Madam Sauer straightened and fixed her with a dark look. “Oh, true, they might be bits of whimsy intended to frighten children into better behavior, but in my experience, they are most ineffective. Only real consequences can improve a child’s moral aptitude.”

  Serilda’s hands clenched, thinking of the willow branch that had struck the backs of her own hands so many times when Madam Sauer was trying to punish the lies right out of her.

  “Far as I can tell,” the witch continued, “the only thing those nonsense stories do is encourage innocent souls to want to run off and join the forest folk.”

  “Better than wanting to run off and join the dark ones,” said Serilda.

  A shadow eclipsed Madam Sauer’s face, deepening the lines around her frowning mouth. “I’ve heard of your latest hoax. Carried off to the Erlking’s castle, were you? Lived to tell the tale?” She loudly clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You are inviting misfortune to your doorstep with such stories. I would advise you to take caution.” She snorted. “Not that you’ve ever listened to me before.”

  Serilda bit her lip, wishing she could tell the old bat that it was far too late for caution. She glanced once more at the cover of the book the librarian had given her, before sliding it onto the shelf beside the other history tomes.

  “I trust you’ve also heard that I will be gone to Mondbrück in a few days,” she said. She was tempted to tell her that she would be going and never coming back. “My father and I are going to see the spring market.”

  Madam Sauer lifted an eyebrow. “You will be gone during the Crow Moon?”

  “Yes,” she answered, trying to keep the waver from her voice. “Is that a problem?”

  The schoolteacher held her gaze for a long moment, studying her. Finally she turned away. “Not so long as you help the children with the Eostrig’s Day preparations before you go. I haven’t the time nor the patience for such frivolity.”

  Chapter 19

  Her heart ached when she thought of how much she was going to miss the children. Serilda had every reason to believe that she would be even more of an outcast when they reached the big city—a stranger with unholy eyes—and she was dreading the inevitable loneliness. Yes, she would have her father, and she hoped to eventually find work and perhaps even make friends. She would certainly try to win over the people of Verene, or wherever they ended up. Maybe if she spun the story of her god-blessing just right, she could even persuade the people she met that it portended good fortune. She could be quite popular indeed if people believed her to be a good-luck charm.

  But none of that eased her sadness.

  She was going to miss these five children desperately, with their honesty, their laughter, their genuine adoration of one another.

  She was going to miss telling them stories.

  What if the people of Verene didn’t like stories?

  That would be dreadful.

  “Serilda?”

  She snapped her head up, startled from the maze of thoughts that she was so often lost in these days. “Pardon?”

  “You stopped reading,” said Hans, gripping a paintbrush.

  “Oh. Oh, right. Sorry. I was … distracted.”

  She looked down at the book Madam Sauer had handed to her, insisting that the children hear the first five chapters before they were released for the afternoon. Truths of Philosophy as Found in the Natural World.

  They had made it through twenty pages so far.

  Twenty dense, dry, atrocious pages.

  “Hans, why did you say anything?” said Fricz. “I’d rather suffer silence than another paragraph of that book.”

  “Fricz, preferring silence?” said Anna. “Now, that’s saying something. Could you pass me that straw, please?”

  Straw. Serilda watched as Nickel handed a few handfuls to Anna, who proceeded to stuff them into the large sackcloth doll laid out on the cobblestone road.

  Serilda shut the book and leaned forward to inspect their work. For Eostrig’s Day, the schoolchildren were traditionally tasked with making the effigies that would symbolize the seven gods at the festival. Over the past two days, they had completed the first three: Eostrig, god of spring and fertility; Tyrr, god of war and hunting; and Solvilde, god of the sky and sea. Now they were working on Velos, who was the god of death, but also of wisdom.

  Though at this stage, it didn’t look much like the god of anything. Just a series of grain sacks stuffed with leaves and straw and tied together to resemble a body. But it was beginning to take shape, with twigs for legs and buttons for eyes.

  On the day of the festival, the seven figures would be paraded through town and adorned with dandelions and goose florets and whatever early blooms could be found along the way. Then they would be stood up all around the linden tree in the town square where they could watch over the feasting and dancing, while offerings of sweets and herbs were laid at their feet.

  Supposedly, the ceremony was meant to ensure a good harvest, but Serilda had lived through enough disappointing harvests to know that the gods probably weren’t listening that closely. There were many superstitions associated with the equinox, and she placed little trust in any of them. She doubted that to touch Velos with one’s left hand would bring a plague to the household in the following year, or that to give Eostrig a primrose, with its heart-shaped petals and sunshine-yellow middles, would later make for a fertile womb.

  She already tried her best to ignore the muttered comments that abounded this time of year, following everywhere she went. People muttering to themselves about how the miller’s girl should not be allowed at the festival. How her presence was sure to bring bad luck. Some people were brave enough, or rude enough, to say it to her face, always as a thinly veiled concern. Wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy an evening at home, Serilda? Best for you and the village …

  But most just talked about her behind her back, mentioning how she’d been at the festival three years ago and there had been droughts all that summer.

  And that awful year when she was only seven, when a sickness had come through and killed nearly half the town’s livestock the next month.

  It didn’t matter that there had been plenty of years when Serilda had attended the festival without consequence.

  She tried her best to ignore these mutterings, as her father had told her to since she was a child, as she had all her life. But it was becoming more difficult to ignore old superstitions these days.

  What if she really was a harbinger of ill fortune?

  “You’re doing wonderful work,” she said, inspecting the buttons that Nickel had sewn onto the face—one black eye, one brown. “What happened here?” She pointed to a place where the cloth had been cut open on the god’s cheek and stitched back up with black thread.

  “It’s a scar,” said Fricz, shoving back a flop of blond hair. “I figured the god of death has probably been in a good brawl or two. Needs to look tough.”

  “Is there any more ribbon?” asked Nickel, who was attempting to make a cloak for the god, mostly out of old towel scraps.

  “I have grosgrain,” said Anna, handing it to him, “but that’s the last of it.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  “Gerdy, no!” said Hans, snatching a paintbrush out of the little girl’s hand. She looked up, her eyes wide.

  On the god’s face, there was a dark smear of red—a smudgy mouth.

  “Now it looks like a girl,” snapped Hans.

  Gerdrut flushed bright red beneath her freckles—embarrassed and confused. She looked at Serilda. “Is Velos a boy?”

  “They can be, if they wish to be,” said Serilda. “But sometimes they might wish to be a girl. Sometimes a god might be both a boy and a girl … and sometimes, neither.”

  Gerdrut’s frown became more pronounced, and Serilda could tell she hadn’t helped matters. She chuckled. “Think of it this way. We mortals, we put limitations on ourselves. We think—Hans is a boy, so he must work in the fields. Anna is a girl, so she must learn to spin yarn.”

  Anna released a disgusted groan.

  “But if you were a god,” Serilda continued, “would you limit yourself? Of course not. You could be anything.”

  At this, some of the confusion cleared from Gerdrut’s expression. “I want to learn how to spin,” she said. “I think it looks like fun.”

  “You say that now,” Anna muttered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with learning to spin,” said Serilda. “A lot of people enjoy it. But it shouldn’t be just a job for girls, should it? In fact, the best spinner I know is a boy.”

  “Really?” said Anna. “Who?”

  Serilda was tempted to tell them. She had shared many stories these past weeks about her adventures in the haunted castle, many more fictional than true, but she’d avoided telling them about Gild and his gold-spinning. Somehow, it had felt like too precious of a secret.

  “You’ve never met him,” she finally said. “He lives in another town.”

  This must have been a dull-enough answer—they didn’t press her for details.

  “I think I could be good at spinning.”

  This statement, spoken so quietly, went almost unnoticed. It took Serilda a moment to realize it was Nickel who had said it, his head lowered as his fingers made perfectly tidy stitches on the cloak.

  Fricz stared at his twin, momentarily aghast. Serilda was already bristling, ready to come to Nickel’s defense when Fricz made whatever teasing comment came to his mind first.

  But he didn’t tease. Instead, he just gave his brother that lopsided grin and said, “I think you’d be pretty good at it, too. At least … you’d be way better at it than Anna is!”

  Serilda rolled her eyes.

  “So, what am I supposed to do about this mouth?” asked Hans, dark eyebrows bunching.

  They all paused to stare at the effigy’s face.

  “I like it,” Anna said first, at which Gerdrut beamed.

  “Me too,” Serilda agreed. “With those lips and that scar, I think this is the best god of death that Märchenfeld has ever seen.”

  With a shrug, Hans started mixing up a new batch of egg tempera.

  “Do you need more madder root?” Serilda asked.

  “I think this will be enough,” he said, testing the paint’s consistency. He looked almost mischievous when he raised his eyes. “But I know what you could be doing while we work.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him, but needed no explanation. Immediately, the children brightened to an encouraging chorus of “Yes, tell us a story!”

  “Hush!” said Serilda, looking back toward the schoolhouse’s open doors. “You know how Madam Sauer feels about that.”

  “She’s not in there,” said Fricz. “Said she still needed to gather some wild mugwort for the bonfire.”

  “She did?”

  Fricz nodded. “She left right after we came out here.”

  “Oh, I didn’t notice,” said Serilda. Lost in her own thoughts again, no doubt.

  She considered their pleas. Lately, all her stories had featured haunted ruins and nightmare monsters and heartless kings. Burning hounds and a stolen princess. Though the children had been in raptures for most of her tales, she had overheard little Gerdrut saying that she started having nightmares in which she was kidnapped by the Erlking, which had filled Serilda with a flood of guilt.

  She vowed to make her next story cheerier. Maybe something with a happy ending, even.

  But that thought was eclipsed by sudden grief.

  There wouldn’t be any more stories after this.

  She looked around at their faces, smeared with dirt and paint, and had to clench her jaw to keep her eyes from filling with tears.

  “Serilda?” said Gerdrut, her voice small and worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing at all,” she said quickly. “I must have pollen in my eyes.”

  The children traded doubtful looks, and even Serilda knew it had been a terrible lie.

  She inhaled deeply and leaned back on her hands, turning her face toward the sun. “Have I told you of the time I came across a nachzehrer on the road? He was newly risen from the grave. Had already chewed off his burial shroud and the meat of his right arm, straight down to the bone. At first when he saw me, I thought he would run away, but then he opened his mouth and let out the most bloodcurdling—”

  “No, stop!” cried Gerdrut, covering her ears. “Too scary!”

  “Ah, come on, Gerdy,” said Hans, draping an arm over her shoulders. “It isn’t real.”

  “And just how do you know?” said Serilda.

  Hans barked a laugh. “Nachzehrer aren’t real! People don’t come back from the dead and go around trying to eat their own family members. If they did, we’d all be … well, dead.”

  “It isn’t everyone that comes back,” said Nickel matter-of-factly. “Only people who die in terrible accidents, or from sickness.”

  “Or who kill themselves,” added Fricz. “I’ve heard that can make someone a nachzehrer, too.”

  “That’s right,” said Serilda. “And now you know that I’ve seen one, so of course they’re real.”

  Hans shook his head. “The more outlandish the tale, the harder you try to convince us it’s more than just a story.”

  “That’s half the fun of it,” said Fricz. “So quit your complaining. Go on, Serilda. What happened?”

  “No,” said Gerdrut. “A different story. Please?”

  Serilda smiled at her. “All right. Let me think a moment.”

  “Another one about the Erlking,” said Anna. “Those have been so good lately. I almost feel like I’m in that creepy castle with you.”

  “And those stories aren’t too scary for you, Gerdrut?” asked Serilda.

  Gerdrut shook her head, though she was looking a little pale. “I like ghost stories.”

  “All right, a ghost story, then.” Already Serilda’s imagination had transported her back to the castle at Adalheid. Her pulse sped up, hearing the screams, the squelch of bloody footprints.

  “Once, a long time ago,” she began, her voice faint and unsure, as it often was when she was just beginning to explore a story, not fully knowing where it was about to lead her. “There was a castle that stood above a deep blue lake. In the castle lived a good queen and a kind king … and … their two children…” Her brow furrowed. It usually didn’t take much for a story to begin to unfold before her. A few characters, a setting, and off she went, chasing down the adventure as fast as her imagination could keep up.

  But now, she felt like her imagination was leading her straight to an unclimbable wall, with no hint as to what was on the other side.

  Clearing her throat, she tried to push forward anyway.

  “And they were happy, beloved by all the people in their kingdom, and the countryside flourished … but then … something happened.”

  The children paused in their work and looked up at Serilda, waiting and eager.

  But as her gaze fell, it landed on the god of death, or at least, this rather ridiculous embodiment of them.

  There were ghosts prowling the halls of Adalheid Castle.

  Real ghosts.

  Real spirits, full of anger and regrets and sadness. Reliving their violent ends over and over.

  “What happened there?” she whispered.

  There was a moment of confused silence, before Hans chuckled. “Exactly. What happened?”

  She looked up, meeting each of their gazes in turn, then forced a smile to her face. “I’ve had a brilliant idea. You should finish the story.”

  “What?” said Fricz, his lip curling with distaste. “That’s not brilliant at all. If you leave it up to us, pretty soon Anna will have everyone kissing each other and getting married.” He made a face.

  “And if she leaves it up to you,” Anna shot back, “you’ll kill everyone off!”

  “Both options have potential,” said Serilda. “And I’m serious. You’ve heard me tell plenty of stories. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Skepticism flashed across their faces, but Gerdrut quickly perked up. “I know! It was the god of death!” She jabbed a finger into its stuffed side. “They came to the castle and killed everyone!”

  “Why would Velos do that?” asked Nickel, looking severely unhappy with the way Serilda had given up so easily and passed her responsibilities on to them. “They don’t murder people. They just shepherd their souls to Verloren once they’ve already passed.”

  “That’s right,” said Fricz, growing excited. “Velos didn’t kill anyone, but … they were there all the same. Because … because…”

  “Oh!” said Anna. “Because it was the night of the wild hunt, and they knew the Erlking and his hunters would be coming to the castle, and Velos was tired of all those souls escaping their clutches. They thought, if they could set a trap for the hunters, then they could claim the souls for Verloren!”

  Nickel scowled. “What does that have to do with the king and queen?”

  “And their children?” added Gerdrut.

  Anna scratched her ear, accidentally smearing paint down one of her braids. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  Serilda chuckled. “Keep thinking. This is the start of a very exciting tale. I know you’ll figure it out.”

  The children bandied about ideas as they worked. Sometimes the Erlking was the villain, sometimes it was the god of death, once it was the queen herself. Sometimes the townspeople narrowly escaped, sometimes they fought back, sometimes they were all massacred in their sleep. Sometimes they joined the hunt, sometimes they were stolen off to Verloren. Sometimes the ending was happy, but usually it was tragic.

  Soon, the story had tied itself into knots, the threads growing ever more tangled, until the children were arguing over which storyline was best, and who should die and who should fall in love and who should fall in love and then die. Serilda knew she should interject. She should help them set the record straight, or at least reach some sort of ending that they could all agree on.

  But she was lost in her own thoughts, hardly listening to their story as it became more and more cumbersome. Until it no longer resembled the story of Adalheid Castle at all.