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Serilda stumbled forward.
The door slammed and locked behind her.
She took in a shuddering breath. The room was twice as large as the prison cell had been—which is to say, still quite small, and still lacking in windows. Empty hooks were spaced along the ceiling. The scent of mildew and misery had been replaced with the smell of salted, drying meats—and the sweet smell of more straw, of course.
A larder, she guessed, though it had been cleared of preserved foods to make space for her task.
Another pile of straw stood in the center of the room, significantly larger than the first, along with the spinning wheel and more stacks of empty bobbins. A candle sat flickering in the corner, already burned down to the height of her thumb.
She stared at the straw, lost in her thoughts. Anguish was crushing her rib cage.
What if he was gone? Forever?
What if she was all alone in the world?
“Serilda?”
The voice was hesitant and gentle.
She turned to see Gild a few steps away, his face taut with concern. His hand hovered in the air, like he’d been reaching out for her, but had hesitated.
No sooner had she laid eyes on him than tears blurred her vision.
With a sob, she threw herself into his arms.
Chapter 22
He held her and let her cry, solid as a rock in the surf. Serilda didn’t know for how long. It was an embrace that asked for nothing. He did not stroke her hair or ask what was wrong or try to tell her everything would be all right. He just … held her. His shirt was soaked through with her tears by the time she managed to still the tremors in her breaths.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back and sniffling into her sleeve.
Gild’s arms loosened, but didn’t release her. “Please don’t be. I heard what happened in the courtyard. I saw the horse. I …” She met his gaze. His face was tight with emotion. “I’msorry. This was a terrible night to be pulling pranks, and if he takes his anger out on you …”
Serilda rubbed the tears from her lashes. “The armory. That was you.”
He nodded. “I’d been planning it for weeks. Thought I was being so clever. I mean it was kind of clever. But he was already in a mood, and now … If he hurts you …”
Her breath hitched. His voice was thick with distress. The candlelight was catching on golden specks in his eyes.
And he was not flinching away from her. He held her gaze with no apparent disgust.
That alone made her heart skip.
And also … there was somethingdifferentabout him. She squinted, unable to place it. Her hands settled against his chest and Gild’s arms tightened around her waist again, drawing her closer. Until—
“Your hair,” she said, realizing what had changed. “You combed it.”
His body stilled, and a moment later, pink splotches appeared on his cheeks. He stepped back, his arms falling away. “Did not,” he said, self-consciously digging his fingers into his red hair. It still fell loose past his ears, but it was definitely tidier than before.
“Yes, you did. And you washed your face. You were filthy last time.”
“Fine. Maybe I did,” he spat. “I’m not a schellenrock. I have pride. It’s nothing to write a sonnet about.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked past her toward the spinning wheel. “There’s a lot more straw this time. And a much shorter candlestick.”
She sagged. “It can’t be done,” she said, on the verge of crying again. “I tried to run away. My father and I went to another town. We tried to hide, so he wouldn’t be able to find me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have known it wouldn’t work. And now, now I think he would take any excuse to kill me.”
“The Erlking doesn’t need excuses to kill someone.” Gild stepped closer again and took her face into his hands. His palms were rough and callused. His skin was cool to the touch, but gentle, as he tenderly brushed aside a strand of hair that was stuck to her damp cheeks. “He hasn’t killed you yet, which means he still wants to use your gift. You can take poison on that. We just have to spin the straw into gold. And itcanbe done.”
“Why doesn’t he just kill me?” she said. “If I were a ghost, wouldn’t I be trapped here forever?”
