But something in his expression stopped her tirade before it had really gotten started.

  He was staring at her, but this was different from when he’d studied her before. His lips hung open. Eyes full of blatant disbelief, while one hand idly rubbed his shoulder where it had hit the wall when he, too, had stumbled back from their collision.

  “Well?” shouted Serilda, climbing to her feet and picking stray bits of straw from her skirt. “What did you do that for?”

  Planting her hands on her hips, she waited.

  After a moment, he did approach her again, but with more hesitation. His expression was not as chagrined as it should have been, but more—curious. Something about the way he was studying her clouded Serilda’s ire. She was tempted to back away from him, not that there was anywhere for her to go. And if she hadn’t budged before, she most certainly wasn’t going to now. So she held her ground, tilting her chin up with a lifetime’s worth of stubbornness.

  No apology came.

  Instead, when he was an arm’s distance from her, the boy raised his hands between them. She looked down. His fingers, pale and rough with calluses, were trembling.

  Serilda followed the movement of his hands as they came closer, nearing her shoulders. Inch by tentative inch.

  “What are you doing?”

  In answer, he settled his fingers onto her upper arms. The touch was impossibly delicate at first, then he let the weight of his hands settle along her arms, pressing gently against the thin muslin sleeves of her dress. It was not a threatening touch, and yet, Serilda’s pulse jolted with something like fear.

  No—not fear.

  Nerves.

  The boy exhaled sharply, drawing her attention back to his face.

  Oh wicked gods, the look he was giving her. Serilda had never been looked at like that before. She didn’t know what to make of it. The intensity. The heat. The raw astonishment.

  He was going to kiss her.

  Wait.

  Why?

  Nobody ever wanted to kiss her. There might have been a time once, with Thomas Lindbeck, but … that was short-lived and ended in catastrophe.

  She was unlucky. Strange. Cursed.

  And … and besides. She didn’t want him to kiss her. She didn’t know this boy. She certainly didn’t like him.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  So why had she just licked her lips?

  That small movement brought the boy’s attention to her mouth, and suddenly, his expression cleared. He yanked his hands away and took the biggest step back that he could without once again crashing into the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rougher than before.

  She couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be apologizing for.

  He tucked his hands behind his back, as though he was afraid they would reach out for her again if left to their own devices.

  “All right,” she breathed.

  “You’re really alive,” he said. He said it as a statement of fact, but one he wasn’t sure he believed.

  “Well … yes,” she said. “I thought that had been well established, what with the Erlking hoping to kill me at dawn and all that.”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I knew that, of course. I just…” He rubbed the palms of his hands against his shirt, as if testing his own tangibility. Then he roughly shook his head. “I suppose I hadn’t fully considered what all it meant. Been a long time since I met a real mortal. Didn’t realize you’d be so … so…”

  She waited, unable to guess at what word he was searching for.

  Until finally, he settled on, “Warm.”

  Her eyebrows rose, even as heat rushed unbidden into her cheeks. She tried to ignore it. “How long has it been since you met someone who wasn’t a ghost?”

  His lips twisted to one side. “Not exactly sure. A few centuries, probably.”

  Her jaw fell. “Centuries?”

  He held her gaze a moment longer, before sighing. “Actually, no. The truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever met a living girl before.” He cleared his throat, distracted. “I can pass through ghosts when I want to. Just sort of assumed it’d be the same with … well, with anyone. Not that I do it a whole lot. Seems like poor etiquette, doesn’t it? Walking right through somebody. But I try to avoid touching them when I can. Not that I … I don’t dislike the other ghosts. Some make for fine company, surprisingly enough. But … to feel them can be…”

  “Disagreeable?” Serilda suggested, her fingers curling at the memory of the coachman’s cool, fragile skin.

  The boy chuckled. “Yes. Precisely.”

  “You didn’t seem to have any qualms about trying to walk through me.”

  “You wouldn’t move!”

  “I would have moved. You only needed to say please. If you’re concerned with etiquette, that might be a good place to start.”

  He huffed, but there was little heat behind his look. If anything, he seemed a little shaken. “Fine, fine,” he muttered absently. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m saving your life.” Swallowing hard, he glanced at the candle in the corner. “We need to get started. We haven’t much time left.”

  He dared to meet her eye again.

  Serilda held the look, more bewildered with every passing moment.

  Arriving at some internal decision, the boy gave a firm nod. “Right, then.”

  He reached for her again. This time, when he took hold of Serilda’s arms, it was determined and quick as he forcefully shifted her body two steps to the side. She squeaked, in danger of losing her balance when he released her.

  “What—”

  “I told you,” he interrupted. “You’re in my way. Please and thank you.”

  “That isn’t how those words work.”

  He shrugged, but Serilda noticed how he squeezed his hands into fists as he faced the spinning wheel. And if she were telling this moment as a part of a story, she would say that the gesture, subtle as it was, carried a deeper meaning. As though he were trying to prolong that sensation, the feeling of his hands in contact with her shoulders, just a moment longer.

  She shook her head, reminding herself that this was not one of her tales. As unbelievable as it might be, she was truly trapped in a dungeon, held prisoner by the Erlking, tasked with this impossible request. And now there was this boy, righting the stool and sitting down at the spinning wheel.

  She blinked, looking from him to the spinning wheel to the pile of straw at her feet. “You can’t mean to…?”

  “How did you think I was planning to help you?” He grabbed a handful of straw near his toe. “I already told you I can’t help you escape. So instead…” He heaved a sigh, fraught with dread. “I suppose we shall spin straw into gold.”

  Chapter 12

  He pressed his foot against the treadle. The wheel began to spin, filling the room with a steady whirring sound. He took the straw and, just as Serilda had, looped one strand around the bobbin as a leader yarn. Except it actually stayed for him.

  Next, he started to feed the small bundle of straw through the hole, bit by bit, piece by piece. The wheel turned.

  And Serilda gasped.

  The straw emerged—no longer pale and inflexible and rough. At some point between entering the maiden hole and winding around the bobbin, in a blur too quick for her eyes to catch, the straw had been transformed into a malleable thread of glistening gold.

  The boy’s hands were quick and confident. Soon, he had a second handful gathered from the floor beside him and was feeding it through. His foot tapped a steady pace. His eyes were focused, but calm, as if he’d done this a thousand times.

  Serilda’s mouth hung agape as the bobbin filled with delicate, shimmering strands.

  Gold.

  Could it be?

  Suddenly, the boy paused.

  Serilda looked at him, disappointed. “Why did you stop?”

  “I’m just wondering if you plan to stand there gawking at me all night?”

  “If you’re suggesting I take a nap instead, I’ll gladly comply.”

  “Or perhaps you could … help?”

  “How?”

  He circled his fingers around his temple, like her presence was giving him a headache. Then he whirled his hand in her direction and proclaimed, in a ridiculously staunch voice, “I do beseech you, oh fair one, would you please assist me with this most tedious of tasks by gathering the straw and bringing it within my reach, so that our progress might be hastened and you don’t get your head chopped off at dawn?”

  Serilda pressed her lips. He was mocking her, but … at least this time he did say please.

  “With pleasure,” she snapped.

  He grumbled something she couldn’t make out.

  Serilda bent down and started using her arms to sweep the pile of straw closer to him. It wasn’t long before they fell into a rhythm of sorts. Serilda gathered up the straw, handing it to the boy in great bunches, which he worked seamlessly through the maiden hole, piece by piece. When a bobbin was full, he paused only long enough to swap it for the next; the Erlking, or more likely his undead servants, had provided plenty of bobbins in expectation of Serilda’s abilities. Odd, she thought, as the king had clearly held such little confidence that she would succeed.

  Perhaps he was an optimist.

  She giggled at the thought, earning a suspicious glance from the stranger.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. She thought nothing much of the question—merely a nicety—but the boy’s foot immediately stopped pedaling.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She glanced up from gathering another armful of straw. He was looking at her suspiciously, a long piece of straw gripped between his fingers. The wheel’s turning gradually slowed.

  She furrowed her brow. “It’s hardly an odd thing to ask a person.” Then, with a bit more truthfulness, she added, “And I want to know what I should call you when I’m telling everyone back home about my harrowing journey to the Erlking’s castle and the chivalrous stranger who came to my aid.”

  His suspicion faded into a haughty grin. “Chivalrous?”

  “Except for the part where you refused to help me unless I gave up my necklace.”

  He gave her a one-shouldered shrug. “Not my fault. Magic doesn’t work without payment. By the way”—he removed a full bobbin from the flyer, replacing it with an empty one to begin the process again—“this isn’t his castle.”

  “Right, I know,” said Serilda. Although, she didn’t know that. Not really. This may not be Gravenstone, but it seemed clear that the Erlking had claimed it for himself regardless.

  Posture stiff, the boy stepped on the treadle again.

  “My name is Serilda,” she said, irritated that he hadn’t answered her question. “A right pleasure it’s been to make your acquaintance.”

  His gaze flickered to her before he said begrudgingly, “You may call me Gild.”

  “Gild? I’ve never heard that name before. Is it short for something?”

  The only answer was a quiet grunt.

  She wanted to ask about what he’d said before, about the girl in the locket seeming familiar, about how she wouldn’t understand. But somehow she knew it would only make him more cross, and she wasn’t even sure what she’d said to make him so grumpy in the first place.

  “Forgive me for attempting to make idle chatter. I can tell it isn’t a pastime you cherish.”

  She went to drop another batch of straw at his feet, but he surprised her by reaching out to take it directly from her grip. His fingers brushed hers. A whisper of a touch, almost unnoticeable before it was gone and his hands were busy at their work again.

  Almost unnoticeable.

  If it hadn’t seemed entirely too purposeful.

  If it hadn’t set all her nerves aflame.

  If Gild’s gaze hadn’t become extra intense on the straw, as he actively avoided looking at her.

  “I don’t mind idle chatter,” he said, barely heard above the spinning of the wheel. “But I might be out of practice.”

  Serilda turned away to examine their progress. Though time seemed to pass in staggers and blinks, she was pleased to see that they were more than a third of the way through their task, and the bobbins full of golden thread were beginning to pile up beside him. At least Gild was efficient.

  For that alone, Mother Weber would have liked him.

  Serilda picked up one of the spools of thread to study it. The golden thread was thick, like yarn, but hard and pliant, like a chain. She wondered how much one of these gold-covered bobbins would be worth. Probably more than her father made from his miller’s toll in an entire season.

  “You had to say straw?” Gild asked, breaking the silence. He shook his head, even as he gathered the next bundle of stalks. “You couldn’t have told him you could spin gold from silk, or even wool?” He opened his palms and Serilda could see that they were covered in scratches from the brittle material.

  She grinned apologetically. “I may not have fully considered the repercussions.”

  He grunted.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you can spin gold from anything?”

  “Anything that can be spun. My favorite material to work with is the fur of a dahut.”

  “A dahut? What is that?”

  “Similar to a mountain goat,” he said. “Except the legs on one side of their body are shorter than the other. Helpful for climbing steep mountainsides. Trouble is, it means they can only go around the mountain in one direction.”

  Serilda stared at him. He seemed serious, and yet …

  It was awfully like something that she would have made up. She would sooner believe in a tatzelwurm.

  Of course, given the creatures she’d seen hung up on the Erlking’s walls, she could no longer be sure that anything was mere myth.

  Still.

  A dahut?

  A bark of laughter escaped her. “Now I know you’re teasing.”

  His eyes glimmered, but he did not respond either way.

  Serilda lit up, struck with sudden inspiration. “Would you care to hear a story?”

  He frowned, surprised. “Like a fairy tale?”

  “Exactly. I always like hearing a story when I work. Or … in my case, making one up. Time slips away and before you know it, you’re finished. And all the while, you’ve been transported somewhere vibrant and exciting and wonderful.”

  He didn’t say no, exactly, but his expression made it clear he thought this was a bizarre suggestion.

  But Serilda had created stories at far less passionate invitations.

  She paused in her work just long enough to think, to let the first threads of a tale begin to wind themselves through her imagination.

  Then she began.

  It has long been known that when the wild hunt rides beneath a full moon, they often claim for themselves lost and unhappy souls, coaxing them along on their destructive path. Oftentimes, those poor souls are never seen again. Drunkards get lost on their way home from the tavern. Sailors docked for the week will wander off, unnoticed by their peers. It is said that anyone who dares step into the moonlight during the witching hour could find themselves the next morning alone and shivering, covered in blood and gristle from whatever beast the hunt captured in the night, though they have no memory of the events that transpired. It’s a seduction of sorts, the call of the hunt. Some men and women long for the chance to be feral themselves. Vicious and brutal. Where bloodlust sings a raucous ballad in their veins. There was a time, even, when it was thought to be a gift, to be taken for one night by the hunt, so long as you lived through to see the sun rise and did not lose yourself in the night. If you did not become one of the phantoms destined for eternal servitude to the Erlking’s court.

  But even those who once believed that to join the hunt was its own sort of dark honor knew that there was one type of soul who had no business being among the ghouls and hounds.

  The innocent souls of children.

  But every decade or so, it was this very prize that the hunt sought. For the Erlking had made it his duty to bring a new child to his love, the cruel huntress Perchta, whenever she should grow bored of the last gift he’d presented. Which was, of course, when that child should grow to be too old for her liking.

  At first, the Erlking claimed whatever lost babe might be wandering in the Aschen Wood. But over time he prided himself on securing for his love not just any child—but the best child. The most beautiful. The most clever. The most amusing, if you will.

  It once so happened that the Erlking heard rumors of a young princess who was proclaimed far and wide to be the most lovely girl the world had ever known. She had golden, bouncy curls and laughing sky-blue eyes, and all who met her were charmed by her exuberance. As soon as he heard tell of the child, the Erlking was determined to claim her and bring her to his mistress.

  And so, on the night of a cold Hunger Moon, the Erlking and his hunters rode to the gate of a castle, and with their magical wiles, lured the child from her bed. She walked down the candlelit corridors as if in a dream, and out across the drawbridge, where she was met by the wild hunt. The Erlking promptly swept her onto his horse and carried her off into the woods.

  He had invited Perchta to meet him in a forest clearing to receive her gift, and when he showed her the child, so bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked beneath the full moon, the huntress immediately fell in love and vowed to dote on her with all the affection a mother might bestow on a most beloved daughter.

  But Perchta and the Erlking were not alone in the woods that night.

  For a prince—the very brother to the stolen child—had also awoken, a feeling of dread thumping in his chest. Upon finding his sister’s bed empty and all her attendants in an enchanted sleep, he ran to the stables. He grabbed his hunting weapons and mounted his steed and raced off into the forest, alone but unafraid, following the haunting cries of hellhounds. He rode faster than he had ever ridden before, all but flying along the path through the trees, for he knew that if the sun were to rise with his sister trapped inside the Erlking’s castle, she would be trapped on the other side of the veil, and lost to him forever.