Page 35 of Gilded

“Which is why we listen to stories!” he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. “You can’t end it there. Tell me the prince gets revenge, at least?”

Serilda pressed a finger to her lips, considering.

But then her gaze fell on the bobbins stacked neatly against the wall. Each one glimmered like the vein of a lost gold mine.

She gasped. “You finished!” She stepped forward, about to grab a bobbin off the nearest stack, when Gild stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“Oh no. Not until you tell me what happens next.”

She huffed. “I don’t know what happens next.”

His expression was priceless. A little dismayed, a little horrified. “How can you not know? It’s your story.”

“Not every story is willing to reveal itself right away. Some of them are bashful.”

As he tried to ponder this, Serilda ducked around him and snatched up one of the bobbins, holding it toward the candlelight. “This is stunning. Is it all real gold?”

“Of course it’s real gold,” he grumbled. “You think I would try to trick you?”

She smirked. “I certainly think you’re capable of it.”

His sullen face broke into a proud grin. “Suppose I am.”

Serilda inspected the thread. Strong and pliant. “I wonder if I would enjoy spinning if I could create something so beautiful.”

“You don’t like spinning?”

She made a face. “No.Why? Do you?”

“Sometimes. I’ve always found it to be”—again, he searched for the right word—“satisfying, I suppose. It calms me some.”

She scoffed. “I’ve heard other people say that. But for me, it just … makes me impatient to be done with it.”

He chuckled. “You like to tell stories, though.”

“I love to,” she said. “But that’s what got me into this mess. I help teach at the school and one of the kids mentioned that spinning stories is a bit like spinning straw into gold. Like creating something that sparkles from nothing at all.”

“Thattale did not sparkle,” said Gild, rocking back on his heels. “It was mostly gloom and death and darkness.”

“You say those words like they’re bad things. But when it comes to the age-old art of storytelling,” she said sagely, “you need darkness to appreciate the light.”

His mouth quirked to one side, like he wasn’t willing to give this a complete smile. Then he seemed to steel himself, before reaching for Serilda’s hands.

She tensed, but all he did was steal the bobbin gently from her fingertips. Still—she didn’t think she was imagining how his touch lingered a second longer than it had to, or how his throat bobbed as he set the gold back down on the pile.

He cleared his throat gently. “The king’s meticulous for details. He’ll notice if one is missing.”

“Of course,” she murmured, still feeling the tingle on her knuckles. “I wasn’t planning to take it. I’m not a thief.”

He chuckled. “You saythatword like it’s a bad thing.”

Before she could think up a clever response, they heard the thump of footsteps outside the cell.

They both went still.

Then, to her astonishment, Gild closed the distance to her in a stride and this time, he did grab her hands, taking them both into his. “Serilda?”

She gasped, not sure if she was more startled by his touch or the sound of her name uttered with such urgency.