Serilda stared at her, picturing Gild’s quick fingers, the fast-spinning wheel. Straw transformed into gold.

  Not just straw. He could turn almost anything into gold. He’d told her as much.

  And that’s what he did. And every year, he gave the gifts he’d made, crafted from his spun gold, to the people of Adalheid.

  The Gilded Ghost.

  You may call me Gild.

  “That’s why the town has prospered,” Serilda whispered.

  Leyna chewed on her lower lip. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? Ma says, if word ever got out, we’d be overrun with treasure hunters. Or Queen Agnette would hear about it and raise all our taxes, or send the military to collect the gold.” Her eyes grew wider by the moment as she began to realize what a betrayal of her own town she might have committed.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” said Serilda, grateful that, here at least, she didn’t yet have a reputation for being an unforgivable liar. “I can’t wait to tell him that you thought he was a troll.” At least, she hoped she’d have a chance to tell him, even if that did mean being stolen away by the Erlking yet again.

  Or did it?

  “Why do you think he leaves the gold on the equinox?”

  Leyna shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t want the Erlking to know? And that’s the only night of the year when everyone else comes out to enjoy the feast. I figure it’s likely the only night when Vergoldetgeist is left alone in the castle.”

  Chapter 27

  Lorraine had let Serilda borrow a saddle, despite her admonishments that to try to ride home in this weather was ludicrous. Serilda insisted that she had to go, though she couldn’t bring herself to explain why.

  Images of the hunt kept returning to her in flashes. One moment her father was there, and the next he was gone. She didn’t even know where they had been when it happened. She didn’t know where the hunt had taken her, how far they had traveled.

  But she knew that if Papa was all right, he would have gone home. He might be waiting for her even now.

  She pulled on Zelig’s reins, pausing beneath the shelter of Adalheid’s city gate. The rain had let up somewhat, but she had already lost the warmth from the inn’s fire. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she was shivering, dampness seeping into her skin.

  Father would chastise her. Warn that she would catch her death.

  Oh, how she hoped he would be there to chastise her.

  She peered out toward the dirt road stretching past the town. The rain had turned much of it to mud, battering down the thick brush on either side. Straight ahead, the road disappeared into the Aschen Wood, the gray line of trees mostly hidden behind a shroud of fog.

  Home lay in that direction. She would not hurry Zelig, knowing he must still be sore from the hard ride the night before. But even at his slow pace, they could reach home in a couple of hours at most.

  But it would mean going through the forest.

  Or they could keep to the main roads that traversed the edges of the woods, meandering west through flat fields and farmlands, before eventually turning south for a straight path toward Nordenburg. It was the route that the chicken cart had taken, and she knew it would take much longer. She might not make it home before nightfall. She didn’t even know if Zelig had the strength to carry her all that way.

  Zelig snorted and thumped his hoof impatiently against the ground while Serilda considered.

  The forest was not welcoming to humans. Yes, they might pass through on occasion—generally without harm, even—but that was under the relative protection of an enclosed carriage. With just Zelig, slow as he was, she would be vulnerable, a temptation to the creatures that lurked in the shadows. The dark ones might be hidden behind the veil, but the forest folk were not always known for kindness, either. For every tale of a headless ghost stalking the night, there were twenty of mischievous land wights and curmudgeonly imps wreaking havoc.

  Thunder crooned overhead. Serilda did not see the lightning, but she felt the charge on the air. Her skin prickled.

  A moment passed before the skies opened and another downpour ravished the countryside.

  Serilda scowled at the sky. “Honestly, Solvilde,” she muttered. “What a time to water your garden. You couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

  The sky did not respond. Nor, for that matter, did the god.

  It was an old myth, one of countless tales that blamed the gods for everything. Rain and snowstorms were the fault of Solvilde; uneven stitches on a piece of embroidery were a trick of Hulda; a plague, the work of Velos.

  Of course, as Wyrdith was the god of fortune, nearly everything could be placed on their shoulders.

  It hardly seemed fair.

  “All right, Zelig. We’ll be fine. Let’s go home.”

  Tightening her jaw, she flicked the reins and they set off toward the Aschen Wood.

  The storm offered no mercy, and by the time the road met the tree line, she was once again soaked through to her chemise. Zelig froze at the edge of the forest, great gobs of rainwater splattering onto the muddied road, while before them, the trees’ shadows disappeared into mist and gloom.

  Serilda felt a tug behind her navel, like a rope was tied to her insides, gently pulling her forward.

  She inhaled sharply, her breath wavering.

  She was simultaneously repelled by the woods and drawn to it. If the trees had a voice, they would have been chanting a dark lullaby, calling her closer, promising to envelop her and keep her. She hesitated, gathering her courage, feeling the tendrils of old magic reaching out to touch her, before vanishing in the gray light of day.

  The woods were both living and dead.

  Hero and villain.

  The dark and the light.

  There are two sides to every story.

  Serilda was dizzy with fear, but she gripped the reins and dug her heels into Zelig’s side.

  He whinnied loudly and reared his head. Rather than trotting forward, he backed away.

  “Go on, now,” she encouraged, leaning forward to pat the side of his face. “I’m here.” She urged him forward again.

  This time, Zelig lifted up onto his hind legs with a desperate squeal. Serilda cried out, clutching the reins tighter to keep from being thrown off.

  As soon as his hooves hit the dirt again, Zelig turned and bolted away from the woods, back toward Adalheid and safety.

  “Zelig, no!” she shouted. At the last minute, she was able to swerve him away from the city gate, heading toward the western road instead.

  He slowed to a canter, though his breaths were still quickened.

  With a frustrated groan, Serilda glanced back over her shoulder. The woods had been swallowed up again in mist.

  “Suit yourself,” she grumbled. “We’ll go the long way.”

  * * *

  The rain stopped somewhere before Fleck, but Serilda did not dry out the entire ride. Dusk was approaching by the time Märchenfeld finally came into view, tucked into its valley by the river. Though equal parts cold and miserable, Serilda was overcome with happiness to be home. Even Zelig’s steady clomping steps seemed to pick up at the sight.

  As soon as they reached the mill, she tied Zelig to the hitching post, promising she would be back with his supper, and ran into the house. But she had no sooner opened the door than she knew Papa wasn’t home. There was no fire in the hearth. No food simmering in the pot. She’d forgotten how barren they’d left the house, having sold off so many of their belongings before leaving for Mondbrück. It felt like entering the home of a stranger.

  Cold. Abandoned.

  Decidedly unwelcoming.

  A loud grinding noise drew her attention toward the back wall. It took her exhausted mind a moment to place it.

  The mill.

  Someone was operating the mill.

  “Papa,” she breathed, running back outside. Zelig watched drowsily as she scampered through the yard, hopping over the gate that surrounded their small garden, and rushed around to the gristmill. She yanked open the door and was greeted by the familiar smell of grinding stone and timber beams and rye grain.

  But she stopped cold again, her hopes crashing to the wooden planks at her feet.

  Thomas glanced up from adjusting the millstones, startled. “Ah—you’re back,” he said, starting to smile, though something in Serilda’s expression must have given him pause. “Is everything all right?”

  She ignored him. Her gaze darted around the mill, but no one else was there.

  “Serilda?” Thomas took a step toward her.

  “I’m fine,” she said, the words automatic. They were the easiest lie, one that everyone told from time to time.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” said Thomas. “I was having some trouble with the water gate sticking earlier, and thought your father could offer some suggestions.”

  She stared at him, fighting back tears. She’d had so much hope.

  Miserable, unfounded hope.

  Swallowing, she gave her head a shake. “He’s not home.”

  Thomas frowned.

  “He stayed in Mondbrück. I had to return to help with the school, but Father … the work isn’t finished yet on the town hall, so he wanted to stay.”

  “Ah, I see. Well. I’ll just have to figure it out myself, then. Do you know when he plans to be back?”

  “No,” she said, digging her fingernails into her palms to keep away the threatening tears. “No, he didn’t say.”

  * * *

  Serilda waited for him.

  She remembered smelling sea salt in the air during the hunt. He could have fallen as far away as Vinter-Cort for all she knew. It could take days, even a week, and that was if he was able to find transportation. He likely had not had coin with him. He might have to walk. If that was the case, it might take even longer.

  She clung tightly to these hopes, and tried to keep up appearances in town. Everyone was so busy preparing for Eostrig’s Day that no one paid her much attention. She feigned an illness to keep from going to the school. She spent her days going through the mindless motions of sweeping out their house, sewing a new dress for herself, as the few articles of clothing she owned had been left behind in Mondbrück, and spinning—when she could stand it.

  She spent many hours staring at the horizon.

  She could not sleep at night. The house was too eerily quiet with no rumbling snores coming from the next room.

  When Thomas had questions about the mill, she told him that she would write to her father and let him know once she’d heard a response, even going so far as to walk into town to post the fake letter.

  When she saw nachtkrapp, she threw stones at them until they flew away.

  They always came back.

  But her father never did.

  Eostrig’s Day

  THE

  SPRING

  EQUINOX

  Chapter 28

  She had been dreading this visit all week. Had, on more than one occasion, tried to persuade herself that it was not necessary.

  But she knew that it was.

  She needed to know more about Adalheid. She needed to know when and how and why the Erlking had claimed the castle. What had happened to leave its walls haunted by so many brutally murdered spirits. Whether or not there had been a royal family who had ever lived there, and what had become of them. She needed to know when and how the citizens of Adalheid had entered into this strange relationship, in which they prepared a feast on the equinox, in exchange for the hunt leaving them and their children alone.

  She didn’t know which answers, if any, would be useful to her, which was why she would learn as much as she could. She would arm herself with knowledge.

  Because knowledge was the only weapon she might hope to wield against the Erlking. The man who had taken her mother. Who left her father to die in the middle of nowhere. Who thought he could imprison Serilda and force her into servitude. The man who had killed so many mortals. Stolen so many children.

  Maybe there was nothing she could do against him. In fact, she was rather certain there was nothing she could do against him.

  But that would not stop her from trying.

  He was a blight of evil on this world, and his reign had lasted for far too long.

  But first—she would have to deal with another blight of evil.

  Taking in a bracing breath, Serilda lifted her fist and knocked on the door.

  Madam Sauer lived less than a mile from the schoolhouse, in a one-room cottage surrounded by the nicest garden in all Märchenfeld. Her herbs, flowers, and vegetables were the envy of the town, and when she wasn’t educating the children, she could usually be heard lecturing her neighbors on soil quality and companion plantings. Mostly unsolicited advice that, Serilda suspected, went largely ignored.

  Serilda did not understand how someone with such a dismal personality could coax such life from the earth, but then, there were many things in this world that she did not understand.

  She did not wait long before Madam Sauer yanked open the door, already wearing a scolding look.

  “Serilda. What do you want?”

  She attempted a withering smile. “Good day to you as well. I’m looking for that book that I added to the school’s collection a few weeks past. I could not find it at the schoolhouse. Might you know where it is?”

  Madam Sauer’s gaze narrowed. “Indeed. I’ve been reading it.”

  “I see. I’m so sorry to have to ask, but I’m afraid I need it back.”

  The woman’s lip curled. “You did steal it, didn’t you?”

  Her jaw clenched. “No,” she said slowly. “It is not stolen. It was borrowed. And I now have the opportunity to return it.”

  With a loud huff, Madam Sauer stepped back and threw open the door.

  Thinking this might be an invitation, though it wasn’t entirely clear, Serilda took a hesitant step inside. She had never been in the schoolmistress’s house before, and it was not what she’d expected. It smelled strongly of lavender and fennel, with bundles of various herbs and flowers hung to dry by the hearth. Though Madam Sauer kept the schoolhouse tidy as a toadstool, the shelves and tables of her little home were littered with mortars and pestles, bundles of twine, dishes overflowing with pretty colored rocks and dried beans and pickled vegetables.

  “I have the utmost respect for libraries,” said Madam Sauer, picking up the book off a small table beside a rocking chair. She spun back to face Serilda, brandishing the book like a mallet. “Sanctuaries of knowledge and wisdom that they are. It is most shameful, Miss Moller, most shameful indeed that one would dare to steal from a library, of all places.”

  “I didn’t steal it!” said Serilda, puffing out her chest.

  “Oh?” Madam Sauer opened the front cover and held it up so that Serilda could see the words written in dark brown ink in the corner of the first page.

  Property of Professor Frieda Fairburg and the Adalheid Library

  She snarled. “I didn’t steal it,” she said again. “Professor Fairburg gave it to me. It was a gift. She didn’t even ask that I return it, but I plan to anyway.” She held out a hand. “May I have it back, please?”

  The witch pulled the book away from her reach. “Whatever were you doing in Adalheid, of all places? I thought you and your father had been traveling to Mondbrück all this time.”

  “We have been traveling to Mondbrück,” she said through her teeth. “My father is in Mondbrück at this very minute.” The words only barely caught in her throat.

  “And you?” said Madam Sauer, stepping closer while holding the book behind her back. She was shorter than Serilda, but her wrinkled glower made Serilda feel about as big as a mouse. “Where have you been returning from the day after the past two full moons? That is most peculiar behavior, Miss Moller, and one I cannot accept as a harmless coincidence.”

  “You don’t have to accept anything,” said Serilda. “My book, please.”

  Her insides were quivering, more from anger than anything else. But it was also disconcerting to know that the schoolmistress had been watching. Or perhaps she was repeating the gossip from town. Perhaps other townsfolk had noticed her comings and goings, always around the full moons, and the rumors were beginning to circulate.

  “So that you can return it to Adalheid? Are you going there today? On the equinox of all days?”

  Her words dripped with accusation, and Serilda didn’t even know what she was being accused of. “Do you want me to return it to the library or not?”

  “I’m trying to warn you,” snapped the old woman. “Adalheid is a wicked place! Anyone with the slightest bit of common sense would do well to stay far away from it.”

  “Oh? You’ve visited there often, have you?”

  Madam Sauer faltered, long enough for Serilda to reach around and snatch the book away from her.

  She let out a disgruntled cry.

  “I’ll have you know,” Serilda added, “that Adalheid is a lovely town full of lovely people. But I agree that you should stay away from it. I daresay you would not fit in.”

  Madam Sauer’s eyes blazed. “Selfish child. You are already a blight on this community, and now you will bring wickedness upon us!”

  “This may come as a surprise to you, madam,” said Serilda, her voice rising as her temper overcame her, “but your opinion is not required.”

  Turning, she stormed from the house, slamming the door so hard behind her that Zelig, tied to the fence post, gave a jump and a whinny.

  She paused, fuming, before she turned and thrust open the door again.

  “Also,” she said, “I will not be attending the Eostrig’s Day festival. Please give the children my heartfelt apologies and tell them how very proud I am of their work on the god figures this past month.”