Serilda thought the full moon would never come. Every night she looked out at the moonlight dancing on the lake’s surface and watched as it grew—first a teasing crescent, then gradually waxing night after night.
During the day, she helped around the inn where she could and spent hours gazing at the castle, wondering if Gild was in his tower, gazing back at her through the veil. She yearned to go back and was constantly resisting the desire to cross that bridge, but then she would remember the screams and the blood and the drudes, and she would force herself to have patience.
She kept busy with her attempts to uncover more of the mysteries of the castle and the hunt, but she felt that she was running into a stone wall at every turn. The ledgers of dead bodies left behind after the hunt held no clues to her mother’s disappearance. There had not been any bodies found that Mourning Moon. The closest possibility was a young woman found a few months previously on the Lovers’ Moon, but Serilda did not think her father would have been so mistaken on the timing.
She did not know what to make of the revelation. Her mother might have been killed inside the castle walls, and her body never found.
Or she might have been abandoned somewhere far away from Adalheid, as her father had been.
Or she might not have died at all.
Serilda had also spent countless hours talking to the townspeople, asking what they might know about the castle, its inhabitants, their own family histories. Though there were still some who were afraid of Serilda and wanted to chastise her for tempting the wrath of the Erl-king, most of the citizens of Adalheid were happy to talk to her. She figured it didn’t hurt that Vergoldetgeist had been most generous this year, and the whole town seemed to be celebrating their good fortune, even if they always fell quiet about their new riches whenever they noticed Serilda in their midst.
In speaking with the townspeople, Serilda learned that many had had families living in Adalheid for generations, and some could trace their lineage back a century or two. She even discovered that the former mayor she had seen at the public house after the Hunger Moon had a journal long passed down through his family. He was most eager to share it with Serilda, but when she flipped back through the pages, she found entire columns of text missing, pages left blank.
It was impossible to tell for sure, but from the context of the surrounding entries, she suspected the missing pages all had to do with the castle and the royals who she was sure had once lived there.
In the evenings, she earned her keep at the inn by telling tales to whoever was gathered around the fireplace in the public house once they had finished their evening bread. She did not tell stories about the dark ones, worried that they would be too frightening for those who knew all too well that the Erlking was not merely a story for amusement. Instead, she regaled the citizens of Adalheid with tales of witches and their newt familiars. The old spinster who slew a dragon and the moss maiden who climbed to the moon. Cruel sirens who trapped sailors in their watery castles, and kindly land wights who rewarded worthy peasants with a wealth of jewels.
Night by night, the crowd grew in the public house, as word of their new resident storyteller spread.
Night by night, Serilda waited.
When the full moon finally arrived, it was as if a mourning shroud had fallen over the city. All day long, the villagers were quiet and subdued as they went about their business. When Serilda asked, Lorraine said it was always that way on the full moons, but that the Chaste Moon tended to be the worst. With the Feast of Death behind them, this night would determine whether or not the wild hunt was satisfied and would leave the families of Adalheid be.
The public house that evening was the emptiest Serilda had seen all week. Half an hour before sunset, the last guests retired to their rooms.
“But can’t I hear a story?” Leyna pleaded. “Serilda can tell me one in her room?”
Lorraine gave a shake of her head. “We do not invite ourselves into our guests’ rooms.”
“But—”
“And even if you were invited, we retire early on the full moon. I want you fast asleep before the witching hour. No arguments.”
Leyna scowled, but no arguments were made as she trudged up the stairs to the rooms she and her mother shared. Serilda tried to hide that she was grateful for Lorraine’s intervention. She was not in a storytelling mood tonight, distracted by her own anticipation.
“Serilda?” asked Lorraine, extinguishing the lanterns around the public house until it was lit only by the embers in the hearth. “I don’t mean to be insensitive—”
“I won’t be here,” said Serilda. “I have every reason to believe the Erlking will summon me, and I would not dream of bringing his attention to you and Leyna.”
Relief flashed across Lorraine’s face. “What will you do?”
“I’ll go to the castle, and … wait.”
Lorraine grunted. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
Sighing, Serilda stood from her favorite seat beside the fire. “May I return tomorrow?”
Lorraine’s face wrinkled with unexpected emotion. “Dear girl. I most certainly hope that you will.”
Then she reached her arms forward and embraced Serilda. It startled her and filled her with more warmth than she would have expected. She had to squeeze her eyes shut to ward off the threat of tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Be safe,” commanded Lorraine. “And make sure that you have everything you need before you go. I will be locking the door behind you.”
The sun had dipped beneath the city wall when Serilda left the Wild Swan. In the east, the Chaste Moon was glowing somewhere behind the Rückgrat Mountains, tingeing their distant peaks in silver. This moon was meant to symbolize newness, innocence, rebirth. But one would not have known that this was the month of such tender optimism walking along the dim streets of Adalheid. As night settled over the city, lights vanished from the windows. Shutters were closed and latched. Shadows overtook the castle ruins, slumbering on their solitary island.
Soon they would awaken.
Soon the hunt would come storming through the town and into the mortal world. The hellhounds would howl, the horses would stampede, the riders would seek out what prey they could find—magic creatures like those whose heads graced the castle’s halls, or moss maidens and forest folks, or humans who weren’t wise enough, or superstitious enough, to sequester themselves behind locked doors.
Serilda arrived at the bridge just as the moon was cresting the mountains, casting its sheen across the lake. As before, she wasn’t fully prepared for the moment when its beams struck the ruins of the castle, transforming it from desolate ruins to a home worthy of a king.
Even if he was a wicked one.
Standing alone beyond the drawbridge, Serilda had never felt so insignificant.
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?”
An extra week, Serilda wanted to say. But she shook her head. “Only peace to do my work.”
He bowed and left the room. Serilda listened for the turn of the lock, then faced the straw and the spinning wheel, hands planted on her hips. This was the first room she’d been brought to that had windows, though she wasn’t entirely sure what it might have been used for before it was converted into her prison. There were a few scarce pieces of furniture that had been pushed up against the walls to make room for the straw—a blue velvet settee, a couple of high-backed chairs, a desk. Perhaps it had been a study or a parlor, but with the lack of decoration on the walls, she assumed it had not been put to much use in a long time.
Inhaling a long breath, Serilda laced her fingers and started to pace nervously as she spoke to the empty air. “Gild, you’re not going to like this.”