“How dare I?” he said, standing. “Fairy tales have happy endings! The prince is supposed to save the princess. Kill the Erlking and the huntress, then they both ride on home to their awaiting family and are celebrated by all the land. Happily. Forever! What is this … this rubbish, what with the king stabbing his sister, the prince getting mauled by his hounds … I can’t remember all too many stories, but I’m certain that is the absolute worst I’ve ever heard.”
Trying to temper her anger, Serilda stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re saying the story made you feel something then?”
“Of course it made me feel something. And that something is awful!”
A delighted smile broke across her face. “Ha! I will gladly take awful over indifferent. Not every story has a happy ending. Life isn’t like that, you know.”
“Which is why we listen to stories!” he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. “You can’t end it there. Tell me the prince gets revenge, at least?”
Serilda pressed a finger to her lips, considering.
But then her gaze fell on the bobbins stacked neatly against the wall. Each one glimmered like the vein of a lost gold mine.
She gasped. “You finished!” She stepped forward, about to grab a bobbin off the nearest stack, when Gild stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Oh no. Not until you tell me what happens next.”
She huffed. “I don’t know what happens next.”
His expression was priceless. A little dismayed, a little horrified. “How can you not know? It’s your story.”
“Not every story is willing to reveal itself right away. Some of them are bashful.”
As he tried to ponder this, Serilda ducked around him and snatched up one of the bobbins, holding it toward the candlelight. “This is stunning. Is it all real gold?”
“Of course it’s real gold,” he grumbled. “You think I would try to trick you?”
She smirked. “I certainly think you’re capable of it.”
His sullen face broke into a proud grin. “Suppose I am.”
Serilda inspected the thread. Strong and pliant. “I wonder if I would enjoy spinning if I could create something so beautiful.”
“You don’t like spinning?”
She made a face. “No. Why? Do you?”
“Sometimes. I’ve always found it to be”—again, he searched for the right word—“satisfying, I suppose. It calms me some.”
She scoffed. “I’ve heard other people say that. But for me, it just … makes me impatient to be done with it.”
He chuckled. “You like to tell stories, though.”
“I love to,” she said. “But that’s what got me into this mess. I help teach at the school and one of the kids mentioned that spinning stories is a bit like spinning straw into gold. Like creating something that sparkles from nothing at all.”
“That tale did not sparkle,” said Gild, rocking back on his heels. “It was mostly gloom and death and darkness.”
“You say those words like they’re bad things. But when it comes to the age-old art of storytelling,” she said sagely, “you need darkness to appreciate the light.”
His mouth quirked to one side, like he wasn’t willing to give this a complete smile. Then he seemed to steel himself, before reaching for Serilda’s hands.
She tensed, but all he did was steal the bobbin gently from her fingertips. Still—she didn’t think she was imagining how his touch lingered a second longer than it had to, or how his throat bobbed as he set the gold back down on the pile.
He cleared his throat gently. “The king’s meticulous for details. He’ll notice if one is missing.”
“Of course,” she murmured, still feeling the tingle on her knuckles. “I wasn’t planning to take it. I’m not a thief.”
He chuckled. “You say that word like it’s a bad thing.”
Before she could think up a clever response, they heard the thump of footsteps outside the cell.
They both went still.
Then, to her astonishment, Gild closed the distance to her in a stride and this time, he did grab her hands, taking them both into his. “Serilda?”
She gasped, not sure if she was more startled by his touch or the sound of her name uttered with such urgency.
“Have I completed the task to your satisfaction?”
“What?”
“You must say it, to conclude our bargain. Magical agreements are not to be lightly dismissed.”
“Oh. O-of course.” She glanced at the locket, shining brightly against his dreary tunic, hiding the portrait of a girl who was every bit as much an enigma now, even if she had inspired Serilda’s tragic tale.
“Yes, the task is complete,” she said. “I cannot have a complaint.”
It was true, despite her resentment at giving up the locket. This boy had promised her the blue of the sky. What he had done should have been impossible, but he’d done it.
He smiled, just slightly, but it was enough to make her breath catch. There was something hopelessly genuine about it.
Then, surprise upon surprise, Gild lifted her hand. She thought he might kiss it, which would have been the pinnacle of odd occurrences for the night.
But he did not kiss her hand.
He did something even stranger.
Closing his eyes, Gild held her fist lightly against his cheek, taking from her the most delicate of caresses.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“What for?”
Gild opened his mouth to say something more, but hesitated. His thumb had brushed the band of the golden ring given to her by the moss maidens. He peered down at it, taking in the seal with its engraved R.
His eyebrows pinched with curiosity.
A key creaked inside the lock.
Serilda pulled away and spun to face the door.
“Good luck,” Gild whispered.
She glanced over her shoulder, but froze.
He was gone. She was alone.
The cell door groaned as it opened.
Serilda stood straighter, trying to smother the odd fluttering in the pit of her stomach, as the Erlking sauntered into the cell. His servant, the same ghost with the missing eye, waited in the corridor with a torch held aloft.
The king paused a few steps past the door, and in that moment, the candle, now nothing more than a puddle of wax on the pewter candlestick, finally gave up. The flame expired with a quiet hiss and a curl of black smoke.
The king seemed unperturbed by the shadows. His gaze swept over the empty floor, not a piece of straw to be seen. Then to the spinning wheel, and finally to the stacks of bobbins and their glittering gold thread.
Serilda managed something akin to a curtsy. “Your Darkness. I hope you had a nice hunt.”
He did not look at her as he stepped forward and picked up one of the bobbins.
“Light,” he ordered.
The coachman glanced at Serilda as he stepped forward, raising the torch. He looked astonished.
But he was smiling.
Serilda held her breath as the king studied the thread. She nervously rubbed her thumb across the ring on her finger.
Ages passed before the Erlking’s fingers clenched around the bobbin, encircling it in a tight fist. “Tell me your name.”
“Serilda, my lord.”
He considered her a long while. Another age passed before he said, “It would seem that I owe you an apology, Lady Serilda. I doubted you most severely. In fact, I was convinced that you had taken me for a fool. Told me grand lies and stolen from me my rightful prey. But”—he glanced down at his closed fist—“it would seem that you have been given the blessing of Hulda after all.”