“I’m not sure, but … I don’t think the dead can use god-gifts. And supposedly, you were blessed by Hulda, weren’t you?”
She sniffed again. “That’s what he believes, yes.”
Gild nodded. Then he swallowed hard and slid his hands away from her waist to grasp her fingers. “I will help you, but I need something for payment.”
His words felt distant, almost foreign. Payment? What did payments matter? What did any of this matter? Her father might be dead.
She shut her eyes with a shudder.
No—she couldn’t think of that now. She had to believe that he was alive. That she only needed to survive this night and she would soon be with him again.
“Payment,” she said, trying to think, though her mind felt clouded. What could she offer as payment? He had already taken the necklace with the girl’s portrait—even now she could see a hint of its chain around his neck.
There was still the ring … but she did not want to give it to him.
Another idea occurred to her and she met his gaze again, hopeful. “If you spin this straw into gold, then I will spin you a story.”
Gild’s brow furrowed. “A story?” He shook his head. “No, that won’t work.”
“Why not? I’m a good storyteller.”
He eyed her, thoroughly unconvinced. “All I’ve wanted to do since the last time you were here is get that horrendous story you told out of my head. I don’t think I can stomach another one.”
“Ah, but that’s just it. Tonight I will tell you what is to become of the prince. Perhaps you will appreciate this ending better.”
He sighed. “Even if that did interest me, a story won’t fulfill the requirements. Magic requires something … valuable.”
She glared at him.
“Not that stories aren’t valuable,” he hastened to add. “But don’t you have anything else?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps you could offer your aid as a show of gentlemanly honor.”
“Much as I enjoy knowing that you think I might be a gentleman, I’m afraid I can’t. My magic won’t work without a payment of some sort. It isn’t my rule, but there it is. You’ll have to give me something.”
“But I have nothing else to offer.”
He held her gaze a long moment, as if willing her to speak the truth. The look made her bristle.
“Idon’t.”
His shoulders sank. “I think you do.” He ran his thumb over the golden band on her finger. “Why not this?” he asked, not unkindly.
The caress made her skin tingle. Something coiled tight in the pit of her stomach. Something she couldn’t quite place, couldn’t quite name … but something she thought might be related to yearning.
But it was smothered beneath her sudden frustration.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I’m sure you’re fond of me, but to ask for my hand in marriage? I’m quite flattered, but we barely—”
“Wha—marriage?” he blurted, jerking away from her in a way that was just a little insulting.
Serilda hadn’t meant it, of course, but she couldn’t help but scowl.
“I meant the ring,” he said, gesturing wildly.
Serilda was tempted to play ignorant, but she felt suddenly bone-weary, and the candlewick was burning too fast, and not a single piece of straw had been spun.
“Obviously,” she said dryly. “But you can’t have it.”