Cursed
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About this ebook
“When it comes to reimagined fairy tales, the reigning queen of the genre is Marissa Meyer.” —The New York Times
In Cursed, #1 New York Times bestselling author Marissa Meyer brings the haunting fairytale-inspired Gilded duology to a thrilling conclusion that will have fans—old and new—spinning.
Be still now, and I will tell you a tale.
Adalheid Castle is in chaos.
Following a shocking turn of events, Serilda finds herself ensnared in a deadly game of make-believe with the Erlking, who is determined to propel her deeper into the castle’s lies. Meanwhile, Serilda is determined to work with Gild to help him solve the mystery of his forgotten name and past.
But soon it becomes clear that the Erlking doesn’t only want to use Serilda to bring back his one true love. He also seeks vengeance against the seven gods who have long trapped the Dark Ones behind the veil. If the Erlking succeeds, it could change the mortal realm forever.
Can Serilda find a way to use her storytelling gifts for good—once and for all? And can Serilda and Gild break the spells that tether their spirits to the castle before the Endless Moon finds them truly cursed?
Romance and adventure collide in this stunning finale to the Rumpelstilskin-inspired fairy tale.
Marissa Meyer
Marissa Meyer is the #1 New York Times–bestselling author of the Renegades Trilogy, The Lunar Chronicles series, the Wires and Nerve graphic novels, and The Lunar Chronicles Coloring Book. Her first standalone novel, Heartless, was also a #1 New York Times bestseller. Marissa created and hosts a podcast called The Happy Writer. She lives in Tacoma, Washington, with her husband and their two daughters.
Read more from Marissa Meyer
Heartless Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
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Reviews for Cursed
52 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I finished the previous novel in this duology, Gilded, somewhat skeptical about where this story was going, but I was happy to find Cursed better than I anticipated. Likely owing to events in the previous book, Serilda is a little more mature in this volume, as she and Gild struggle to break their curses and evade the nefarious schemes of the Erlking. I felt as through I had a better sense of the Erlking's motivations and he became more than just an annoying evil villain. Also, I absolutely loved the character of Gild's sister - I want a book just about her!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Serilda and Gild attempt to break the curses that tether their spirits to Adalheid's haunted castle before the Endless Moon, when the Erlking means to capture one of the seven gods and make a wish to return his lover, Perchta, from the underworld. But as the story progresses, it becomes clear he doesn't want just one god-he wants to capture all seven, and force them to bring down the veil that keeps the Dark Ones separate from the land of the mortals. Serilda and Gild must try to thwart his plans, all while solving the mystery of Gild's forgotten name, freeing his younger sister who is trapped inside Gravenstone Castle, and trying to protect their unborn child.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Cursed is Marissa Meyer’s anxiously-awaited finale of her Rumplestiltskin retelling, and for me, it more than lived up to my expectations. It was dark and vicious, violent and tense; in essence, it is everything I love in my stories. I appreciate that Ms. Meyer took us out of Adalheid Castle and into a different part of the country as we learned more about the Erlkönig’s past. While others might complain about the slow pacing, I look at it as the calm before the storm because once Serilda and Gild figure out what the Erlkönig plans to do, the story rockets to the finish line. Overall, Cursed gave me everything I hoped for and more. I couldn’t ask for a better ending, and Ms. Meyer ties all of her storylines together neatly and in ways that make sense and fit the characters. With this one duology, Ms. Meyer is now on my sacred auto-buy list.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Continuation of the fairytale retelling of the story of Rumpelstiltskin started in Gilded.
This being a duology, we finally get to the "happily ever after", albeit after much magic and suffering.
The tenuous link to the original Rumpelstiltskin tale finally gelled for me in this second book.
I was satisfied with how everything came together in the end.
Book preview
Cursed - Marissa Meyer
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Chapter One
Serilda stopped telling her tale, checking to see if the children had finally fallen asleep.
A moment passed, before Nickel opened bleary eyes. Is the story over already?
Serilda shifted toward him. You should know by now,
she whispered, pressing down a lock of his fluffy blond hair, that the best stories are never truly over. I would argue that ‘happily ever after’ is one of my more popular lies.
He yawned. Maybe. But it sure is a nice lie.
It sure is,
she agreed. Now hush. It’s time to go to sleep. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.
He posed no argument, just rolled onto his side to make more space for little Gerdrut, who was sandwiched between Nickel and Hans, with Fricz and Anna splayed at awkward angles at the foot of the bed. The five children had taken to sleeping in Serilda’s bed, even though they had been given their own cots in the servants’ halls. She didn’t mind. There was something about their cluster of tangled limbs and open mouths, blue-tinged eyelids and muttered complaints that someone was hogging the blankets that filled her heart with something close to contentment.
How she did love these children.
How she hated what had been done to them. How she tortured herself with guilt, knowing it was her fault. Her and her traitorous tongue and the stories she couldn’t stop telling. The imagination that had carried her away on so many fancies ever since she could remember … yet had brought her nothing but trouble. A life full of misfortunes.
The worst misfortune of all—the lives taken from these five precious souls.
But they kept asking her to tell her tales, so what could she say? She could deny them nothing.
Good night.
She tugged the blankets up to Nickel’s chin, covering the spot of blood that had leaked through his nightshirt over the hole in his chest, where the Erlking’s night ravens had eaten his heart.
Leaning forward, she brushed a kiss to Nickel’s temple. She had to bite back a grimace at the sensation of cool slipperiness on his skin. As though even the gentlest touch might crush his skull, as if he were as brittle as autumn leaves in a child’s fist. Ghosts were not delicate beings—they were already dead, and not much more harm could come to them. But they were caught somewhere in between their mortal forms and decaying corpses, and as such, it was as though their figures could not decide where to end, what amount of space to occupy. To look at a ghost was a bit like looking at a mirage, their outlines shifting and blurring into the air. To touch one felt like the most unnatural thing in the world. A bit like touching a dead slug, one that had been left to rot in blistering-hot sun. But … colder.
Still, Serilda loved these five little ghosts with all her being, and even if her body was missing, trapped in a haunted castle, and she could no longer feel her heart beat, she would never let them know how much she wanted to pull away every time one of them wrapped her in a hug or slipped their dead little hand into hers.
Serilda waited until she was certain that Nickel was asleep and Gerdrut had started to snore, quite impressively for such a tiny thing. Then she eased herself off the bed and dimmed the lantern on the bedside table. She approached one of the leaded windows that overlooked the great lake surrounding the castle, where evening sunlight shimmered on the water.
Tomorrow was the summer solstice.
Tomorrow she would be wed.
A light tap at the door interrupted Serilda’s thoughts before they could fall into despair. She paced across the carpet, keeping her footsteps light to avoid disturbing the children, and opened the door.
Manfred, the Erlking’s coachman and the first ghost Serilda had ever met, stood on the other side. There was a time when Manfred had served the king and queen of Adalheid, but he had died in the massacre when the Erlking and his dark ones murdered all the inhabitants and claimed the castle for themselves. Manfred’s death, like so many, had been brutal—in his case, a steel chisel through one eye. The chisel was stuck in his skull even now, the blood dripping slowly, eternally, from his eye socket. After all this time, Serilda had begun to get used to the sight, and she greeted Manfred with a smile.
I wasn’t expecting you this evening.
Manfred bowed. His Grim has requested your presence.
Her smile fell fast. Of course he has,
she said, her tone sour. The children have just fallen asleep. Give me a moment.
Take your time. I don’t mind making him wait.
Serilda nodded knowingly and shut the door. Manfred and the other ghosts might be serving the dark ones, but they loathed their masters. They tried to find small ways to annoy the Erlking and his court whenever they could. Small acts of rebellion, but rebellion all the same.
She retied her long hair into twin braids. It occurred to her that many girls, upon being summoned to the side of their husband-to-be, might pinch some color into their cheeks or place a dab of rose water along their collarbone. Whereas Serilda was tempted to sneak a dagger into her stocking on the chance she might have an opportunity to stick it into her betrothed’s throat.
She cast one more glance at the children, noting how they did not exactly appear to be sleeping. They were too pale, their breathing too still. In rest, they looked utterly dead.
Until Gerdrut’s head drooped to one side and she let out a sound like grinding millstones.
Serilda bit her lip against a laugh, remembering why she was doing this.
For them.
Only for them.
Turning away, she slipped out into the stairwell.
Serilda had memorized the route to the Erlking’s chambers, but she was nevertheless grateful for Manfred’s company as they made their way through the corridors, lit with torches and hung with eerie tapestries that depicted the most grotesque scenes of hunting hounds and ravaged prey. She was growing accustomed to the ominous, haunting shadows that filled the castle halls, but she doubted she would ever feel comfortable here. Not when any corner could reveal a dark one sneering at her or some otherworldly monster watching her with hungry eyes.
Soon she would be queen of this place, but she doubted even that would bring her much security. The ghouls and creatures that had been here long before her made it clear in their haughty expressions and snide remarks that they would sooner devour the skin from her bones than bow before a mortal queen.
She tried not to take it personally.
Is everyone eager for the festivities to be over?
Serilda asked as she and Manfred wound their way through the labyrinthine halls.
Manfred responded in his usual monotone. Not at all, my queen,
he said. Opposite to the dark ones’ indifference—perhaps, in part, because of it—the ghostly servants had adapted quite graciously to Serilda’s rise in station. Many had already begun to use royal titles when they addressed her—Majesty and Queen and occasionally even Your Radiance. My understanding is that many have seen the wedding preparations as an enjoyable distraction.
Distraction from what?
He glanced sideways at her with his good eye, a subtle smirk making his gray-speckled beard twitch. Our lives,
he said dryly. Then, with a shrug, he added, Or lack thereof.
Serilda frowned. Though Manfred and many of the ghosts had been dead for centuries, it was obvious how their deaths remained open wounds. Literally, in many cases.
Manfred,
she said slowly, do you remember serving the former royal family? The ones who lived here before the dark ones came?
I remember little of life in the castle before. But I do recall feeling
—he considered his words a long moment, and appeared oddly wistful when he finally said—proud. Of my work. Though what I had to be proud of, I could not say.
Serilda offered him a soft smile, which quickly shuttered his expression back to stoicism. She was tempted to say more, to push him on this, to urge him to remember something, anything—but it was useless. All memories of the former royal family had been eradicated when the Erlking cursed the prince and his name, erasing the royal family from history.
She found, in trying to get to know the resident ghosts, that the closer someone had been to the royal family, the fewer memories they had of their lives before the massacre. A maid who scrubbed pots and pans in the scullery might remember her former life almost in its entirety, but someone who had regularly been in the presence of the king and queen, or prince and princess, would remember almost nothing.
No one else knew it, but their prince was still here among them. A forgotten prince.
These days, the people of Adalheid knew him as Vergoldetgeist. The Gilded Ghost.
Others called him poltergeist. Gold-spinner.
Serilda knew him simply as Gild. The boy who had gone along with her lies, spun straw into gold in order to save her life, again and again. Who had unwittingly crafted the golden chains that the Erlking planned to use to capture a god.
Even Gild’s own memories had been stolen from him. He could remember nothing. Not of his life. Not of his death. Nothing from the time before he was a cursed boy, a poltergeist trapped in this horrid place. The Erlking had even erased his name from all of history—from the books to the gravestones. Gild had not known he was a prince until Serilda told him the truth of what had happened to him and his family. Him, cursed. The others, dead. Murdered, all in an act of vengeance against the prince who had killed Erlkönig’s great love—the huntress Perchta. To this day Gild acted skeptical whenever Serilda mentioned it.
But Serilda didn’t care about any of that. Not his name. Not his legacy.
She cared that Gild was the father of her unborn child.
She cared that once, in a fit of desperation, she had promised this unborn child to him, in return for his help spinning straw into gold.
She cared that she was a little bit in love with him.
Maybe—more than a little bit.
I imagine you were very important,
she said as she and Manfred passed a series of parlors. Higher ranking than a coachman, for sure. The king’s valet, perhaps. Or a royal adviser. That’s why you can’t remember much. But I am sure that you have every reason to be proud.
Manfred remained quiet. She had told him, during their nightly walks, a little bit of the story of what had happened here. To the royal family. To him and all the people who had been unfortunate enough to be in this castle when the Erlking exacted his revenge. There was a time when she had told the story to Gild, believing it all to be a made-up fairy tale, but now she knew it was true. A gift from Wyrdith, her storytelling godparent, no doubt.
None of this castle’s tragic past came as much of a surprise to those who had been forced into servitude to the dark ones for hundreds of years. They knew something horrible had happened to them. Many had the wounds to prove it. Some had fleeting memories of life before. They wore clothes befitting various roles in the castle, from chambermaids to pages to fancy courtiers, though former status meant nothing to the dark ones.
It was no far stretch to assume they had been serving royalty when the Erlking took over and murdered them all, even if they could not recall their monarchs’ faces or names or whether they had been respected and loved.
No one knew that Gild, the meddlesome poltergeist, was their forgotten prince. She dared not tell anyone the truth. She could not risk the Erlking finding out that she knew, and she couldn’t trust anyone to stay silent. Much as she liked many of these spirits, their souls belonged to the Erlking. He might allow them some freedoms, but ultimately, they obeyed him.
They had no choice.
It was the same with the children left sleeping in her chambers. The Erlking pretended they were a gift for her. Attendants for his queen. But they were also his spies. Or they could be, if she gave the Erlking any reason to spy on her.
She couldn’t trust anyone in this castle.
Anyone, except—
Ahead of them, a glint of gold caught her eye. A tiny thread looped around the base of a candle on one of the wall sconces. The tiniest detail, easily missed by anyone. By everyone.
But these past weeks, Serilda had grown accustomed to searching out tiny details.
She stood straighter. Thank you, Manfred, but you needn’t escort me the rest of the way. I can find it from here.
I do not mind, my lady.
I know you don’t. But I have to learn my way around this maze eventually, don’t I? And I could use a moment … to steel myself.
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.
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.
She huffed. Actually, there is a story I heard long ago and I’ve always wondered if it was true. They say that the Lovers’ Moon was named for you and Perchta.
The Erlking cocked his head at her, but did not reply.
As the tale goes, it was beneath that moon that the two of you shared with each other your truest names, therefore tying your fates together for eternity. That is why some people share their secrets beneath the Lovers’ Moon, because supposedly, the moonlight will protect them.
Superstitious nonsense,
he muttered. Any idiot should know that if you wish to protect a secret, you should speak it to no one, no matter which moon you’re under. But you mortals give such power to fairy tales. You believe fate is determined by old gods and superstitions. That every misfortune can be blamed on the moonlight, the stars, whatever ludicrous thing suits you in the moment. But there is no fate, no fortune. There are only the secrets we share and those we conceal. Our own choices, or the fear of making a choice.
Serilda stared at him. How many times had the villagers of Märchenfeld blamed their misfortunes on her?
Yet she couldn’t ignore that she was the goddaughter of Wyrdith. She had been cursed by the god of stories and fortune, and to say that those things were of no importance didn’t feel entirely true