Page 50 of Gilded

Serilda stared back at the girl. Her mind turned and turned and gave her no help at all.

So she answered, entirely truthful, “I have no idea.”

The door swung open and a breathless Frieda returned. Instead of her heavy basket, she now held only a single book, which she presented to Serilda as one would present the crown jewels.

“What’s this?” asked Serilda, taking it gingerly into her hands. The book was delicate and old. The spine worn, the pages brittle and yellowed with time.

“A history of this region. It spans from the sea to the mountains and goes into depth on some of the earliest settlers, political designations, architectural styles … There are some truly beautiful maps. Adalheid isn’t the focus of the book, but it is referenced on occasion. I thought you might find it useful?”

“Oh, thank you,” said Serilda, simultaneously touched by her thoughtfulness and a little guilty that her interest in the history of Adalheid was really more about the undead presence in the castle ruins. “But I’m afraid I’m leaving today. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be able to return this.”

She tried to hand it back, but Frieda brushed it away. “Books are to be shared. Besides, this copy is a little outdated. I should order a new one for our collection.”

“If you’re sure … then, a thousand thank-yous.”

Frieda beamed and clasped her hands together. “Speaking of your leaving, I passed Roland Haas on my way, heading toward the gate. If he’s still giving you a ride, I think you’d best hurry.”

Chapter 17

Serilda had hoped that during the trip, she might be able to peruse some of the book the librarian had given her, but instead, she spent the ride in the back of Roland Haas’s wagon sitting on a damp horse blanket and clinging as best she could to its high sides so the constant bumps in the road didn’t launch her out. Simultaneously, she tried to fend off the curious pecks of the twenty-three chickens he was taking to the market in Mondbrück. The laces on her boots must have looked like the juiciest of worms, because the fowl hardly left her alone, no matter how many times she kicked to shoo them away.

She had suffered more than a few nips at her legs by the time Roland dropped her off at a crossroads a few miles east of Märchenfeld.

After profusely thanking the farmer, Serilda set off on foot. It wasn’t long before the scenery became familiar. The Thorpe Farm, with its striking windmill turning over the snow-laden fields. Mother Garver’s quaint cottage, whitewashed and surrounded by tidy boxwoods.

Rather than walking through town, she turned to the south, taking a shortcut through a series of pear and apple orchards, barren in the winter, their branches reaching scraggly fingers toward the sky. The cloud cover had burned off and the day was one of the warmest they’d had in months; but despite the sunshine and exercise, Serilda couldn’t shake the chill that had settled into her bones from the moment she’d awoken in those castle ruins. Or the way the hair on the back of her neck prickled every time she saw a flash of dark feathers in the tree boughs or heard an angry caw of a distant crow. She kept glancing around, expecting to see the nachtkrapp following her. Spying on her. Eyeing her tasty eyes and fast-beating heart.

But all she saw were crows and jackdaws scavenging among the bare trees.

It was nearly dusk by the time the mill came into view, down in the valley carved out by the winding river. Smoke curled above the chimney. The hazelnut tree’s snow-heavy branches bowed. Zelig, that beloved antique horse of theirs, poked his head curiously from the stable.

Her father had even shoveled a path from the road to their doorway.

Serilda beamed and started to run.

“Papa!” she cried, when she thought she might be close enough for him to hear her.

A moment later, the door slammed open, revealing a frantic father. He puffed up when he saw her, overcome with relief. She rushed into his arms.

“You’re back,” he cried into her hair. “You came back.”

Serilda laughed at him, pulling away so he could see her smile. “You sound as if you doubted it.”

“I did,” he said with a warm but tired laugh. “I didn’t want to think it, but—but I thought—” His voice grew tight with emotion. “Well. You know what I thought. To be summoned by the Erlking—”

“Oh, Papa.” She kissed his cheek. “The Erlking only keeps little children. What could he have wanted with an old spinster like me?”

He stepped away, his face pinched, and the lightness in Serilda’s heart dampened. He was serious. He’d been terrified.

And she had been, too. There were moments during the night when she’d been sure she would never see his face again. But even in those moments, she’d given little thought to what he must be going through, not knowing where she’d been taken or what was to become of her.

Of course he’d thought she wouldn’t come home.

“What did he do to your face?” he asked, brushing the hair away from her cheek.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t the Erlking. It was …” Her hesitation was brief as she remembered the horror of the drude flying at her with its curved talons. But her father was already worried enough. “A branch. Caught me in the face, quite by surprise. But I’m all right now.” She pressed her hands into his. “Everything is all right.”

He nodded shakily, eyes shining with unshed tears. Then, clearing his throat, he seemed to brush off his burdensome feelings. “It will be.”