His eyes danced briefly, but then became unexpectedly serious. He appeared to be considering something for a long moment, before his gaze turned intense, almost cunning.
“All right,” he said slowly, as if he’d only just made up his mind about something. “You win. I’ve decided to help you.”
Serilda’s heart lifted, filling fast with untethered hope.
“In exchange,” he continued, “for this.”
He pointed a finger at her. His sleeve slipped back toward his elbow, revealing a ghastly knot of scar tissue above his wrist.
Serilda gaped at his extended arm, momentarily speechless.
He was pointing at her heart.
She stepped back and placed a protective hand to her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat thudding underneath. Her gaze lingered on his hand, as if he might reach into her chest and tear out the beating organ at any moment. He didn’t exactly look like one of the dark ones, with their majestic figures and flawless beauty, but he didn’t look half-faded like a ghost, either. He seemed harmless enough, but she couldn’t trust that. She couldn’t trust anyone in this castle.
The boy frowned, confused at her reaction. Then understanding hit him and he dropped his hand with a roll of his eyes. “Not your heart,” he said, exasperated. “That locket.”
Oh. That.
Her hand shifted to the chain around her neck. She gripped the locket, still hanging open, in her fist. “It will hardly suit you.”
“Strongly disagree. Besides, there’s something familiar about her,” said the boy.
“Who?”
“The girl in the—!” He paused, his expression darkening. “It would appear that you’re trying to be aggravating, but that is my talent, I’ll have you know.”
“I just don’t understand why you would want it. It’s a painting of a child, not some great beauty.”
“I can see that. Who is she? Do you know her?”
Serilda looked down, tilting the portrait toward the candlelight. “You’re the one who just claimed to know her.”
“I didn’t say I know her. Just that there’s something familiar. Something …” He seemed to be struggling to find the right words, but all that came out was a disgruntled growl. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s what people say when they can’t be bothered to explain.”
“It’s also what people say when someone else truly won’t understand.”
She shrugged. “Fine. The girl is a princess. Obviously.” The words were out before she had thought to say them. In the next moment she considered taking them back, confessing that she had no idea who the girl was. But what did it matter? Maybe she was a princess. She certainly looked like she could be. “But one with a very tragic story, I’m afraid.”
With that mysterious statement hanging between them, she snapped the locket shut.
“Well then, it must not be a family heirloom,” he said.
She bristled. “I could have distant royalty in my blood.”
“That’s about as likely as me being the son of a duke, don’t you think?” He swept an arm down his plain clothes, practically undergarments, to prove his point. “And if it isn’t a family heirloom, then it must not be all that precious. Surely not as precious as your life. This is a bargain I’m offering you. My help for an apple and an egg.”
“A bit pricier than that,” she muttered. But her heart was sinking. She knew he had already won the argument.
He must have known, too, as a smug smile crossed his mouth. He rocked back on his heels. “What’ll it be? Do you want my help or not?”
She looked down at the locket, lightly tracing the golden clasp with the pad of her finger. It was almost heartbreaking to part with it, but she knew that was silly. This boy seemed convinced that he could help her. She didn’t know what he could do, but clearly he had some bit of magic, and besides—she didn’t exactly have a lot of options. His appearance was miraculous enough for one night.
Scowling, she lifted the chain from around her throat. She held it out to him, hoping he wasn’t about to laugh at her gullibility, again. He could easily grab the offering, cackle, and disappear as fast as he’d come.
But he did not.
In fact, he took the chain with the utmost care, a hint of deference on his face. And in that moment, it was as if the air around them pulsed. Pressing in against Serilda, muffling her ears, squeezing her chest.
Magic.
Then the moment passed, the magic evaporating.
Serilda inhaled deeply, as if it were the first real breath she’d taken all night.
The boy slipped the necklace over his head and jutted his chin toward her. “Move.”
Serilda tensed, startled by his abruptness. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re in the way,” he said, gesturing at the spinning wheel. “I need space to work.”
“Would it hurt to ask politely?”
He fixed her with a look so openly annoyed, she wondered if his irritation might rival her own. “I’m helping you.”
“And I’ve paid you for the honor,” she said, indicating the necklace at his throat. “I don’t think a shred of civility is unwarranted.”
He opened his mouth, but hesitated. His brow furrowed. “Would you like me to give the necklace back and leave you to your fate?”
“Of course not. But you still haven’t told me how, exactly, you plan to help me.”
He sighed, a bit dramatically. “Suit yourself. After all, why be accommodating when one can be difficult?”
He stepped toward her—and kept coming, as if he might trample her like an errant mule cart if she didn’t get out of the way. Teeth gritted, Serilda planted her feet.
She did not move.
He did not stop.
He collided into her, his chin smacking her forehead, his chest knocking Serilda back with such force she stumbled and fell onto the straw with a surprised oof.
“Ow!” she yelped, resisting the urge to rub the sore spot on her rump where the straw had only barely softened her fall. “What is wrong with you?” She glared up at him, both infuriated and baffled. If he thought she was going to let him intimidate her—!
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.