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They jumped apart as if the hellhounds themselves were upon them.
Gild let out a stream of muttered curses.
“Who is that?” Serilda whispered.
“Giselle. The master of the hounds,” he said, grimacing. “If she already found it, they must be coming back. We’ve got to hide you.”
“Found what?”
Gild gestured at the ladder. “I’ll explain. Go, go!”
Footsteps echoed below. Heart thundering, Serilda swung her leg onto the ladder and hastened down the rungs. She reached the lower level and spun around, only to nearly crash right into Gild. His hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her startled scream. Then he took her wrist and pressed a finger to his mouth, urging her to be quiet, before tugging her toward the stairs.
The footsteps below grew louder.
“I don’t care what you’ve got against those mutts!” hollered Giselle. “I’m responsible for them, and if you keep pulling these stunts, the king will havemyhead!”
Where was Gild taking her? There was only this narrow stairway. They would run right into her.
They came to the alcove containing the statue of the knight and his shield, no longer broken. Gild ducked into it, yanking Serilda in beside him. He pressed her into the corner, where they could both be shrouded in darkness, and craned his head until they were cheek to cheek, perhaps trying to hide his copper-colored hair.
Serilda reached for her hood and pulled it up. It was large enough that, when they were this close to each other, it swept fully over the back of Gild’s head. Taking the cloak’s sides, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, shrouding them in charcoal gray, the same color as the stone walls, the same color as nothingness.
Gild moved into her, his body pressed along her length. His fingers spread out across her back. The sensation was enough to make her light-headed, and all she wanted was to close her eyes and turn her face, just the tiniest bit, and place a kiss against his skin. Anywhere that she could reach. His temple, his cheek, his ear, his throat.
She wanted him to do the same to her.
But she forced herself to keep her eyes open, watching through the tiny gap in the cloak’s fabric, as the master of the hounds turned the corner, grumbling to herself.
She and Gild both tensed.
But the dark one marched right past the alcove without stopping.
They listened as the footsteps stomped upward toward the tower.
“She’ll come back down in a second,” Gild said, so quiet she almost couldn’t hear him, despite his breath dancing across her ear. “Best we wait until she’s gone.”
Serilda nodded, happy for the chance to catch her breath, though it was difficult with Gild’s hands on her waist, sending waves of heat through her body. Her entire being was humming, tingling, caught between Gild and the stone walls. She wanted desperately to thread her fingers into his hair. To pull his mouth to hers.
But while her blood simmered inside, outside she was motionless. As still as the statue that half hid them from view.
“What did you do?” she whispered.
He made a guilty face. “Before you got here, I may have mixed up some crushed holly berries with the hounds’ bedding.”
She stared. “What does that mean?”
“Hellhounds don’t do well with holly. Even just the smell of it can upset their stomachs. And … they just ate alotof meat.”
She winced. “That’s disgusting.”
They heard footsteps again, and Serilda shut her eyes, for fear they might catch the light.
A second later, Giselle stormed back down the steps, muttering to herself aboutthat damned poltergeist.
Once the tower was quiet again, they released mutual exhales.
“Do you think …,” Serilda started, barely a whisper, hoping he wouldn’t detect the aching behind the words, “it might be safest for meto just wait here, and sneak out after sunrise? When the veil is in place again?”
