She sagged. “It can’t be done,” she said, on the verge of crying again. “I tried to run away. My father and I went to another town. We tried to hide, so he wouldn’t be able to find me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have known it wouldn’t work. And now, now I think he would take any excuse to kill me.”
“The Erlking doesn’t need excuses to kill someone.” Gild stepped closer again and took her face into his hands. His palms were rough and callused. His skin was cool to the touch, but gentle, as he tenderly brushed aside a strand of hair that was stuck to her damp cheeks. “He hasn’t killed you yet, which means he still wants to use your gift. You can take poison on that. We just have to spin the straw into gold. And it can be done.”
“Why doesn’t he just kill me?” she said. “If I were a ghost, wouldn’t I be trapped here forever?”
“I’m not sure, but … I don’t think the dead can use god-gifts. And supposedly, you were blessed by Hulda, weren’t you?”
She sniffed again. “That’s what he believes, yes.”
Gild nodded. Then he swallowed hard and slid his hands away from her waist to grasp her fingers. “I will help you, but I need something for payment.”
His words felt distant, almost foreign. Payment? What did payments matter? What did any of this matter? Her father might be dead.
She shut her eyes with a shudder.
No—she couldn’t think of that now. She had to believe that he was alive. That she only needed to survive this night and she would soon be with him again.
“Payment,” she said, trying to think, though her mind felt clouded. What could she offer as payment? He had already taken the necklace with the girl’s portrait—even now she could see a hint of its chain around his neck.
There was still the ring … but she did not want to give it to him.
Another idea occurred to her and she met his gaze again, hopeful. “If you spin this straw into gold, then I will spin you a story.”
Gild’s brow furrowed. “A story?” He shook his head. “No, that won’t work.”
“Why not? I’m a good storyteller.”
He eyed her, thoroughly unconvinced. “All I’ve wanted to do since the last time you were here is get that horrendous story you told out of my head. I don’t think I can stomach another one.”
“Ah, but that’s just it. Tonight I will tell you what is to become of the prince. Perhaps you will appreciate this ending better.”
He sighed. “Even if that did interest me, a story won’t fulfill the requirements. Magic requires something … valuable.”
She glared at him.
“Not that stories aren’t valuable,” he hastened to add. “But don’t you have anything else?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps you could offer your aid as a show of gentlemanly honor.”
“Much as I enjoy knowing that you think I might be a gentleman, I’m afraid I can’t. My magic won’t work without a payment of some sort. It isn’t my rule, but there it is. You’ll have to give me something.”
“But I have nothing else to offer.”
He held her gaze a long moment, as if willing her to speak the truth. The look made her bristle.
“I don’t.”
His shoulders sank. “I think you do.” He ran his thumb over the golden band on her finger. “Why not this?” he asked, not unkindly.
The caress made her skin tingle. Something coiled tight in the pit of her stomach. Something she couldn’t quite place, couldn’t quite name … but something she thought might be related to yearning.
But it was smothered beneath her sudden frustration.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I’m sure you’re fond of me, but to ask for my hand in marriage? I’m quite flattered, but we barely—”
“Wha—marriage?” he blurted, jerking away from her in a way that was just a little insulting.
Serilda hadn’t meant it, of course, but she couldn’t help but scowl.
“I meant the ring,” he said, gesturing wildly.
Serilda was tempted to play ignorant, but she felt suddenly bone-weary, and the candlewick was burning too fast, and not a single piece of straw had been spun.
“Obviously,” she said dryly. “But you can’t have it.”
“Why not?” he said, challenging. “I somehow doubt it was your mother’s.”
Her fists clenched. “You don’t know anything about my mother.”
Gild started, surprised at her sudden anger. “I … sorry,” he stammered. “Was it your mother’s?”
She peered down at the ring, tempted to lie, if it would keep him from asking for it again. Every time she saw it, she remembered how she had felt so very alive that night, when she ushered the moss maidens into the cellar and dared to lie bald-faced to the Erlking himself. She had always wondered until that night if she could be as courageous as the heroes in her stories. Now she knew that she could, and this was proof of it. This was all the proof she had left.
But as she was staring at the ring, another thought occurred to her.
Her mother.
She might be here, somewhere in this castle. Was it possible that Gild did know something about her after all?
But before she could gather these thoughts into a question, Gild asked, “I don’t mean to pressure you, but tell me again what His Darkness will do to you if this straw has not been spun into gold by morning?”
She scowled.
Then, teeth gritted, she pried the ring from her finger and held it out to him. He snatched it away, quick as a magpie, and tucked it into his pocket. “I accept your payment.”
“I should imagine so.”
Again, magic pulsed around them, sealing their bargain.
Ignoring the chilly look she was shooting him, Gild rolled out his shoulders, popped the joints of his knuckles, and took his seat at the spinning wheel. He began without fanfare, setting immediately to work, as if he’d been born at a spinning wheel. As if it were as natural to him as breathing.
Serilda wanted to wallow in thoughts of her father, her mother, her necklace and ring. But she didn’t want Gild to snap at her like he had the last time. And so she removed her cloak and folded it into a pile in the corner, then rolled up her sleeves, and tried to make herself useful. She helped push the straw in his direction and form the raw mess into neat little bundles.
“The king called you a poltergeist,” she said once they had found a steady rhythm.
He nodded. “That’s me.”
“Then … last time. You were the one who set that hound free. Weren’t you?”
He grimaced. His foot faltered over the treadle, but he quickly found his pace again. “I didn’t set it free. I just … broke its chain. And maybe left the gate open.”
“And maybe almost got me killed.”
“Almost. But didn’t.”
She glared at him.
Gild sighed. “I did mean to apologize. It was bad timing, which seems to be common practice around you.”
She grimaced, wondering if Gild had overheard her conversation with the Erlking last time, when she’d told him that people in her village saw her as bad luck.
“But I didn’t realize we were expecting a mortal guest.” His hands shot up defensively. “I swear I didn’t mean any harm. Not to you, at least. The king, he just gets real protective of those hounds, and I thought it’d get under his skin.”
“You pull a lot of pranks on the king?”
“Have to do something to stay busy.”
She hummed. “But why does he call you the poltergeist?”
“What else should he call me?”