The truth was, Serilda didn’t want to make up another story about the castle. She didn’t want to keep spinning outlandish fabrications.

  She wanted to know the truth. What had really become of the people who had once lived there? Why were their spirits never put to rest? Why had the Erlking claimed it as his sanctuary, and abandoned Gravenstone Castle, deep in the Aschen Wood?

  She wanted to know about Gild.

  She wanted to know about her mother.

  But all she had were questions.

  And the brutal certainty that she would never have answers.

  “Serilda? Serilda!”

  She jolted. Anna was frowning at her. “Fricz asked you a question.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I was … thinking about your story.” She smiled. “It’s very good so far.”

  She was met with five dismayed looks. It seemed they didn’t agree.

  “What did you ask?”

  “I asked if you’ll be walking with us during the parade?” said Fricz.

  “Oh. Oh, I can’t. I’m too old now. And besides, I…”

  I’ll be gone. I’m leaving you, leaving Märchenfeld. Forever.

  She couldn’t tell them. She hoped it was easier this way, to just leave and never come back. To not have to suffer through their farewells.

  But she didn’t really believe it would be easier at all.

  For sixteen years she’d believed her mother had left her without a goodbye, and there had been nothing easy about that.

  But she couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t risk it.

  “I might have to miss the festivities this year.”

  “You won’t be there?” shouted Gerdrut. “Why not?”

  “Is it because—” Hans began, but then stopped himself. As a Lindbeck, he had probably heard all about the year that his older brother danced with the cursed girl, and wolves got into their fields.

  “No,” said Serilda, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I don’t care what everyone says about me, even if I am bad luck.”

  His frown deepened.

  Serilda sighed. “My father and I are going to visit Mondbrück in a few days, and we aren’t entirely sure when we’ll be back. That’s all. But of course I hope to be here for the festival. I would hate to miss it.”

  THE

  CROW

  MOON

  Chapter 20

  She’d spotted a black bird flying over the spring market when she was picking out a bunch of onions that morning, and could not tell whether it was a crow or a raven or one of the Erlking’s spies. The image had haunted her the rest of the day, those wings spread wide as it circled above the bustling square outside Mondbrück’s nearly completed town hall. Around and around. A predator, waiting for the opportune moment to dive for its prey.

  She wondered if she would ever again hear a crow’s throaty scream without startling.

  “Serilda?”

  She glanced up from her salmon pie. The main room of the inn was swarming with guests who had come in from nearby provinces to enjoy the market or sell their wares, but Serilda and her father had kept to themselves since they’d arrived two days ago.

  “It’s going to be all right,” her father murmured, reaching across the table to pat her wrist. “It’s only one night, and then we will get as far away from here as we can.”

  She smiled faintly. Her stomach was in knots, a hundred doubts creeping into her thoughts, despite all her father’s assurances.

  One more night. The hunt might come looking for her at the mill, but they would not find her, and come sunrise, she would be free.

  At least, free enough to keep running.

  It filled Serilda with dread to think about the next month, and the month after that.

  How many years would pass before her father was able to let down his guard? Before they truly felt that they’d managed to get away?

  And always, those annoying whispers that it was all for naught. The Erlking might already be done with her. What if they were disrupting their lives and leaving behind everything they’d ever known all because of a stew of unfounded fears?

  Not that it mattered now, she told herself. Her father was committed. She knew there was no talking him out of their plan.

  She had to accept that her life would never be the same after this night.

  She glanced toward the open doorway, where she could see daylight fading into dusk. “It’s almost time.”

  Papa nodded. “Finish your pie.”

  She shook her head. “I have no appetite.”

  His expression was sympathetic. She’d noticed that he hadn’t been eating much lately, either.

  He left a coin on the table and they headed toward the staircase and the room they had let since they arrived.

  If anyone was watching—if anything was watching—it would appear that they had retired for the night.

  Instead, they ducked into a small alcove beneath the steps where earlier Serilda had stowed a couple of jewel-toned traveling cloaks that she’d purchased from a weaver at the market the day before. They had been too expensive, but it was their best chance for slipping out of the inn without being recognized.

  She and her father each tossed a cloak on over their clothes and shared a determined look. Papa nodded, then slipped out through the back door.

  Serilda waited behind. His spies would be looking for two travelers, her father had insisted. They needed to go separately, but he would be waiting for her. It would not be for long.

  Her heart was in her throat as she counted to a hundred, twice, before she pulled up the emerald hood and followed. She hunched her shoulders and shortened her stride, trying to make everything about her different. Unrecognizable. Just in case they were watching.

  It was not Serilda Moller who slipped away from the inn. It was someone different. Someone who had nothing to hide and nothing to hide from.

  She walked the path she had memorized days ago. Down the long alley, past the public house, with raucous laughter spilling out the doorway, past a bakery closed for the night, past a cobbler and a small shop with a spinning wheel in the window.

  She turned and hurried around the square, keeping to the shadows, until she arrived at the side door of the town hall. She usually loved this time of year, when boards were removed from windows to let out the stifling, stale air. When every sprig of grass and tiny wildflower was a new promise from Eostrig. When the market filled with early spring vegetables—beetroot and radishes and leeks—and the fear of hunger abated.

  But this year, all she could think about was the shadow of the wild hunt looming over her.

  She had just begun to tap on the wood when the door opened. Her father greeted her with anxious eyes.

  “Do you think you were followed?” he whispered, shutting the door behind her.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “Looking around for nachtkrapp seemed like a sure way to make myself appear suspicious.”

  He nodded and squeezed her in a brief embrace. “It’s all right. We’ll be safe here.” He said it as if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her. Then he shoved a crate full of bricks in front of the door.

  Her father had sneaked blankets into what would become the council chamber. He lit a single candle, chasing away the otherwise pitch-black. They said little. There was nothing to discuss that they hadn’t already discussed at length these past weeks. Their preparations, their fears, their plans.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait for the Crow Moon to pass.

  Serilda did not believe she would sleep at all as she curled up on the hard floor, using the new cloak to cushion her head. She tried to tell herself this would work.

  The coachman might again come for her at the mill in Märchenfeld. Or, if the king’s spies had been paying attention, they might come for her at the Mondbrück inn.

  But they would not find her. Not here, in this enormous barren hall full of unfinished woodwork and carts laden with bricks and stones.

  “Wait, we mustn’t forget,” said her father, pulling the candle from its copper base. He tipped it at an angle, so that the flame melted the wax around the wick. It soon dripped down onto the candlestick in a small pool. Once it had begun to cool, Serilda picked up the soft wax and formed it into balls, before pressing it into her ears. The world closed in around her.

  Her father did the same, though he made a face as he squished the wax into his ears. It was not a pleasant sensation, but it was a precaution against the call of the hunt. The silence of the night was complete, but the thoughts in Serilda’s head became aggressively loud as she laid her head back down on the cloak.

  Her mother.

  The Erlking.

  Spun gold and the god of death and moss maidens fleeing from the hounds.

  And Gild. The way he looked at her. Like she was a miracle, not a curse.

  She closed her eyes and pleaded for sleep.

  * * *

  Sleep must have finally claimed her, for she was awoken by a muffled thump not far from her head. Her eyes snapped open. Her ears were full of a dull roar. She was staring at unfamiliar walls lit with shifting candlelight.

  She sat up and spotted the candle rolling around on the wooden floorboards. With a gasp, she grabbed the cloak and threw it over the flame, smothering it before it could start a fire.

  Darkness engulfed her, but not before she’d caught sight of her father’s figure stumbling away from her.

  “Papa?” she whispered, not sure if she was too loud or too quiet. She got to her feet and called to him again. In the night, the moon had risen, and her eyes began to adjust to the light coming in through three small openings that had not yet been filled with leaded glass.

  Her father was gone.

  Serilda moved to follow him and felt something give beneath her heel. Reaching down, she picked up the glob of wax. Her insides squeezed.

  The hunt?

  Had they been found? After everything?

  No. Perhaps he was only sleepwalking.

  Perhaps …

  She grabbed her cloak and shoes and hurried out into the massive hall beyond the chamber, in time to see him slip around a distant corner. Serilda followed, calling to him again.

  He was not heading toward the small back door. Instead, he shuffled toward the main entrance that opened onto the city square. The massive arched doors were nailed shut with temporary planks of wood to ward off thieves while the building was being constructed. Serilda spied her father in time to see him grab a large hammer left behind by one of the crews.

  He swung the hammer, splintering the first board.

  She cried out in surprise. “Papa! Stop!” Her voice was still dampened by the wax, but she knew he must be able to hear her. Still, he did not turn around.

  Using the tool’s handle as leverage, he pried away the first board from the intricately carved door. Then the second.

  Serilda’s hands fell onto her father’s. “Papa, what are you doing?”

  He glanced toward her, but even in the dim lighting she could see that his gaze was unfocused. Sweat beaded on his brow.

  “Papa?”

  With a sneer, he put a hand to her sternum and shoved her away.

  Serilda stumbled back.

  Her father yanked open the door and rushed out into the night.

  Pulse fluttering, she dashed after him. He was moving quicker now, hurrying across the square, toward the inn where they should have been staying. The moon illuminated the square in a silver glow.

  Serilda was halfway across the square when she realized he wasn’t heading to the inn’s entrance, but around to the back. She picked up her pace. Usually she had no trouble keeping up with her father. Her legs were longer and he was not a man to hasten unnecessarily. But now she was out of breath as she darted around the large fountain of Freydon in the square’s center.

  She turned the corner behind the inn and froze.

  Her father had disappeared.

  “Papa? Where are you?” she said, feeling the waver in her voice. Then, with clenched teeth, she reached for her ears and pried out the globs of wax. The sounds of the world rushed back around her. Mostly the night was quiet, the revelers from the public houses and ale gardens having long retired. But there was the sound of shuffling not far away.

  She realized it was coming from the stables that were shared by the inn and other nearby businesses.

  She stomped forward, but before she could duck into the shelter, her father emerged, leading Zelig by the reins.

  She blinked in surprise, stepping back. Papa had secured the bridle over Zelig’s head, but had not bothered with the saddle.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, breathless.

  Again, his gaze swept over her without expression. Then he stepped onto a nearby crate and, with a strength and agility she would have been certain her father did not possess, heaved himself up onto the horse’s back. His fists grabbed the reins and the old horse lurched forward. Serilda threw herself back against the stable wall to keep from being trampled.

  Dazed and frightened, Serilda ran after them, screaming for him to stop.

  She did not have to run far.

  As soon as she reached the edge of the wide-open square, she froze.

  Her father and Zelig were there waiting for her.

  And they were surrounded by the hunt. Beside them, Zelig looked small and pathetic and weak, though he was standing as proud as he ever had, as if attempting to fit in with these powerful warhorses.

  Dread hardened in her stomach.

  She was shaking as she met the Erlking’s gaze. He rode at the front of the hunting party, astride that glorious steed.

  And there was one horse without a rider. Its coat as dark as ink, its white mane braided with belladonna flowers and sprigs of blackberries.

  “How good of you to join us,” said the Erlking with a wicked smile.

  Then he raised the hunting horn to his lips.

  Chapter 21

  It could only be a dream. True, many unusual and uncanny things had happened to her these past weeks, and the boundary between truth and fiction felt thinner every day.

  But this.

  This was dream and nightmare and fantasy and horror and freedom and disbelief all churned into one.

  Serilda was given the riderless horse, and its strength and power seemed to transfer into her own body. She felt invincible as they raced away from the city. The hellhounds tore across the countryside. The world blurred in her vision and she doubted her horse’s hooves were touching the ground at all. Their path was guided by the light of the Crow Moon and the unearthly howl of the hounds. They skimmed over riverbeds. Shot past darkened farmhouses. Crossed over pastures lush with grass, freshly plowed fields, and hillsides singing with early wildflowers. The wind in her face smelled sweet, almost salted, and she wondered how far they had gone. They might have been near the ocean, except that it wasn’t possible to travel so far in such a short time.

  None of this was possible.

  In her daze, Serilda thought of her mother. A young woman, not much older than she was now. Yearning for freedom, for adventure.

  Could she blame her for having been tempted by the call of that horn?

  Could she blame anyone? When so much of life was rules and responsibilities and cruel gossip.

  When you weren’t exactly what others thought you should be.

  When your heart desired nothing more than to stoke the flames of a bonfire, howl at the stars, dance beneath the thunder and rain, and kiss your lover, languid and soft, in the frothy surf of ocean waves.

  She shivered, sure that she’d never had these yearnings before. They felt wanton, but she knew they were hers. Desires she’d never before recognized now clawed their way to the surface, reminding her that she was a creature of earth and sky and fire. A beast of the woods. A dangerous, feral thing.

  The hounds chased wild hares, a startled doe, quail, and grouse.

  Serilda’s mouth watered. She glanced at her father, whose face was caught in speechless bliss. He was at the back of the group, though Zelig was galloping as fast as his old legs would move. Faster than he had likely ever run in his life. Moonlight glistened off his sweat-covered body. His eyes flashed wild and bright.

  Serilda turned her head and caught the eye of a woman to her other side. She had a sword at her hip and a scarf tied around her waxen throat, and Serilda vaguely remembered her from the night of the Snow Moon.

  Words filtered back to her through her heady thoughts.

  I believe she speaks true.

  She had believed Serilda’s lies of gold-spinning, or at least claimed to. If she had not spoken, would the king and the hunt have murdered Serilda that very night?

  The woman smiled at Serilda. Then she dug her heels into her steed’s side, leaving Serilda behind.

  The moment was fleeting. She wondered if it had even been real. She tried to lose herself again in the mad, delicious chaos. Up ahead, a man with a cudgel leaned forward from his saddle and swung at their newest quarry—a red fox who was trying desperately to get away, darting back and forth, but trapped in every direction by the hunt.

  It was a direct hit.

  Serilda didn’t know if the fox made a sound. If so, it was too quickly buried beneath the loud cheer and laughter that rose up from the hunters.

  Her mouth was watering. The hunt would end in a feast. Their kills served on silver dishes, still swimming in pools of ruby blood.

  Turning her face up toward the moon, Serilda laughed along. She released the reins and spread her arms wide, pretending to fly over the fields. Crisp air filled her lungs, bringing with it the most profound elation.

  She wished for this night to never end.

  On a whim, she glanced back again, to see if her father was flying, too. If he was on the verge of weeping, like she was.

  Her smile faded.

  Zelig was still charging forward, trying desperately to maintain his speed.

  But her father was gone.

  * * *

  The drawbridge thundered beneath the horses’ hooves as they stampeded across it and beneath the gatehouse. The courtyard was full of figures awaiting the return of the wild hunt. Servants hurried forward to collect the game. The stable boy and a few other hands took the reins of the horses and began leading them toward the stables. The master of the hounds lured the beasts back to the kennel with slabs of bloodied meat.