Page 26 of Gilded

Serilda screamed and tumbled off the stool. She landed on the ground with a bewildered grunt, one shoulder smacking the stone wall. She looked up, pushing away the strands of hair that had fallen into her face and stuck to her damp cheek.

There was a figure sitting on top of the pile of straw, cross-legged, peering at her with mild curiosity.

A man.

Or … a boy. A boy about her age, she guessed, with copper hair that hung in wild tangles to his shoulders and a face that was covered in both freckles and dirt. He wore a simple linen shirt, slightly old-fashioned with its generous sleeves, which he’d left untucked over emerald-green hose. No shoes, no tunic, no overcoat, no hat. He might have been getting ready for bed, except he looked wide-awake.

She looked past him to the door, still shut tight.

“H-how did you get in here?” she stammered, pushing herself upright.

The boy cocked his head and said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Magic.”

Chapter 11

She blinked.

He blinked back, then added, “I amextremelypowerful.”

Serilda’s brow furrowed, unable to tell if he meant it. “Is that so?”

In response, the boy grinned. It was the sort of look that was meant to hide secrets—lopsided and laughing, with flecks of gold sparking in his eyes. Standing, he brushed away the bits of straw that clung to his hose and glanced around, taking in the spinning wheel, the cramped room, the barred window in the door. “Not the most pleasant of accommodations. Lighting could be improved. That stench, too. Is this meant to be a bed?” He toed at the pile of straw.

“We’re in a dungeon,” Serilda said helpfully.

The boy cast her a wry look.Obviouslythey were in a dungeon.

Serilda flushed. “In Adalheid Castle, to be precise.”

“Never been summoned to a dungeon before. Wouldn’t have been my first choice.”

“Summoned?”

“Must have been. You are a witch, aren’t you?”

She gawked at him, wondering if she should be offended. Unlike all the times she’d called Madam Sauer a witch, this boy did not cast around the word like an insult. “No, I’m not a witch. And I didn’t summon you. I was just sitting here, crying, contemplating my own demise, thank you muchly.”

His eyebrows rose. “Sounds like something a witch would say.”

With a snort, Serilda rubbed a palm into her eye. It had been a long night, full of novelty and surprise, terror and uncertainty, and now a most unwelcome threat against her life. Her brain was foggy with exhaustion.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I did summon you,” she conceded. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s happened tonight. But if I did, you have my apologies. I didn’t mean to.”

He crouched down so that they were eye level with each other and studied her, his expression dark with suspicion. But a moment later, the shadow vanished. His face split into that wide, teasing grin again. “Are all mortals as gullible as you are?”

She frowned. “Pardon?”

“I was only joking. You didn’t summon me. Did you really think you might have?” He clicked his tongue. “You did. I can tell. That suggests a fair bit of egotism, don’t you think?”

Her mouth worked, but she was flustered by the swift changes in his mood. “You’re toying with me,” she finally stammered, launching to her feet. “I have only hours left to live, and you’ve come here to mock me.”

“Ah, don’t look at me like that,” he said, peering up at her. “It was only a bit of fun. You seemed like you could use a laugh.”

“Am I laughing?” Serilda asked, suddenly angry, perhaps even a little embarrassed.

“No,” admitted the boy. “But I think you would be. If you weren’t locked inside a dungeon and, as you say, probably going to die in the morning.” He trailed his hand through the straw. Picking up one strand, he stood and appraised Serilda. Really looked at her this time. She could see him taking in her plain dress, her muddied boots, the twin braids of dark brown hair that hung to her waist. She knew she must be a wreck from crying, with a red nose and blotchy cheeks, just as she knew it was not these things but the golden wheels in her eyes that garnered that flash of curiosity.

In the past, when Serilda would meet an unfamiliar boy in the village or the market, she would shy away from his roving attention. Turn her head, lower her lashes, so that her gaze could not be seen. Try to stretch out those brief moments when a boy might look at her and wonder if she had a suitor, or if her heart was free to be captured … before they saw the truth of her face and flinched away, dismissing that momentary interest as quickly as it had come.