Serilda pressed her cheek to the top of his head. “Shall I continue the story?”
He chuckled quietly and seemed to consider, but then she felt his head shaking. He pulled away, enough to look at her. “Why do you say you aren’t fair?”
“What?”
“Before, talking about damsels and my … heroics.” His smile grew cheeky, but only for a moment. “You seemed to be suggesting that you’re … not beautiful.”
Despite his obvious discomfort, he did not look away.
“Are you mocking me?”
His brow pinched. “No. Of course not.”
“Can you not see what’s before you?”
“I can see precisely what’s before me.” He reached up with his other hand and, when she didn’t pull away, settled the tips of his fingers lightly against her temple. He held her gaze steadily, when so many boys had flinched away with looks of pity, if not outright disgust.
Gild did not flinch.
“What do they mean?” he asked.
She swallowed. A lie would have been easy. She had thought of so many to explain away her eyes.
For so long, she had wondered if the tale her father had told her was just another fabrication.
But now she knew it was the truth, and she did not want to lie to Gild.
“I was marked by Wyrdith,” she said, suddenly unable, or unwilling, to move. Every touch was a new revelation.
His eyes widened. “The god of stories. Of course. It’s the wheel of fortune.”
She nodded. “They mean that I can’t be trusted. That I’m bad luck.”
Gild considered this for a long time, before giving a subtle grunt. “Fortune determines who will prosper and who will fail. It’s all a matter of chance.”
“That’s what they like to tell you,” she said, “but when someone has good fortune, they are quick to thank Freydon or Solvilde, even Hulda. But Wyrdith is only ever credited with bad luck.”
“And do people blame you? When they have bad luck?”
“Some do, yes. Being a storyteller doesn’t help. People don’t trust me.”
“Doesn’t seem right, to blame you for things you have no control over.”
She shrugged. “It can be difficult to prove I’m not at fault.”
Especially when she wasn’t sure they were wrong. But she didn’t want to tell him that. Not when he had, so far, not shied away from her.
Gild let his hand drop back to his lap, which both relieved and saddened her. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“I’ve forgotten what it was.”
“Why do you think you’re not beautiful?”
She flushed. “I would think that’s been answered just fine.”
“You’ve told me that you’re cursed by the god of stories. That people don’t trust you. But that isn’t the same thing. Spend enough time with the dark ones and you’ll know that sometimes the most untrustworthy things are also the most beautiful.”
She pictured the Erlking, in all his unimaginable beauty.
“You just compared me to black-hearted demons. Don’t tell me that was a compliment.”
He laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” The gold flecks in his eyes glittered in the candlelight, and when next he spoke, it was so quiet that Serilda barely heard him, even right at his side. “This is … very new to me.”
She wanted to say that this was very new to her, too, but she wasn’t entirely sure what this was.
Only that she didn’t want it to end.
She gathered her courage, wanting to say as much, when the candle began to splutter.
They both looked at it, desperate for it to not go out. For the night to not be over. But the flame was hovering precariously on the last tiny bit of wick, moments from being doused in the dark wax.
As it flickered again, they heard footsteps.
A key in the lock.
“Serilda.”
She looked at Gild, wide-eyed, and nodded. “I’m satisfied. Go.”
He looked, for the barest of moments, like he didn’t know what she was talking about. Then his expression cleared.
“I’m not,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Please forgive me this.”
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.
Serilda gasped against him.
She did not have time to shut her eyes, to even think about kissing him back, when the key turned. The lock clanked.
Gild vanished.
She was left trembling, her insides like an entire flock of sparrows taking flight. The candle went out. Its light was almost immediately replaced with the torches from the corridor as the door was thrust open and the Erlking’s shadow fell over her.
Serilda blinked up at him, but for a long moment, she couldn’t really see him. Her thoughts lingered on Gild. The urgency of the kiss. The desire. As if he feared it might be his only chance. To kiss her. To kiss … anyone.
And now he was gone.
It took all her mental strength not to reach up and touch her lips. Not to slip away into a daydream, reliving that tremulous moment again and again.
Luckily, the king had eyes only for the gold. He ignored her as he sauntered into the room and eyed the stacks of bobbins.
“I would ask that you keep any fits of displeasure to yourself,?” he said serenely, as his fingers grabbed one spoke of the spinning wheel and gave it a quick turn. “This spinning wheel is original to the castle. I would hate to see it broken.”
Serilda glanced over at him. She’d completely forgotten that the spinning wheel had fallen onto its side.
Gulping, she pushed herself up to standing, making sure to lock out her legs so that her knees did not quake. “Forgive me. I … think I fell asleep. I must have kicked it over. I meant no harm.”
He smiled slightly as he turned to her. “Congratulations, Lady Serilda. I will not be gutting you this morning after all.”
It took a moment for his comment to register in her flustered mind. When it did, she responded dryly, “You have my gratitude.”
“And you have mine.”
She couldn’t tell if he was ignoring her ire, or willfully oblivious to it.
“You must be tired,” he said. “Manfred, show her to the tower.”
The coachman gestured for Serilda to follow, but she hesitated. She might never have another opportunity as this, and time was not her ally. When the Erlking moved toward the corridor, she gathered her courage and stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
He froze, his surprise evident.
To soften what she knew must be an enormous breach of propriety, she attempted an off-kilter curtsy. “Please. I do not wish to anger you, but … I must know what’s become of my father.”
His eyebrow lifted, even as his expression darkened. “I believe I already answered that question.”
“You said that you didn’t know.”
“And I don’t.” There was a brittle edge to the words. “If he died during the hunt, then his soul has already been carried to Verloren. I certainly didn’t want it.”
She clamped her jaw, both livid at his callousness and hurt by her missed chance to see her father one last time, if his ghost had lingered even for a moment last night.
But no—he might be all right. She had to believe that.
“And what of my mother?” she demanded.