Page 11 of Gilded

For the first time, a flicker of anger passed over the hunter’s face. Anger—but also uncertainty. He couldn’t quite tell whether she was playing games with him or not.

Even a great tyrant such as he couldn’t tell if she was lying.

She lifted a hand and laid her fingers ever so delicately on his wrist.

He twitched at the unexpected touch.

Shestarted at the feel of his skin.

Her fingers might have been cold, but at least they still had warm blood coursing through them.

Whereas the hunter’s skin had quite frosted over.

Without warning, he jerked away, freeing her from the imminent threat of his blade.

“I mean no disrespect,” Serilda said, “but I really must tend to my work. The moon will be gone soon and the straw will not be so compliant. I like to work with the best materials, when I can.”

Without waiting for a response, Serilda picked up the shovel again, along with a bucket overflowing with snow, which she promptly dumped out. Head lifted high, she dared to walk past the hunter, past his horse, into the field. The rest of the hunting party backed away, giving her space, as Serilda began scooping away the top layer of snow to reveal the crushed grain underneath; the sad little stalks that had been left behind from the fall harvest.

It looked nothing like gold.

What a ridiculous lie this was turning into.

But Serilda knew that full-hearted commitment was the only way to persuade someone of an untruth. So she kept her face placid as she began to pull the stalks up with her bare, freezing hands and toss them into the bucket.

For a long while, there were only the sounds of her working, and the occasional shuffle of horse hooves, and the low growl of the hounds.

Then a light, raspy voice said, “I have heard tales of gold-spinners, blessed by Hulda.”

Serilda looked up at the nearest rider. A pale-skinned woman, hazy around the edges, hair in a braided crown atop her head. She wore riding breeches and leather armor accented by a deep red stain all down the front of the tunic. It was a sickening amount of blood—all, no doubt, from the deep gash across her throat.

She held Serilda’s gaze a moment—emotionless—before glancing at their leader. “I believe she speaks true.”

The hunter did not acknowledge her statement. Instead, Serilda heard his boots crunching lightly through the snow until he was standing behind her. She lowered her gaze, focused on her task, though the grain stalks were cutting her palms and mud was already caked beneath her fingernails. Why hadn’t she grabbed her mittens? As soon as she thought it, she remembered that she’d given them to Gerdrut. She must look like such a fool.

Gathering straw to spin into gold. Honestly, Serilda. Of all the thoughtless, absurd things you might have said—

“How pleasant to know that Hulda’s gift has not gone wasted,” drawled the hunter. “It is a rare treasure indeed.”

She glanced over her shoulder, but he was already turning away. Lithe as a spotted lynx, he mounted his steed. His horse snorted.

The hunter did not look at Serilda as he signaled to the other riders.

As fast as they had arrived, they were gone again. Thundering hooves, a flurry of snow and ice, the renewed howls of the hellhounds. A storm cloud, ominous and crackling, racing across the field.

Then, nothing but glistening snow and the round moon kissing the horizon.

Serilda let out a shaken breath, hardly able to believe her good fortune.

She had survived an encounter with the wild hunt.

She had lied to the face of the Erlking himself.

What a tragedy, she thought, that no one would ever believe her.

She waited until the usual sounds of the night had begun to return. Frozen branches creaking. The river’s soothing burble. A distant hoot of an owl.

Finally, she retrieved the lantern and dared to throw open the cellar door.