Leyna slowly nodded.

  Serilda gave her hands a squeeze and stood. They continued walking in silence, and had crossed the next street before Leyna asked, “What is your favorite dessert?”

  The question was so unexpected that Serilda had to laugh. She thought about it for a moment. “When I was young, my father would always bring home honey walnut cakes from the markets in Mondbrück. Why do you ask?”

  Leyna glanced over toward the castle. “If you do become a ghost,” she said, “I promise to always set out honey walnut cakes during the Feast of Death. Just for you.”

  Chapter 35

  Serilda had not expected the Adalheid library to be anywhere near as grand as the great library in Verene, which was associated with the capital’s university and heralded for both its ornate architecture and its comprehensive collection. It was a marvel of scholarly achievement. A haven for art and culture. She had known the library in Adalheid would not be that.

  Yet she couldn’t help feeling a tiny twinge of disappointment when she walked in and found that the Adalheid library was only a single room, not much larger than the Märchenfeld schoolhouse.

  It was, however, overflowing with books. Shelves and stacks of them. Two large desks piled high with thick tomes, with more piles on the floor, and bins in one corner packed full of old scrolls. Serilda felt immediately comforted by the scent of leather and vellum, parchment and binding glue and ink. She inhaled deeply, ignoring the odd look that Leyna gave her.

  It was the scent of stories, after all.

  Frieda, or Madam Professor as Leyna called her, was ecstatic to see them, and became more delighted still when Serilda tried to explain what she was looking for—even though she wasn’t entirely sure what that was herself.

  “Well, let’s see,” said Frieda, picking her way around an overflowing desk to one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. She tugged over a ladder and climbed up to the top, scanning the spines of the books. “That book I gave you before was the most generalized account of the area. I don’t know that there has been a lot of scholarly attention given to our city, specifically, but … here I have ledgers from our city council dating back at least five generations.” She started pulling out the books and flipping through them, then handed a few down to Serilda. “Treasury holdings, trade agreements, taxes, laws … does this interest you?” She handed Serilda a codex so frail that Serilda thought it might disintegrate in her hands. “A written account of work orders and payments made on public buildings during the last century? We’ve had some truly remarkable artisans receive their start in Adalheid. A number of them went on to work on some of the prominent structures in Verene and—”

  “I’m not sure,” interrupted Serilda. “I’ll take a look. Anything else?”

  Frieda pursed her lips and returned her focus to the shelf. “These here are ledgers. Accountings of merchant holdings, employee earnings, taxes paid. Ah, here’s a historical account of the town’s agricultural expansion?”

  Serilda tried to look hopeful, but Frieda must have been able to tell that this was not what she was looking for, either.

  “Don’t you have anything about the castle? Or the royal family who used to live there? They must have been a prominent part of this community to have built such an incredible fortress. There must be some records of them?”

  Frieda gave her a long, strange look, then slowly climbed down from the ladder.

  “To be perfectly honest,” she said, pressing a finger to her lips, “I’m not sure there ever was a royal family inhabiting that castle.”

  “But then who was it built for?”

  Frieda shrugged. “Perhaps as a summer house for a duke or an earl? Or it may have been for military use.”

  “If that was the case, surely there would be records of that, then.”

  Frieda’s expression shifted, as if a light were coming over her. Her gaze traveled back up to the tomes on the top shelf. “Yes,” she said slowly. “One would think so. I … I suppose I never considered it.”

  Serilda tried to tame her irritation, but how could a town’s librarian never have considered the history of its most notable landmark? And one with such a terrifying reputation, at that?

  “What about the Erlking and the wild hunt?” she asked. “When did he abandon Gravenstone and come to reside in Adalheid Castle?”

  “Well, now, that is an interesting question,” said Frieda. “But we have to consider that the existence of Gravenstone might be nothing more than folklore. It may never have existed at all.”

  Serilda shook her head. “No, the Erlking himself told me that he had left Gravenstone because it held painful memories for him, and had come here to Adalheid instead. And he mentioned a royal family. He said they weren’t using it anymore.”

  The color slowly drained from Frieda’s face. “You … you really have … met him?”

  “Yes, I really have. And I’ll almost certainly be meeting him again on the next full moon, which is not that far away, and I would love to know something more about that castle and the ghosts who occupy it before I do.” She set down the books that Frieda had already given her, though nothing yet had struck her as particularly helpful. “Isn’t there any documentation about who built the castle? What methods they used? What quarry the stone came from? You mentioned artisans before. The keep has incredible stained-glass windows and iron chandeliers as big as this room, and in the entry hall the columns are carved with the most ornate imagery. It would have been an ambitious undertaking. Someone must have commissioned all of that, probably hired the most accomplished craftworkers from all over the realm. How can there not be any record of it?”

  Frieda’s eyes were shining, awestruck. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “No one alive has ever seen the things you’re talking about. No one other than you, that is. All we see are ruins. But judging from the architectural style, I would estimate the castle was built … perhaps five hundred, six hundred years ago?” Her brows pinched as she looked around at the books surrounding them. “I don’t disagree with you. You’re right. One would expect there to be some records. But I can’t think of anything I’ve ever seen that gave insight into our local history beyond … maybe two or three centuries ago.”

  “And nothing at all about a royal family?” Serilda persisted, feeling desperate. There must be something. “Birth or death records, family names, coat of arms?”

  Frieda’s mouth opened and closed. She looked a little lost, and Serilda had the impression that it was rare for her to be stymied.

  “Maybe there were records,” said Leyna, “but they were destroyed?”

  “That does happen,” said Frieda. “Fires and floods and the sort. Books are fragile.”

  “There was a fire?” said Serilda. “Or … a flood?”

  “Well … no. Not that I know of.”

  Sighing, Serilda scanned the piles of books. How could a town so successful and wealthy, situated on the edge of the Aschen Wood to one side, along a well-traveled trade route to the other, have no concept of its own history? And why was it that she seemed to be the only one who had ever noticed how peculiar that was?

  She gasped. “What about a cemetery?”

  Frieda blinked at her. “Pardon?”

  “You must have one.”

  “Well, yes, of course. The cemetery is right outside the city wall, just a short walk from the gate.” Frieda’s eyes widened with understanding. “Right. That’s where we’ve buried our dead since the city was founded. Which would mean—”

  “Since the castle was built,” said Serilda. “Or even earlier.”

  Frieda gasped and gave a snap of her fingers. “There are even gravestones there that are something of a local mystery. They’re quite prominent, intricately carved, mostly of marble, if I remember correctly. They’re works of art, really.”

  “And who is buried there?” asked Serilda.

  “That’s the mystery. No one knows.”

  “You think it could be royalty?” asked Leyna, bouncing with excitement.

  “It seems odd that it wouldn’t be marked as such,” said Frieda. “And we can’t discount the possibility that there could be tombs beneath the castle itself, so it isn’t guaranteed that whoever lived there would be buried with the rest of the townsfolk.”

  “But there’s a chance,” said Serilda. “Will you take me to see them?”

  * * *

  The cemetery was acres and acres of gray headstones as far as she could see. Clusters of blue and white wildflowers were scattered among the stones and tucked among the roots of mature chestnut trees, their spring blossoms like white candlesticks among the boughs. Serilda scanned the engravings, saddened, though not surprised, to see how many of the gravestones belonged to children and newborns. She knew such was common, even in a town as prosperous as Adalheid, where disease could so easily take root in a small body. She knew of a number of women in Märchenfeld who spoke openly about their miscarriages and babes being stillborn. But knowing the realities of life and death did not make it any easier to see.

  In the distance, closer to the road, she noticed a small hill where the gravestones were not tall and exquisitely carved, but nothing more than large plain stones laid out in a tidy grid. Hundreds of them.

  “What are those?” she asked, pointing.

  Frieda’s expression was sorrowful as she answered. “That’s where we bury the bodies left behind by the hunt.”

  Serilda’s feet stuttered and came to a stop. “What?”

  “It doesn’t happen after every full moon,” said Frieda, “but it happens often enough that … well. There have been so many. We usually find them by the forest, but sometimes they’ll have been left right outside the city gates. We wait a week or so to see if anyone comes to claim them, but that’s unusual. And of course, we have no way of knowing who they are or where they came from, so … we bury them there, and hope they find their way to Verloren.”

  Serilda’s hands shook. Those victims of the hunt were forever lost to their loved ones. Forever without a name or history, with no one to place flowers upon their grave or leave a drop of ale when they honored their ancestors beneath the Mourning Moon.

  Was her mother among them?

  “Do you … do you happen to recall if there was a young woman found about sixteen years ago?”

  Frieda looked at her with obvious curiosity. “Do you know someone who was taken by the hunt? I mean, other than yourself, of course.”

  “My mother was. When I was only two years old.”

  “Oh, dear. I am so sorry.” Frieda took her hand and offered a sympathetic squeeze. “That, at least, is something I might be able to help with. We keep a record of every body we find. The date they were found and any distinguishing characteristics, any items that were found on their person, that sort of thing.”

  Serilda’s heart lifted with hope. “You do?”

  “There, see?” said Frieda, her eyes brightening. “I knew there would be something in my library that you would find useful.”

  “Look,” said Leyna, pointing to a shared tombstone for Gerard and Brunhilde De Ven. There’s my great-grandparents.” She walked a bit farther, before pausing. “And my papa. I don’t normally come to visit him except during the Mourning Moon.”

  Ernest De Ven. Beloved husband and father.

  Stooping, Leyna plucked some butterbloom flowers and arranged them neatly on her father’s stone.

  Serilda’s heart tugged. In part because she knew the sorrow of losing a parent so young, and in part because she could not lay flowers on her father’s grave.

  The Erlking had stolen that from her, too.

  But maybe the records of bodies would hold at least one answer for her.

  Frieda gave Leyna a side squeeze as they started walking down the rows again. “There,” she said, pointing as they crested a short hill. “You can see them.”

  Shoving aside thoughts of her parents, Serilda felt excitement clawing at her insides. Even from here she could tell that the stones in this back corner of the cemetery were different. Larger, older, more resplendent, shaded beneath enormous oak trees. Some were carved into statues of Velos with their lantern, or Freydon holding aloft a tree sapling. Some were covered by pillared monuments. Some stood taller than Serilda.

  The closer they got, the more the age of the stones became apparent. Though the marble still shone white beneath the sun, many of the corners were crumbling and worn. The plants in this distant corner were overgrown, as if there was no one alive who cared to maintain the area around these markers.

  From the way that Frieda had described them, Serilda had suspected there to be no inscriptions at all, but she saw that wasn’t true. She stepped closer, rubbing her fingers over the face of one of the stones. The death date was nearly four hundred years ago. The size of the marker suggested that whoever was buried here had been wealthy or respected or both.

  But their name was missing. It was the same on the second stone. And, as Serilda made her way to each marker, she saw it was the same on them all. Birth years, death years, an occasional heartfelt benediction or a poetic verse.

  But their names were absent.

  If these were the resting places of royalty—perhaps even generations of kings and queens, princes and princesses—how could there be no record of them? It was as if they had vanished. From memory, from the pages of history, from their own gravestones.

  “Look,” said Leyna. “This one has a crown.”

  Serilda and Frieda went to stand beside her. The gravestone before Leyna did indeed have what looked to be a monarch’s crown carved into the top of the stone.

  But it was not this that made Serilda suck in a startled gasp.

  Leyna glanced at her. “What is it?”

  Crouching before the stone, Serilda peeled away some of the ivy that had started to claim it, revealing the etching underneath.

  A tatzelwurm entwined around the letter R.

  “Does that mean something?” asked Leyna.

  “The R could be the first initial of a name?” suggested Frieda.

  Serilda tugged off more of the ivy until she could see all the stone’s face, but where the name of the deceased should have been, there was only stone, polished and smooth.

  “How odd,” murmured Frieda, leaning closer and feeling the stone for herself. “It’s as smooth as glass.”

  “Is it possible that—” started Leyna, before hesitating. “I mean, could the names have been erased? Perhaps someone came through and polished them away?”

  Frieda shook her head. “That would mean sanding down the material, which would leave grooves where the words had been. These look like they were never engraved at all.”

  “Unless they were erased with magic?” said Leyna. She spoke hesitantly, like she was afraid Serilda and Frieda might laugh at the thought.

  But Serilda just looked up, meeting the librarian’s shadowed gaze.

  No one spoke for a long time, considering the possibility. In the end, nobody laughed.

  THE

  CHASTE

  MOON

  Chapter 36

  Serilda thought the full moon would never come. Every night she looked out at the moonlight dancing on the lake’s surface and watched as it grew—first a teasing crescent, then gradually waxing night after night.

  During the day, she helped around the inn where she could and spent hours gazing at the castle, wondering if Gild was in his tower, gazing back at her through the veil. She yearned to go back and was constantly resisting the desire to cross that bridge, but then she would remember the screams and the blood and the drudes, and she would force herself to have patience.

  She kept busy with her attempts to uncover more of the mysteries of the castle and the hunt, but she felt that she was running into a stone wall at every turn. The ledgers of dead bodies left behind after the hunt held no clues to her mother’s disappearance. There had not been any bodies found that Mourning Moon. The closest possibility was a young woman found a few months previously on the Lovers’ Moon, but Serilda did not think her father would have been so mistaken on the timing.

  She did not know what to make of the revelation. Her mother might have been killed inside the castle walls, and her body never found.

  Or she might have been abandoned somewhere far away from Adalheid, as her father had been.

  Or she might not have died at all.

  Serilda had also spent countless hours talking to the townspeople, asking what they might know about the castle, its inhabitants, their own family histories. Though there were still some who were afraid of Serilda and wanted to chastise her for tempting the wrath of the Erl-king, most of the citizens of Adalheid were happy to talk to her. She figured it didn’t hurt that Vergoldetgeist had been most generous this year, and the whole town seemed to be celebrating their good fortune, even if they always fell quiet about their new riches whenever they noticed Serilda in their midst.

  In speaking with the townspeople, Serilda learned that many had had families living in Adalheid for generations, and some could trace their lineage back a century or two. She even discovered that the former mayor she had seen at the public house after the Hunger Moon had a journal long passed down through his family. He was most eager to share it with Serilda, but when she flipped back through the pages, she found entire columns of text missing, pages left blank.