She shook off her disappointment and met Gild’s eye again. He was staring at her, but she could not read the look. Confusion? Pity?
Enough of that.
Sitting straighter, she declared, “I think you’re a sorcerer.”
His eyebrows shot upward in surprise. Then he started to laugh, a great, bellowing sound that warmed her to her toes.
“I am not a sorcerer.”
“That you know of,” she said, lifting one finger toward him. “You’re under some dark spell that’s caused you to forget a sacred oath you once made to always come to the aid of a fa—of a worthy maiden when she calls on you.”
He fixed her with a look and repeated, “I am not a sorcerer.”
Serilda mirrored his expression. “I’ve watched you spinstrawintogold.You are a sorcerer. You cannot convince me otherwise.”
His smile broke through again. “Maybe I’m one of the old gods. Maybe IamHulda.”
“Don’t think the idea didn’t occur to me. But no. Gods are pompous and distant and in love with their own brilliance. You’re none of those things.”
“Thank you?”
She smirked. “Well, you might be a little in love with your own brilliance.”
Gild shrugged, not disagreeing.
She tapped her fingers against her mouth, watching him. He truly was a mystery, and one she felt compelled to figure out—if it was only because she needed the distraction from every horrible thing that wanted to crowd into her thoughts.
He was like no fairy or kobold she had ever heard of, and she did not think he was a zwerge or a land wight or any of the forest folk. True, many stories revolved around the magic ones assisting lost travelers or poor fishermen or desperate maidens—for a price. Always for a price. And in that regard, Gild did seem to fit the description. But he had no wings, no tall ears, no pointed teeth, no devil’s tail. He did have a subtle mischief, she had to admit. A teasing smile. An eye for trouble. Yet his mannerisms were thoughtful and precise.
He was magical. A gold-spinner.
A witch?
Maybe.
A godchild of Hulda?
Perhaps.
But nothing felt quite right.
Again, she found herself inspecting his edges. They were as solid as any boy she’d ever met in the village. There was no haziness about him, as though he were about to dissolve into the air. No transparent limbs, no foggy silhouettes. He seemed real. He seemed alive.
Gild held her gaze while she studied him, never flinching, never breaking eye contact, never turning away in embarrassment. A small smile clung to his lips while he waited for her proclamation.
Finally, she declared, “I have made up my mind. Whatever you might be, you are definitely not a ghost.”
Chapter 24
Gild beamed. “You’re certain?”
“I am.”
“And why am I not a ghost?”
“You’re too”—she struggled for the right word—“alive.”
His laugh was hollow. “I don’t feel alive. Or at least I didn’t. Not until—” His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrists. Back up to her face.