Serilda glanced up at the castle, wondering if Lorraine had been about to mention the town’s resident benefactor—Vergoldetgeist. She had a feeling that the breakfast was an annual tradition every bit as much as the preparation of this feast for the dark ones was, and that tomorrow all of Adalheid would gather around eagerly to see what gifts of gold their fishermen and divers brought home.

  “Leyna,” she whispered. “Do you know who this castle belonged to before it belonged to the Erlking?”

  Leyna frowned up at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Surely the dark ones didn’t build it. It must have been the home of mortals at some point. Royalty, or at least nobility. A duke or a count perhaps?”

  Leyna curled her lips up close to her nostrils in a way that Serilda knew Madam Sauer would have found most unseemly. It was an endearing, tough-thinking look. “I suppose so,” the girl answered slowly. “But I don’t remember anyone ever talking about it. It must have been a long time ago. Nowadays, it’s just the Erlking and the dark ones. And the ghosts.”

  “And Vergoldetgeist,” Serilda murmured.

  “Shh!” said Leyna, tugging on Serilda’s wrist. “You aren’t supposed to know about that.”

  Serilda whispered a distracted apology as the mayor finished her speech. Candles and lanterns were lit, allowing her to more clearly see the effigy they had made. It hardly resembled the one she’d watched the children make for the Märchenfeld celebration. This likeness was taken seriously. Cloaked in black robes and looking fearsomely realistic with its skull’s head and sprigs of poisonous hemlock sewn to its hands. Would the hellhounds devour those, too? Would it not harm them? Maybe it strengthened them, she reasoned. Kindling for the fires in their bellies.

  The figure was anchored to a tall wooden column and surrounded by alder branches, a nod to Erlkönig, the Alder King.

  As the last stripes of purple light began to fade, the townsfolk started toward their homes. Lorraine and Frieda headed to the inn, walking, perhaps, a hair closer to each other than was strictly necessary. Lorraine occasionally glanced back, making sure Leyna was following.

  “If you still wanted to get in to that castle,” Leyna said, “I’d take a boat, row up along the far side of the drawbridge, then climb up the rocks just under the gate. It isn’t as steep on that side, and you should be able to get over the rail.”

  Leyna gave Serilda instructions about which boat to use and when she should go. “As long as there’s no one watching the gate, that is,” the girl said.

  “Do you think there will be?”

  Leyna shook her head, though she seemed uncertain. “Just don’t go until after they’ve started the hunt. They’ll all be so busy watching the games and eating our food, they won’t even notice you.”

  Serilda smiled. “You’ve been marvelously helpful.”

  “Yes, well … don’t get killed; otherwise, I’ll feel horrid about this.”

  Serilda squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t plan to.” With a quick glance toward Lorraine and Frieda, Serilda sidestepped into a narrow alley, disappearing into the shadows and separating herself from the crowd.

  She waited for the noise of footsteps and chatter to fall silent before peeking out from her hiding spot. Seeing the streets empty, she scurried quickly down to the docks, staying to the shadows as much as she could. It was easier on a night like this, when the people of Adalheid took their lanterns inside.

  Before her, the castle stood, a waiting monster perched above the lake.

  And then the last sliver of sunlight fell behind the horizon and all at once the spell that kept the Erlking’s castle hidden behind the veil slipped away like an illusion. Serilda gasped. If she had looked away for even a moment, she would have missed the transformation. One moment, hulking darkness. And the next, Adalheid Castle stood in all its glory—the watchtowers lit with flickering torches, the stained-glass windows of the keep shimmering like jewels. The narrow bridge itself, its crumbling walls mended, now glistened beneath the light of a dozen torches reflected in the black water below.

  Seen like this, in such stark contrast to the ruins of a moment before, the castle was truly breathtaking.

  She had just reached the dock where Leyna said she would find the boat that belonged to the Wild Swan when a new sound echoed across the lake.

  The low, haunting bellow of a hunting horn.

  Chapter 30

  Having nowhere to hide on the wide-open dock, Serilda flattened herself against the wooden boards and hoped that her cloak would disguise her in the shadows. The castle gates opened with a rumble and groan. She lifted her head high enough to watch them pour through.

  It was not a stampede, like she had come to expect from the wild hunt. But then, tonight was not a hunting moon.

  The king walked at the helm of their parade, while the dark ones fanned out behind him, some on horses and others on foot. Even from afar she could see that they were dressed in finery. Not sumptuous velvet gowns and feathered caps, like the royal family in Verene might have worn. But in their own way, the hunters had prepared for an evening of revelry. Their jerkins and doublets were trimmed with gold, their capes lined with fur, their boots fastened with pearls and gems. They still looked as though they might commandeer a stallion and chase after a stag at any moment, but they were prepared to do so with inarguable elegance.

  The ghosts followed. Serilda recognized the one-eyed coachman and the headless woman. Their clothing remained the same as always: a bit old-fashioned and covered in their own blood.

  It was not long before the undead inhabitants of Adalheid Castle had filled up the bridge, pouring onto the road along the water. Some approached the feasting tables with delight, while many of the hunters gathered to inspect the game animals that had been left for their entertainment. Already, the atmosphere was growing jovial. Some of the ghost servants took to pouring ale and wine and passing overflowing goblets among the crowd. A quartet of gore-splattered musicians struck up a song that was lively if also a touch discordant to Serilda’s ear, as if their instruments hadn’t been tuned in a few centuries.

  Serilda strained to get a better look at the ghouls. Would she recognize her mother if she was among them? She knew so little about her. The inclination was to look for a woman close to her father’s age, but no, she would have been in her early twenties when she went missing. Serilda wished she had asked her father more questions. What did her mother look like? Dark hair and a chipped tooth was all the information she had. What color were her eyes? Was she tall, like Serilda was, or did she have the same small brown freckles like constellations on her arms?

  She searched the faces of every woman she could see, hoping to feel a surge of recognition, a surge of anything, but if her mother was among them, she couldn’t tell.

  The howls of the hellhounds made Serilda duck again. On the bridge, the master of the hounds appeared, gripping a dozen leashes as the hounds strained and growled to get free. They had seen the quarry at the end of the bridge.

  “Hunters and spirits,” rang the Erlking’s voice. “The immortal and the lifeless.” He took the crossbow off his shoulder and notched an arrow. A group of apparitions gathered around the trembling prey. The hunters on their horses gripped the reins, lascivious grins darkening their faces. “Let the hunt begin.” The Erlking fired the arrow—straight into the heart of the god of death. It landed with a sickening thump.

  Cage doors were thrown open. Ropes were slashed.

  The hounds were released.

  Terrified animals scattered in every direction. Birds flapped toward the nearest rooftops. Hares and ferrets and badgers and foxes scampered into yards, down alleyways, around buildings.

  The hounds gave chase, the hunters not far behind.

  A raucous cheer erupted from the crowd. Wine splashed as goblets were toasted. The tempo of the music increased. She had never imagined a castle of ghosts could make so much noise, or sound so … cheerful.

  No—that wasn’t the right word.

  Riotous was better.

  Serilda was amazed how much it reminded her of Eostrig’s Day in Märchenfeld. Not the hunting, but the joviality, the merriment, the celebratory air.

  If the dark ones hadn’t been callous murderers, she might have wished to join them.

  As it was, she recalled Leyna’s warning, to wait until they were distracted by the hunt before making her move.

  Staying as low as she could, she slowly crept forward.

  Though there were dozens of boats moored along the dock, it was easy to spot the one that belonged to the White Swan. It was not the biggest, the newest, the nicest—not that Serilda was a particularly qualified judge of boats—but it was painted the same bright blue as the front of the public house, with a white swan on the side.

  Serilda had never been in a boat before, much less unmoored and rowed one herself, and she spent perhaps far too much time staring down at the sun-faded wood benches and the fraying rope looped and knotted around an iron stand, trying to figure out if she should untie the rope before or after climbing in. And once she was in, how much would the boat sway under her weight, and how exactly was she going to use those two measly oars to steer herself around all the other boats squeezed in like sausages along this pier?

  She pulled the edge of the boat closer, until it thunked hollowly against the dock. After another moment’s hesitation, she sat down on the ledge and stuck her feet into the boat, testing its sway. It dipped low under the pressure, but buoyed easily back up. Exhaling, she clambered awkwardly inside, sinking down to the floor, where a small puddle of cold water soaked into her skirt.

  The boat didn’t sink. So that was encouraging.

  It took another minute for her to unknot and unwind the rope. Then, using the end of one of the oars, she shoved away from the dock. The boat rocked treacherously and clonked time and again against the sides of its neighbors as she tried to steer it away. She cringed at every noise, but a boisterous archery tournament had started up as some of those who had not gone after the hunting quarry gleefully turned the god of death into a pincushion.

  It took her ages to get onto open water. The boat was an uncontrolled spinning top, and she was grateful that the lake’s surface was relatively still, otherwise she would have been at its mercy. As it was, she found she had better luck using the oars to shove away from other boats than she did using them to actually row, but once she had left the confines of the narrow marina, she had no other choice. Situating herself with her back to the castle, as she’d seen the fishermen do, she took hold of both oars with tight fists and started to rotate them in stiff, awkward circles. It was much harder than it looked. The water resisted, the oars felt strange and unrelenting in her hands, and she was constantly forced to correct her course as the boat turned too far in one direction and then the other.

  Finally, a couple of lifetimes later, she found herself in the shadow of the castle, just beneath the drawbridge.

  From this angle, the structure was huge and ominous. The walls and watchtowers stretched upward toward the star-dappled sky, blocking the moon from her view. Gigantic boulders made up its foundation, surrounded by gently lapping water, which might have been peaceful if not broken by the ghostly cheers of the revelers on the shore.

  Serilda paused and craned her neck, trying to see any place where she might safely land and be able to climb out, but it was so dark that all she could make out were glistening wet rocks, nearly indistinguishable from one another.

  After a number of attempts to run the boat ashore, Serilda was finally able to grab hold of a sharp-tipped boulder and loop the rope around it. She tied the best knot she could and hoped that the boat would still be here for her when she returned for it … then she hoped that she would return for it at all.

  Tying her skirts to keep them from tangling underfoot, she scrambled inelegantly from the boat and started to climb. The rocks were slick, many covered with slimy moss. She tried not to think about what creatures might be hiding under the jagged stones, claws and scales and sharp little teeth waiting for a vulnerable hand to slip by.

  She was doing a poor job not thinking about it.

  Finally, she made it to the lowered drawbridge. The bridge was empty, but she couldn’t see much of the courtyard beyond the gate, and had no way of knowing if it was inhabited or not.

  “Oh well,” she said, with a bracing nod. “I’ve come this far.”

  With a series of grunts and groans, she hauled herself up onto the bridge. She collapsed atop the planks in a heap, but quickly pushed herself up to all fours and glanced around.

  She saw no one.

  She sprang to her feet and dashed through the castle gates, before throwing herself against the inside of the castle wall.

  She scanned the bailey, taking in the stables, the kennels, the collection of storage and outbuildings around its edges. She saw no one, and could hear nothing beyond her own breathing, her own heartbeat, the distant thunking of arrows and the cheers and hollers that followed, and much-closer snuffles and snorts from the bahkauv in the stables.

  According to Leyna’s story about Vergoldetgeist, Gild would most likely be on the outer wall of the castle, perhaps in one of the towers facing the other side of the lake. She figured it would take a bit of guesswork to figure out how, exactly, to get up there. She had never been around to the back side of the castle or on the outer walls at all, but she was starting to get a feel for how everything was laid out.

  She took a moment to scan the tops of the castle walls, but while there were flickering torches along the parapets, she saw no movement, and no Gild.

  She wanted to see him. Was almost aching to see him, and she told herself it was because she needed to ask if he knew whether or not her mother might be among the king’s court. It was a mystery that wouldn’t stop gnawing at her.

  But there was another mystery gnawing at her, too. It hadn’t been a part of her plan, but now, standing in the courtyard, with those shimmering stained-glass windows looking down at her from the castle keep, she wondered if she would ever have another chance to explore this castle while the veil was down and the court was absent.

  Perhaps a quick look, she told herself. She only wanted to peek behind that door, to see the tapestry that had caught her attention.

  Then she would find Gild.

  It wouldn’t take long, and she had all night.

  With another glance around, she scurried across the bailey and into the keep.

  Chapter 31

  Somehow, the castle was even eerier on this side of the veil, with its tapestries and paintings and furniture all tidy and clean, fires burning in the hearths and torches lit in every corridor and chandelier, and yet—not a soul to be found. As if there had been life a moment ago, but that life had been snuffed out like a candle flame.

  By now, she knew enough of the passages to find her way easily to the stairwell that led up to the hall of gods, as she’d taken to calling the room with the stained-glass windows. She had only ever been in that hall during the day, when bits of glass were shattered, the leading broken, the decor made of fat, dusty cobwebs.

  It was different at night. The light came from the standing candelabras, not the sun, and while still lovely, the windows did not sparkle and gleam.

  Her steps were quick as she rounded the corner. The narrow hall stood before her, windows to one side, shut doors on the other. Chandeliers dripping with wax instead of spiders.

  The door at the far end was shut, but she could see a hint of light spilling out from the gap onto the floor.

  Even knowing the castle was empty, she moved cautiously, her feet padding into the soft carpet.

  Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears when she reached the door, afraid that it would be locked. But when she pulled on the latch, it opened easily.

  She held her breath as it swung backward. The light she’d seen came from a single candle set onto a stone ledge just inside the door. She stepped into the room, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness.

  Her gaze fell on a curtain of sheer lace hung from the ceiling, draped around a cage in the center of the room.

  She froze. Cages were for animals. What kind of creature would be kept in such a room? She squinted, but could barely make out a lumpy form behind the bars, unmoving.

  Asleep?

  Dead?

  Holding completely still, she shifted her gaze to the wall where she had seen the tapestry.

  She frowned.

  The tapestry was there, but in a reversal of the mortal world, it was not pristine as it had appeared on the other side of the veil. Here, it hung in shreds. She could make out a bit of the background scenery, a lush garden at nighttime, lit by a silver moon and dozens of lanterns. In the garden stood the figure of a bearded man wearing an ornate doublet and a golden crown. But something was off about him. His eyes too large, his smile a toothy grimace.

  Serilda inched closer, even as quiet dread began to gnaw at her.

  Once her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight, she froze. The tapestry did not depict the face of an honored king. It depicted a skull. A corpse dressed in fine regalia.

  The man was dead.

  Shaking now, she reached for one of the shreds of woven fabric and caught sight of a second figure, smaller and ripped in two, but clearly a girl by her poufed skirt and ballooned sleeves and …

  Thick ringlet curls.

  Her heart thundered.

  Could it be the girl from the locket?

  Serilda reached for the next scrap, when, from the corner of her eye, a dark shadow lunged toward her.

  Her scream collided with its shrill cry. Serilda barely had time to raise her arms. The monster sank its talons into her shoulder, its shriek flooding her thoughts.

  And she was no longer in the castle.

  She was standing in front of the schoolhouse in Märchenfeld, or—what had been the schoolhouse, recognizable for its yellow-painted shutters. But it was on fire. Black smoke filled the air. Serilda started to cough, trying to cover her mouth, when she heard their screams.