A market.
That was the greatest transformation of all, she noted, as the sounds of merry bustling greeted her. The villagers had emerged and reclaimed their city, as if the wild hunt had never ridden past. As if the castle on the water, just beyond their doorsteps, was not overrun with monsters and ghosts.
The sight that greeted Serilda as she neared the end of the bridge was lively, boisterous, and completely commonplace. People dressed in heavy cloaks and woolen hats meandered among the booths, examining animal furs and woven cloth, baskets of turnips and bundles of candied nuts, wooden clogs and metalwork. Shaggy mules pulled carts laden with apples and cabbages, pigs and geese, while chickens clucked and waddled freely among the streets. A group of children were lying on their stomachs on the end of one of the docks, playing a game with bright-painted stones.
Serilda was filled with relief to see them. All of them. They might be strangers, but they were human and they were alive. She’d feared that the town, like the castle, might have been lost to time, becoming an obsolete ghost town while she slumbered. She feared it might be just as haunted as the ruins she’d left behind.
But this city was not in ruins, and apparently, not haunted, either. If anything, her first impression was that the town was quite prosperous. There were no homes she could see that were in desperate need of repairs. Roofs were well-thatched or neatly tiled, gates were sturdy, and sunlight was glinting off glass windows. Real glass. No one in M?rchenfeld had glass windows, not even the vintner, who owned more land than anyone. If a building had windows at all, they were narrow and open to the weather in the summer, boarded up in the winter.
As she crested the bridge, Serilda again wondered just how long she had slept. Had she really awoken in another time?
But then she spotted a copper pail left alongside a blue-painted fence, and it struck her as familiar. She was sure she’d seen it last night. But if decades had passed, wouldn’t the fence have rotted away by now, or the pail been blown off by some terrible storm?
It was not exactly confirmation, but it gave her hope that she had not stepped into another time, but had merely returned from behind the veil that separated the world of mortals from the realm of the dark ones.
Besides, the clothing was no different from what someone might wear in M?rchenfeld—if perhaps sporting fewer stains and holes and a bit more ornamentation. But wouldn’t the styles have changed had many years gone by?
Serilda tried to appear nonchalant, even pleasant, as she reached the end of the bridge. Soon the townspeople would notice her peculiar eyes and her very nature would come under question. Best to charm them while she could.
It was not long before they started to notice her.
At least—one woman noticed her, and let out a shaken wail that immediately drew the attention of everyone else nearby.
People turned, startled.
And as soon as they saw the girl in the worn traveling cloak stepping off the bridge, they stiffened, their eyes going round. Gasps and suspicious whispers made their course through the crowd.
Some of the children hissed, and Serilda glanced toward the dock. They were staring at her openly, their game forgotten.
Serilda smiled.
No one smiled back.
So much for charming them.
Bracing herself against this less-than-encouraging reception, she paused at the edge of the street. A silence had fallen over the market, as thick as a blanket of fresh snow, interrupted only by the occasional bray of a donkey or crow of a rooster, or someone farther down the street asking what was going on, then pushing and shoving to get closer, to see what had caused the disturbance.
Serilda caught a whiff of warm roasting nuts from a vendor down the way, and her stomach clenched with hunger. The market was not so different from the ones every weekend in M?rchenfeld. Baskets of root vegetables and scavenged winter berries. Bins full of unshelled hazelnuts. Hard cheeses wrapped in cloth and loaves of steaming bread. Loads of fish, salted and fresh. Serilda’s mouth watered to see it all.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” she said, to no one in particular.
The crowd continued to gape, speechless. There was a woman with a toddler grasping at her skirts. A fishmonger with his wares spread out inside a tin trough full of packed snow. An elderly couple, each carrying a basket for their purchases, though all they had so far were some speckled eggs.
Gripping her smile like a shield, Serilda refused to shy away from their dismayed stares, even when those closest to her began to frown, their brows bunching when they noticed her eyes for the first time. She knew those looks well. The ones where people wondered whether the glint of gold was merely a trick of the light.
“Might one of you kind souls direct me to the nearest public house?” she asked loudly, so they could not pretend not to have heard.
But still, no one spoke.
A few of the gazes did shift beyond Serilda, toward the castle. As if anticipating a ghost army to be close behind.
There wasn’t, was there?
Serilda glanced over her shoulder.
No. Just a bridge, sad and deteriorating. Some of the fishermen out in their boats had rowed closer to the shore, either having seen the stranger crossing the bridge or having noticed the change of atmosphere in town.
“Did she just come out of the castle?” squeaked a small voice. The children had crept closer, huddled in a shy group and staring at Serilda.
Another asked, “Is she a ghost?”
“Or a hunter?” said another in a trembling voice.
“Oh, forgive me,” said Serilda, loud enough to let her voice carry. “How frightfully rude of me. My name is Serilda. I was …” She glanced back at the castle. She was tempted—oh, so tempted—to tell them the truth of the night before. She had been summoned in a carriage made of bones, attacked by a hellhound, locked in the dungeons. She had met a gold-spinner and fled from a drude. Her lips tingled, eager to recount the tale.
But something in the faces of the townspeople gave her pause.
They were already frightened. Terrified, even, of her unexpected appearance.
She cleared her throat. “I was sent to study the history of this fine city. I am an assistant to a prominent scholar in Verene who is compiling a … compendium … of abandoned castles in the north. As you might imagine, these ruins are of particular interest for our research, being so remarkably … well … preserved.” She glanced up at the castle again. It was not at all well-preserved. “Most of the castles I’ve inspected thus far have consisted of little more than a tower and a few foundational walls,” she added, by way of explanation.
The looks she received were confused and suspicious and continually darting to the structure behind her.