“Disagreeable?” Serilda suggested, her fingers curling at the memory of the coachman’s cool, fragile skin.
The boy chuckled. “Yes. Precisely.”
“You didn’t seem to have any qualms about trying to walk throughme.”
“You wouldn’t move!”
“I would have moved. You only needed to sayplease. If you’re concerned with etiquette, that might be a good place to start.”
He huffed, but there was little heat behind his look. If anything, he seemed a little shaken. “Fine, fine,” he muttered absently. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m saving your life.” Swallowing hard, he glanced at the candle in the corner. “We need to get started. We haven’t much time left.”
He dared to meet her eye again.
Serilda held the look, more bewildered with every passing moment.
Arriving at some internal decision, the boy gave a firm nod. “Right, then.”
He reached for her again. This time, when he took hold of Serilda’s arms, it was determined and quick as he forcefully shifted her body two steps to the side. She squeaked, in danger of losing her balance when he released her.
“What—”
“I told you,” he interrupted. “You’re in my way. Please and thank you.”
“That isn’t how those words work.”
He shrugged, but Serilda noticed how he squeezed his hands into fists as he faced the spinning wheel. And if she were telling this moment as a part of a story, she would say that the gesture, subtle as it was, carried a deeper meaning. As though he were trying to prolong that sensation, the feeling of his hands in contact with her shoulders, just a moment longer.
She shook her head, reminding herself that this was not one of her tales. As unbelievable as it might be, she was truly trapped in a dungeon, held prisoner by the Erlking, tasked with this impossible request. And now there was this boy, righting the stool and sitting down at the spinning wheel.
She blinked, looking from him to the spinning wheel to the pile of straw at her feet. “You can’t mean to …?”
“How did you think I was planning to help you?” He grabbed a handful of straw near his toe. “I already told you I can’t help you escape. So instead …” He heaved a sigh, fraught with dread. “I suppose we shall spin straw into gold.”
Chapter 12
He pressed his foot against the treadle. The wheel began to spin, filling the room with a steady whirring sound. He took the straw and, just as Serilda had, looped one strand around the bobbin as a leader yarn. Except it actually stayed for him.
Next, he started to feed the small bundle of straw through the hole, bit by bit, piece by piece. The wheel turned.
And Serilda gasped.
The straw emerged—no longer pale and inflexible and rough. At some point between entering the maiden hole and winding around the bobbin, in a blur too quick for her eyes to catch, the straw had been transformed into a malleable thread of glistening gold.
The boy’s hands were quick and confident. Soon, he had a second handful gathered from the floor beside him and was feeding it through. His foot tapped a steady pace. His eyes were focused, but calm, as if he’d done this a thousand times.
Serilda’s mouth hung agape as the bobbin filled with delicate, shimmering strands.
Gold.
Could it be?
Suddenly, the boy paused.
Serilda looked at him, disappointed. “Why did you stop?”
“I’m just wondering if you plan to stand there gawking at me all night?”
“If you’re suggesting I take a nap instead, I’ll gladly comply.”