As he had done a thousand times before, he fed the straw through the maiden hole. But it did not emerge a sleek, glistening thread of gold.

  It emerged as straw. Brittle and frayed.

  He kept trying. His brow pinched. His eyes determined. Gathering another handful. Forcing it through. Trying to wind it around the bobbin when it continually broke. When it continually, stubbornly refused to be turned to gold.

  “I don’t understand,” whispered Serilda.

  Gild grabbed the wheel, stopping it mid-spin, and heaved a defeated sigh. “Hulda is the god of labor and hard work. Not just for spinning, but farming, woodworking, weaving … all of it. I’ve thought maybe they don’t like their gifts to be given away for free because … hard work deserves compensation.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I could be wrong. I don’t even know for sure if what I have is a gift from Hulda. But I do know that I can’t do this as a favor, no matter how much I want to. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “But I have nothing more to give.”

  She looked at the necklace, its chain visible behind his collar. At the engraved ring on his finger, the seal the same that she’d seen in the cemetery.

  Then, with a flash of inspiration, she beamed and gestured at his chest. “How about a lock of hair?”

  His brows drew together and he glanced down, noticing the knot of hair that had been left behind, still tangled around the shirt’s button.

  His lips twisted to one side as he peered back up at her.

  “What?” she asked. “Sweethearts give each other locks of hair all the time. It must be a coveted treasure.”

  Surprise, and a hint of hope, flashed across his face. “Are we sweethearts?”

  “Well…” She hesitated. She wasn’t sure what else they could be after their kiss in the stairway alcove on Eostrig’s Day, but it wasn’t a question she’d ever had to answer before. She wanted to answer honestly, tell him what she truly wanted to say. But it felt safer to tease. So instead, she responded, “You did just take me for a tumble in the hay, didn’t you?”

  She watched him closely, delighted to see his face shift from confused to mortified, pink blotches darkening his freckled cheeks.

  Laughter exploded out of her.

  “Yes, yes, you’re very clever,” he muttered. “I don’t think a lock of hair will sufficiently pay for pounds and pounds of spun gold.”

  She pouted. Considering. Then—another thought. “I will give you a kiss!”

  He grinned, but it was pained. “I would accept it in a heartbeat.”

  “Are you sure you have a heartbeat? I’ve tried to listen for it before and was unconvinced.”

  He chuckled, but the sound was hollow, and Serilda felt a jolt of guilt to be teasing him. He looked truly sorry as he opened his palms to her. “I cannot take a kiss, though I wish I could. It must be gold for … well, something with tangible value. Not a story. Not a kiss.”

  “Then name your price,” she said. “You can see everything I have in my possession. Will you take my cloak? There are some holes from the drude, but it’s in decent shape. Or maybe my boots?”

  He groaned, casting his gaze skyward. “Are they worth anything?”

  “They’re worth something to me.”

  She was irritated at the anger rising inside her. She could tell that Gild was being honest—she knew enough about lies to know the difference. He didn’t want to be having this conversation any more than she did.

  Yet here they were. Discussing payment, when her life would be forfeit if this wasn’t done.

  “Please, Gild. I have nothing of value and you know it. It was sheer luck that I had the locket and the ring to begin with.”

  “I know that.”

  Serilda chewed on her lower lip for a moment, considering. “What if I promised to give you something in the future?”

  He shot her a disgruntled look.

  “No, truly. I don’t have anything of value now, but I’ll promise to give you something of value when I can.”

  “I don’t think that will work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” He shook his head, as frustrated as she was. “Because the likelihood of you actually having something to offer in the future is so slim. Do you think you’re suddenly going to come into an inheritance? Discover some long-lost family heirlooms?”

  “You don’t need to sound so dismissive.”

  “I’m trying to be realistic.”

  “But would it hurt to try?”

  He groaned. “I don’t … I don’t know. Maybe not. Just let me think.”

  “We don’t have time for this! This is so much straw; it’s already going to take most of the night, and if he comes back and I’ve failed, you know what will happen to me.”

  “I know. I know.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at nothing. “There must be something. But—great gods, Serilda. What about next time? And after that? This can’t go on forever.”

  “I don’t know! I’ll think of something.”

  “You’ll think of something? It’s been months. Do you think he’s suddenly going to get bored with you? Just let you go?”

  “I said I would think of something!” She was shouting now, the first hints of desperation clawing at her. For the first time it occurred to her that Gild might actually say no.

  He might leave her. The work undone. Her fate sealed.

  Because she had nothing more to offer.

  “Anything,” she whispered, reaching for him, gripping his wrists. “Please. Do this for me one more time and I’ll give you…” A thought struck her and she let out an exalted laugh. “I’ll give you my firstborn child!”

  He balked. “What?”

  She gave a chagrined smile, a helpless shrug. And though the words had been said in jest, she was already beginning to wonder.

  Her firstborn child.

  The likelihood that she would ever conceive a child was so minuscule. Ever since the fiasco with Thomas Lindbeck, she’d felt resigned to a future of solitude. And given that the only other boy who had captured her interest was dead …

  What did it matter if she promised away a nonexistent child?

  “Assuming I live long enough to birth any children,” she said. “Even you have to admit that’s a good deal. What could possibly be more valuable than a child?”

  He held her gaze, his expression intense and, she thought, just the tiniest bit saddened.

  Under the soft fabric of his sleeves, she imagined that she could feel his pulse. But no, it was only her own heartbeat, fluttering in her fingers. And in the sudden silence, she caught the tremulous rhythm of her own shallow breaths.

  The moments ticking by, too fast.

  The candle flickering in the corner.

  The spinning wheel, waiting.

  Gild shivered and tore his gaze from her face. He looked down at her hands, then pried his arms away.

  Serilda released him, heart sinking.

  But in the next moment, he’d taken her fingers into his. His head lowered, avoiding her gaze, as he wrapped his fingers around hers.

  “You are very persuasive.”

  Hope skittered inside her. “You’ll do it? You’ll accept that offer?”

  He sighed, the sound long and drawn out, as if it physically pained him to agree to this. “Yes. I will do this in exchange for … your firstborn child. But”—his grip tightened, squashing the jolt of euphoria that threatened to have her throwing her arms around him—“this bargain is binding and unbreakable, and I fully expect you to stay alive long enough to fulfill your end of it. Do you understand me?”

  She gulped, feeling the magical pull of the bargain. The air pressing in around her. Stifling, squeezing in against her chest.

  A magical bargain, binding and unbreakable. A deal struck beneath the Chaste Moon, with a ghostly thing, an unliving thing. A prisoner of the veil.

  She knew she couldn’t really promise to stay alive. The Erlking would have her killed as soon as it pleased him to do so.

  And yet, she heard her own words as if whispered from a distant place. “You have my word.”

  The air shuddered and released.

  It was done.

  Gild flinched and pulled away.

  He wasted no time in settling himself at the spinning wheel and beginning the task. He seemed to work twice as fast as he had before, his jaw set and his eyes focused only on the straw being fed into the wheel. It was magic itself to watch him. The confident movements of his fingers, the steady thump of his foot on the pedal, the deft way his hands tied the golden threads onto the bobbin as they emerged twinkling from the wheel.

  Serilda once again set about assisting him as well as she could. The night passed quickly. It seemed that every time Serilda dared to glance at the candle, another inch had been lost from the wax. Her fears rose as she tried to estimate how much work they had done. She surveyed the pile of straw, picturing what it had been when she’d first arrived. Were they halfway through? More? Was there yet any sign of the sky lightening outside the castle walls?

  Gild said nothing. He hardly moved but to accept each new handful of straw she handed him, always maintaining the steady spinning of the wheel.

  So much for all her fantasies of romance, she thought dryly, then chastised herself for it. She was grateful—endlessly grateful that Gild was here, that she would live another night, despite the Erlking’s impossible demands.

  If they finished, that is.

  The piles of straw slowly dwindled and the pile of sparkling bobbins grew, until there was a wall of gold thread glistening near the door.

  Whir …

  Whir …

  Whir …

  “I’ve been asking around to see if there are any spirits named Idonia.”

  Serilda blinked. Gild was not looking at her. His focus never left his work. He seemed tense after their bargain. She supposed she felt pretty tense, too.

  “And?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing so far. But I have to be careful who I ask. Don’t want it getting back to His Darkness, or he might get suspicious of us.”

  “I understand. Thank you for trying.”

  “If I do find her…,” he started uncertainly. “What should I tell her?”

  Serilda considered. It seemed like an impossible hope at this point. What were the chances, that of all the hunt’s victims, her mother would be one the king had deigned to keep in his servitude? Her search felt futile, especially when she was supposed to be worrying about herself, her own servitude.

  “Just tell her that someone is looking for her, I suppose,” she said.

  At this, Gild did glance up, looking like he wanted to say more. But he hesitated for too long, then eventually returned his focus to his work.

  “Shall I continue our story?” Serilda suggested, eager for a distraction. Something that didn’t have to do with her mother or her firstborn child or this rotten predicament she was trapped in.

  Gild sighed, relieved. “I wish you would.”

  The old woman stood on the bridge before the prince, her face in a permanent scowl, yet her eyes alight with wisdom.

  “By returning Perchta to the land of the lost, you have done us a great service, young prince,” she said. Then she gestured toward the surrounding woods, and a group of figures began to emerge into the dappled sunlight. Women of all ages, with skin that gleamed in every shade, from tawny gold to darkest brown, and tufts of lichen sprouting between antlers and horns.

  They were moss maidens, and in that moment, the prince knew that he was in the presence of their leader, Pusch-Grohla, the Shrub Grandmother herself.

  “Ha! I knew it was her!”

  “Oh, yes, you’re very clever, Gild. Now hush.”

  Shrub grandmother was not known for being kind to the humans who ventured too close to the forest folk. She often demanded that mortals complete impossible tasks and punished them when they failed.

  Or—sometimes—rewarded them for deeds of kindness and courage.

  One could never be sure of her mood, but the prince knew enough to show respect. He lowered his gaze.

  “Stop groveling,” she snapped, thumping the end of her walking stick so hard it broke through one of the rotted boards. “Can you stand?”

  He tried to get to his feet, but one leg buckled from his weight.

  “Never mind,” growled the old woman. “Do not kill yourself to impress me.”

  She walked past him, staring up at the black stones, where the gate to Verloren had stood. “She will do everything she can to escape. Perchta will never be content to be a prisoner of the underworld. She is most cunning.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “If she ever returns, the creatures of this world will once again be in danger of her arrows and blades, her fathomless brutality.” She turned to the women gathered at the edge of the woods. “Until that day, we will stand watch over this gate. We will ensure that no one ever comes out of Verloren, that the gods themselves will not open these doors to allow the huntress passage. We must stay vigilant. We must keep guard.”

  The moss maidens nodded, their expressions fierce.

  Hobbling up to the stones, Shrub Grandmother lifted her walking stick over her head and said an incantation, the words languid and solemn. The old language. The prince watched, speechless, as the tall black monoliths tipped toward the center of the brambled clearing. The ground thundered as they struck the earth. Branches splintered and groaned.

  When she was finished, the gates to Verloren had been sealed, permanently trapping Perchta in the afterworld.

  She turned back to the prince, something almost like a smile stretching across her toothless mouth. “Come, young prince. You require healing.”

  The moss maidens built a hammock of branches and vines, and together, they carried the wounded prince into the woods. He tried to look back as he was taken away. To see if there was any hint that Gravenstone Castle stood hidden behind the veil, and his sister’s body, perhaps her ghost, somewhere just beyond his reach. But all he saw was an impassable field of brambles and thorns.

  The forest folk took the prince to Asyltal, their home and sanctuary, a place so hidden by magic that the Erlking himself had never found it. There, Shrub Grandmother and the moss maidens, in all their expert knowledge of healing herbs, nursed the prince back to health.

  He did not know that behind the veil, the Erlking was pondering his revenge.

  The dark ones do not mourn, and neither would the wicked Erlking. Only fury was allowed inside his black heart.

  Fury, and a burning need for retaliation against the boy who murdered the only being he had ever loved.

  As the days passed behind the veil, the Erlking began to concoct a terrible plan. He would ensure that the prince would soon come to know the same fate he had dealt upon the Erlking himself. A future without peace, without joy.

  Without end.

  The days passed slowly as he crafted his vengeance.

  As the moon began to wax, on the far side of the forest, the young prince recovered from his wounds. He told Shrub Grandmother that he must return home, to tell his family the sad news of his sister, yet also to let them rejoice that he himself was not lost.

  Shrub Grandmother agreed that the time had come for him to return to his people. With much gratitude for their healing magic, the prince bestowed on the moss maidens what gifts he had in his possession—a small locket and a golden ring. Then, with a grateful bow, the prince set off for his home. He did not know until he left Asyltal that nearly a full month had passed, and he would be returning home beneath the glow of a full moon. He quickened his pace, eager to see his mother and father again, no matter how his heart ached to tell them what had become of their beloved princess.

  But he could not reach the castle before the sun had set, and as he made his way through the encroaching darkness, he heard a sound that chilled his very soul.

  Howls and the soulless croon of a hunting horn.

  The wild hunt had returned.

  Chapter 38

  It was the silence that brought Serilda back to the present.

  The wheel had stopped spinning.

  She looked over to see Gild watching her, his chin cupped in both hands, leaning forward on the stool like a rapt child. But in the next moment, his brow had furrowed.

  “Why did you stop?” he asked.

  “Why did you stop?” she said, jumping up from the settee, where she’d settled at some point during her tale. “We don’t have time to—”

  She paused and looked around.

  The straw was gone.

  They were done.

  Gild grinned widely. “I said I could do it.”

  “What time is it?” She looked at the candle, startled to see that it was still as tall as her thumb. Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at Gild. “Are you telling me that those first two nights, you were intentionally going slow?”

  He shrugged, his eyes widening, a picture of sincerity. “I had nothing better to do with my time. And I was enjoying the stories.”

  “You told me you hated the story that first night.”

  He shrugged, then rolled his shoulders a few times to work out their stiffness. As he stretched his hands overhead, his spine emitted a series of loud pops. “I don’t think I used the word hate.”

  Serilda scoffed.

  Bobbins were scattered messily in a pile beside him, since he hadn’t paused to organize any of them and Serilda had been too distracted in her storytelling to complete her end of the work. She walked around the spinning wheel and started stacking them against the wall. She wasn’t entirely sure why she bothered. Some servant would come in, scoop them up, and take them away for whatever the king was doing with so much golden thread, but she felt guilty for not having helped much tonight.

  As she set the bobbins into neat rows, they shone like little beacons in the candlelight, as pretty as gems. The amount of straw had made the task seem like an impossible feat, but Gild had done it with time to spare. She couldn’t help feeling impressed.

  As she went to set the last bobbin of thread on the top of the last stack, she hesitated and looked down at the glistening gold.