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Lying is evil.
Lying is the work of demons.
My stories are lies, therefore I am a liar.
It might not have been so awful, except that when people didn’t trust you to tell the truth, they inevitably stopped trusting you in other matters as well. They didn’t trust you not to steal from them. They didn’t trust you not to cheat. They didn’t believe you could be responsible or thoughtful. It tarnished all elements of your reputation, in a way that Serilda found remarkably unfair.
“Do not think,” said Madam Sauer, “that just because you are of age, I will not strike the wickedness from you yet. Once my pupil, always my pupil, Miss Moller.”
She bowed her head. “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.”
The witch scoffed. “Unfortunately, you and I both know that is just one more lie.”
Chapter 2
Serilda drew her cloak tight as she left the schoolhouse. There was still an hour of daylight—plenty of time to get home to the mill—but this winter had been colder than any she could remember, with snow nearly to her knees and dangerous patches of ice where wagon wheels had cut slushy grooves along the roads. The wetness was sure to have soaked through her boots and into her stockings long before she got home, and she was dreading the misery of it just as much as she was looking forward to the fire her father would have started in the hearth and the bowl of steaming broth she would drink while she warmed her toes.
These midwinter walks home from the school were the only times Serilda wished they didn’t live quite so far outside of town.
Bracing herself against the cold, she pulled up the hood and surged forward. Head lowered, arms crossed, pace as quick as she would allow while trying not to slip on the treacherous ice lurking under the most recent layer of feather-soft snow. The crisp air mingled with the smell of wood smoke from nearby chimneys.
At least they weren’t meant to have more snow tonight. The sky was clear of threatening gray clouds. The Snow Moon would be on full display, and though it wasn’t as notable as when the full moon crossed with the solstice, she felt there must be some enchantment tethered to a full moon on the first night of the new year.
The world was full of small enchantments, when one was willing to look for them. And Serilda was always looking.
“The hunt will be celebrating the change of the calendar, as are we all,” she whispered, distracting herself as her teeth began to chatter. “After their demonic ride, there will be feasting on what beasts they’ve captured, and drinking of mulled wine spiced with the blood—”
Something hard hit Serilda on the back, right between her shoulder blades. She yelped and spun around, her foot slipping. She tumbled backward, her rump landing in a cushion of snow.
“I got her!” came Anna’s delighted cry. It was met with an eruption of cheers and laughter as the children emerged from their hiding places, five small figures padded in layers of wool and fur. They popped out from behind tree trunks and wagon wheels and an overgrown shrub weighed down with icicles.
“What took you so long?” said Fricz, a snowball ready in his mittened hand, while at his side, Anna busily started scraping together another one. “We’ve been waiting to ambush you near an hour. Nickel’s started complaining of frostbite!”
“It’s unmerciful cold out here,” said Nickel, Fricz’s twin, hopping from foot to foot.
“Oh, shut your whistler. Even the baby’s not complaining, you old cogwheel.”
Gerdrut, the youngest at five years old, turned to Fricz with an annoyed scowl. “I’m not a baby!” she shouted, hurling a snowball at him. And though her aim was good, it still landed with a sadkerfluffat his feet.
“Aw, I was just making a point,” said Fricz, which was as close as he ever got to an apology. “I know you’re about to be a big sister and all.”
This easily assuaged Gerdrut’s anger and she stuck up her nose with a proud huff. It wasn’t just being the youngest that made the others think of her as the baby of their group. She was particularly small for her age, and particularly precious, with a sprinkling of freckles across her round cheeks and strawberry ringlets that never seemed to tangle, no matter how much she tried to keep up with Anna’s acrobatics.
“The point is,” snapped Hans, “we’re all shivering. There’s no need to act the dying swan.” At eleven, Hans was the oldest of their group. As such, he liked to overplay his role of leader and protector around the schoolhouse, a role the others had seemed content to let him claim.
“Speak for yourself,” said Anna, winding up her arm before throwing her new snowball at the abandoned wagon wheel off the side of the road. It hit the center dead-on. “I’m not cold.”
“Only because you’ve been doing cartwheels for the past hour,” muttered Nickel.
Anna grinned, her smile gapped with a number of missing teeth, and launched herself into a somersault. Gerdrut squealed delightedly—somersaults were so far the only trick she’d mastered—and hurried to join her, both of them leaving trails in the snow.
“And just why were you all waiting to ambush me?” asked Serilda. “Don’t any of you have a nice warm fire waiting for you at home?”
Gerdrut stopped, legs splayed in front of her and snow clinging to her hair. “We were waiting for you to finish the story.” She liked the scary stories more than any of them, though she couldn’t listen without burying her nose into Hans’s shoulder. “About the wild hunt and the god of lies and—”
“Nope.” Serilda shook her head. “Nope, nope, nope. I’ve been scolded by Madam Sauer for the last time. I’m done telling tales. Starting today, you’ll get nothing but boring news and the most trivial of facts. For example, did you know that playing three particular notes on the hackbrett will summon a demon?”
“You are definitely making that up,” said Nickel.
