Cursed, p.2
Cursed, page 2
A touch of pity flashed over his features. “Of course, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I will leave you be, then.”
“Thank you, Manfred.”
He walked away with the same unyielding posture and measured steps with which he always carried himself, and Serilda couldn’t help but think of him as one of the few true gentlemen in this castle, surrounded by the demons and all their callous frivolity.
As soon as he’d turned the corner, Serilda let her shoulders relax. She reached for the candlestick and slipped the knot of golden thread up and over the flame. She wrapped it around her finger as she studied the hall.
Silence and shadows.
“Come on out, Gild,” she said, smiling. “I know you’re there.”
Chapter Two
“Summoned to the king’s chambers yet again?”
The voice came from behind her, so close she imagined the tickle of warmth on the back of her neck. She did not startle. She was used to Gild’s sudden appearances. His spirit had been cursed and bound to this castle like hers was, but he could move freely within its walls, able to vanish and reappear at will anywhere he liked. It was a marvelous magic trick, and he used it often—to pull pranks, to sneak up on people, to eavesdrop and spy. He especially loved to jump out and frighten the children, sometimes even passing right through them, since he could walk through ghosts. They pretended to be angry, despite their bewildered giggles.
He had been trying to teach Serilda the skill as well, but it was more difficult than he made it seem. So far she’d only managed it once, and though she’d tried to transport herself to the queen’s boudoir, she’d ended up in the buttery instead, along with a vicious headache.
Despite Gild’s closeness and the subtle dance of breath against her skin, there was an edge to his voice. An envy he had tried to keep from her since the king first announced their betrothal, but that became more apparent as the wedding approached.
Serilda hated lying to him about this. It was the most difficult lie she’d ever had to tell.
Gild knew that the Erlking wanted a mortal wife so that he could father a child. Gild assumed—and Serilda let him—that her frequent visits to the king were for this purpose, though the mere idea made her want to claw off her own skin.
What Gild didn’t know, and she could never tell him, was that she was already with child. That she had been since the night Gild pressed his lips to hers, trailing kisses along her jaw, her throat, the swell of her breast. They had been intimate only once, and Serilda still shivered when she let herself remember his closeness, his touch, the way he’d whispered her name like poetry. That night, in their passion, they’d conceived a child.
But the next time she’d seen Gild, the Erlking had him strung up on the castle keep with golden chains—the same gold chains he himself had spun in an effort to save Serilda’s life. As soon as the king learned of Serilda’s condition, he’d concocted this scheme: to marry her and claim the child as his own. If she told anyone the truth, he would never free the souls of the children she loved to Verloren. They would be trapped here, enslaved to the dark ones, forever.
She couldn’t let that happen, which meant she couldn’t risk telling anyone.
Not even Gild.
Especially not Gild.
“Yes,” she said, once she was sure her voice would not tremble. “I have been summoned to visit with the monster yet again.” She turned and met Gild’s eye. “Lucky me.”
She made no effort to hide her disdain for her betrothed, not with Gild. This arrangement with the king was never her choice. It was not to be a marriage of love. She wasn’t even sure it could be called a marriage of convenience, as it certainly wasn’t convenient for her. This was the man who had abducted her mother when Serilda was just a toddler, left her father for dead, and murdered five innocent children just to spite her—and that barely touched upon his multitude of evils. Families torn apart, lives discarded at his whim, magical creatures hunted—some to extinction.
She could not keep Gild from being jealous. He believed the Erlking had claimed her hand in marriage and her body in his bed. She might not have been able to tell him the truth, but she would never allow him to think that she felt anything for the Erlking beyond revulsion.
She had to play along, had to keep up these lies, so she might eventually get what she wanted: freedom for the children’s souls. The Erlking had promised to release their spirits—Hans, Nickel, Fricz, Anna, and Gerdrut. He would grant them peace.
In exchange, she would lie for him. She would say the child in her womb belonged to him. She would keep their secret.
But she would not feign love for a man she despised. There were some lies even she could not tolerate.
A shadow flashed across Gild’s face and she could tell he felt properly chastised. His shoulders hunched. “I hope he—” he started, but paused, lips tight as though he’d bitten into a lemon. It took him a moment to try again. “I hope he’s a … gentleman.”
Gentleman was spat out like a lemon seed, and for some reason, Serilda’s heart softened. She knew he was trying to understand, to accept, as well as he could.
Swallowing hard, she settled a hand on his wrist.
“He does not hurt me,” she said.
Which was true, in its way. He had never hurt her physically … excepting the time he’d cursed her by stabbing a gold-tipped arrow through her wrist. He hardly touched her when they were alone, in stark contrast to the gross affection he showed her in the presence of others. Serilda sometimes wondered what the court thought of the whole situation. Their king—beautiful, tranquil, dangerous—apparently pining for her. Mortal and plain by anyone’s estimation, with strange golden wheels overlaid on the irises of her eyes. In the mortal realm, her eyes had marked her as someone to be avoided. She was strange. She was cursed. She would bring misfortune on anyone who got too close to her.
But the dark ones and their king did not harbor these superstitions. Perhaps because they were often the misfortunes that humans were so afraid of.
Maybe the demons assumed it was her anomalies that the king was attracted to.
The lines on Gild’s brow eased, but only slightly. He gave a curt nod, and it hurt Serilda—an actual sharp pain beneath her ribs—that she could not say more.
True, the king did not hurt her. She would not be warming his bed, not tonight or any night. She would not be giving him a child, at least not in the way Gild suspected.
It isn’t true, she wanted to whisper. To lean forward and nuzzle her cheek against his temple. To press him against the wall and mold her body to his. I am not his. I will never be his.
But I still want to be yours.
She said nothing, though, and released Gild’s wrist before continuing her journey through the castle halls.
Toward her waiting groom.
Gild followed with soft footsteps, and she couldn’t help being glad that he hadn’t vanished. It was torture to be around Gild while she harbored these secrets, but it was far worse to be without him. At least when he was near, she could imagine that he felt this way, too. A shared agony. A mutual desperation. A longing for what they’d once had. What had felt, for an achingly brief moment, like it might become something more.
They came to a crossed path at the end of the hall, and she couldn’t recall if she ought to turn left or right. She stood, struggling to remember, when Gild sighed quietly and gestured to the left.
She smiled at him, shy and grateful, but the misery on his face constricted her chest. There were gold specks in his eyes, catching on the firelight. His copper-red hair was unkempt, as if he’d spent the last week dragging his hands through it rather than a comb. The row of buttons on his linen shirt was uneven, a hole missed.
She didn’t really decide to do it, so much as her hands were on the fabric of his shirt before she could stop them. Undoing the misplaced button.
Gild went statue-still beneath her touch.
Warmth flushed across Serilda’s cheeks, even though it was a phantom blush. She had no heartbeat, no real blood pumping through her veins anymore, thanks to the curse that had separated her spirit from her mortal body. But she was well acquainted with embarrassment and, these days, even more with yearning.
The button popped free in her fingers, which had started to tremble. She smoothed out the material, aligning the two sides of his wide collar against his throat.
Gild inhaled sharply.
Her fingers stalled, lightly gripping each side of the collar, now revealing his bare throat, the dip of his clavicle, pale freckles at the top of his chest.
She could lean forward. Kiss him. Right there on that bared skin.
“Serilda…”
She glanced up. Countless thoughts were written in his eyes, echoing her own.
We can’t.
We shouldn’t.
I want this, too.
She pressed the pad of her thumb against those freckles.
Wishing.
Gild shut his eyes and tipped forward, pressing his forehead to hers.
Tensing, Serilda hastily did up the buttons. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I know we can’t … I know.”
If anyone saw them … if there was even the slightest rumor that Serilda was unfaithful, bringing the parentage of her child into question, the Erlking would see her punished for it.
Which almost certainly meant that he would punish the children.
She pressed her fingers against Gild’s chest one last time, before pulling away.
“I shouldn’t keep him waiting,” she whispered. “Much as I might wish to.”
Gild swallowed. She traced the action with her gaze, the struggle within his throat, as if he were biting back words that wanted to choke him.
“I’ll walk you the rest of the way.”
“You don’t have to.”
He smiled—a little wistful, a little cheeky. “There are monsters in this castle, in case you hadn’t heard. If something happened to you, I would never forgive myself.”
“My protector,” she said teasingly.
But his expression darkened. “I can’t protect you when it really matters.”
Her chest tightened. “Gild—”
“I’m sorry,” he said hastily. “It won’t matter. Once we find our bodies. Once we break this curse.”
Serilda slipped a hand into his and squeezed his fingers tight. It was the one thing that gave either of them hope. The chance that they might find their bodies and snap the arrows in their wrists, breaking the curse that kept them tethered to this castle. That they might someday be free. “We will,” she said. “We will break this curse, Gild.”
His grip tightened briefly, but he was the first to pull away. “You should go,” he said. “Before anyone sees us and tells the king that you’ve been cavorting with the poltergeist.”
Chapter Three
The first thing Serilda thought when she had seen the king’s chambers, some weeks before, was that he was a man who knew how to meet expectations.
There was no bed, which led Serilda to believe the dark ones never slept, though she’d never outright asked. There was, however, an array of exquisite furniture. High-backed chairs and elegant sofas, all upholstered in the finest of fabrics and trimmed in black rope and tassels. Tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony wood. Thick fur rugs that were so large she shuddered to think what creature they might have come from.
A cabinet of wonders against one wall held a curated collection of animal skulls, unusual weaponry, marble sculptures, hand-painted pottery, leather-bound books, grotesquely leering masks. There were the usual antlers and horns and taxidermy hung above tapestries, but here he also kept small, dainty creatures. Warblers so lifelike they seemed like they could start singing at any moment. Sprightly foxes that could have scampered right off the wall.
The opposite wall was hung with a lavish collection of maps. Some appeared ancient, drawn onto animal skins and parchment. Some featured places in the world that Serilda had never heard of, that she wasn’t entirely sure were real, with flourishing depictions of the strangest of mythical beasts, their names written in neat penmanship and faint red lettering. Inkanyamba, a long serpent with a horselike head. The giant Buto Ijo, a fanged green troll. Gumiho, a nine-tailed fox. Serilda loved to study the creatures, loved to trail her fingers over the words and sound out the unfamiliar names on her tongue. She couldn’t help but wonder if they were real. If they lived somewhere far away. She’d seen enough creatures on the dark side of the veil, creatures she’d once thought were only in fairy tales, that she would believe just about anything.
All in all, the rooms were dark and a little gloomy, yes, but cozy in their own bizarre way. If there was a piece of wood, it was ornately carved and polished to a rich, glossy sheen. If there was a scrap of fabric, from the drapes to the cushions, it was black or deep jewel tones and of the very finest quality. If there was a candle, it was lit.
And there were lots of candles, so that the room gave the impression of a god’s altar at a busy temple.
The thing that most held Serilda’s attention in the Erlking’s chambers was the tall floor clock that stood within an alcove near the hearth. It had a brass pendulum that was longer than Serilda was tall, and a face that tracked not only the time, but also the cycles of the moon and the yearly seasons. Four hands ticked slow and steady around the circle, each one carved from delicate bone. Serilda couldn’t help watching it when she was in the room.
In part, perhaps, because she, too, was counting the minutes until she could leave.
When she arrived on the evening before the summer solstice, a table had been set by the balcony, containing a carafe of burgundy wine, a block of cheese next to a loaf of dark bread, and a bowl overflowing with crimson cherries and glossy apricots. She had once assumed that the dark ones, especially those who partook in the wild hunt, must hunger constantly for the meat of their prey. She imagined them dancing around great slabs roasted over fiery pits, flames hissing with the fat that dripped from the bones, crisp char edged along the haunches of wild boar and stag. And there was plenty of meat eaten in the castle, but its occupants had more refined tastes as well, and fresh fruit was in constant demand. Not unlike at home, when there was such a rush of delight when the orchards and fields grew colorful with plums, figs, and wild berries—such a luxury after a hard winter.
The Erlking stood at the window. In the distance, a waxing moon hung above the Rückgrat Mountains, its light shimmering across the black mirror surface of the lake.
Serilda claimed one of the upholstered seats at the table and helped herself to a cherry. The flesh burst in her mouth. Sweet and the tiniest bit sour. She didn’t know how a proper queen was supposed to dispose of the pit, so she spat it into her fingers and dropped it into an empty wineglass before helping herself to another.
And a third.
She thought of what everyone else in this castle thought was happening in this room right now, and it made her want to laugh. If only they could see how their supposedly lovestruck king spent most of their evenings completely ignoring her.
Then she thought of Gild, and how what he thought was happening was probably tearing him apart, and she quickly sobered.
“How fares my progeny?”
She started. The king was still turned away from her, his raven-black hair trailing loose down his back.
Your progeny does not exist, she wanted to say. This child is not yours. Will never be yours.
Instead, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “I feel no different. If I’m being honest, I’m beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about.” She spoke lightly, to disguise the very real concerns that had started to bubble up inside her. “I’m hungry all the time, but that’s nothing new.” She grabbed a nectarine and bit into it. When the juice dribbled down her chin, she wiped it away with her sleeve and kept eating, ignoring the king’s disapproving gaze upon her.
If Erlkönig wanted a queen schooled in courtly etiquette, he’d chosen poorly.
“Is there a midwife in the castle?” she asked. “One of the ghosts, perhaps? Surely the previous royal family employed one. I have so many questions. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.”
“A midwife,” the Erlking repeated, and Serilda could tell the idea had never occurred to him. “I will find out.”
Serilda licked a drop of juice from her wrist before it could reach the cuff of her sleeve.
Snatching a napkin from the table, the king tossed it at her. “Try to improve your manners. You are going to be a queen, and my wife.”
“Your choice, not mine.” She ignored the napkin and took another bite of the nectarine. When she was finished, she grinned and dropped the stone of the fruit into her glass beside the cherry pits. She then used her velvet skirt to wipe the sticky residue from her fingers, one by one. “But if you’re embarrassed by me, there is still time to change your mind.”
His expression cooled, which was a feat, given its usual iciness. “At least I will not have long to tolerate you. Six months. Barely a blink.”
She prickled at the implication. Surely he should at least try to hide his intention to kill her once she’d served her purpose?
Out of spite, she broke off a hunk of cheese and shoved it into her mouth, knowing full well it was the king’s favorite. She was still chewing when she asked, “Will we share your chambers once the ceremony is done?”
The king scoffed. “Absolutely not. We will continue on as we’ve been until we can announce the pregnancy. There is no need for anything more.”
Serilda exhaled. She’d been dreading that question for weeks, and she felt dizzy with the relief of knowing she would not have to sleep here, with him. They would just go on pretending.
For now, she could do that.
How long had she been there? She glanced at the clock. Barely ten minutes had passed. It felt like ages.
“I wonder if we should have held the wedding ceremony on the Lovers’ Moon,” he said. “Choosing the solstice had a poetry to it, but it seems my bride has grown impatient.”
