The sun was bright overhead. A cool breeze made the air comfortable and sweet. Serilda stood in the garden that normally would be starting to flourish with peas and asparagus, beans and spinach, but this year, in her absence, had mostly gone to weeds. At least the cherry and apricot trees were growing heavy with fruit. The fields in every direction were bright green, and far off to the south, Serilda could see a herd of sheep in their fluffy coats grazing on one of the hills. The river was running strong and she could hear the constant creaking and splashing of the waterwheel behind the mill.
Altogether, it was as perfect as a painting.
She wondered if she would ever see it again.
Sighing, she glanced toward her mother’s hazelnut tree. The nachtkrapp was there again, in its favorite spot among the boughs. Always watching through those empty eyes.
“Hello again, good Sir Raven,” Serilda called. “Found any plump mice this morning?”
The nachtkrapp turned its head away, and Serilda wondered whether she was just imagining the haughty snub.
“No? Well. Just be sure to leave the hearts of the local children alone. I’m rather fond of them.”
It ruffled its feathers in response.
Sighing, Serilda let her gaze linger on the house a moment longer. She didn’t have to feign her sorrow. It was easy enough to pretend this was the last time she would be seeing it.
Turning away, she passed through the little gate and, barefoot, made her way down to the river, to her favorite spot, where a little pool of calm water split off from the shallower rapids. As a child, she had spent hours here building castles out of mud and rocks, catching frogs, lying in the shade of a whispering willow tree and pretending to see sprites dancing among its boughs. Now, she questioned if it had all been pretend. There were times when she’d been convinced that she really had seen magic. Papa would laugh when she told him, swinging her up into his arms. My little storyteller. Tell me what else you saw.
She sat down on a rock that jutted from the side of the shallow bank, where she could dip her toes into the water. It was refreshingly cool. Silver minnows darted in and out of the dappled sunlight, and a cloud of tadpoles gathered between two moss-covered rocks. Soon there would be a chorus of toads every night, which usually lulled her to sleep, though her father had liked to complain about the racket.
She took in everything. The clusters of spiny quillwort sprouting up from the shallow water. The ruffled mushrooms that had sprung up against a fallen tree trunk.
She waited until she could feel their presence. She was becoming good at spotting them now, and with a glance around she spied three nachtkrapp tucked into the shadows around her.
She rested her palms behind her on the sun-warmed stone. “You can come out. I’m not afraid of you. I know you’re here to keep track of me, to make sure I don’t try to run away. Well, I’m not running away. I’m not going anywhere.”
One of the nachtkrapp cawed softly, its wings bristling.
But they did not come closer.
“How does it work? I’ve wondered all year. Can he see me through your eyes? Or, your eye sockets … as it may be. Or are you always having to fly back to the castle and report to him, like carrier pigeons?”
This time, a louder, unruly cry from the bird highest up in the tree.
Serilda smirked. Sitting up, she slipped one hand into her pocket, feeling the smooth sides of the vial, how it fit perfectly into her palm.
“Whichever it is, I have a message for Erlkönig. I hope you’ll pass it along.”
Silence.
Serilda licked her lips and tried to sound rebellious.
No—she felt rebellious.
And she meant every word.
“Your Darkness—I am not your servant. I am not a possession for you to claim. You have stolen from me my father and my mother. I will not let you have my freedom, too. This is my choice.”
She pulled the vial from her pocket. She was not afraid. She’d been preparing for this all month.
A caw, almost a shriek, echoed through the trees, so loud it startled a flock of woodlarks farther down the river. They took to the sky in a frantic escape.
Serilda uncorked the vial. Inside shimmered a liquid the color of ruby wine. It gave her hope that it might even taste good.
It did not.
As the potion hit her tongue, she tasted rot and rust, decay and death.
A night raven dove for her, knocking the vial from her hand, its talons leaving three deep scratches across her palm.
Too late.
Serilda stared at the blood rising on her hand, but already her vision was starting to blur.
Her pulse slowed.
Her thoughts grew thick and heavy. Filling up with an uncanny sense of dread, coupled with … peace.
She lay back, her head sinking into the patch of moss that clung to the bank. She was surrounded by the smell of earth, and she distantly thought how odd that it could be both the smell of life and the smell of death.
Her lashes fluttered.
She gasped then, or tried to, though air wasn’t coming into her lungs like it should have been. Blackness was edging across her vision. But she remembered—she only just remembered.
She’d nearly forgotten. Her hand scrabbled through the mud, searching. She felt like her limbs were trapped in molasses. Where was it?
Where was …
She’d almost given up when her fingers found the branch from the ash tree she’d left here last week. Madam Sauer had insisted it be ash.
Don’t let go.
She’d insisted. This had been important.
Serilda didn’t know why.
Nothing seemed important anymore.
The scratches on her palm stung dully as she tried to hold on tight, but she no longer had control over her fingers.
She no longer wanted control.
She wanted release.
She wanted freedom.
Visions of the hunt sped through her vision. The wind stinging her eyes. The raucous cheers in her head. Her own lips pursed as she howled at the moon.
The bellows of the night ravens sounded far away now. Angry, but fading into nothing.
She had started to close her eyes when she saw it through the trees. An early moon rising in the east, though dusk was still hours away. Competing for attention with the guileless sun, not to be ignored.
The Awakening Moon.
How fitting.
Or, if this did not go well—how ironic.
She wanted to smile, but she was too tired. Her heartbeat was slowing. Too slow.
Her fingers went cold, then numb. Soon she could feel nothing at all.
She was dying.
She might have made a mistake.
She wasn’t sure she cared.
Hold tight, the witch had told her. Don’t let go.
The silhouette of a black bird flashed through her vision, soaring northwest. Toward the Aschen Wood, toward Adalheid.
Serilda closed her eyes and sank into the ground.
She let go.