Page 145 of Gilded

Who was she to think that would ever change?

With a heavy heart, she sank onto her cot, though there were no longer any blankets. She stared at the ceiling she’d been staring up at her whole life, and waited for the sun to set, and this mysterious messenger to come to her aid.

Or to confirm her fears—that there was no hope at all.

She had been wallowing in these thoughts for some time when she began to notice a strange noise.

Serilda frowned and listened.

Scuffling.

Chewing.

Probably rats had gotten into the walls.

She made a face, wondering if she cared enough to try and set traps for them. Probably not. They would be Thomas’s problem soon enough.

But then she felt guilty. This was her father’s mill, his life’s work. And it was still her home, even if it no longer felt that way. She couldn’t let it fall into disrepair, not so long as she could do something about it.

She grumbled and sat up. She would need to go into town for the traps, and that would have to wait until tomorrow. But for now she could at least try to figure out where they had gotten in.

She shut her eyes and listened some more. At first there was silence, but after a while she heard it again.

Scratching.

Gnawing.

Louder than before.

She shuddered. What if it was an entire family of rats? She knew the millstones and waterwheel could be loud, but still, hadn’t Thomas heard that? Was he already so derelict in the work her father had entrusted to him?

She swung her legs over the cot. Crouching down, she inspected where the walls met the floor, searching for small holes that the vermin might have gotten in. She saw nothing.

“Must be on the mill side,” she muttered. And again, she wanted to ignore it. And again, she chastised herself for those thoughts.

At least, if Thomas was still there, she could chastisehimfor his negligence. Rodents were drawn to mills—to the scraps of wheat and rye and barley left behind in the process. It was imperative that they were kept clean. She supposed he ought to learn this now if he was going to become the new miller of Märchenfeld.

With a huff, she rebraided her hair, still filthy from the trek through the underground tunnel and the forest, and headed out, rounding the corner toward the mill.

The millstones were not in operation when she pulled open the door, and from this side of the wall she could hear the noises much louder.

She strode in. The room was sweltering hot, as if the fire had been roaring for days.

A figure was bent over near the fireplace.

“Thomas!” she shouted, angry hands on her hips. “Can’t you hear that? There are rats in the walls!”

The figure stiffened and stood tall, his back to Serilda.

Apprehension shot through her. The figure was shorter than Thomas Lindbeck. Broader in the shoulders. Wearing clothing that was filthy and tattered.

“Who are you?” she demanded, gauging how close she was to the tools that hung on the wall, in case she needed to grab a weapon.

But then the figure started to turn. His movements were jerky and stiff. His face pale.

But his eyes met hers and suddenly her head was spinning, her chest tight with disbelief. “Papa?”

Chapter 46