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“There’s no way to know. Although, I feel like, if I had been, then surely I would rememberthat. Wouldn’t I?”
She didn’t respond, and after a while he was forced to look up at her. To see her sly grin.
“What?” he asked.
“Romantic.”
He scoffed, even as his face pinkened. “Just when I’m starting to think I enjoy talking to you.”
“I’m not mocking you. I would be a hypocrite if I was. All my favorite stories are about love, and I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what it would be like, and wishing …” She trailed off, her pulse sputtering as she realized what dangerous territory she was treading into, with the only boy who had ever looked at her with something close to desire.
“I know,” said Gild, startling her. “I know all about wishing.”
She believed him. She believed that hedidknow. The pining and the yearning and the longing. The unbearable desire for someone to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. To press a kiss against the back of her neck. To hold her on long winter nights. To look at her like she was the one he wanted, the one he would always want.
She didn’t remember stepping close to him, but suddenly, she was there, near enough to touch. But Gild didn’t glance down at her lips this time. His focus was on her gold-spoked eyes. Unflinching.
“I don’t think it’s superstition that they’re afraid of,” he said.
She froze. “What?”
“All these boys that supposedly aren’t interested in you because they think you’ll bring them bad luck? Well … maybe that’s true, but … it has to be more than that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
His hand came up to graze her cheek before he tenderly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Serilda nearly dissolved.
“I know I’ve barely met you,” he said, his voice fighting to not tremble, “but I can tell that you are worth all the bad luck in the world.” Having said it, his shoulders jerked upward in an uncomfortable shrug, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t go on. When he finally did, she could tell it was a struggle for him, and she realized that he, too, might be realizing how dangerous this conversation had become. How fleeting, how tenuous, how … unfathomable. “I think they pretend not to be interested, because they can tell you’re destined for something else.”
She took another half step toward him.
He came a half step closer to her, their bodies almost touching.
“And what am I destined for?” she whispered.
His fingers brushed ever so lightly against the back of her hand, sending a current along her nerves. Her breath caught.
“You’re the storyteller,” he said, with the start of a smile. “You tell me.”
What was she destined for?
She wanted to dwell on it, to really consider what might be possible in her future. But she couldn’t think of it now, when all her thoughts were overwhelmed by the present.
“Well,” she started, “I doubt many girls from Märchenfeld can claim to be friends with a ghost.”
Gild’s smile slipped. His jaw clenched briefly. “It’s been a long time since I lived in proper society,” he said, “but I suspect that friends don’t often have reason to kiss each other.”
Warmth rushed up her neck. “Not often, no.”
His gaze fell to her lips, his pupils dilated. “May I kiss you again anyway?”
“I certainly wish you would,” she breathed, leaning into him.
His hand slipped up her arm, cradling her elbow, tugging her closer. His nose brushed against hers.
When an enraged scream echoed from the base of the tower. “Poltergeist! Where are you?”
