That sounded a bit more respectable.
They were hardly the first couple to tumble into bed together—or, in their case, an old settee—with little forethought. And they would by no means be the last. It was one of the favorite pastimes of the women in M?rchenfeld, to tsk and tut over which unwed boys and girls had become, in their opinion, a little too close. But it was relatively harmless gossip. There was no law against it, and if pressed, most of those same women would gladly talk about their first tumble, with a smidgen of roguish, wanton pride, and always followed up with the disclaimer that it was all a long time ago, before they met the love of their life and settled down in marital bliss.
Serilda knew that not every first intimacy was a happy one. She had heard tales of men and women alike who had believed themselves in love, only to later find those feelings were unrequited. She knew there could be shame attached to giving so much of oneself. She knew there could be regrets.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to determine whether she felt any shame. Whether she had regrets.
And the more she thought of it, the more it became clear that the answer was … no.
Not yet, at least.
Right now, she just wanted to see him again. Kiss him again. Hold him again. Do … other things with him. Again.
No. Not ashamed.
But she couldn’t fulfill any of those wishes. And if there were any tricky, difficult feelings, that was the source of them. He was trapped behind the veil, and she was here, staring at a castle where ghosts moaned and cried and suffered through their deaths over and over again.
A breeze kicked up from over the water. Serilda shuddered. Her dress was soaked, her hair saturated. Little droplets had begun to slide down her face.
A fire would be nice. Dry clothes. A cup of warm cider.
She should go.
But instead of getting up, she tucked her hands into her dress pockets.
Her fingers wrapped around something and she gasped. She’d forgotten all about it.
She pulled out the bobbin, half expecting to see it wound with scratchy straw. But no, she was holding a handful of fine spun gold.
She laughed with surprise. It felt a little bit like a gift, even if, technically, she had stolen it.
A new sound intruded on her thoughts. A jangle. A clatter.
Serilda hid the bobbin against her body and glanced around. There were fishing boats out on the lake, their crews casting nets and lines, occasionally hollering information at one another that Serilda couldn’t make out. The road at her back sported a handful of carts, their wheels rattling loudly on the cobblestones. But with the dreary weather, the town was mostly quiet.
There it was again—a musical, hollow jingle, a bit like wind chimes.
It sounded close.
As if it were coming from under the dock.
Serilda had just begun to tip forward to peer over the edge when a hand appeared a few steps away from her, gripping the wooden boards. A puddle of lake water splattered around brownish-green skin. The hand was made of thick knobby fingers connected by slimy webbing.
Serilda gasped and lurched to her feet.
The hands were followed by enormous buglike eyes peering over the dock, glowing faintly yellow. A patch of river-weed hair clung to an otherwise bald, bulbous head.
Its eyes landed on Serilda and she took another step back. She tucked the bobbin of gold thread back into her pocket, then cast around for something she could use as a weapon. There was nothing, not even a stick.
The creature threw its elbows up onto the dock and began to shamble up.
Should she run? Call for help?
Despite the way her heart was racing, the creature was not particularly threatening. As it emerged onto the dock, she could see it was the size of a young child. And yes, it was a strange, hideous thing, with lumps and bulges all along a slimy body, and sinewy froglike legs that kept it lowered into a crouch. She would have thought for sure it was some odd animal born of a forest swamp, except that it was not entirely naked. It wore a coat crafted of woven grasses and covered in small shells. It was the shells that clacked and jingled with every move it made.
Except now, it had fallen silent. Motionless. Its mouth, which stretched wide across its face, stayed in a flat line. Studying her.
She studied it back, her pulse steadying.
She knew this creature.
Or, at least, she knew what it was.
“Schellenrock?” she whispered. A river bogeyman, usually harmless, most notable for the coat of shells that chimed like little bells wherever it went.
Not malicious.
At least, not in any of the stories she’d ever heard. Sometimes it even helped lost or weary travelers.
With a wary smile, Serilda lowered herself to a crouch. “Hello there. I won’t hurt you.”
It blinked—one eyelid closing at a time. Then it lifted a webbed hand toward her and crooked one of its fingers.
Beckoning.
It did not wait for her reaction.
The schellenrock turned and scampered past her, before lowering itself back down into the lake’s shallows with a jangle and a splash.
Serilda glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but a woman pushing a cart full of manure had paused to chat with a neighbor in the overhang of their front door, and no one was watching Serilda, or her unexpected visitor.
“I suppose I might be a lost and weary traveler,” she said, following the creature. She climbed down onto the shore, which was more rock than sand. As soon as it was sure that she was following, the schellenrock took off, speeding through the shallow water on hands and feet, staying close enough to the shore that it was easy for Serilda to keep pace with it.
It was leading her straight toward the cobblestone bridge that connected the castle to the town, and unless it expected her to swim out into the lake to go beneath the drawbridge, they would soon reach a dead end.
But the schellenrock did not swim out farther into the lake. Once they reached the bridge, constructed of rocks and boulders that were slick with algae, the creature climbed up over a few rocks and vanished.
Serilda froze.
Was she imagining things?
A moment later, the creature appeared again, its yellow eyes peering out at her from the rocks, as if asking why she had stopped.
Serilda approached with a bit more caution. Fitting her hands onto the damp stones, she pulled herself up to where the schellenrock was waiting for her. The climb was easy enough, so long as she was careful not to slip.
The river creature disappeared again, and when Serilda peered into the space where it had gone, she saw that there was a little alcove in this wall of rocks. And tucked into it—invisible from the shore or the docks—was a small cave, leading away from the castle, underneath the city.
Or, perhaps, a tunnel.
Or a hiding place for a schellenrock, she supposed.