“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.