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He shook his head, watching her carefully. Her nerves hummed with irritation. She was careful not to stomp or grind her teeth as she headed back outside.
What did she care if Thomas Lindbeck wanted to marry Bluma Rask, or anyone else for that matter? She had no claim to him, not anymore. It had been nearly two years since he’d stopped looking at Serilda like she was the sun itself, and started looking at her like she was a storm cloud brewing ominously on the horizon.
When he bothered to look at her at all, that is.
She wished a happy, long life on him and Bluma. A little farmhouse. A yard full of children. Endless conversations about the price of livestock and unfavorable weather.
A life without curses.
A life without stories.
Serilda paused as she threw open the cellar door, where just last night she had hidden two magical creatures. She stood in this very spot and faced down an otherworldly beast and a wicked king and a whole legion of undead hunters.
She was not the sort to pine for a simple life, and she would not pine for the likes of Thomas Lindbeck.
Stories change with repeated tellings, and hers was no different. The night of the Snow Moon became increasingly adventurous, and more and more surreal. When she told the tale to the children, it was not moss maidens she had rescued, but a vicious little water nix who had thanked her only by trying to bite off her fingers before it jumped into the river and disappeared.
When Farmer Baumann brought extra firewood for the schoolhouse and Gerdrut encouraged Serilda to repeat the story, she insisted that the Erlking had not ridden upon a black steed, but rather a massive wyvern who blew acrid smoke from its nostrils and oozed molten rock from between its scales.
When Serilda went to barter for some of Mother Weber’s raw wool and was asked by Anna to again repeat the fantastical tale, she dared not explain how she had fooled the Erlking with a lie about her magical spinning abilities. Mother Weber had been the one to teach Serilda the technique when she was young, and she had never stopped criticizing Serilda for her lack of skill. To this day she liked to gripe about how the local sheep deserved to have their coats turned into something finer than the lumpy, uneven threads that would come off Serilda’s bobbins. She probably would have laughed Serilda right out of their cottage if she heard how Serilda had lied to the Erlking about her spinning talent, of all things.
Instead, Serilda turned her story-self into a bold warrior. She regaled her small audience with a feat of daring and bravery. How she had brandished a lethal fire iron (no mere shovel for her!), threatening the Erlking and driving away his demon attendants. She mimicked precisely how she had swung, stabbed, and clobbered her enemies. How she had driven the poker into the heart of a hellhound, then flung it off into one of the buckets on the waterwheel.
The children were in stitches, and by the time Serilda’s story ended with the Erlking fleeing from her with girlish squeals and a lump the size of a goose egg on his head, Anna and her toddler brother ran off to begin their own playacting, deciding who would be Serilda and who would be the terrible king. Mother Weber shook her head, but Serilda was sure she saw the hint of a smile disguised behind her knitting needles.
She tried to enjoy their reactions. The open mouths, the intent gazes, the giddy laughter. Usually, this was all she craved.
But with every telling, Serilda felt that the reality of the story was slipping away from her. Becoming fogged over by time and alterations.
She wondered how long it would be before she, too, began to doubt what had transpired that night.
Such thoughts filled her with unexpected regret. Sometimes, when she was alone, she would pull out the chain from beneath the collar of her dress and stare at the portrait of the young girl, who she’d declared a princess in her imagination. Then she would rub her thumb over the engraving on the ring. The tatzelwurm twisted around an ornateR.
She promised herself that she would never forget. Not a single detail.
A loudcawstartled Serilda from her melancholy. She looked up to see a bird watching her through the cottage doorway, which she’d left open to air out the little home while the sun was shining, knowing another winter storm would be upon them any day.
And here she was, distracted once again from her task. She was supposed to be spinning all this wool she’d gotten from Mother Weber, turning it into usable yarn for their mending and knitting.
The worst sort of work.Tedium incarnate.She would have rather been skating on the newly frozen pond or freezing caramel drops in the snow for an evening treat.
Instead, she’d been lost in thought again, staring at the small portrait.
She shut the locket and tucked it into her dress. Pushing back the three-legged stool, she walked around the spinning wheel to the door. She hadn’t realized how cold it had gotten. She rubbed her hands together to try and return some warmth to her fingers.
She paused, one hand on the door, noticing the bird who had startled her from her reverie. It was perched on one of the barren branches of the hazelnut tree that stood just beyond their garden. It was the biggest raven she’d ever seen. A monstrous shadow of a creature silhouetted against the dusky sky.
Sometimes she would toss out bread crumbs for the birds. Probably this one had heard about the feast.
“Sincerest apologies,” she said, preparing to shut the door. “I have nothing for you today.”
The bird cocked its head to the side, which is when Serilda saw it.Reallysaw it. She went still.
It had seemed to be watching her before, but now—
With a ruffle of its feathers, the bird leaped from the branch. The tree branches swayed and released drifts of powdery snow as the bird soared off into the sky, growing smaller as it beat its heavy wings. Heading north, in the direction of the Aschen Wood.
Serilda would have thought nothing of it, except the creature had been missing its eyes. There had been nothing to watch her but empty sockets. And when it had taken to the air, bits of violet-gray sky had been visible through the threadbare holes in its wings.
