What was it worth?

  She still wasn’t entirely sure that it was real. Or—she believed it was real here, on this side of the veil, in the realm of ghosts and monsters. But if it crossed over into the sunlight, would it vanish like morning mist?

  But no, the gifts that Gild gave to the people of Adalheid were real enough. Why wouldn’t this be as well?

  Before she could second-guess herself, Serilda pulled back her cloak and tucked the bobbin, heavy with gold, into her dress pocket.

  “What is he doing with it all?” she murmured, stepping back to inspect Gild’s work in all its shimmering glory.

  “Nothing good, I’m sure,” he said, so close that she imagined she could feel his breath tickling the back of her neck.

  Had he noticed her taking the bobbin?

  She turned to face him. “And you’re all right with that? I know you’re helping me, but … you’re also helping him. Adding to his riches.”

  “It isn’t wealth he wants,” Gild said with calm conviction. “He has something else in mind for this.” He sighed. “And—no. I’m not all right with it. I want to throw it into the lake to make sure he never gets any of it.” He looked back at her, his expression tormented. “But I cannot let him hurt you. Erlkönig can have his gold if it keeps you safe.”

  “I’m sorry that I keep bringing you into this. I will find a way out of it, somehow. I keep thinking that … at some point, he’ll have enough, and he won’t need me … or you anymore.”

  “But that’s just the thing. Once that happens, you’ll be gone forever. And I know that’s a good thing. I don’t want you trapped here like I am. I don’t want anyone else to suffer here. There’s already plenty enough suffering in this castle as it is.” He paused. “And yet…”

  He didn’t have to say it. She knew what words he was searching for, and she was tempted to put him out of his misery. To say the words for him, because words had always been her haven, her comforts … whereas Gild seemed to agonize over every one. At least, when he was being honest, like this. When he was so vulnerable.

  Finally, he shrugged. “And yet, I don’t want you to leave, knowing that you’ll never come back.”

  Her heart squeezed. “I wish I could take you with me. I wish we could both be free of him. Run away from here…”

  His expression was hopelessly sad. “I’ll never be free of this place.”

  “What happens if you do try to leave?”

  “I get as far as the drawbridge, or the lake—I’ve tried jumping off the walls more times than I can count. But then…” He snapped his fingers. “I’m back inside the castle. As if nothing happened.”

  A shadow passed over his features. “The last time I tried it, ages ago, I reappeared in the throne room and the Erlking was sitting there, like he’d been waiting for me. And he just started laughing. Like he knew how hard I was trying to get away, and that I never would, and seeing me struggle was the most fun he’d had since … I don’t know. Since he caught the wyvern probably.” He met Serilda’s gaze again. “That was when I decided that if I was going to be trapped here, I would at least spend my time making life as miserable for him as possible. I can’t really do anything to him. There’s no point in trying to fight him or kill him. But I can really, truly annoy him. That probably sounds childish, but … sometimes it feels like all I have.”

  “And here I am,” she whispered, “asking you to spin gold. For him.”

  Reaching forward, he took one of her braids between his fingers, running his thumb along the strands. “It’s worth it. You’ve been the most brilliant distraction I could have asked for.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, then did what her body had been yearning to do since he’d first appeared. She tied her arms around his neck and pressed her temple to his. Gild’s arms were quick to surround her, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who had been testing the strength of her will, to see how long she could go without falling into his arms.

  She shut her eyes, squeezing them until little flashes of golden light appeared on the darkness of her eyelids.

  She would find a way out of this mess, and she had a feeling that she would have to do it sooner rather than later. After all, she’d already promised Gild her firstborn child in exchange for his help. What would she offer next time, and the time after that?

  And yet, to her dismay, the thought of running away and escaping the Erlking’s grasp brought her no comfort. It only made her heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise.

  What if this was the last time that she ever saw Gild?

  Her pulse sped up as she slipped her fingers into his hair and turned her head, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

  He inhaled sharply, his arms tensing around her.

  The reaction encouraged her. She hardly knew what she was doing as she caught the tender flesh of his earlobe between her teeth.

  Gild groaned, startled, even as he leaned into her, his fingers clutching at the back of her dress.

  Then he was pushing her away.

  Serilda gasped. Her cheeks were flushed, her heartbeat racing.

  Gild’s eyes were molten as he stared at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I don’t know what I was—”

  His fingers found the back of her head, tangling in her hair, as he pulled her back to him. His mouth found hers. Ravenous.

  Serilda met him in kind. Her body was burning up in the confines of her dress. She felt light-headed, barely able to keep up with the sensations on her skin as Gild’s hands left trails of frazzled warmth on her neck, her back, along the sides of her rib cage, the curve beneath her breasts.

  She pulled away only when she needed to breathe. Trembling, she fitted her hands against Gild’s chest. He may not have had a heartbeat, but he was solid beneath her touch. Under the thin linen there was strength and tenderness. Her thumb caressed the dip of his collarbone and she leaned forward, suddenly desperate to kiss that spot of bare flesh underneath his open collar.

  “Serilda…”

  Her name was a throaty plea, a yearning, a question.

  She met his eyes and realized that she wasn’t the only one who had started shaking. Gild’s hands were on her hips, gathering the fabric of her skirt into fistfuls.

  “I’ve never…,” he started, his eyes tracing the lines of her face, from her brow to her chin to her swollen mouth.

  “Me either,” she whispered back, nervous all over again. “But I’d like to.”

  He exhaled and tipped his head forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Me too,” he breathed, with a bit of a chuckle. “With you.”

  His hands slid up the back of her dress, and she could feel little tremors in his fingers as they found the laces and began to untie them.

  Slowly.

  Tediously slow.

  Agonizingly slow.

  With a frustrated huff, Serilda pushed Gild backward until his legs hit the settee. She tumbled on top of him, encouraged by the sound of his laughter, teasing and warm, before Serilda’s mouth effectively silenced it.

  Chapter 39

  She was liquid gold. A pool of sunshine. A lazy nap on a summer’s day.

  Serilda could not remember when she had last slept so soundly, but then, she’d never slumbered encircled by protective arms, a firm chest flush against her back. At one point she’d started to shiver, and she wondered with a rush of misery if she would open her eyes and find herself alone in the castle ruins. But no—she was just cold, with no blanket to snuggle beneath. Gild had helped her back into her dress, tenderly kissing each of her shoulders before pulling up the fabric of her sleeves and retying the laces. They’d easily dozed off again. Serilda knew she was smiling, even in her half-dreaming state.

  Utterly content.

  Until a shadow fell over her, eclipsing what little light was making the windows glow indigo blue.

  Serilda squinted her eyes open.

  Then sat up, flustered, but alert.

  She shot to her feet, flinching at the crick in her neck, and dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grim. Forgive me. I was—we were—”

  She hesitated, unsure exactly what she was apologizing for. She glanced back, suddenly terrified of what the Erlking would do if he found Gild in here, with her, but …

  Gild was gone.

  What she had thought was an arm pillowing her head was her traveling cloak, neatly rolled up.

  She blinked.

  When had he left?

  In all her spiraling emotions, Serilda was most surprised at the twinge of regret that he had not woken her to say goodbye.

  She chastised herself and faced the king, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I … must have fallen asleep.”

  “And enjoyed the most pleasant of dreams, it would appear.”

  Embarrassment knotted her insides, worsening when the Erlking’s curious look turned almost glib. “Dawn approaches. Before the veil separates us, there is something I would like to show you.”

  Her brow pinched. “Me?”

  The king smiled—the overpowering smile of a victor. The smile of a man who always got what he wanted, and had little doubt he would this time as well. “Your presence continues to be of surprising advantage, Lady Serilda. And I am in a generous mood.” He held out a hand.

  She hesitated, recalling the icy feel of his skin. But, with little choice, she braced herself and settled her hand into his. A chill swept down her spine, and she could not fully disguise the shudder that his touch elicited. The king’s grin widened, as if he liked having this effect on her.

  He led her from the room. Only once they were in the corridor did Serilda remember her cloak, but the king was walking briskly and she had a feeling that he would not appreciate the delay if she asked to return for it.

  “This has been an exhilarating night,” said the Erlking, whisking her down a long stairway that spilled out into a wide conservatory. “In addition to your diligent work, our hunt achieved a most glorious prize, with some thanks owed to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Indeed. I hope you aren’t the sensitive sort.”

  “Sensitive?” she asked, more bewildered by the moment and unable to fathom why he was being so nice to her. In fact, the Erlking, who usually struck her as ominous and more than a little morose, now was bordering on … chipper.

  It made her nervous.

  “I know there are mortal girls of weak constitution, who feign repulsion at the captivity or slaughter of wild animals.”

  “I’m not sure the repulsion is feigned.”

  He snorted. “Show me a lady who does not enjoy a tender cut of venison on her table, and I will concede the point.”

  Serilda had no argument for that.

  “To your question,” she said a bit hesitantly, “I do not think myself to be particularly sensitive, no.”

  “I hoped as much.” The king paused before a set of wide double doors that Serilda had never seen before. “Few mortals have ever witnessed what you are about to behold. Perhaps the night will exhilarate us both.”

  A flush burst hot across her face. His words brought back flashes of intimacy and pleasure that she was trying hard not to think about in this most inopportune moment.

  Gild’s body. Gild’s hands. Gild’s mouth …

  The Erlking shoved open the doors, letting in a rush of cool air, the melodic rhythm of a light rainfall, the thick scent of sage.

  They emerged onto a covered stone walkway that ran the length of the northern side of the keep. Before them, half a dozen steps led down to a large garden hemmed in by the fortress’s tall outer walls. The garden was neat and precise, segmented into squares by tall boxwoods. Within each square was a centerpiece—a tiered fountain or a topiary in the shape of a lyre-playing nymph—surrounded by patches of bluebells and poppies and star-shaped edelweiss. In the corner far to Serilda’s right, the segments were more practical, though no less lovely, filled with spring vegetables, herbs, and fruit trees.

  Serilda had not stopped to wonder about how the dark ones fed themselves. Clearly they did eat, or else they would have had no interest in the feast the citizens of Adalheid prepared for them. But she wasn’t sure if they needed to eat, or if they simply enjoyed it. Either way, she’d had an image of their feasts being made entirely of the food claimed during the hunt—wild boar and venison and game birds. Clearly, she’d been mistaken.

  The Erlking did not give her time to properly take in the splendid view of the gardens. Already he was at the base of the steps, and Serilda hastened to keep up with him, jogging down the central path that led straight through to the far wall while a mist of drizzling rain clung to her skin. She shivered, wishing she had her cloak.

  Her gaze caught on a statue in one of the garden patches, standing ominously over a swath of black roses. She stumbled and paused.

  It was a statue of the Erlking himself, clothed in his hunting gear, the crossbow in his hands. It was carved of black stone, granite perhaps. But the base was different. A light gray, like the castle walls.

  She blinked, surprised at what struck her as a blatant display of vanity. The king had been eager to show off his trophies in the castle—the taxidermy and mounted heads. But he had not struck her as particularly … well, vain.

  She shook herself from the daze and hurried to keep up, for the king evidently had no intention of waiting for her. She passed a couple of undead gardeners. A man with enormous shears jutting from his back was pulling weeds from one of the beds, and a woman whose head seemed permanently cocked at an odd angle, as if her neck might have been broken, was pruning a hedge of topiaries into the shape of a long-tailed serpent. There were more ghosts milling about the gardens in the distance, but as she neared the back castle wall, Serilda’s attention was drawn away from the patches of lush foliage.

  Her steps slowed as she was led through a wrought-iron gate that had not been visible from the palace steps. It led onto a narrow, tidy lawn here at the back part of the gardens, what might have been used for lawn bowling.

  All around its perimeter stood a series of ornate cages. Some were small enough to hold a house cat, others nearly as big as the mill’s waterwheel, all lit by the blaze of a hundred torches burning at the edges of the lawn.

  Some of the cages were empty.

  But others …

  Her mouth fell open and Serilda could not make it close. She wasn’t sure that what she was seeing was real.

  In one cage, an elwedritsch, a plump birdlike creature covered in scales instead of feathers, with a rack of slender antlers sprouting from its head. There was its cousin, the rasselbock, a rabbit in size and form, but also sporting antlers like a roebuck. In the next cage, a bärgeist, an enormous black bear with glowing red eyes. And there were creatures she had no names for. A six-legged oxlike creature that bore a protective shell on its back. A beast the size of a boar, covered in shaggy fur that, on closer examination, might not have been fur at all, but sharp porcupine-like quills.

  A sound almost like a gasp, almost a laugh, escaped her as she spotted what appeared at first to be an average mountain goat. But as it hobbled closer to its food dish, she saw that the legs on the left side of its body were significantly shorter than the legs on the right side. A dahut. The creature whose fur Gild had said was his favorite to use for spinning.

  She wandered closer, shaking her head in wonder. Only a few feet from the dahut’s cage, she could see that it indeed had great patches where the fur had recently been sheared off in haphazard strips. She doubted the dahut cared much, especially as the days grew warmer, but something told her the Erlking and his hunters would be most annoyed at the random patches of fur that occasionally went missing.

  She shook her head, trying to smother her grin.

  It was easy to do when she stepped back and took in the caged beasts all at once. They were a mixture of peculiar and regal, but they all looked cramped and miserable in their enclosures. Many were despondently curled up in the far corners, shying away from the rain and watching the dark ones with wary eyes. A couple had visible open wounds that had not been tended to.

  “All these miraculous beasts,” muttered a haughty voice, “and the mortal wants to see the dahut.”

  Serilda startled. Forcing her attention away from the creatures, she saw that she and the Erlking were not alone. A cluster of dark ones in their hunting gear stood gathered at the far end of the lawn, near an enormous but empty cage. It was a man who had spoken, with bronze skin and hair like flaxen gold, a broadsword on his back. When he saw that he had her attention, he raised an eyebrow. “Is the little human afraid of the beasts?”

  “Hardly,” Serilda said, standing straighter. “But I prefer natural charm over vanity and brute strength. I’ve never seen a creature so purely guileless. I’m rather smitten.”

  “Lady Serilda,” said the Erlking. She jumped, and the stranger smirked. “We have little time. Come, I wish to show you our newest acquisition.”

  “Concern yourself not with her, Your Grim,” yelled the man, “for the human has poor taste in beasts.”

  “Your opinion was not solicited,” said the king.

  The man’s jaw tensed, and Serilda couldn’t help the smug tilt of her chin as she brushed past him.

  She had not gone a dozen steps when a deafening noise, like metal on metal, made her stop. Serilda grimaced and pressed her hands to her ears.

  The dark ones all around her laughed. Even the Erlking seemed momentarily amused, before turning proudly back to the source of the sound.

  Through another gate on the far side of the lawn, a number of hunters and servants were leading a gigantic beast forward. Each was gripping the end of a long rope that had been looped around the creature’s neck and body. There were two dozen captors, at least, yet Serilda could tell by their straining muscles and grunts that it was taking all their efforts to drag the animal forward.

  Her stomach dropped. “It’s a tatzelwurm,” she whispered in disbelief. “You’ve captured a tatzelwurm.”

  “Found roaming the foothills in Ottelien,” said the Erlking. “Precisely as you said it would be.”