“Will you prepare a pack of food?” she asked her father when he did not move from the door, but stood sullen, wringing his hands in distress. Her request was as much a means of pulling him from his stupor as it was an acknowledgment that she’d need food. At the moment, she was still full from their evening bread and with the sudden nerves overtaking her insides, she doubted she would have an appetite anytime soon.
When she was ready and could think of nothing else she might need, her father had a yellow apple, a slice of buttered rye, and a square of ?hard cheese wrapped in a handkerchief. She took it from him in exchange for a kiss on his cheek.
“I will be all right,” she whispered, hoping that her expression conveyed more certainty than she actually felt.
From Papa’s furrowed brow, she didn’t think it mattered. She knew he would not sleep tonight, not until she was safely returned.
“Be careful, my girl,” he said, pulling her into a tight embrace. “They say he is most charming, but never forget that such charm hides a cruel and wicked heart.”
She laughed. “Papa, I assure you, the Erlking has no interest in charming me. Whatever he has summoned me for, it is notthat.”
He grunted, unwilling to agree, but said nothing more.
With one last squeeze of his hand, Serilda pulled open the door.
The ghost stood waiting beside the carriage. He watched her coolly as Serilda made her way along the garden’s snowy path.
Only once she got close did she see that what had appeared as the bars of a cage were, in fact, the rib cage of some enormous beast. Her feet halted as she stared at the whitened bones, each one intricately carved with barbed vines and budding moonflowers and creatures great and small. Bats and mice and owls. Tatzelwurm and nachtkrapp.
The coachman cleared his throat impatiently, and Serilda yanked her hand away from where she had been tracing a nachtkrapp’s bedraggled wing.
She accepted his hand, letting him assist her into the carriage. The ghost’s fingers were solid enough, but they felt like touching … well, a dead man. His skin was brittle, as if his hand would crumble to dust if she squeezed too tight, and there was no warmth to his touch. He was notice-cold like the Erlking had been—the difference, she supposed, between a creature from the underworld whose blood likely ran cold in his veins and a specter who had no blood left at all.
She tried to stifle a shudder as she pulled back the curtain and stepped into the carriage, then wrapped her cloak around her arms and tried to pretend it was only the winter air making her shiver.
Inside, a cushioned bench awaited her. The carriage was small and would hardly have fit a second passenger, but as she was alone, she found it quite cozy, and surprisingly warm as the heavy drapes blocked out the frigid night air. A small lantern was attached to the ceiling, crafted from the skull and jagged-toothed jaws of yet another creature. A candle made of dark green wax burned inside the skull, its warm flame not only making the space quite comfortable with its gentle heat, but also sending a golden light through the eye sockets, the nostrils, the spaces in between sharp, grinning teeth.
Serilda settled onto the bench, a little overwhelmed to be given traveling accommodations that were so eerily luxurious.
On a whim, she stretched up a finger and traced the lantern’s jawbone. She whispered a quiet thank-you that it had given its life so she might ride in such comfort.
The jaws snapped shut.
Yelping, Serilda yanked her hand back.
A moment passed. The lantern opened its maw again. As if nothing had happened.
Outside, she heard the crack of a whip, and the carriage lurched into the night.
Chapter 8
Parting the heavy drapes, Serilda watched the passing landscape. Having only ever traveled to the neighboring towns of Mondbrück and Fleck, and once when she was a child to the city of Nordenburg, Serilda had little experience of the world beyond Märchenfeld, and a heart that yearned to see more. To know more. To capture every tiny detail and store it away in her memory for future musings.
They passed quickly over the rolling farmlands and then onto the road that ran parallel to the Sorge River. For a while, they were trapped between the winding black river to her right and the Aschen Wood, a dark threat to her left.
Until, finally, the carriage veered off the commonly traveled road onto a bumpier path heading straight into the forest.
Serilda braced herself as the tree cover loomed ahead of them, half expecting to feel a change in the air as they passed into the shadows of the boughs. A chill trickled down her spine. But she felt nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps that the air grew a tinge warmer, with the trees offering shelter from the wind.
It was also much darker, and though she squinted for any glimpses afforded by the full moon, its light barely filtered through the tight-knit branches. Occasionally there were faint silver glimmers alighting on a gnarled tree trunk. Illuminating a pool of standing water. Catching the beat of wings as some nocturnal bird flitted between the boughs.
It was a wonder the bahkauv could find their way, or that the coachman knew where to go in such darkness. But their pace never slowed. The thud of their hooves was louder here, echoing back to her from the forest.
Travelers rarely ventured into the Aschen Wood unless they had no other choice, and with good reason. Mortals did not belong here.
For the first time, she began to feel afraid.
“Stop it, Serilda,” she muttered, letting the curtain close. There wasn’t much point in looking out at the scenery, anyhow, with the darkness growing thicker by the moment. She glanced at the skull lantern and imagined that it was watching her.