Page 4 of Gilded

“Am not. It’s true. Ask anyone. Oh! Also, the only way to kill off a nachzehrer is by putting a stone into its mouth. That will keep it from gnawing on its own flesh while you cut off the head.”

“Now, that’s the sort of education that might come in handy someday,” said Fricz with an impish grin. Though he and his brother were identical on the outside—same blue eyes and fluffy blond hair and dimpled chins—it was never difficult to tell them apart. Fricz was always the one looking for trouble, and Nickel was always the one looking embarrassed that they were related.

Serilda gave a sage nod. “My job is to prepare you for adulthood.”

“Ugh,” said Hans. “You’re playing at teacher, aren’t you?”

“I am your teacher.”

“No, you’re not. You’re barely Madam Sauer’s assistant. She only lets you around because you can get the littles to quiet down when she can’t.”

“You mean us?” asked Nickel, gesturing around to himself and the others. “Are we the littles?”

“We’re almost as old as you!” added Fricz.

Hans snorted. “You’re nine. That’s two whole years. It’s an eternity.”

“It’s not two years,” said Nickel, starting to count off on his thumb. “Our birthday is in August and yours—”

“All right, all right,” interrupted Serilda, who had heard this argument too many times. “You’realllittles to me, and it’s time for me to start taking your education more seriously. To stop filling your heads with nonsense. I’m afraid that story time has ended.”

This proclamation was met with a chorus of melodramatic groans, whining, pleas. Fricz even fell face-first into the snow and kicked his feet in a tantrum that may or may not have been in mimicry of one of Gerdrut’s bad days.

“I mean it this time,” she said, scowling.

“Sure you do,” said Anna with a robust laugh. She had stopped doing flips and was now testing the strength of a young linden tree by hanging from one of the lower branches, her legs kicking back and forth. “Just like the last time. And the time before that.”

“But now I’m serious.”

They stared at her, unconvinced.

Which she supposed was fair. How many times had she told them that she was done telling stories? She was going to become a model teacher. A fine, honest lady once and for all.

It never lasted.

Just one more lie,as Madam Sauer had said.

“But, Serilda,” said Fricz, shuffling toward her on his knees and peering up at her with wide, charmed eyes, “winter in Märchenfeld is so awfully boring. Without your stories, what will we have to look forward to?”

“A life of hard labor,” muttered Hans. “Mending fences and plowing fields.”

“And spinning,” said Anna with a distraught sigh, before she curled her legs up and draped her knees over the branch, letting her hands and braids dangle. The tree groaned threateningly, but she ignored it. “So much spinning.”

Of all the children, Serilda thought that Anna looked the most like her, especially since Anna had started wearing her long brown hair in twin braids, as Serilda had worn hers for most of her life. But Anna’s tan skin was a few shades darker than Serilda’s, and her hair wasn’t quite as long yet. Plus, there were all the missing milk teeth … only some of which had fallen out naturally.

They also shared a mutual hatred for the laborious work of spinning wool. At eight years old, Anna had recently been taught the fine art on her family’s wheel. Serilda had looked upon her with appropriate sympathy when she heard the news, referring to the work astedium incarnate. The description had been repeated among the children all the following week, amusing Serilda and infuriating the witch, who had spent an entire hour lecturing on the importance of honest work.

“Please, Serilda,” continued Gerdrut. “Your stories, I think they’re sort of like spinning, too. Because it’s like you’re making something beautiful out of nothing.”

“Why, Gerdrut! What an astute metaphor,” said Serilda, impressed that Gerdrut had thought of such a comparison, but that was one thing she loved about children. They were always surprising her.

“And you’re right, Gerdy,” said Hans. “Serilda’s stories take our dull existence and transform it into something special. It’s like … like spinning straw into gold.”

“Oh, now you’re just smearing honey on my mouth,” Serilda scoffed, even as she cast her eyes toward the sky, quickly darkening overhead. “Would that I could spin straw into gold. It’d be far more useful than this … spinning nothing but silly stories. Rotting your minds, as Madam Sauer would say.”

“Curse Madam Sauer!” said Fricz. His brother shot him a warning look for the harsh language.

“Fricz, mind your tongue,” said Serilda, feeling like a little chastisement was warranted, even if she appreciated his coming to her defense.