“And just how do you know?” said Serilda.
Hans barked a laugh. “Nachzehrer aren’t real! People don’t come back from the dead and go around trying to eat their own family members. If they did, we’d all be … well, dead.”
“It isn’t everyone that comes back,” said Nickel matter-of-factly. “Only people who die in terrible accidents, or from sickness.”
“Or who kill themselves,” added Fricz. “I’ve heard that can make someone a nachzehrer, too.”
“That’s right,” said Serilda. “And now you know that I’ve seen one, so of course they’re real.”
Hans shook his head. “The more outlandish the tale, the harder you try to convince us it’s more than just a story.”
“That’s half the fun of it,” said Fricz. “So quit your complaining. Go on, Serilda. What happened?”
“No,” said Gerdrut. “A different story. Please?”
Serilda smiled at her. “All right. Let me think a moment.”
“Another one about the Erlking,” said Anna. “Those have been so good lately. I almost feel like I’m in that creepy castle with you.”
“And those stories aren’t too scary for you, Gerdrut?” asked Serilda.
Gerdrut shook her head, though she was looking a little pale. “I like ghost stories.”
“All right, a ghost story, then.” Already Serilda’s imagination had transported her back to the castle at Adalheid. Her pulse sped up, hearing the screams, the squelch of bloody footprints.
“Once, a long time ago,” she began, her voice faint and unsure, as it often was when she was just beginning to explore a story, not fully knowing where it was about to lead her. “There was a castle that stood above a deep blue lake. In the castle lived a good queen and a kind king … and … their two children …” Her brow furrowed. It usually didn’t take much for a story to begin to unfold before her. A few characters, a setting, and off she went, chasing down the adventure as fast as her imagination could keep up.
But now, she felt like her imagination was leading her straight to an unclimbable wall, with no hint as to what was on the other side.
Clearing her throat, she tried to push forward anyway.
“And they were happy, beloved by all the people in their kingdom, and the countryside flourished … but then … something happened.”
The children paused in their work and looked up at Serilda, waiting and eager.
But as her gaze fell, it landed on the god of death, or at least, this rather ridiculous embodiment of them.
There were ghosts prowling the halls of Adalheid Castle.
Real ghosts.
Real spirits, full of anger and regrets and sadness. Reliving their violent ends over and over.
“What happened there?” she whispered.
There was a moment of confused silence, before Hans chuckled. “Exactly. What happened?”
She looked up, meeting each of their gazes in turn, then forced a smile to her face. “I’ve had a brilliant idea. You should finish the story.”
“What?” said Fricz, his lip curling with distaste. “That’s not brilliant at all. If you leave it up to us, pretty soon Anna will have everyone kissing each other and getting married.” He made a face.
“And if she leaves it up to you,” Anna shot back, “you’ll kill everyone off!”
“Both options have potential,” said Serilda. “And I’m serious. You’ve heard me tell plenty of stories. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Skepticism flashed across their faces, but Gerdrut quickly perked up. “I know! It was the god of death!” She jabbed a finger into its stuffed side. “They came to the castle and killed everyone!”
“Why would Velos do that?” asked Nickel, looking severely unhappy with the way Serilda had given up so easily and passed her responsibilities on to them. “They don’t murder people. They just shepherd their souls to Verloren once they’ve already passed.”
“That’s right,” said Fricz, growing excited. “Velos didn’t kill anyone, but … they were there all the same. Because … because …”
“Oh!” said Anna. “Because it was the night of the wild hunt, and they knew the Erlking and his hunters would be coming to the castle, and Velos was tired of all those souls escaping their clutches. They thought, if they could set a trap for the hunters, then they could claim the souls for Verloren!”
Nickel scowled. “What does that have to do with the king and queen?”
“And their children?” added Gerdrut.
Anna scratched her ear, accidentally smearing paint down one of her braids. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
Serilda chuckled. “Keep thinking. This is the start of a very exciting tale. I know you’ll figure it out.”
The children bandied about ideas as they worked. Sometimes the Erlking was the villain, sometimes it was the god of death, once it was the queen herself. Sometimes the townspeople narrowly escaped, sometimes they fought back, sometimes they were all massacred in their sleep. Sometimes they joined the hunt, sometimes they were stolen off to Verloren. Sometimes the ending was happy, but usually it was tragic.
Soon, the story had tied itself into knots, the threads growing ever more tangled, until the children were arguing over which storyline was best, and who should die and who should fall in love and who should fall in love and then die. Serilda knew she should interject. She should help them set the record straight, or at least reach some sort of ending that they could all agree on.
But she was lost in her own thoughts, hardly listening to their story as it became more and more cumbersome. Until it no longer resembled the story of Adalheid Castle at all.
The truth was, Serilda didn’t want to make up another story about the castle. She didn’t want to keep spinning outlandish fabrications.
She wanted to know the truth. What had really become of the people who had once lived there? Why were their spirits never put to rest? Why had the Erlking claimed it as his sanctuary, and abandoned Gravenstone Castle, deep in the Aschen Wood?
She wanted to know about Gild.
She wanted to know about her mother.
But all she had were questions.
And the brutal certainty that she would never have answers.
“Serilda? Serilda!”
She jolted. Anna was frowning at her. “Fricz asked you a question.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I was … thinking about your story.” She smiled. “It’s very good so far.”
She was met with five dismayed looks. It seemed they didn’t agree.
“What did you ask?”
“I asked if you’ll be walking with us during the parade?” said Fricz.
“Oh. Oh, I can’t. I’m too old now. And besides, I …”
I’ll be gone. I’m leaving you, leaving M?rchenfeld. Forever.
She couldn’t tell them. She hoped it was easier this way, to just leave and never come back. To not have to suffer through their farewells.
But she didn’t really believe it would be easier at all.
For sixteen years she’d believed her mother had left her without a goodbye, and there had been nothing easy about that.
But she couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t risk it.
“I might have to miss the festivities this year.”