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.”
“It is not impatience that I feel.”
“You have not dreamed of being a summer bride?”
She snorted. “I’m not a summer bride. I’m a summer sacrifice.”
The Erlking laughed. It was a rare sound, and one that always gave Serilda a twinge of satisfaction, even though she didn’t want it to.
The sad part was, she meant it.
This was not to be a wedding. This was to be a ritual sacrifice, and she was the lamb. When the time was right, he would slaughter her and take her child, who she somehow already loved with a ferocity unlike anything she’d ever known.
Serilda rubbed her fingers across the scar on her wrist. In truth, the sacrifice had already been made, from the moment the Erlking thrust a gold-tipped arrow through her wrist and put a curse upon her soul, splitting her spirit from her mortal body and tethering it to this haunted castle, trapping her here, on the dark side of the veil.
She had witnessed her body lying on the floor of the throne room, breathing, yet lifeless. Serilda didn’t fully understand the magic. She could no longer feel her pulse or the steady drum of her heartbeat. She could hold her breath for an eternity, and yet she continued to breathe from habit, or comfort.
And then there was her unborn child, who she could only hope was all right. She felt none of the symptoms of pregnancy, the bouts of stomach sickness or the aches in her back and ankles that she remembered women in Märchenfeld complaining about. She did not know if the baby was physically inside of her, even now, or if it was growing in the corpselike version of her, hidden away in this castle.
She had to trust that the Erlking would not have done anything to harm the child, given his plans for it, and she very much hated having to put her trust in him.
Finally abandoning the window, the Erlking reached for his wineglass. He hesitated, his eyes lifting to hers.
“What?” she asked. “I didn’t poison it.” Then she gasped. “Though perhaps I should try that next time.”
“I suggest wolfsbane, if you do. I’ve always found the aftertaste to be mildly sweet and quite satisfying.” He lifted the glass to his lips, studying her while he took a sip. When he lowered the glass, he said, “You see yourself as a storyteller, if I’m not mistaken.”
Serilda sat straighter, feeling a little vulnerable that the king might have noticed this quiet, hidden part of her. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Then tell me a story.”
She scowled. “I am not in the mood. And don’t try to order me around. I am not one of your ghosts.”
His lips curled, amused. “I only thought it would pass the time.” His attention turned meaningfully to the clock, as if he’d noticed her watching it.