Page 80 of Gilded

“You must be tired,” he said. “Manfred, show her to the tower.”

The coachman gestured for Serilda to follow, but she hesitated. She might never have another opportunity as this, and time was not her ally. When the Erlking moved toward the corridor, she gathered her courage and stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

He froze, his surprise evident.

To soften what she knew must be an enormous breach of propriety, she attempted an off-kilter curtsy. “Please. I do not wish to anger you, but … I must know what’s become of my father.”

His eyebrow lifted, even as his expression darkened. “I believe I already answered that question.”

“You said that you didn’t know.”

“And I don’t.” There was a brittle edge to the words. “If he died during the hunt, then his soul has already been carried to Verloren. I certainly didn’t want it.”

She clamped her jaw, both livid at his callousness and hurt by her missed chance to see her father one last time, if his ghost had lingered even for a moment last night.

But no—he might be all right. She had to believe that.

“And what of my mother?” she demanded.

“What of your mother?” he asked, his gray eyes sparking impatiently.

She tried to talk fast. “My father told me that when I was but two years old, my mother did not merely leave us.” She studied his expression. “She was taken by the hunt.”

She waited, but the king appeared … disinterested.

“I want to know if you still have her.”

“You mean, has her ghost become a permanent part of my retinue?”

He seemed to emphasize the wordpermanent,but it might have been Serilda’s imagination.

“Yes, my lord.”

The Erlking held her gaze. “We have many talented seamstresses.”

Serilda opened her mouth to interject—her mother wasn’tactuallya talented seamstress—but at the last moment, she bit back what would have given up her original fib.

The king continued. “Whether or not one of them is your mother, I haven’t the slightest idea nor can I muster a whit of care about it. If she is mine, then she is yours no longer.”

It was spoken coldly and decidedly, leaving no room for argument.

“Besides, Lady Serilda,” he went on, his voice softening, “it might ease your troubled heart to remember that those who join the hunt come willingly.” This time, when he smiled, it was not cheerful—but taunting. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

She shuddered, remembering the urging of the deepest, quietest parts of her soul last night when she had heard the call of the horn. When she had been helpless to resist its allure. The promise of freedom, of ferocity, of a night without restrictions or rules.

Understanding passed over the king’s eyes, and Serilda felt a spike of shame to know that some part of her craved such wild abandon, and that the Erlking recognized it in her.

“Perhaps there is comfort in knowing that you have this … commonality with your mother,” he said, smirking.

She looked away, unable to disguise the sense of disgrace that stirred in her gut.

“Now then, Lady Serilda, I might suggest that you not travel so far on the next full moon. When I summon you, I expect you to answer promptly.” He stepped closer, a warning in his tone. “If I have to come looking for you again, I will not be so generous.”

She swallowed.

“Perhaps it would be best to find accommodations in Adalheid, so that you will not need to waste half the night in travel. Tell the townspeople that they are to treat you as a personal guest of mine, and I am sure they will be most accommodating.”

He took her hand and pressed his iced lips to her knuckle. Goose bumps prickled her arm. The moment his fingers loosened, she ripped her hand away and squeezed it into a fist at her side.