The silence that followed was suffocating, and Serilda knew that she waited a heartbeat too long, hoping for what? She wouldn’t admit it even to herself.

  She shook off her disappointment and met Gild’s eye again. He was staring at her, but she could not read the look. Confusion? Pity?

  Enough of that.

  Sitting straighter, she declared, “I think you’re a sorcerer.”

  His eyebrows shot upward in surprise. Then he started to laugh, a great, bellowing sound that warmed her to her toes.

  “I am not a sorcerer.”

  “That you know of,” she said, lifting one finger toward him. “You’re under some dark spell that’s caused you to forget a sacred oath you once made to always come to the aid of a fa—of a worthy maiden when she calls on you.”

  He fixed her with a look and repeated, “I am not a sorcerer.”

  Serilda mirrored his expression. “I’ve watched you spin straw into gold. You are a sorcerer. You cannot convince me otherwise.”

  His smile broke through again. “Maybe I’m one of the old gods. Maybe I am Hulda.”

  “Don’t think the idea didn’t occur to me. But no. Gods are pompous and distant and in love with their own brilliance. You’re none of those things.”

  “Thank you?”

  She smirked. “Well, you might be a little in love with your own brilliance.”

  Gild shrugged, not disagreeing.

  She tapped her fingers against her mouth, watching him. He truly was a mystery, and one she felt compelled to figure out—if it was only because she needed the distraction from every horrible thing that wanted to crowd into her thoughts.

  He was like no fairy or kobold she had ever heard of, and she did not think he was a zwerge or a land wight or any of the forest folk. True, many stories revolved around the magic ones assisting lost travelers or poor fishermen or desperate maidens—for a price. Always for a price. And in that regard, Gild did seem to fit the description. But he had no wings, no tall ears, no pointed teeth, no devil’s tail. He did have a subtle mischief, she had to admit. A teasing smile. An eye for trouble. Yet his mannerisms were thoughtful and precise.

  He was magical. A gold-spinner.

  A witch?

  Maybe.

  A godchild of Hulda?

  Perhaps.

  But nothing felt quite right.

  Again, she found herself inspecting his edges. They were as solid as any boy she’d ever met in the village. There was no haziness about him, as though he were about to dissolve into the air. No transparent limbs, no foggy silhouettes. He seemed real. He seemed alive.

  Gild held her gaze while she studied him, never flinching, never breaking eye contact, never turning away in embarrassment. A small smile clung to his lips while he waited for her proclamation.

  Finally, she declared, “I have made up my mind. Whatever you might be, you are definitely not a ghost.”

  Chapter 24

  Gild beamed. “You’re certain?”

  “I am.”

  “And why am I not a ghost?”

  “You’re too”—she struggled for the right word—“alive.”

  His laugh was hollow. “I don’t feel alive. Or at least I didn’t. Not until—” His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrists. Back up to her face.

  She stilled.

  “I would tell you if I had any answers to offer,” he said. “But if I’m being honest, I’m not sure it much matters what I am. I can go anywhere in this castle, but I can never leave it. Maybe I’m a ghost. Maybe I’m something else. Either way, I’m trapped here.”

  “And you’ve been here a long time?”

  “Ages.”

  “Decades? Centuries?”

  “Yes? Maybe? Time is hard to grasp. But I know that I’ve tried to leave this castle, and I can’t.”

  She chewed on the inside of her lip. Her mind was racing with ideas. Stories. Fairy tales. But she wanted to know the truth.

  “Such a long time to be trapped in these walls,” she murmured. “How can you stand it?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “But I haven’t much choice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I like to look out at the city. There’s a tower—the one in the southwest corner—with a wonderful view of the docks and the houses. I can watch the people. If the wind is right I can even hear them. Haggling over prices. Playing their instruments.” He paused for a long time. “Laughing. I love it when I can hear them laughing.”

  Serilda hummed in thought. “I think I understand better now,” she said slowly. “Your jokes. Your … pranks. You wield laughter like a weapon, a protection against your awful circumstances. I think you’re trying to create lightness where there is so much dark.”

  One of his eyebrows lifted with amusement. “Yes. You have it exactly right. I assure you, I only think of daisies and shooting stars and bringing merriment into this dreadful world. I never think at all of how His Foulness will turn blue with anger and he’ll spend half a night cursing my existence. That would just be spiteful. Far beneath me.”

  She laughed. “I suppose spite can be a weapon, too.”

  “Absolutely. My favorite, in fact. Well. Other than a sword. Because who doesn’t love a sword?”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “I met one of the children in town,” she said. “A girl named Leyna. She and her friends like to play games on the docks. Perhaps it’s their laughter you heard.”

  Gild’s expression turned bittersweet. “There have been many children. Children who have turned into adults who have made more children. Sometimes I feel so connected to them, like I could walk across that bridge and they would recognize me. That they would know me somehow. Even though, if anyone in that city had ever known me, they would be long dead by now.”

  “You’re right,” she mused. “There must have been a time before.”

  “Before?”

  “Before you were trapped here. Before you became … whatever you are.”

  “Probably,” he said, sounding empty, “But I don’t remember it.”

  “Nothing?”

  He shook his head.

  “If you were a ghost, then you would have died. Do you remember your death?”

  He kept shaking his head. “Nothing.”

  She sank, disappointed. There had to be some way to figure it out. She racked her brain trying to think of every non-mortal being she’d ever heard of, but nothing seemed to fit.

  The candle wavered then. The shadows flickered, and dread dug into Serilda’s chest at the thought of the night reaching its end. But a glance told her that the candle was still burning bright, though there wasn’t much wick left to burn. The night would end soon. The Erlking would return. Gild would be gone.

  Relieved that the candle was not yet extinguished, Serilda peered at him.

  He was watching her, vulnerable and distressed. “I am so sorry about your father.”

  She shivered as she was pulled back to the horrible truth she’d been trying to forget.

  “But I am not sorry I got to see you again,” continued Gild. “Even if that makes me as selfish as any of the dark ones.” He looked positively miserable to be confessing this. He knotted his hands in his lap, knuckles going white. “And I hated seeing you cry. But at the same time, I really liked holding you.”

  Heat rushed into Serilda’s cheeks.

  “It’s just that—” He stopped himself, struggling for words. His voice was thick, almost pained, when he tried again. “Remember when I told you that I’ve never met any mortals before? At least, that I know of.”

  Serilda nodded.

  “That never really bothered me. I guess I never gave it much thought. I never realized you would be … that someone who’s alive would be … like you.”

  “So soft?” she said, with a note of teasing.

  He exhaled, embarrassed, but starting to smile. “And warm. And … solid.”

  His gaze fell to her hands resting in her lap. She could still feel the phantom caress from earlier. That delicate brush against her skin.

  Her gaze darted across to his hands. Hands that, until her, had never touched a human being. They were clutched together, as if he were trying to keep himself from dissolving.

  Or from reaching out to her.

  Serilda thought of all the touches she took for granted. Even if she had always been something of an outcast in Märchenfeld, she had never been completely ostracized. She’d had her father’s all-encompassing hugs. The children who would snuggle against her sides while she told them her tales. Tiny moments that meant nothing. But, to someone who had never experienced them …

  Nervously wetting her lips, Serilda scooted forward.

  Gild tensed, watching with trepidation as she inched closer, until she was sitting beside him, her back against the same wall. Their shoulders almost, but not quite, together. Just close enough that the little hairs on her arms prickled at his nearness.

  Holding her breath, she held out her hand, palm up.

  Gild stared at it for a very, very long time.

  When he finally reached for her, he was trembling. She wondered if he was nervous or frightened or something else?

  When the pads of their fingers pressed together, she could feel the tension release from him, and she realized that was the source of his fear. That, this time, he would slip right through her. Or the sensation wouldn’t be the same. That whatever warmth or softness he’d felt before would be gone.

  Serilda laced their fingers together. Palm to palm. She could feel her heartbeat thundering through her fingers, and she wondered whether he noticed it, too.

  His skin was dry, rough, covered in scratches from the straw. Dirt had long been embedded into the edges of his brittle fingernails. He had a scrape on one knuckle that hadn’t yet started to scab over.

  They were not pretty hands, but they were strong and sure. At least, once he finally stopped shaking.

  Serilda knew that her hands weren’t pretty, either. But she couldn’t help feeling that they fit together, just right.

  She and this boy. This … whatever he was.

  She tried to ward off the thought. He was desperate for human contact. Any human contact. She could have been anyone.

  Besides, she thought, looking at the ring he’d slipped onto his pinkie finger, he might have saved her life, but he’d claimed his price for it. There were no favors between them. This was not friendship.

  But that didn’t keep her blood from burning hotter for every moment that passed with his hand in hers.

  It didn’t keep her heart from soaring when he leaned his head against her shoulder, letting out a sigh mixed with a sob.

  Her lips parted in surprise.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “No,” he whispered back. His honesty startled her. It was as if his blithe demeanor had dissolved away, leaving him exposed.

  Serilda pressed her cheek to the top of his head. “Shall I continue the story?”

  He chuckled quietly and seemed to consider, but then she felt his head shaking. He pulled away, enough to look at her. “Why do you say you aren’t fair?”

  “What?”

  “Before, talking about damsels and my … heroics.” His smile grew cheeky, but only for a moment. “You seemed to be suggesting that you’re … not beautiful.”

  Despite his obvious discomfort, he did not look away.

  “Are you mocking me?”

  His brow pinched. “No. Of course not.”

  “Can you not see what’s before you?”

  “I can see precisely what’s before me.” He reached up with his other hand and, when she didn’t pull away, settled the tips of his fingers lightly against her temple. He held her gaze steadily, when so many boys had flinched away with looks of pity, if not outright disgust.

  Gild did not flinch.

  “What do they mean?” he asked.

  She swallowed. A lie would have been easy. She had thought of so many to explain away her eyes.

  For so long, she had wondered if the tale her father had told her was just another fabrication.

  But now she knew it was the truth, and she did not want to lie to Gild.

  “I was marked by Wyrdith,” she said, suddenly unable, or unwilling, to move. Every touch was a new revelation.

  His eyes widened. “The god of stories. Of course. It’s the wheel of fortune.”

  She nodded. “They mean that I can’t be trusted. That I’m bad luck.”

  Gild considered this for a long time, before giving a subtle grunt. “Fortune determines who will prosper and who will fail. It’s all a matter of chance.”

  “That’s what they like to tell you,” she said, “but when someone has good fortune, they are quick to thank Freydon or Solvilde, even Hulda. But Wyrdith is only ever credited with bad luck.”

  “And do people blame you? When they have bad luck?”

  “Some do, yes. Being a storyteller doesn’t help. People don’t trust me.”

  “Doesn’t seem right, to blame you for things you have no control over.”

  She shrugged. “It can be difficult to prove I’m not at fault.”

  Especially when she wasn’t sure they were wrong. But she didn’t want to tell him that. Not when he had, so far, not shied away from her.

  Gild let his hand drop back to his lap, which both relieved and saddened her. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’ve forgotten what it was.”

  “Why do you think you’re not beautiful?”

  She flushed. “I would think that’s been answered just fine.”

  “You’ve told me that you’re cursed by the god of stories. That people don’t trust you. But that isn’t the same thing. Spend enough time with the dark ones and you’ll know that sometimes the most untrustworthy things are also the most beautiful.”

  She pictured the Erlking, in all his unimaginable beauty.

  “You just compared me to black-hearted demons. Don’t tell me that was a compliment.”

  He laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” The gold flecks in his eyes glittered in the candlelight, and when next he spoke, it was so quiet that Serilda barely heard him, even right at his side. “This is … very new to me.”

  She wanted to say that this was very new to her, too, but she wasn’t entirely sure what this was.

  Only that she didn’t want it to end.

  She gathered her courage, wanting to say as much, when the candle began to splutter.

  They both looked at it, desperate for it to not go out. For the night to not be over. But the flame was hovering precariously on the last tiny bit of wick, moments from being doused in the dark wax.

  As it flickered again, they heard footsteps.

  A key in the lock.

  “Serilda.”

  She looked at Gild, wide-eyed, and nodded. “I’m satisfied. Go.”

  He looked, for the barest of moments, like he didn’t know what she was talking about. Then his expression cleared.

  “I’m not,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Please forgive me this.”

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

  Serilda gasped against him.

  She did not have time to shut her eyes, to even think about kissing him back, when the key turned. The lock clanked.

  Gild vanished.

  She was left trembling, her insides like an entire flock of sparrows taking flight. The candle went out. Its light was almost immediately replaced with the torches from the corridor as the door was thrust open and the Erlking’s shadow fell over her.

  Serilda blinked up at him, but for a long moment, she couldn’t really see him. Her thoughts lingered on Gild. The urgency of the kiss. The desire. As if he feared it might be his only chance. To kiss her. To kiss … anyone.

  And now he was gone.

  It took all her mental strength not to reach up and touch her lips. Not to slip away into a daydream, reliving that tremulous moment again and again.

  Luckily, the king had eyes only for the gold. He ignored her as he sauntered into the room and eyed the stacks of bobbins.

  “I would ask that you keep any fits of displeasure to yourself,” he said serenely, as his fingers grabbed one spoke of the spinning wheel and gave it a quick turn. “This spinning wheel is original to the castle. I would hate to see it broken.”

  Serilda glanced over at him. She’d completely forgotten that the spinning wheel had fallen onto its side.

  Gulping, she pushed herself up to standing, making sure to lock out her legs so that her knees did not quake. “Forgive me. I … think I fell asleep. I must have kicked it over. I meant no harm.”

  He smiled slightly as he turned to her. “Congratulations, Lady Serilda. I will not be gutting you this morning after all.”

  It took a moment for his comment to register in her flustered mind. When it did, she responded dryly, “You have my gratitude.”

  “And you have mine.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was ignoring her ire, or willfully oblivious to it.

  “You must be tired,” he said. “Manfred, show her to the tower.”

  The coachman gestured for Serilda to follow, but she hesitated. She might never have another opportunity as this, and time was not her ally. When the Erlking moved toward the corridor, she gathered her courage and stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  He froze, his surprise evident.

  To soften what she knew must be an enormous breach of propriety, she attempted an off-kilter curtsy. “Please. I do not wish to anger you, but … I must know what’s become of my father.”

  His eyebrow lifted, even as his expression darkened. “I believe I already answered that question.”

  “You said that you didn’t know.”

  “And I don’t.” There was a brittle edge to the words. “If he died during the hunt, then his soul has already been carried to Verloren. I certainly didn’t want it.”

  She clamped her jaw, both livid at his callousness and hurt by her missed chance to see her father one last time, if his ghost had lingered even for a moment last night.