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“Have I completed the task to your satisfaction?”
“What?”
“You must say it, to conclude our bargain. Magical agreements are not to be lightly dismissed.”
“Oh. O-of course.” She glanced at the locket, shining brightly against his dreary tunic, hiding the portrait of a girl who was every bit as much an enigma now, even if she had inspired Serilda’s tragic tale.
“Yes, the task is complete,” she said. “I cannot have a complaint.”
It was true, despite her resentment at giving up the locket. This boy had promised her the blue of the sky. What he had done should have been impossible, but he’d done it.
He smiled, just slightly, but it was enough to make her breath catch. There was something hopelessly genuine about it.
Then, surprise upon surprise, Gild lifted her hand. She thought he might kiss it, which would have been the pinnacle of odd occurrences for the night.
But he did not kiss her hand.
He did something even stranger.
Closing his eyes, Gild held her fist lightly against his cheek, taking from her the most delicate of caresses.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“What for?”
Gild opened his mouth to say something more, but hesitated. His thumb had brushed the band of the golden ring given to her by the moss maidens. He peered down at it, taking in the seal with its engravedR.
His eyebrows pinched with curiosity.
A key creaked inside the lock.
Serilda pulled away and spun to face the door.
“Good luck,” Gild whispered.
She glanced over her shoulder, but froze.
He was gone. She was alone.
The cell door groaned as it opened.
Serilda stood straighter, trying to smother the odd fluttering in the pit of her stomach, as the Erlking sauntered into the cell. His servant, the same ghost with the missing eye, waited in the corridor with a torch held aloft.
The king paused a few steps past the door, and in that moment, the candle, now nothing more than a puddle of wax on the pewter candlestick, finally gave up. The flame expired with a quiet hiss and a curl of black smoke.
The king seemed unperturbed by the shadows. His gaze swept over the empty floor, not a piece of straw to be seen. Then to the spinning wheel, and finally to the stacks of bobbins and their glittering gold thread.
Serilda managed something akin to a curtsy. “Your Darkness. I hope you had a nice hunt.”
He did not look at her as he stepped forward and picked up one of the bobbins.
“Light,” he ordered.
The coachman glanced at Serilda as he stepped forward, raising the torch. He looked astonished.
But he was smiling.
Serilda held her breath as the king studied the thread. She nervously rubbed her thumb across the ring on her finger.
