Page 70 of Gilded

“Why not?” he said, challenging. “I somehow doubt it was your mother’s.”

Her fists clenched. “You don’t know anything about my mother.”

Gild started, surprised at her sudden anger. “I … sorry,” he stammered. “Wasit your mother’s?”

She peered down at the ring, tempted to lie, if it would keep him from asking for it again. Every time she saw it, she remembered how she had felt so very alive that night, when she ushered the moss maidens into the cellar and dared to lie bald-faced to the Erlking himself. She had always wondered until that night if she could be as courageous as the heroes in her stories. Now she knew that she could, and this was proof of it. This was all the proof she had left.

But as she was staring at the ring, another thought occurred to her.

Her mother.

She might be here, somewhere in this castle. Was it possible that Gilddidknow something about her after all?

But before she could gather these thoughts into a question, Gild asked, “I don’t mean to pressure you, but tell me again what His Darkness will do to you if this straw has not been spun into gold by morning?”

She scowled.

Then, teeth gritted, she pried the ring from her finger and held it out to him. He snatched it away, quick as a magpie, and tucked it into his pocket. “I accept your payment.”

“I should imagine so.”

Again, magic pulsed around them, sealing their bargain.

Ignoring the chilly look she was shooting him, Gild rolled out his shoulders, popped the joints of his knuckles, and took his seat at the spinning wheel. He began without fanfare, setting immediately to work, as if he’d been born at a spinning wheel. As if it were as natural to him as breathing.

Serilda wanted to wallow in thoughts of her father, her mother, her necklace and ring. But she didn’t want Gild to snap at her like he had the last time. And so she removed her cloak and folded it into a pile in the corner, then rolled up her sleeves, and tried to make herself useful. She helped push the straw in his direction and form the raw mess into neat little bundles.

“The king called you a poltergeist,” she said once they had found a steady rhythm.

He nodded. “That’s me.”

“Then … last time. You were the one who set that hound free. Weren’t you?”

He grimaced. His foot faltered over the treadle, but he quickly found his pace again. “I didn’tset it free.I just … broke its chain. And maybe left the gate open.”

“And maybe almost got me killed.”

“Almost. But didn’t.”

She glared at him.

Gild sighed. “I did mean to apologize. It was bad timing, which seems to be common practice around you.”

She grimaced, wondering if Gild had overheard her conversation with the Erlking last time, when she’d told him that people in her village saw her as bad luck.

“But I didn’t realize we were expecting a mortal guest.” His hands shot up defensively. “I swear I didn’t mean any harm. Not to you, at least. The king, he just gets real protective of those hounds, and I thought it’d get under his skin.”

“You pull a lot of pranks on the king?”

“Have to do something to stay busy.”

She hummed. “But why does he call you the poltergeist?”

“What else should he call me?”

“I don’t know, but … a poltergeist is a ghost.”

He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You do know what sort of castle you’re in, don’t you?”