The portcullis began to rise, groaning and creaking with the complaints of ancient timbers and iron hinges. In the next moment, the howls began, sending a chill down her spine. She swallowed hard and tried to stand straighter as a blur of movement within the bailey captured her attention.
The wild hunt.
A torrent of fiery hellhounds, enormous war steeds, flashing armor.
Riding straight for her.
Serilda yelped and raised her arms in a pathetic attempt to protect herself.
The beasts ignored her. The hounds moved around her like water around a rock. The bridge shook as the horses surged past, armor clanging in her ears and the cry of the hunting horn drowning out every thought.
But soon the cacophony faded to distant shouts as the hunters sped through the town and into the countryside.
Shaking, Serilda lowered her arms.
An obsidian horse stood before her, as still as death. She lifted her gaze. The Erlking stared down at her from his perch. Examining her. He looked almost pleased to see her.
She swallowed hard and tried to curtsy, but her legs were trembling and her curtsies weren’t the greatest on the best of days. “You requested that I stay close, my lord. In Adalheid. The townspeople here have indeed been most accommodating.”
She figured this bit of praise was the least she could do for the community that had so embraced her these past weeks.
“I am glad of it,” said the Erlking. “I would not have had the pleasure of crossing your path this night otherwise, and this will give you ample time to complete your work.” He tilted his head, still eyeing her. Still reading her.
Serilda held very still.
“Your skills have thus far surpassed expectations,” he added. “Perhaps I shall owe you a reward.”
She gulped, unable to tell if he wanted a response. Was this her chance to ask him for something? But what would she ask of him? To be left alone? For him to give up all his secrets? For Gild to be set free?
No—there was no reward he would give her that she would actually want, and she could never let on that she knew Gild, the poltergeist he so despised. And if he knew that the true gold-spinner had been inside his castle all this time, she didn’t know what he would do to Gild.
But she knew exactly what he would do to her.
“Manfred will meet you in the courtyard. He will take you to the spinning wheel.” Then a hint of a smile, and not a nice one, touched his mouth. “I do hope you will continue to impress me, Lady Serilda.”
She smiled wryly. “I trust you’ll be taking the hunt into the Rückgrat foothills tonight?”
The Erlking paused, on the verge of dismissing her. “And why is that?”
She tilted her head to one side, the picture of innocence. “There have been rumors that a great beast has been seen prowling around the mountains, beyond the Ottelien border, I believe. You hadn’t heard?”
He held her gaze with the barest spark of intrigue. “I had not.”
“Ah. Well. I thought a new conquest might make a fine addition to your decor, but perhaps that distance is too far to travel in one night. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll enjoy hunting your … foxes and deer and little woodland creatures. My lord.” She curtsied and turned away.
She was nearly to the bridge when she heard the snap of reins and thunder of hooves. Only when the king had vanished did she let her smile overtake her.
Let him enjoy his wild goose hunt tonight—and with a touch of luck, be kept far away from this castle until sunrise.
The coachman was in the courtyard, waiting patiently while the stable boy latched the two bahkauv to the carriage. They both glanced up with bewildered looks as she made her way across the stones, and Serilda wondered if she was the first human to ever dare intrude upon them when the moon was full, especially as the hunt had departed only moments before.
She hoped her eagerness didn’t show. She knew that she should be terrified. She knew her life was in danger, and her lies could be discovered with hardly a slip of her tongue.
But she also knew that Gild was inside these walls, and that gave her more comfort—and impatience—than was likely warranted.
She was trying to ignore the frightening possibility that she might be falling in love with a ghost, one who was trapped inside the castle of the Erlking himself. She had mostly succeeded in not thinking about all the practical dilemmas that would cause. There was no hope of a future, she told herself again and again. There was no hope for happiness.
And again and again, her brittle heart responded that it didn’t quite care.
Though she thought it probably should.
Nevertheless, as the coachman told the stable boy that the beasts would not be necessary this night, and tried to hide how pleased he was about it, Serilda felt a flush of exhilaration.
Again she was led into the castle keep, through corridors that were becoming more familiar with every passing visit. She was beginning to be able to connect them with the ruins she saw during the day. Which chandeliers still hung, now draped with cobwebs and dust. Which pillars had collapsed. Which rooms were full of brambles and weeds. Which pieces of furniture, so stately and ornate in this realm, were toppled and broken on the other side of the veil.
When they passed the staircase that led up to the hall with the stained-glass gods and the mysterious room with the tapestry, Serilda’s steps slowed. There was nothing to be seen from down here, and yet she couldn’t keep from craning her head.
When she faced forward again, the coachman was watching her with his good eye. “Looking for something?” he drawled.
Serilda tested a smile. “It’s such a labyrinth here. Don’t you ever get lost?”
“Never,” he said mildly, then gestured to an open doorway.
Serilda expected another hall, or perhaps a staircase.
Instead, she saw straw. Mounds and mounds and mounds of straw.
She gasped, amazed at the sheer amount of it. Enough to fill an entire hayloft. Enough to fill the gristmill, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and have yet more spurting out the chimney.
All right, that might have been a slight exaggeration.
But only slight.
And, again, there was the spinning wheel and the mountain of empty bobbins and the sickly sweet smell that choked her.
Impossible.
“He can’t … I can’t possibly do all this!” she said. “It’s too much.”
The coachman cocked his head to one side. “Then you will risk his disappointment.”
She frowned, knowing that to argue was pointless. This man—this ghost—wasn’t the one setting these tasks, and the Erlking had just ridden off for a night of sport.
“I suppose it’s for your benefit that you arrived early,” he continued. “More time to complete your work.”
“Was he hoping I would fail?”
“I think not. His Grim is”—he searched for the word, before finishing dryly—“an optimist.”
It almost sounded like a joke.
“Do you require anything more?”