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“Not yet, but soon,” he said. “The hunt is over, and it’s time to feed the hounds.”
Serilda grimaced, recalling Leyna’s description of how the hunters would throw the captured animals’ carcasses onto the effigy of the god of death and let the hounds tear it apart.
“Do you … want to watch?” asked Gild.
She made a face. “Not even a tiny bit.”
He chuckled. “Me either. Would you …” He hesitated. “Would you like to see my tower?”
He looked so endearingly nervous, his cheeks flushing in a way that highlighted the wash of freckles, that Serilda couldn’t temper her grin. “If there’s time?”
“We aren’t far.”
Chapter 33
In the mortal realm, the upper room of the southwest tower had been barren and dusty. But on this side of the veil, Gild had created a haven for himself, with layers of rugs and furs on the floor and some blankets and pillows no doubt pilfered from other rooms in the castle. A stack of books, a candlestick, and on one side of the room, a spinning wheel.
Serilda crossed to the windows and peered out toward Adalheid. She caught a glimpse of the hounds fighting over the meat that had been hung from the effigy’s body and quickly tore her gaze away.
Her attention landed on the Erlking instead, as if his presence had an unavoidable magnetism. He stood apart from the crowd, standing on the very edge of the nearest dock. He was staring out at the water, his sharp features glowing beneath the light of the torches on the bridge. Unreadable, as always.
His presence, even across the lake, was a threat. A shadow. A reminder that she was his prisoner.
Once His Darkness has you, he does not like to let you go.
Serilda shivered and turned away.
She picked up one of the books. It was a small volume of poetry, though she was unfamiliar with the poet. It had been read so many times, the pages were falling out of the binding.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Her head snapped up. Gild was leaning against the far wall. There was a tension in his stance, one bare foot flat against the wall in a forced mimicry of nonchalance.
It took a second for the question to sink in, and once it did, Serilda guffawed. “What makes you ask that?”
He nodded at the book. “It’s mostly love poetry. Painful to slog through at times, all overwrought metaphors and flowery prose, everything having to do with pining and yearning and longing …” He rolled his eyes, reminding Serilda a little bit of young Fricz.
“Why do you have it then, if you despise it so much?”
“There is limited reading material in this castle,” he said. “And I notice you didn’t answer the question.”
“I thought we’d established that there is no one in Märchenfeld who would ever be interested in me.”
“So you’ve said, and … I have questions about that, too. But not being loved doesn’t preclude someone fromloving.It might have been unrequited.”
She grinned. “Despite your apparent disdain for this poetry, I think you’re a romantic.”
“Romantic?” He balked. “Unrequited love sounds awful.”
“Absolutely horrid,” agreed Serilda with another laugh. “But only a romantic would think so.” She sent him a cheeky grin, and his frown returned.
“You’restillavoiding the question.”
She sighed, peering up toward the ceiling rafter. “No, I’ve never been in love.” Thinking of Thomas Lindbeck, she added, “I thought I was once, but I was wrong. Satisfied?”
He shrugged, his gaze clouding. “I can’t remember anything about my life before, and somehow I still have regrets about it. I regret not knowing what it’s like to fall in love.”
“Do you think you might have been? Before?”
