Serilda pressed her cheek to the top of his head. “Shall I continue the story?”
He chuckled quietly and seemed to consider, but then she felt his head shaking. He pulled away, enough to look at her. “Why do you say you aren’t fair?”
“What?”
“Before, talking about damsels and my … heroics.” His smile grew cheeky, but only for a moment. “You seemed to be suggesting that you’re … not beautiful.”
Despite his obvious discomfort, he did not look away.
“Are you mocking me?”
His brow pinched. “No. Of course not.”
“Can you not see what’s before you?”
“I can see precisely what’s before me.” He reached up with his other hand and, when she didn’t pull away, settled the tips of his fingers lightly against her temple. He held her gaze steadily, when so many boys had flinched away with looks of pity, if not outright disgust.
Gild did not flinch.
“What do they mean?” he asked.
She swallowed. A lie would have been easy. She had thought of so many to explain away her eyes.
For so long, she had wondered if the tale her father had told her was just another fabrication.
But now she knew it was the truth, and she did not want to lie to Gild.
“I was marked by Wyrdith,” she said, suddenly unable, or unwilling, to move. Every touch was a new revelation.
His eyes widened. “The god of stories. Of course. It’s the wheel of fortune.”
She nodded. “They mean that I can’t be trusted. That I’m bad luck.”
Gild considered this for a long time, before giving a subtle grunt. “Fortune determines who will prosper and who will fail. It’s all a matter of chance.”
“That’s what they like to tell you,” she said, “but when someone has good fortune, they are quick to thank Freydon or Solvilde, even Hulda. But Wyrdith is only ever credited with bad luck.”
“And do people blame you? When they have bad luck?”
“Some do, yes. Being a storyteller doesn’t help. People don’t trust me.”
“Doesn’t seem right, to blame you for things you have no control over.”
She shrugged. “It can be difficult to prove I’m not at fault.”
Especially when she wasn’t sure they were wrong. But she didn’t want to tell him that. Not when he had, so far, not shied away from her.
Gild let his hand drop back to his lap, which both relieved and saddened her. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“I’ve forgotten what it was.”
“Why do you think you’re not beautiful?”
She flushed. “I would think that’s been answered just fine.”
“You’ve told me that you’re cursed by the god of stories. That people don’t trust you. But that isn’t the same thing. Spend enough time with the dark ones and you’ll know that sometimes the most untrustworthy things are also the most beautiful.”
She pictured the Erlking, in all his unimaginable beauty.