But no—he might be all right. She had to believe that.

  “And what of my mother?” she demanded.

  “What of your mother?” he asked, his gray eyes sparking impatiently.

  She tried to talk fast. “My father told me that when I was but two years old, my mother did not merely leave us.” She studied his expression. “She was taken by the hunt.”

  She waited, but the king appeared … disinterested.

  “I want to know if you still have her.”

  “You mean, has her ghost become a permanent part of my retinue?”

  He seemed to emphasize the word permanent, but it might have been Serilda’s imagination.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The Erlking held her gaze. “We have many talented seamstresses.”

  Serilda opened her mouth to interject—her mother wasn’t actually a talented seamstress—but at the last moment, she bit back what would have given up her original fib.

  The king continued. “Whether or not one of them is your mother, I haven’t the slightest idea nor can I muster a whit of care about it. If she is mine, then she is yours no longer.”

  It was spoken coldly and decidedly, leaving no room for argument.

  “Besides, Lady Serilda,” he went on, his voice softening, “it might ease your troubled heart to remember that those who join the hunt come willingly.” This time, when he smiled, it was not cheerful—but taunting. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She shuddered, remembering the urging of the deepest, quietest parts of her soul last night when she had heard the call of the horn. When she had been helpless to resist its allure. The promise of freedom, of ferocity, of a night without restrictions or rules.

  Understanding passed over the king’s eyes, and Serilda felt a spike of shame to know that some part of her craved such wild abandon, and that the Erlking recognized it in her.

  “Perhaps there is comfort in knowing that you have this … commonality with your mother,” he said, smirking.

  She looked away, unable to disguise the sense of disgrace that stirred in her gut.

  “Now then, Lady Serilda, I might suggest that you not travel so far on the next full moon. When I summon you, I expect you to answer promptly.” He stepped closer, a warning in his tone. “If I have to come looking for you again, I will not be so generous.”

  She swallowed.

  “Perhaps it would be best to find accommodations in Adalheid, so that you will not need to waste half the night in travel. Tell the townspeople that they are to treat you as a personal guest of mine, and I am sure they will be most accommodating.”

  He took her hand and pressed his iced lips to her knuckle. Goose bumps prickled her arm. The moment his fingers loosened, she ripped her hand away and squeezed it into a fist at her side.

  His eyes seemed to be laughing at her as he stood to his full height. “Forgive me. I am sure you required some rest, yet it seems we will not have time to settle you into your rooms after all. Until the Chaste Moon, then.”

  She frowned, confused, but before she could speak, the world shifted. The change was sudden and jolting. Serilda had not moved, but in a blink, the king was gone. The bobbins of gold, the spinning wheel, the lingering scent of straw.

  She was still in the larder, but now she was surrounded by rust and decay and stifling musty air, and she was alone.

  Chapter 25

  As Serilda made her way through the empty castle, she heard the rumble of distant thunder and a torrent of rain pounding the outer castle walls. Nearby, something was dripping. Soft and steady. She could feel the dampness in her bones, and even her cloak could not ward off the invading chill. She started to shiver again as she tried to find her way through the maze of halls. The castle looked so different on this side of the veil, with its scattered furniture and torn tapestries. She soon found the source of the dripping sound—a window where a hole in the masonry was letting the rainwater soak through. It was beginning to puddle on the floor.

  Serilda held her breath as she passed, expecting the water to turn into blood.

  It did not.

  She exhaled. Her muscles were knotted and tense, waiting for the haunts of the castle to awaken. Every time she peered around a corner, she expected to see either a deadly monster or a pool of blood or some other horrible thing.

  But the castle stayed eerily silent.

  The memories of the night before jumbled about in her weary mind. Only the day before, she’d dared to hope that she was safe. That her father was safe. Miles away from Märchenfeld. They’d watched for hollow-eyed ravens. They’d thought they were so careful.

  But the Erlking had found her regardless. Found them regardless.

  If she hadn’t been so foolish, if she hadn’t tried to run, then her father would be home right now. Waiting for her.

  She tried to shove the fear away. Maybe he was home right now, waiting for her. Maybe he had awoken, dazed and bruised, with faint memories of the hunt, but altogether all right. She reminded herself that while the hunt did sometimes leave bodies behind after their mad procession, it was more common for those who had been taken to wake up. Befuddled, embarrassed, but more or less intact.

  This was probably what had happened to her father.

  By now he had probably made his way home, or he would be on his way now, eager to meet her there.

  That is what she told herself.

  Then she commanded her heart to believe it.

  They would soon be together again, and she would not make the same mistake twice. She could see now how foolish they had been, to think they could so easily escape. She wondered if there was any place in all the world where the Erlking and his wild hunt could not find her.

  But even as she thought it, another question arose.

  Did she still want to escape?

  She knew that if she did not find a way out of this, there was only one possible end for her. The Erlking would discover her lies. He would kill her and mount her head on the castle wall.

  But she also wanted to know what had become of her mother, all those years ago.

  If her mother was a member of this undead court, didn’t Serilda owe it to her to try and set her free? To let her spirit find rest, and ultimately be guided down to Verloren? She had only wanted a night of freedom with the hunt. She did not deserve to be trapped here forever.

  And then there was the other ghost—or whatever he was—lingering in her thoughts.

  Gild.

  The kiss was stitched into her mind. Fierce. Desperate. Longing.

  Please forgive me this.

  She pressed the pads of her fingers against her lips, trying to re-create the sensation. But last night, it was as though the floor itself had fallen out from beneath her.

  Now it was just her fingers, going numb with cold.

  She rubbed her hands together, blowing on them with her breath. She wanted to believe the kiss had meant something, if only because it had been her first. She would not admit it to anyone, but she had spent hours dreaming about just such a moment. She had spun countless fantasies of being swept away by everyone from princes to well-intentioned scoundrels. She had imagined a romance in which the hero would find her wit, her charm, her bravery all so painfully irresistible, he would have no choice but to gather her in his arms and kiss her until she was dizzy and breathless.

  Gild’s kiss had been as quick and sudden as a lightning strike.

  And left her dizzy and breathless nonetheless.

  But why? Much as she yearned to think he did find her irresistible, a practical voice warned her it was probably not so romantic as all that.

  He was a prisoner. A young man—trapped and alone inside this castle for only the gods knew how long. Without company, without even the slightest hope for physical tenderness.

  Until now.

  Until her.

  She could have been anyone.

  Be that as it may, Gild was trapped here, and she wanted to help him. She wanted to help all of them.

  She knew it was naive. What could she, a simple miller’s daughter, possibly do to defy the Erlking? She needed to be worrying about her own life, her own freedom, not anyone else’s.

  But she’d had too many fantasies of heroism to ignore the spark of excitement when she thought of rescuing her mother—if she needed rescuing.

  Rescuing Gild.

  Rescuing … everyone.

  And, if anything had happened to her father, she would make sure the Erlking paid for it.

  She paused suddenly, her thoughts of vengeance scattering as she looked around. She’d been sure she was nearly to the great hall, but the corridor that should have turned to the left was turning to the right, and she found herself questioning every turn she’d taken.

  She ducked into a room where a wall of bookshelves displayed nothing but spiderwebs. She peered through the window, trying to orient herself.

  The rain was smashing into the water below, the wind causing drifts of fog to scatter across the lake’s surface, obscuring the distant shore. From what little she could see, she determined that she was somewhere near the northwest corner of the keep. She was surprised to see a second courtyard below, between the keep and the outer wall. It was so overrun with weeds and rooted saplings that it looked almost like a wild garden.

  Then her gaze fell on a tower, and a piece of her conversation with Gild scratched at her thoughts. He had mentioned the southwest tower. It had sounded like his favorite place, where he liked to watch the city, the people.

  Curiosity had always been a difficult thing for Serilda to resist.

  If Gild was some sort of ghost, could his spirit be lingering in this castle even now? Could he see her? The thought was mostly eerie, but also a tiny bit comforting.

  She thought of the drude that had attacked her.

  The candelabra that had attacked it.

  Could it have been…?

  She returned to the hall, moving faster now, focusing on every turn to keep herself from getting lost again. At every corner, she paused to be sure there were no malevolent spirits or raging birds. She tried to picture the keep and its numerous spires. A map was beginning to form in her mind. She passed another door open to a spiraling staircase and guessed it was the shorter tower on the western wall.

  Still, no sign of life—or death, for that matter. No screams. No nachtkrapp watching her with empty eyes.

  She seemed alone. Just her and the quiet thumping of her boots on the threadbare carpet as she continued.

  Questions nagged at her with every door she passed. She spied a harp still standing amid yellowed music pages that had been scattered across the floor. A storeroom full of dust-covered wine casks. Wooden chests rotting away and cushioned benches turned into homes for the local rodents.

  Until one doorway revealed another spiraling staircase.

  She held her skirt aloft as she made her way up into the tower, passing a series of alcoves, empty pedestals, and the statue of an armored knight holding a large shield, though the bottom half of the shield had broken off. On the fourth full turn around the twisting steps, the staircase ended—not at a door, but at a ladder disappearing into an overhead hatch.

  Serilda eyed it suspiciously, knowing that while the wood might look sturdy, everything in this castle was suspect. Any one of those wooden rungs might have rot on the inside.

  She craned her head, trying to see what was above, but all she could make out were more stone walls and grayish daylight. The noise of the storm was louder here, the rain pounding the rooftop directly overhead.

  Serilda reached for the ladder and checked that it was secure before starting to climb, hand over hand. The wood groaned from her weight, but the rungs held. As soon as her head was above the floor hatch, she looked around, afraid that some vengeful spirit might be waiting to throw her out a window, or whatever vengeful spirits did.

  But all she saw was one more abandoned room in this dismal castle.

  Serilda climbed to the top and stepped off the ladder. Not so much a watchtower intended for defense—those were on the outer walls—but a room designed for beauty. For watching the stars, the lake, the sunrise. The room was circular, with massive clear-glass windows looking out in every direction. She could see it all. The lake. The courtyard. The bridge, shrouded in fog. The mountains—or she was sure she would be able to, when the thick cloud cover had burned off. She could even see the row of stained-glass windows she’d walked past in her explorations before.

  And there, the sparkling city of Adalheid.

  Except it wasn’t so sparkling today. It was actually a sorry sight, under siege by the rain. But Serilda had a good imagination, and it didn’t take much effort to picture it as it might be in the sunshine, especially as winter gave way to spring. She pictured the golden light breaking through the clouds. How the painted buildings would shine like seashells, how the tiled roofs would look like little plates of gold. Marigolds and geraniums would overtake the window boxes, and patches of dark earth would be lush with fat cabbages and cucumbers and pole beans.

  It was a lovely town. She could see why Gild liked to look at it, especially when he was surrounded by relative gloom all the time. But it also made her sad to think of him here, entirely alone. Craving more.

  Something soft and warm, as light as a breath, tickled the back of Serilda’s neck.

  She gasped and spun around.

  The room was empty, as abandoned as it had been the moment she’d climbed the ladder.

  Her eyes darted to every corner. Her ears strained to hear above the sound of the storm.

  “Gild?” she whispered.

  The only response was a shiver that shook her spine.

  Serilda dared to shut her eyes. She tentatively lifted one hand, fingers stretching toward nothingness.

  “Gild … if you’re here…”

  A brush of skin against her palm. Fingers lacing with hers.

  Her eyes flew open.

  The sensation vanished.

  No one was there.

  She might have imagined it.

  And then—

  A scream.

  Serilda whirled toward the nearest window and looked down at the castle’s exterior wall. She spotted the figure of a man running along the wall-walk, his chain-mail armor glinting silver. He was nearly to the tower when he jerked to a stop. For a moment he was still, his back arched and his face turned toward the sky.

  Toward Serilda.

  She pressed a hand against the window, her breath steaming the glass.

  The man fell to his knees. Blood burbled up from his mouth.

  Before he could fall face-first to the stone, he vanished.

  And another scream came, from the opposite side of the tower. From the main courtyard.

  A child’s scream. A child’s cry. And another man, pleading, No! Please!

  Serilda backed away from the window, covering her ears. Afraid to look. Afraid of what she might see, and knowing that she could do nothing to stop it.

  What had happened in this castle?

  With a shuddering breath, she grabbed the ladder and scrambled down. On the fourth rung, the wood cracked and split. She yelped and jumped the rest of the way to the floor. Her legs were shaking as she ran down the steps.

  She emerged onto the second level and nearly collided with a squat, wrinkled creature with long pointed ears and a once-white apron now covered in grime.

  Serilda lurched backward, afraid that it might be another drude.

  But no—it was only a kobold. Harmless goblins that often worked in castles and manor houses. Some considered them to be good luck.

  But this kobold was staring at Serilda with fervid eyes, which gave her pause. Was she a ghost? Could she see Serilda?

  The creature took a step closer, waving her arms. “Go!” she screeched. “They’re coming! Quick, to the king and queen! We must save the—”

  Her words were cut off with a strangled gasp. The kobold reached her leathery fingers to her throat as brownish blood began to seep through them.

  Serilda turned and fled the other way. It wasn’t long before she again found herself dizzy and turned around. Afraid she was going in circles. She stumbled past unfamiliar rooms, through open doorways. She ducked into the servants’ halls before emerging into a great ballroom or a library or a parlor, and every corner she turned, there were screams crowding in around her. The rush of panicked footsteps. The metallic stench of blood in the air.

  Suddenly, Serilda stopped.

  She had found the hallway with the rainbow wash of daylight. The seven stained-glass windows, the seven gods heedless of the girl before them.

  She pressed a hand against the ache in her side.

  “All right,” she said, panting. “I know where I am. I just have to … to find the stairs. And they were…”

  She looked in both directions, trying to retrace her steps from the last time she’d been here. Had the stairway been to the left, or to the right?

  She chose right, but as soon as she turned the corner, she knew her mistake.

  No—this was the strange hall with the candelabras. The doors all closed, except that last one, with its unusual pale glow, the shadows shifting across the floor, the vivid tapestry she could barely see.

  “Go back,” she whispered to herself, urging her feet to listen. She needed to get out of this castle.

  But her feet didn’t listen. There was something about the room. The way the lights shimmered on the stonework.

  Like it wanted to be discovered.

  Like it was waiting for her.

  “Serilda,” she murmured, “what are you doing?”

  All the candelabras had been knocked over by that invisible force when she’d been here last. They still lay strewn across the hallway. Had it been a poltergeist? The poltergeist?

  She grabbed the first candelabra that she passed, gripping it like a weapon.

  Only once the edge of the tapestry came into view did she remember. Last time, this door had slammed shut.

  It should not have been open now.

  Her brow furrowed.

  NO!

  The cry attacked her from all directions. Serilda cowered, knuckles tight around the iron candelabra.