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Whir?…?
One only had to feed it through.
Whir?…?
The wheel would twist the wool.
Whir?…?
The yarn would wrap around the bobbin.
But this was straw, and it quickly frayed and snapped.
Her heart pounded as she looked down at the remaining strands, dry and worthless in her unmagical grip.
She could not keep herself from glancing up, though she knew it was a mistake. Gild was watching her, his face full of anguish.
Funny how that look made so many things pristinely clear. There had remained a number of treacherous doubts these past weeks, after she had given so much to him, and taken so much in return. Everything he did came with a price. A necklace. A ring. A promise.
But he couldn’t have looked at her like that if she meant nothing to him.
A spark of courage ignited in her chest.
She had told Gild that she would stay alive long enough to deliver to him the payment she owed. Her firstborn child.
The bargain had been made with magic, binding and unbreakable.
“You have my word,” she murmured to herself.
“Is something wrong?” said the Erlking, and though his words were subdued, they had an unmistakable sharpness beneath them.
Her gaze snapped back to him. She blinked, startled.
Not so much by the presence of the Erlking, but by the cool shiver traipsing down her spine.
Her firstborn child.
She dropped the straw. Both hands went to her stomach.
The Erlking frowned.
She and Gild had made love on the night of the Chaste Moon. An entire moon cycle had passed, and she’d been so caught up in her worries and planning that she hadn’t realized until that moment?…?
She’d missed her blood cycle.
“What is the matter?” growled the Erlking.
But Serilda barely heard him. The words were turning through her mind, a spinning wheel of blurring, impossible things.
Your condition.
You should not ride.
Firstborn child.
Firstborn child!
The progeny of a girl cursed by the god of lies and a boy trapped behind the veil. She couldn’t picture such a creature. Would it be a monster? An undead thing? A magicked thing?
