Page 59 of Gilded

This statement, spoken so quietly, went almost unnoticed. It took Serilda a moment to realize it was Nickel who had said it, his head lowered as his fingers made perfectly tidy stitches on the cloak.

Fricz stared at his twin, momentarily aghast. Serilda was already bristling, ready to come to Nickel’s defense when Fricz made whatever teasing comment came to his mind first.

But he didn’t tease. Instead, he just gave his brother that lopsided grin and said, “I think you’d be pretty good at it, too. At least … you’d be way better at it than Anna is!”

Serilda rolled her eyes.

“So, what am I supposed to do about this mouth?” asked Hans, dark eyebrows bunching.

They all paused to stare at the effigy’s face.

“I like it,” Anna said first, at which Gerdrut beamed.

“Me too,” Serilda agreed. “With those lips and that scar, I think this is the best god of death that Märchenfeld has ever seen.”

With a shrug, Hans started mixing up a new batch of egg tempera.

“Do you need more madder root?” Serilda asked.

“I think this will be enough,” he said, testing the paint’s consistency. He looked almost mischievous when he raised his eyes. “But I know what you could be doing while we work.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, but needed no explanation. Immediately, the children brightened to an encouraging chorus of“Yes, tell us a story!”

“Hush!” said Serilda, looking back toward the schoolhouse’s open doors. “You know how Madam Sauer feels about that.”

“She’s not in there,” said Fricz. “Said she still needed to gather some wild mugwort for the bonfire.”

“She did?”

Fricz nodded. “She left right after we came out here.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice,” said Serilda. Lost in her own thoughts again, no doubt.

She considered their pleas. Lately, all her stories had featured haunted ruins and nightmare monsters and heartless kings. Burning hounds and a stolen princess. Though the children had been in raptures for most of her tales, she had overheard little Gerdrut saying that she started having nightmares in whichshewas kidnapped by the Erlking, which had filled Serilda with a flood of guilt.

She vowed to make her next story cheerier. Maybe something with a happy ending, even.

But that thought was eclipsed by sudden grief.

There wouldn’t be any more stories after this.

She looked around at their faces, smeared with dirt and paint, and had to clench her jaw to keep her eyes from filling with tears.

“Serilda?” said Gerdrut, her voice small and worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” she said quickly. “I must have pollen in my eyes.”

The children traded doubtful looks, and even Serilda knew it had been a terrible lie.

She inhaled deeply and leaned back on her hands, turning her face toward the sun. “Have I told you of the time I came across a nachzehrer on the road? He was newly risen from the grave. Had already chewed off his burial shroud and the meat of his right arm, straight down to the bone. At first when he saw me, I thought he would run away, but then he opened his mouth and let out the most bloodcurdling—”

“No, stop!” cried Gerdrut, covering her ears. “Too scary!”

“Ah, come on, Gerdy,” said Hans, draping an arm over her shoulders. “It isn’t real.”

“And just how do you know?” said Serilda.

Hans barked a laugh. “Nachzehrer aren’t real! People don’t come back from the dead and go around trying to eat their own family members. If they did, we’d all be … well, dead.”