“What about you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m different. I’ve never had to follow orders, and I don’t know why. And I’m grateful for that, of course. But at the same time—”

  “Being different makes you an outcast.”

  He fixed a look on her, surprised, but Serilda just smiled. “Exactly. It’s hard to be close to someone when you can’t trust them. If I tell them anything, I risk it being reported back to the king.”

  Serilda licked her lips, a motion that caught Gild’s attention before he quickly turned his gaze back toward the lake. Her insides fluttered, and she couldn’t help but think of the last time she’d seen him, when he’d kissed her, quick and desperate, then vanished.

  Standing so close to him now, the memory made her dizzy. She cleared her throat and tried to shake it away, reminding herself of the question she’d most wanted to have answered tonight.

  “I know all the ghosts here died horrible deaths,” she said carefully. “But … did they all die here? In the castle? Or does the king collect them from … from his hunts, too?”

  “Sometimes he brings in other spirits. But it’s been a while. I think maybe the castle was starting to feel a bit crowded for his taste.”

  “What about … maybe, sixteen years ago? Do you remember a woman spirit being brought back?”

  Gild frowned. “I’m not sure. The years tend to all run together. Why?”

  She sighed and told him the story her father had told her about her mother being lured away by the hunt when Serilda was just two years old. When she was finished, Gild looked sympathetic, even as he shook his head.

  “Most of the ghosts I know have been here as long as I have. He does occasionally bring spirits that he found on the hunt … but it’s difficult for me to keep track of time. Sixteen years…” He shrugged. “I suppose she could be here. Can you describe her?”

  She told him what her father had told her. It wasn’t much, but she thought the chipped tooth would be memorable, at least. When she was done, she could see that he was thinking hard. “I can ask around, I suppose. See if anyone remembers leaving behind a baby girl.”

  Her heart lifted. “Would you?”

  He nodded, but he looked unsure. “What was her name?”

  “Idonia Moller.”

  “Idonia,” he repeated, committing it to memory. “But, Serilda, you must know, the king doesn’t bring many spirits back from the hunt. Most of them he just…”

  Disappointment scratched at Serilda’s insides. She remembered the vision given to her by the drude of her father lying facedown in a field. “Leaves to die.”

  His expression was so forlorn. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be. That would be better. I’d rather she was in Verloren, at peace.” She said it, but she didn’t know if she meant it. “You will try to find her, though? To see if she’s here?”

  “If it will make you happy, of course.”

  The comment surprised her, along with how simply he said it. She didn’t know if his asking about her mother would make her happy—she supposed that depended on what he did or didn’t learn—and yet. The thought that he might care about her helped warm some of those places that had gone cold inside.

  “I know it isn’t the same thing,” he added, “but I don’t remember my mother, either. Or my father for that matter.”

  Her eyes widened. “What happened to them?”

  He gave a soft, resentful laugh. “I have no idea. Maybe nothing. It’s another way I’m different. Most of the others remember something of their life before. Their families, what sort of job they did. Most of them worked here in the castle, some even knew one another. But if I lived here, no one remembers me, and I don’t remember them.”

  Serilda started to reach for him, but then, recalling how he had pulled away every time she’d moved near, she clenched her hand into a fist and slumped against the wall instead. “I wish there was some way to help you. To help all of you.”

  “I wish that every day.”

  A cackling laugh echoed around them. Serilda stiffened and instinctively grabbed Gild’s arm.

  “Just a hobgoblin,” he said, his voice low as he gave her hand a squeeze. “They’re supposed to patrol the walls once in a while. Make sure that no one sneaks into the gatehouse and raises the drawbridge while everyone’s in town.”

  His tone held some humor in it. Serilda peered at him, skeptical.

  “I got away with it two years in a row, once. But I think I did him a favor, encouraging him to give them more responsibility. No one wants an idle hobgoblin around. Their idea of fun is to put out all the fires in the keep, then hide the kindling.”

  “You must get along great, then.”

  He smirked. “Hiding the kindling might have been my idea.”

  The laughter turned to loud whistling—a jaunty tune that split through the night. It seemed to be coming closer.

  “Come on,” said Gild, tugging her back toward the tower. “If it sees you, I can’t trust it not to tell Erlkönig.”

  They were halfway down the tower steps when Gild seemed to realize that he was still holding Serilda’s hand. He immediately let go, dragging his fingers along the mortar lines in the wall instead.

  She frowned.

  “Gild?”

  He did not look back at her, but made a small questioning grunt.

  She cleared her throat. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but … I can’t help but notice that you’re … that you don’t want to be touched tonight. And that’s … well, that’s your choice, of course. It’s just that, before, you always seemed—”

  He paused so fast that Serilda nearly crashed into him.

  “What do you mean, I don’t want to be touched?” he said, spinning to face her with a tremulous laugh.

  She blinked. “Well, that’s certainly how it seems. You keep pulling away from me. You haven’t wanted to be close to me all night.”

  “Because I can’t—!” He stopped himself, inhaling sharply. He grimaced, as if biting back his reaction. “I’m sorry. I owe you an apology. I know I do,” he said, the words like a skittish rabbit darting between them. “But I don’t know how to say it.”

  “An apology?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He looked a little bit like a petulant child who really didn’t want to say he had done wrong, but would under threat of no dessert.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you before,” he said. “It wasn’t … gentlemanly. And it won’t happen again.”

  Her breath hitched. “Gentlemanly?” she asked, her brain catching on one of the few words that didn’t sting.

  He opened his eyes, clearly irritated. “Despite what you might think, I’m not entirely without honor.” But then he ducked his head away, his expression swinging almost instantly from annoyed to apologetic. “I regretted it the moment I left you. I am sorry.”

  Regretted it.

  These words alone were enough to curdle every last fantasy Serilda had entertained these past weeks. But rather than let them sadden her, she took hold of the second emotion that cropped up in their wake. Anger.

  She crossed her arms and walked down a few more steps so they were at eye level. “Why did you then? I wasn’t encouraging you.”

  “No, I know. That’s exactly it.” His hands flailed, though his anger seemed to be matching hers stride for stride.

  Which was ridiculous. What did he have to be angry about?

  “I don’t expect you to understand. And … I won’t try to make excuses. I’m sorry. That’s all there is to say.”

  “I disagree. I think I’m owed some explanation. It was my first kiss, I’ll have you know.”

  He groaned, running a hand down his face. “Don’t tell me that.”

  “Oh, look at me, Gild. You can’t possibly think I have a bevy of suitors waiting for their chance to sweep me off my feet. I’d gotten rather used to the idea of spinsterhood.”

  His face contorted into something almost pained. He opened his mouth, but soon shut it again. Collapsing one shoulder against the wall, he let out a heavy sigh. “It was mine, too.”

  It was a quiet confession, one Serilda wasn’t sure that she’d heard correctly. “What?”

  “No—I shouldn’t say that. I don’t know if it’s true. But … if I ever did kiss anyone, I have no memory of it, so as far as I’m concerned, it was my first. And until I met you, I was sure I would never…” He glanced at her, then quickly tore his gaze away. “I cannot … to have met you … I thought it was impossible. I thought…”

  His voice was flooding with emotion, and Serilda’s pulse hiccupped. Suddenly she understood what he was trying to say.

  “You’ve been alone,” she said softly. “You thought you’d always be alone.”

  “You asked me if I had any friends here. And I do like some of the other ghosts, care about them even. But I’ve never…” His gaze became searching. “I’ve never felt anything like … like this. I’ve certainly never wanted to kiss anyone before.”

  And just like that, the spark of hope in her chest reignited.

  Even if, realistically, she knew it wasn’t such a victory, to be compared to a bunch of undead spirits.

  “I can imagine how hard this has been for you,” she said, “especially to think there would be no end to it. I can see how you might … feel drawn to the first girl who … to me.” She lifted her chin. “For what it’s worth, I’m not angry about the kiss.”

  It was true.

  She wasn’t angry.

  Though she was still a little hurt.

  She had already known it to be true, but now it was confirmed. She could have been anyone. He would have felt desperate to touch anyone.

  She couldn’t pretend otherwise.

  And though physical affection was not something to be forced, or to ever be stolen, it occurred to her in that moment that it might be a gift she was willing to give. Not as payment. Not as a bargaining chip. Not because she felt guilty.

  But because she wanted to.

  “Gild,” she said softly. Stretching her hand forward, she slipped her palm against his and threaded their fingers together, one by one. His whole body seemed to tense. “I’m not expecting anything from you. I mean, I hope that if the Erlking continues to threaten me, you might continue to help. But besides that … it isn’t as though I’m in love with you. And I know you won’t ever be in love with me.”

  His brow twitched into a furrow, but he didn’t respond.

  “I’m hoping that maybe we can be friends. And if a friend ever needed an embrace or to hold my hand for a while or … just to sit and be together, I wouldn’t mind.”

  Gild was silent for a long time, staring at their interlaced fingers like he was worried she would pull away.

  She didn’t pull away. She didn’t disappear.

  Finally, he brought his other hand forward as well, so that her one hand was clasped tight between both of his. Leaning closer, he lightly rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Serilda snaked her free arm up around his shoulders. He shifted his body closer, then lowered his head, their temples grazing. Her breath caught, as she half expected his lips to find hers. But instead, he nestled his face into the crook of her neck. A second later and his arms had both come around her, pulling her body to his.

  Serilda inhaled deeply, searching for a scent that she would forever tie to this moment. She could still remember dancing with Thomas Lindbeck, two years ago to this very night, and how he had carried the grassy scent of his family’s farm with him. Her father always smelled of wood smoke and flour from the mill.

  But if Gild had carried a scent in life, it was gone now.

  Still. His arms were strong. The tickle of his hair against her cheek and his linen collar on her throat were real enough.

  They stayed that way for what felt like ages and no time at all. Maybe she had taken his hand thinking she was doing him some sort of favor, but once her body melted into his embrace, she realized how much she’d needed this, too. The sense that this boy wanted to be holding her as much as she wanted to be holding him.

  For a time she thought she could feel his heartbeat drumming against her, until she realized that it was her own beating for them both. It was this thought that stirred her out of her cocoon. As soon as she started to move, Gild pulled away, and she was startled to see red around his eyes. He’d been so still, she hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

  Serilda pressed her palm against his chest. “You don’t have a heartbeat.”

  “Maybe I don’t have a heart,” he said, and she could tell he meant it as a joke, and so she allowed herself to smile. At the boy who craved an embrace as much as she did. Who was, literally, weeping at the sensation of being held.

  “I doubt that.”

  He started to smile, as if she’d given him a compliment. But the look was short-lived as the haunting cry of the Erlking’s hunting horn intruded on their sanctuary. They both tensed, their arms tightening around each other.

  “What does that mean?” asked Serilda, checking the sky, but it was still dark, no signs yet of dawn. “Are they coming back?”

  “Not yet, but soon,” he said. “The hunt is over, and it’s time to feed the hounds.”

  Serilda grimaced, recalling Leyna’s description of how the hunters would throw the captured animals’ carcasses onto the effigy of the god of death and let the hounds tear it apart.

  “Do you … want to watch?” asked Gild.

  She made a face. “Not even a tiny bit.”

  He chuckled. “Me either. Would you…” He hesitated. “Would you like to see my tower?”

  He looked so endearingly nervous, his cheeks flushing in a way that highlighted the wash of freckles, that Serilda couldn’t temper her grin. “If there’s time?”

  “We aren’t far.”

  Chapter 33

  In the mortal realm, the upper room of the southwest tower had been barren and dusty. But on this side of the veil, Gild had created a haven for himself, with layers of rugs and furs on the floor and some blankets and pillows no doubt pilfered from other rooms in the castle. A stack of books, a candlestick, and on one side of the room, a spinning wheel.

  Serilda crossed to the windows and peered out toward Adalheid. She caught a glimpse of the hounds fighting over the meat that had been hung from the effigy’s body and quickly tore her gaze away.

  Her attention landed on the Erlking instead, as if his presence had an unavoidable magnetism. He stood apart from the crowd, standing on the very edge of the nearest dock. He was staring out at the water, his sharp features glowing beneath the light of the torches on the bridge. Unreadable, as always.

  His presence, even across the lake, was a threat. A shadow. A reminder that she was his prisoner.

  Once His Darkness has you, he does not like to let you go.

  Serilda shivered and turned away.

  She picked up one of the books. It was a small volume of poetry, though she was unfamiliar with the poet. It had been read so many times, the pages were falling out of the binding.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  Her head snapped up. Gild was leaning against the far wall. There was a tension in his stance, one bare foot flat against the wall in a forced mimicry of nonchalance.

  It took a second for the question to sink in, and once it did, Serilda guffawed. “What makes you ask that?”

  He nodded at the book. “It’s mostly love poetry. Painful to slog through at times, all overwrought metaphors and flowery prose, everything having to do with pining and yearning and longing…” He rolled his eyes, reminding Serilda a little bit of young Fricz.

  “Why do you have it then, if you despise it so much?”

  “There is limited reading material in this castle,” he said. “And I notice you didn’t answer the question.”

  “I thought we’d established that there is no one in Märchenfeld who would ever be interested in me.”

  “So you’ve said, and … I have questions about that, too. But not being loved doesn’t preclude someone from loving. It might have been unrequited.”

  She grinned. “Despite your apparent disdain for this poetry, I think you’re a romantic.”

  “Romantic?” He balked. “Unrequited love sounds awful.”

  “Absolutely horrid,” agreed Serilda with another laugh. “But only a romantic would think so.” She sent him a cheeky grin, and his frown returned.

  “You’re still avoiding the question.”

  She sighed, peering up toward the ceiling rafter. “No, I’ve never been in love.” Thinking of Thomas Lindbeck, she added, “I thought I was once, but I was wrong. Satisfied?”

  He shrugged, his gaze clouding. “I can’t remember anything about my life before, and somehow I still have regrets about it. I regret not knowing what it’s like to fall in love.”

  “Do you think you might have been? Before?”

  “There’s no way to know. Although, I feel like, if I had been, then surely I would remember that. Wouldn’t I?”

  She didn’t respond, and after a while he was forced to look up at her. To see her sly grin.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Romantic.”

  He scoffed, even as his face pinkened. “Just when I’m starting to think I enjoy talking to you.”

  “I’m not mocking you. I would be a hypocrite if I was. All my favorite stories are about love, and I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what it would be like, and wishing…” She trailed off, her pulse sputtering as she realized what dangerous territory she was treading into, with the only boy who had ever looked at her with something close to desire.

  “I know,” said Gild, startling her. “I know all about wishing.”

  She believed him. She believed that he did know. The pining and the yearning and the longing. The unbearable desire for someone to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. To press a kiss against the back of her neck. To hold her on long winter nights. To look at her like she was the one he wanted, the one he would always want.