“Serilda,” said Madam Sauer, with her favorite scowl. At least, Serilda had to assume she was wearing her favorite scowl. She couldn’t actually see the witch while her eyes were demurely lowered toward the dirt floor of the schoolhouse.
“You are not,” the woman continued, her words slow and sharp, “the godchild of Wyrdith. Or any of the old gods, for that matter. Your father may be a respected and honorable man, but he did not rescue a mythical beast who had been wounded by the wild hunt! These things you tell the children, they are … they are …”
Preposterous?
Absurd?
Sort of amusing?
“Wicked!” Madam Sauer blurted, with bits of spittle flying onto Serilda’s cheek. “What does it teach them, to believe that you are special? That your stories are a god’s gift, when we should be instilling them with virtues of honesty and humility. An hour spent listening to you and you’ve managed to tarnish everything I’ve striven for all year!”
Serilda screwed her mouth to one side and waited a beat. When it seemed that Madam Sauer had run out of accusations, she opened her mouth and inhaled deeply, prepared to defend herself—it had only been a story after all, and what did Madam Sauer know of it? Maybe her father really had rescued the god of lies on the winter solstice. He had told her the story himself when she was younger, and she had checked the astronomy charts. It had been an Endless Moon that year—as it would be again this coming winter.
But that was nearly an entire year away. An entire year to dream up delectable, fanciful tales to awe and frighten the little goslings who were forced to attend this soulless school.
Poor things.
“Madam Sauer—”
“Not a word!”
Serilda’s mouth slammed shut.
“I have heard enough out of that blasphemous mouth of yours to last a lifetime,” roared the witch, before releasing a frustrated huff. “Would that the gods had saved me from such a pupil.”
Serilda cleared her throat and tried to continue with a quiet, sensible tone. “I am not precisely a pupil anymore. Though you seem to forget that I volunteer my time here. I’m more of an assistant than a student. And … you must find some value in my presence, as you haven’t told me to stop coming. Yet?”
She dared to lift her gaze, smiling hopefully.
She had no love for the witch, and was well aware that Madam Sauer had no love for her. But visiting with the schoolchildren, helping them with their work—telling them stories when Madam Sauer wasn’t listening—these were some of the few things that brought her joy. If Madam Sauer did tell her to stop coming, she would be devastated. The children, all five of them, were the only people in this town who didn’t look at Serilda like she was a blight on their otherwise respectable community.
In fact, they were the few who regularly dared to look at Serilda at all. The golden spokes radiating across her gaze made most people uncomfortable. She had sometimes wondered if the god chose to mark her irises because you’re not supposed to be able to look someone in the eye when you’re lying to them. But Serilda had never had any trouble holding someone’s gaze, whether she was lying or not. It was everyone else in this town who struggled to hold hers.
Except the children.
She couldn’t leave. She needed them. She liked to think they might need her back.
Plus, if Madam Sauer did send her away, it would mean that she would be forced to get a job in town, and to her knowledge, the only available work was … spinning.
Blech.
But Madam Sauer’s expression was solemn. Cold. Even bordering on angry. The skin under her left eye was twitching, a sure sign that Serilda had crossed a line.
With a whip of her hand, Madam Sauer grabbed the willow branch she kept on her desk and held it up.
Serilda shrank back, an instinct that lingered from all the years she had been one of the school’s pupils. She hadn’t had the backs of her hands struck in years, but she still felt the ghost of the stinging branch whenever she saw it. She still remembered the words she’d been told to repeat with every swish of the branch.
Lying is evil.
Lying is the work of demons.
My stories are lies, therefore I am a liar.
It might not have been so awful, except that when people didn’t trust you to tell the truth, they inevitably stopped trusting you in other matters as well. They didn’t trust you not to steal from them. They didn’t trust you not to cheat. They didn’t believe you could be responsible or thoughtful. It tarnished all elements of your reputation, in a way that Serilda found remarkably unfair.
“Do not think,” said Madam Sauer, “that just because you are of age, I will not strike the wickedness from you yet. Once my pupil, always my pupil, Miss Moller.”
She bowed her head. “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.”
The witch scoffed. “Unfortunately, you and I both know that is just one more lie.”
Chapter 2
Serilda drew her cloak tight as she left the schoolhouse. There was still an hour of daylight—plenty of time to get home to the mill—but this winter had been colder than any she could remember, with snow nearly to her knees and dangerous patches of ice where wagon wheels had cut slushy grooves along the roads. The wetness was sure to have soaked through her boots and into her stockings long before she got home, and she was dreading the misery of it just as much as she was looking forward to the fire her father would have started in the hearth and the bowl of steaming broth she would drink while she warmed her toes.
These midwinter walks home from the school were the only times Serilda wished they didn’t live quite so far outside of town.
Bracing herself against the cold, she pulled up the hood and surged forward. Head lowered, arms crossed, pace as quick as she would allow while trying not to slip on the treacherous ice lurking under the most recent layer of feather-soft snow. The crisp air mingled with the smell of wood smoke from nearby chimneys.
At least they weren’t meant to have more snow tonight. The sky was clear of threatening gray clouds. The Snow Moon would be on full display, and though it wasn’t as notable as when the full moon crossed with the solstice, she felt there must be some enchantment tethered to a full moon on the first night of the new year.
The world was full of small enchantments, when one was willing to look for them. And Serilda was always looking.
“The hunt will be celebrating the change of the calendar, as are we all,” she whispered, distracting herself as her teeth began to chatter. “After their demonic ride, there will be feasting on what beasts they’ve captured, and drinking of mulled wine spiced with the blood—”
Something hard hit Serilda on the back, right between her shoulder blades. She yelped and spun around, her foot slipping. She tumbled backward, her rump landing in a cushion of snow.