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.