gasped, not sure if she was more startled by his touch or the sound of her name uttered with such urgency.

  “Have I completed the task to your satisfaction?”

  “What?”

  “You must say it, to conclude our bargain. Magical agreements are not to be lightly dismissed.”

  “Oh. O-of course.” She glanced at the locket, shining brightly against his dreary tunic, hiding the portrait of a girl who was every bit as much an enigma now, even if she had inspired Serilda’s tragic tale.

  “Yes, the task is complete,” she said. “I cannot have a complaint.”

  It was true, despite her resentment at giving up the locket. This boy had promised her the blue of the sky. What he had done should have been impossible, but he’d done it.

  He smiled, just slightly, but it was enough to make her breath catch. There was something hopelessly genuine about it.

  Then, surprise upon surprise, Gild lifted her hand. She thought he might kiss it, which would have been the pinnacle of odd occurrences for the night.

  But he did not kiss her hand.

  He did something even stranger.

  Closing his eyes, Gild held her fist lightly against his cheek, taking from her the most delicate of caresses.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “What for?”

  Gild opened his mouth to say something more, but hesitated. His thumb had brushed the band of the golden ring given to her by the moss maidens. He peered down at it, taking in the seal with its engraved R.

  His eyebrows pinched with curiosity.

  A key creaked inside the lock.

  Serilda pulled away and spun to face the door.

  “Good luck,” Gild whispered.

  She glanced over her shoulder, but froze.

  He was gone. She was alone.

  The cell door groaned as it opened.

  Serilda stood straighter, trying to smother the odd fluttering in the pit of her stomach, as the Erlking sauntered into the cell. His servant, the same ghost with the missing eye, waited in the corridor with a torch held aloft.

  The king paused a few steps past the door, and in that moment, the candle, now nothing more than a puddle of wax on the pewter candlestick, finally gave up. The flame expired with a quiet hiss and a curl of black smoke.

  The king seemed unperturbed by the shadows. His gaze swept over the empty floor, not a piece of straw to be seen. Then to the spinning wheel, and finally to the stacks of bobbins and their glittering gold thread.

  Serilda managed something akin to a curtsy. “Your Darkness. I hope you had a nice hunt.”

  He did not look at her as he stepped forward and picked up one of the bobbins.

  “Light,” he ordered.

  The coachman glanced at Serilda as he stepped forward, raising the torch. He looked astonished.

  But he was smiling.

  Serilda held her breath as the king studied the thread. She nervously rubbed her thumb across the ring on her finger.

  Ages passed before the Erlking’s fingers clenched around the bobbin, encircling it in a tight fist. “Tell me your name.”

  “Serilda, my lord.”

  He considered her a long while. Another age passed before he said, “It would seem that I owe you an apology, Lady Serilda. I doubted you most severely. In fact, I was convinced that you had taken me for a fool. Told me grand lies and stolen from me my rightful prey. But”—he glanced down at his closed fist—“it would seem that you have been given the blessing of Hulda after all.”

  She lifted her chin. “I hope you are pleased.”

  “Quite,” he said, though his tone remained sullen. “You said before that the blessing was in favor to your mother, a talented seamstress, if I do recall.”

  This. This was the worst part of Serilda’s terrible habit. It was so easy to forget what lies one had told, and in what detail. She tried to dredge up the memory of that night and what she had said to the king, but it was all a blur. So she merely shrugged. “That is the story I’ve been told. But I never knew my mother.”

  “Dead?”

  “Gone,” she answered. “The moment I was weaned from her milk.”

  “A mother knew that her child was god-blessed, yet she did not stay to teach her how to use such a gift?”

  “I do not think she saw it as a gift. The town … all the villagers see my mark as a sign of misfortune. They believe I bring bad luck, and I’m not sure they’re wrong. After all, tonight my so-called gift has brought me into the dungeon of the great and horrible Alder King himself.”

  His expression showed a hint of thawing at that. “So it has,” he muttered. “But the superstitions of humans are so often the result of ignorance and ill-placed blame. I would pay them little heed.”

  “Begging your pardon, but that seems like an easy thing for the king of the dark ones to say, who surely carries no concerns over long winters or failed crops. Sometimes superstitions are all that we have been given by the gods in order to make sense of our world. Superstitions … and stories.”

  “You expect me to believe that the ability to do this”—he held up the bobbin of gold thread—“portends ill fortune?”

  She glanced at the bobbin. She’d almost forgotten that this was the blessing the Erlking believed she had been given.

  It made her wonder whether Gild saw his talent as a gift or a curse.

  “As I understand,” she said, “gold has caused as many problems as it has ever solved.”

  A silence settled over them, cloaking the room.

  Serilda hesitated to meet his eye again. When she did, she was startled to see a grin stealing across his lips.

  And then, horror of horrors, he laughed.

  Serilda’s stomach swooped.

  “Serilda,” he said, his voice newly warmed. “I have met many humans, but there is an oddity about you. It is … refreshing.”

  The Erlking stepped closer, blocking the torchlight from her view. The hand that did not hold the thread lifted and grasped a strand of hair that had come loose from one of her braids. Serilda had been given little occasion to peer at her reflection, but if she had any vanity, it was for her hair, which fell past her waist in thick waves. Fricz had once told her that it was the exact color of his father’s favorite aged ale—a dark, rich brown, just without all the foamy white stuff on top. At the time Serilda had wondered if she should be offended, but now she was sure it had been meant as a compliment.

  The Erlking tucked the loose strand behind her ear—the touch excruciatingly tender. She averted her gaze as the tips of his fingers barely traced the edge of her cheek, faint as cobwebs against her skin.

  Strange, she thought, to experience two such gentle touches in such short order, and yet to feel so very differently about them. Gild’s caress of her hand had struck her as bizarre and unexpected, yes, but it had also brought a tingly warmth to the surface of her skin.

  Whereas everything the Erlking did felt calculated. He must know how his unearthly beauty could make any human heart pound faster, yet his touch left Serilda feeling as though she had suffered the caress of a viper.

  “It is a shame,” he said quietly. “You might have been beautiful.”

  Her stomach curdled, though less from the insult than from his nearness.

  Pulling away, the king tossed the bobbin of thread at the ghost, who snatched it easily from the air.

  “Have it all taken to the undercroft.”

  “Yes, Your Grim. And the girl?”

  Serilda tensed.

  The Erlking gave her a dismissive look, before his teeth, faintly sharpened, glinted in the torchlight. “She may rest in the north tower until sunrise. I’m sure she is quite exhausted from her toils.”

  The king departed, once again leaving her alone with the coachman.

  He met her gaze, that smile returning. “Well, I’ll eat a broom. I thought there might be more to you than meets the eye.”

  Serilda returned the smile, unable to tell if he was making light of his own missing eyeball. “I like to surprise people when I can.”

  Serilda gathered up her cloak and followed him from the dungeons. Up spiraling steps and along narrow halls. Past tapestries, antlers, disembodied animal heads. Swords and axes and enormous chandeliers dripping with dark wax. The overall effect was one of mixed gloom and violence, which must have suited the Erlking fine. When they passed a narrow window inlaid with leaded diamonds of glass, Serilda saw an indigo sky.

  Dawn was approaching.

  Never had she gone an entire night without sleep, and her exhaustion was overwhelming. Her lids felt almost impossible to keep open as she trudged behind the apparition.

  “Am I still a prisoner?” she asked.

  It took the ghost a long time to answer.

  An unnervingly long time.

  Until, at some point, she realized that he did not intend to answer at all.

  She frowned. “I suppose a tower will be better than a dungeon,” she said through a thick yawn. Her body felt cumbersome as the ghost led her up another stairwell and through a low arched door, into a sitting area connected to a bedchamber.

  Serilda stepped inside. Even with her bleary-eyed weariness, she felt a twinge of awe. The room was not cozy, but there was a dark elegance that stole her breath. The windows were hung with lace curtains, black and delicate. An ebony washstand held a porcelain water pitcher and bowl, both painted with wine-red roses and large, lifelike moths. A small side table sat beside the bed, holding a burning green candle and a vase with a tiny bouquet of snowdrops, nival flowers with pretty, bowed heads. A fire roared in the hearth, and over the mantel hung an ornately framed painting of a brutal winter landscape, dark and desolate beneath a glowing moon.

  Capturing her attention most, though, was the four-poster bed, wrapped on all sides by emerald-green drapes.

  “Thank you,” she breathed, as the ghost lit the candle beside the bed.

  He bowed and started to leave the room.

  But he paused at the door. His expression was wary as he glanced back at her. “Have you ever watched a cat hunting a mouse?”

  She blinked at him, startled that he would encourage conversation.

  “Yes. My father used to keep a mousing cat for the mill.”

  “Then you know how they like to play. They will let the mouse go, allow it to think, however briefly, that it is free. Then they will pounce again, and again, until they eventually grow bored and devour their prey bit by bit.”

  Her chest tightened.

  The ghost’s voice carried little emotion, even as his eye clouded with sorrow. “You asked if you were still a prisoner,” he said. “But we are all prisoners. Once His Darkness has you, he does not like to let you go.”

  With these eerie words hanging in the air, he respectfully inclined his head again and departed.

  He left the door open.

  Unlocked.

  Serilda had only enough presence of mind to know that she might be able to escape. This might be her only chance.

  But her slowing pulse told her it was as impossible as spinning straw into gold.