Page 17 of Gilded

One of his. The Erlking’s.

Serilda swallowed, knowing, without being able to explain how she knew, that the ghost was indeed a servant of the Erlking’s. Or, a confidant of sorts, if not a servant. She knew little about the inner workings of the dark ones’ court.

“We must be civil,” she said firmly, proud when her voice sounded not only brave, but practical. “Even to the dead. Especially to the dead.”

Prying away his fingers, she squared her shoulders and turned back to the door. When she opened it, the man had not moved and his expression was unchanged from its calm indifference. It was difficult not to stare at the chisel or the line of dark blood that soaked into his gray-streaked beard, but Serilda forced herself to meet his good eye, which did not catch the light of the fire as one would expect. She did not think he was an old man, despite the flecks of gray. Perhaps only a few years older than her father. Again she couldn’t help but notice his clothing, which, though fine, was also a century or two outdated. A flat black cap ornamented with golden plumes perfectly coordinated with a velvet cape over an ivory jerkin. If he weren’t dead, he might have been a nobleman—but what would a nobleman be doing with a woodcarver’s tool lodged in his eye?

Serilda desperately wanted to ask.

Instead, she curtsied as well as she could. “Good evening, sir. How may we be of service?”

“The honor of your presence has been requested by His Grim, Erlkönig, the Alder King.”

“No!” said her father, once again taking her arm, but this time Serilda refused to be pulled back into the house. “Serilda, the Erlking!”

She glanced at him, and watched his disbelief turn swiftly to understanding.

He knew.

He knew her story had been the truth.

Serilda puffed up her chest, vindicated. “Yes, Papa. I truly did meet the Erlking on New Year’s night. But I cannot imagine …” She turned back to the ghost. “What can he possibly want with me now?”

“At the moment?” drawled the apparition. “Obedience.” He stepped back, gesturing into the night, and Serilda saw that he had brought a carriage.

Or—a cage.

It was difficult to tell for sure, as the rounded transport appeared to be made of curved bars that were as pale as the surrounding snow. Inside the bars, heavy black curtains shimmered with a touch of silver underneath the bulbous moon. She could not see what might be inside.

The carriage-cage was being drawn by two bahkauv. They were miserable-looking beasts, bull-like, with horns that twisted in corkscrews from their ears and massive hunched backs that forced their heads to hang awkwardly toward the ground. Their tails were long and serpentine, their mouths wrapped around ill-fitting teeth. They waited motionless for the coachman, for as there was no one atop the driver’s seat, she thought this ghost must be the one who would be driving them.

Back to Gravenstone, the Erlking’s castle.

“No,” said her father. “You can’t take her. Please. Serilda.”

She turned again to face him, startled by the look of anguish that greeted her. For though everyone held suspicions and fears of the Erlking and his ghostly courtiers, she thought she saw something else hidden behind her father’s eyes. Not just fear sparked by a hundred haunting tales, but … knowledge, accompanied by despair. A certainty of the terrible things that might await her if she went with this man.

“Perhaps it would be useful if I were to tell you,” said the ghost, “that this summoning is not by mere request. Should you decline, there will be unfortunate consequences.”

Serilda’s pulse stirred and she grabbed her father’s hands, squeezing them tight. “He’s right, Father. One cannot say no to a summons from the Erlking. Not unless they wish to bring some catastrophe upon themselves … or their family.”

“Or their entire town, or everyone they’ve ever loved …,” added the ghost in a bored tone. She expected him to yawn as a conclusion to the statement, but he managed to preserve his integrity with a sharp, warning glare instead.

“Serilda,” said Papa, his voice lowered, though there was no hope of speaking in secrecy. “What did you say when you met him before? What could he possibly want now?”

She shook her head. “Exactly what I told you, Papa. Just a story.” She shrugged, as nonchalantly as she could. “Perhaps he wants to hear another.”

Her father’s eyes clouded over with doubt, and yet … also a slim bit of hope. As though this seemed plausible.

She guessed that he had forgotten what sort of story she had told that night.

The Erlking believed that she could spin straw into gold.

But—surely,thatwasn’t what this was about. What would the Erlking want with spun gold?

“I have to go, Papa. We both know it.” She nodded at the coachman. “I need a moment.”

Shutting the door, she quickly set about the room, changing into her warmest stockings, her riding cloak, her boots.