Gold fortune-glimmer flickers at my side, over Emeric’s knife still on the bedside table.
I seize it, shake off the sheath, and jam the steel blade into the creature’s side. It feels like stabbing a sack of grain. The withered little man coos and gurgles, rolling drunkenly away into the blankets, but whatever spell it held over me has broken. I throw myself off the bed and gasp out, “Poldi!”
The dim hearth swells with fire, like thekobold’s poking his head up from a nap. Then it surges angrily as Poldi leaps toward the bed. The creature lets out a quiet, reedy shriek and flings itself onto the wall, scrambling around like a giant, fleshy, four-legged spider as Poldi chases it up to the ceiling.
Then the wretched little man dives for the door, collapses down to almost nothing, and slips bonelessly through the keyhole.
I stare at the door and try not to fall into panic, still catching my breath. “What,” I wheeze, “what—wasthat?”
“Anachtmahr,” Ragne snarls, tail bushed out. “I am sorry, I tried to scratch you awake. Another ten heartbeats, and it would have stolen you.”
Sure enough, there’s a short row of red lines on my arm. I lean on the bedframe, heart pounding, trying to collect my sleep-dizzy thoughts. It’s like trying to gather oil with a sieve.
I’ve heard of thenachtmärenbut never seen one. They’re minorgrimlingen, lesser goblins that poison dreams and drink them up. If they’re not stopped, they take the dreamer from their bed and ride them through the night like a horse. They’re not terribly strong, but there can be as many as there are dreamers.
If one ever visited my old family’s home, I don’t remember, and thekoboldof Castle Falbirg kept everygrimlingout. Poldi is supposed to do the same.
He floats over, scratching his head.
“Sorry, Lady,” he mumbles. “Dunno how it got in.”
Fortune’s golden silhouette forms near the foot of the bed, just solid enough to see as she picks up the knife’s sheath and holds it out to me. Then I remember the rush of her gold in the dream.
Ice runs down my spine. “I didn’t ask you to help,” I say swiftly. “That doesn’t count. I don’t owe you anything.”
There’s a distant, jingling whisper like words spun from tossed coins: “No. Not this time.”
I swipe the sheath from her, and she vanishes. I slip it over the knife, then drag the heaviest blanket off the bed and over to the fireplace. I’m too worn out to stay awake until dawn, but—but—
At least for a little while, I need to feel safe.
“Can you keep watch?” I croak to Poldi.
Thekoboldnods, climbing back onto the firewood and pulling a few fresh logs in after him.
I wrap myself in the blanket, wrap my hands around the knife, and, for the first time in almost a year, lay my head down beside a hearth.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Schematics
“You look tired, my jewel.”
I contemplate breaking my plate over Adalbrecht’s head, but decide it would be too much effort. Especially after last night. He ordained we’d take breakfast inhisparlor, and while the table isn’t as cumbersome as the ones in the dining hall, I would still have to get up and walk around to where he’s seated, and that’s an awful lot of work.
Besides, Gisele never turned down a plate ofdamfnudeln, not even for such a worthy cause.
Instead I spoon strawberry preserves onto the steamed sweet buns and smile thinly. “I was just so terribly excited about the wedding, I hardly slept a wink.”
Scheit, I wish he hadn’t insisted on breakfast together. I need to placate him after yesterday’s misadventures, I know,I know, but it was hard to remember that this morning when I had to drag myself up from the hearth and get ready.
Thankfully, the margrave’s parlor is fine enough that a pair of delicate lace gloves is appropriate. I’m not sure how I would have explained my ruby- spotted knuckles otherwise.
Adalbrecht’s chambers are on the opposite side of the castle from mine, overlooking Minkja to the west. I can even spot the statue of Kunigunde peering over the rooftops from the Salzplatt. I dearly hope she can’t see all the way into his bedroom, and if she can, that it wasn’t intentional. Even though the view lies to the west, the parlor is almost painfully bright from light bouncing off painted stucco and limestone and glass.
It doesn’t seem to bother Adalbrecht at all as he digs into hisweysserwurst. I’ll admit, it may be my turn to be bullied by sausage, as I’m not too fond of the gray-whitewurstor how they’re served bobbing in the water they boiled in. Theytastefine, but the usual way to eat them can be a bit . . . distressing.
Adalbrecht, never averse to the distressing, slices the sausage casing open at one end, sucks the meat out through the hole, and adds one more wet sock of skin to the pile on his plate as I try not to gag.
