“He can’t,” said Meadowsweet. “Hulda’s magic requires balance and balance is obtained through reciprocity. Nothing taken for granted.”

  “Fine, then,” said Serilda, with a shrug that was more nonchalant than she felt. “No doubt the king will summon me again on the Awakening Moon and Gild will not be able to help me and I will fail his task and he will take my life. It seems I have already lost.”

  “Yes,” said Pusch-Grohla. “You are very much sitting in the ink.”

  “We could kill her now,” suggested Foxglove. She did not even bother to whisper it. “It would solve the problem.”

  “It would solve a problem,” Pusch-Grohla countered. “Not the problem. This Vergoldetgeist would still be within Erlkönig’s grasp.”

  “But Erlkönig doesn’t know that,” said Meadowsweet.

  “Hm, yes,” said the old woman. “Perhaps it would be best if the girl never returned to Adalheid.”

  Gooseflesh speckled Serilda’s arms. “I’ve tried running from him. It didn’t work.”

  “Of course you cannot run from him,” said Foxglove. “He is the leader of the wild hunt. If he wants you, he will find you. Erlkönig relishes nothing more than tracking his prey, luring them into his grasp, and striking.”

  “Yes, I know that now. It’s just, we’d thought, I’d thought maybe there was a chance. He can only leave the veil under a full moon. My father and I had sought to travel far enough away that he would not be able to travel so far in one night.”

  “Do you think the boundaries of the veil end at his castle walls? He can travel anywhere he wishes to, and you will have no idea that he is right there at your side, following your every move.”

  Serilda shuddered. “Believe me, I’ve realized my mistake. But you have been hiding from him for ages. He cannot find this place. Perhaps, if I could…” She trailed off as the expressions darkened around her. Even Meadowsweet looked aghast at what Serilda was suggesting. “Could stay here?” she finished lamely.

  “No,” said Pusch-Grohla simply.

  “Why not? You don’t want me returning to Adalheid, and despite the array of sharp weapons around here, I don’t think you are prepared to murder me, either.”

  “We do what we must,” growled Foxglove.

  “That is enough, Foxglove,” said Pusch-Grohla.

  The moss maiden lowered her head. Serilda couldn’t help the burble of enjoyment she felt at seeing her chastised.

  “I cannot offer you sanctuary,” said Pusch-Grohla.

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  Pusch-Grohla’s knuckles tightened around her staff. “My granddaughters are capable of withstanding the call of the hunt. Are you?”

  Serilda froze, her mind flooding with foggy memories. A powerful steed beneath her. The wind tossing her hair. Laughter spilling from her own lips. Blood splattered across the snow.

  Her father—there one moment. Gone the next.

  Shrub Grandmother nodded knowingly. “He would find you even here, and your presence would be putting us all at risk. But you are correct. We will not be killing you. You once saved two of my granddaughters, and while that debt was paid, my gratitude remains. Perhaps I have another way.”

  She unbent her legs and used the walking stick to stand on top of her rock, so that she was nearly eye level with Serilda. She beckoned her closer.

  Serilda tried not to look afraid as she approached.

  “You understand the repercussions should Erlkönig amass enough golden chains to capture a god, do you not?”

  “I believe I do,” she whispered.

  “And you will never seek to implore this Vergoldetgeist to spin more gold for that monster?”

  She swallowed. “I swear it.”

  “Good.” Pusch-Grohla hummed. “I am keeping this gold thread. In exchange, I will try to help you be free of him. I cannot promise it will work, and should it fail, we will rely on you to keep your promise. If you betray us, then you will not live to see another moon.”

  Despite her threat, hope fluttered in Serilda’s chest. It was the first time in a long while she’d dared to think freedom might be possible.

  “I will speak with my herbalist to see if we can prepare a potion suitable for one in your condition. If it is possible, then I will send a message to you by sundown tonight.”

  Serilda’s brow furrowed. “My condition?”

  The woman’s mouth tightened into a thin smile. She lowered the staff and beckoned Serilda closer. And closer still, until Serilda could detect the scent of damp cedar and cloves on her breath.

  The old woman was silent a long time, studying Serilda, until the corner of her mouth lifted tauntingly. “Should we fail, and the king summons you again, you will tell him nothing of this visit.”

  “You have my word.”

  The woman cackled quietly. “One does not get to be as old and admired as me by trusting every brittle creature that dares to make a promise.” She tipped her staff forward, plunking it lightly against Serilda’s forehead. “You will remember our conversation, but should you ever try to find this place again, or lead anyone to us, your words will turn to gibberish and you will become as lost as a cricket in a snowstorm. If I wish to communicate with you, I will send word. Understand?”

  “Send word how?”

  “Do you understand?”

  Serilda gulped. She was not sure that she did, but she nodded anyway. “Yes, Shrub Grandmother.”

  Pusch-Grohla nodded, then thwacked her stick on the side of her rock. “Meadowsweet, have the girl returned to her home in Märchenfeld. We do not wish for her to come to any harm in the forest.”

  Chapter 45

  She did not immediately realize what she had promised. Or what it would mean. The truth, when it hit, was as startling as a thunderclap.

  She would never see Gild again.

  Or Leyna. Lorraine. Frieda. Everyone who had been so kind to her. Who had accepted her more easily than almost anyone in Märchenfeld ever had.

  She would never know what had become of her mother.

  She would never know the secrets of Adalheid Castle and its royal family, or understand why the dark ones had abandoned Gravenstone, or why drudes seemed to be guarding a room with a tapestry and a cage, or figure out whether or not Gild really was a ghost, or if he was something else.

  She would never see him again.

  And she couldn’t even say goodbye.

  She managed to hold her tears inside until the moss maidens abandoned her at the edge of the forest. In every direction she saw emerald-green pastures. A herd of goats grazed on a hillside.

  There was a flurry of noise from a crop of fig trees, and a moment later, a flock of crows took to the skies, swirling in the air for a few long minutes before soaring over to a different field.

  She started down the road on her own, and the tears came flooding forward.

  He wouldn’t understand. After what they had shared, she felt like she was abandoning him.

  An eternity of loneliness. Of never again feeling warm embraces, gentle kisses. Her torment would eventually end. She would grow old and die, but Gild … he would never be free.

  And he would never know what had become of her.

  He would never know that she had started to love him.

  She hated that these were the thoughts clawing at her most, when she knew she should be grateful that Shrub Grandmother offered to help her. From the beginning, she’d known it was possible that she would either die at the Erlking’s hand or be in service to him for the rest of her life, and perhaps even beyond. But now there might be a different fate for her, one that didn’t involve her desperate and foolish attempts to avenge her father and murder the Erlking (a fantasy that even she could not believe might actually happen). It was remarkable. It was a gift.

  She didn’t like to give much credit to her godparent, but she couldn’t help wondering if the wheel of fortune had finally turned in her favor.

  Though Pusch-Grohla had not been sure that whatever she was planning would work.

  If it did not … if it failed … then nothing had been solved. She still could not escape. She was still a prisoner.

  And now she knew that, no matter what happened, she could never ask Gild to spin straw for her again. By asking Gild to help her, she was helping the Erlking. She’d known this—they’d both known this. But his reasons had seemed … unimportant before. Certainly, whatever he needed the gold for, it was worth saving her own life. She’d told herself that, and been convinced it was true.

  But now she knew better.

  What would the king do if he captured a god? If he claimed a wish? Would he return Perchta from Verloren?

  This possibility was terrible enough. The stories of the Erlking and the wild hunt were wretched—stolen children and a trail of lost spirits. But the stories of Perchta were a thousand times worse, tales she would never tell the children. Whereas the Erlking liked to give chase to his prey and brag of his conquests, Perchta had liked to play. They say that she enjoyed letting her prey think it had escaped, slipped away … only to stumble back into her trap. Over and over again. She liked to wound the beasts of the forests and watch them suffer. She was unsatisfied by a quick death, and no amount of torment seemed to slake her bloodlust.

  And those were animals.

  The way she toyed with mortals was no better. To the huntress, humans were just as viable prey as stags and boar. Preferred, even, because they had enough sense to know they had no chance against the hunt, but they kept fighting anyway.

  She was cruelty incarnate. A monster through and through.

  She could not be unleashed on the mortal world again.

  But maybe the Erlking’s wish would not be to summon Perchta from the underworld. What else might such a man long for? The destruction of the veil? Freedom to reign over mortals, not only his dark ones? A weapon, or dark magic, or an entire army of the undead to serve him?

  Whatever the answer, she didn’t want to find out.

  He could not get his wish.

  It might be too late. They might have already spun enough for him to hunt and capture a god on the Endless Moon. But she had to hope that wasn’t the case. She had to hope.

  She crested a hill and saw the familiar roofs of Märchenfeld in the distance, tucked into its little valley by the river. Any other day, her heart might have lifted to be so close to home.

  But it wasn’t truly a home, not anymore. Not with her father gone.

  She glanced toward the sky. There was still a couple of hours until sunset, when Pusch-Grohla had promised to send word and tell Serilda whether or not she would be able to aid her. A couple of hours until she might be given some idea of her fate.

  When the mill came into view, Serilda felt no sense of the joy and relief she had when she’d returned after the Hunger Moon.

  Except—there was smoke curling up from one of the chimneys.

  She paused and at first she thought that someone was in her home. That, maybe, Papa was in her home—!

  But then she realized that the smoke was coming from the chimney behind the house, in the gristmill, and that flutter of hope sank back into the pain of loss.

  Only Thomas Lindbeck, she thought, working in her father’s absence. As she made her way down the hill, she could see that the Sorge River was higher now than when she’d left, swelling from the melting snow in the mountains. The waterwheel was churning at a good clip. If the mill wasn’t already in demand from their neighbors, it would be soon.

  She knew that she should go talk to Thomas. Thank him for keeping everything running while she was gone. Maybe she should even tell him the truth. Not that her father had been taken from the wild hunt and thrown from his horse, but that he had an accident. That he was dead. That he would never be coming back.

  But Serilda’s heart was too heavy and she didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all Thomas Lindbeck.

  Pretending that she hadn’t noticed the smoke, she went into her home. Shutting the door behind her, she spent a moment looking around at the barren room. There was a chill in the air and dust on every surface. The spinning wheel, which they hadn’t been able to sell before leaving for Mondbrück, had thin lines of spiderwebbing on the spokes.

  Serilda tried to picture a future in which she could stay here. Was there any hope that Pusch-Grohla could help her in a way that she might actually be safe from the Erlking? That she could keep her childhood home?

  She doubted it. Probably she would have to run somewhere still. Somewhere very far away.

  But this time she would be alone.

  If it was possible at all. He was a hunter. He would come for her. He would never stop coming for her.

  Who was she to think that would ever change?

  With a heavy heart, she sank onto her cot, though there were no longer any blankets. She stared at the ceiling she’d been staring up at her whole life, and waited for the sun to set, and this mysterious messenger to come to her aid.

  Or to confirm her fears—that there was no hope at all.

  She had been wallowing in these thoughts for some time when she began to notice a strange noise.

  Serilda frowned and listened.

  Scuffling.

  Chewing.

  Probably rats had gotten into the walls.

  She made a face, wondering if she cared enough to try and set traps for them. Probably not. They would be Thomas’s problem soon enough.

  But then she felt guilty. This was her father’s mill, his life’s work. And it was still her home, even if it no longer felt that way. She couldn’t let it fall into disrepair, not so long as she could do something about it.

  She grumbled and sat up. She would need to go into town for the traps, and that would have to wait until tomorrow. But for now she could at least try to figure out where they had gotten in.

  She shut her eyes and listened some more. At first there was silence, but after a while she heard it again.

  Scratching.

  Gnawing.

  Louder than before.

  She shuddered. What if it was an entire family of rats? She knew the millstones and waterwheel could be loud, but still, hadn’t Thomas heard that? Was he already so derelict in the work her father had entrusted to him?

  She swung her legs over the cot. Crouching down, she inspected where the walls met the floor, searching for small holes that the vermin might have gotten in. She saw nothing.

  “Must be on the mill side,” she muttered. And again, she wanted to ignore it. And again, she chastised herself for those thoughts.

  At least, if Thomas was still there, she could chastise him for his negligence. Rodents were drawn to mills—to the scraps of wheat and rye and barley left behind in the process. It was imperative that they were kept clean. She supposed he ought to learn this now if he was going to become the new miller of Märchenfeld.

  With a huff, she rebraided her hair, still filthy from the trek through the underground tunnel and the forest, and headed out, rounding the corner toward the mill.

  The millstones were not in operation when she pulled open the door, and from this side of the wall she could hear the noises much louder.

  She strode in. The room was sweltering hot, as if the fire had been roaring for days.

  A figure was bent over near the fireplace.

  “Thomas!” she shouted, angry hands on her hips. “Can’t you hear that? There are rats in the walls!”

  The figure stiffened and stood tall, his back to Serilda.

  Apprehension shot through her. The figure was shorter than Thomas Lindbeck. Broader in the shoulders. Wearing clothing that was filthy and tattered.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, gauging how close she was to the tools that hung on the wall, in case she needed to grab a weapon.

  But then the figure started to turn. His movements were jerky and stiff. His face pale.

  But his eyes met hers and suddenly her head was spinning, her chest tight with disbelief. “Papa?”

  Chapter 46

  He shambled a couple of steps toward her, and though Serilda’s first instinct was to sob and throw herself into his arms, a second, stronger instinct kept her feet rooted to the ground.

  This was her father.

  And not her father.

  He was still wearing the same clothes as when he’d been lured away by the hunt, but his shirt was little more than dirt-crusted and bloodstained tatters. His shoes were missing entirely.

  His arm was …

  It was …

  Serilda didn’t know what to make of it, but her stomach turned at the sight and she thought she might heave onto the gristmill floor.

  His arm looked like a haunch of pork strung up over the butcher’s table in the market. Most of the skin was gone, revealing flesh and gristle beneath. Near his elbow, she could see all the way to the bone.

  And his mouth. His chin. The front of his chest.

  Covered in blood.

  His own blood?

  He took another step toward her, running his tongue along the edges of his mouth.

  “Papa,” she whispered. “It’s me. Serilda.”

  He had no reaction, other than a spark of something in his eye. Not recognition. Not love.

  Hunger.

  This was not her father.

  “Nachzehrer,” she breathed.

  His lips pulled back, revealing bits of flesh stuck in his teeth. As if he despised the word.

  Then he lunged for her.

  Serilda screamed. Yanking open the door, she ran out into the yard. She would have thought him to be slow, but the promise of flesh seemed to have awoken something in him and she could feel him at her back.

  Fingernails grabbed the cloth of her dress. She was thrown to the ground. The breath was knocked from her and she rolled away a few feet, before stopping on her back. Her father’s mutilated body stood over her. He was not breathing hard. There was no emotion at all in his eyes beyond that dark craving.

  He dropped to his knees and grasped her wrist in both arms, eyeing it like a blood sausage.

  Serilda’s other hand flailed around until her fingers landed on something hard. As her father bent his head toward her flesh, she swung the rock at the side of his head.