Gilded

But there are two sides to every story. The hero and the villain. The dark and the light. The blessing and the curse. And what the miller had not understood is that the god of stories is also the god of lies. A trickster god.

Your stories, I think they’re sort of like spinning, too. Because it’s like you’re making something beautiful out of nothing.

The world was full of small enchantments, when one was willing to look for them. And Serilda was always looking.

I think I understand better now,” she said slowly. “Your jokes. Your…pranks. You wield laughter like a weapon, a protection against your awful circumstances. I think you’re trying to create lightness where there is so much dark.” One of his eyebrows lifted. “Yes, you have it exactly right. I assure you, I only think of daisies and shooting stars and bringing merriment into this dreadful world. I never think at all of how His Foulness will turn blue with anger and he’ll spend half the night cursing my existence. That would just be spiteful. Far beneath me.” She laughed. “I suppose spite can be a weapon, too.” “Absolutely. My favorite, in fact. Well. Other than a sword. Because who doesn’t love a sword?

The boundary between truth and fiction felt thinner every day.

No, I’m not a witch. And I didn’t summon you. I was just sitting here, crying, contemplating my own demise, thank you muchly.

When she talked, she could hardly keep herself from telling the most outlandish tales, as though her tongue could not tell the difference between truth and falsehoods. She began to trade in stories and lies herself, and while the other children delighted in her tales—so full of whimsy and enchantment—the elders knew better.

The true beginning was in the before times, when monsters roamed freely outside the veil that now separates them from mortals, and demons sometimes fell in love.

So. The Erlking brought a mortal to the castle and locked her up. A bunch of straw, a spinning wheel. Easy enough to guess what he wants.” “Indeed. He wants some straw baskets for storing all the yarn that’s going to be spun on this wheel. I think he means to take up knitting.” “He does need a hobby,” said the boy. “One can only go around kidnapping people and butchering magical creatures for so many centuries before it gets tiresome.

I’m fine,” she said, the words automatic. They were the easiest lie, one that everyone told from time to time.

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.” “Or perhaps you could…help?” “How?” He circled his fingers around his temple, like her presence was giving him a headache. Then he whirled his hand in her direction and proclaimed, in a ridiculously staunch voice, “I do beseech you, oh fair one, would you please assist me with this most tedious of tasks by gathering the straw and bringing it within my reach, so that our progress might be hastened and you don’t get your head chopped off at dawn?” Serilda pressed her lips together. He was mocking her, but…at least this time he did say please. “With pleasure,” she snapped.

The child was forever marked with untrustworthy eyes—pitch black irises, each overlaid by a golden wheel with eight tiny golden spikes. The wheel of fate and fortune, which, if you are wise, you know is the greatest deception of all. Such a peculiar gaze ensured that all who saw her would know she had been touched by old magic.

All of my favorite stories are about love, and I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what it would be like, and wishing…

She looked at the phantom with the chisel in his eye. Could she fight him? Push him into the cell and lock the door, then hide somewhere until she found a chance to escape? Returning her look, the ghost slowly smiled. “I’m already dead.” “I wasn’t thinking about killing you.” “You are a terrible liar.

I am not a sorcerer.” Serilda mirrored his expression. “I’ve watched you spin straw into gold. You are a sorcerer. You cannot convince me otherwise.” His smile broke through again. “Maybe I’m one of the old gods. Maybe I am Hulda.” “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.

Books are meant to be shared.

You had to say straw?” Gild asked, breaking the silence. He shook his head, even as he gathered the next bundle of stalks. “You couldn’t have told him you could spin gold from silk, or even wool?” He opened his palms and Serilda could see that they were covered in scratches from the brittle material. She grinned apologetically. “I may not have fully considered the repercussions.

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.

Suit yourself. After all, why be accommodating when one can be difficult?

Thank you, then,” she said. “Consider the debt paid.” They nodded, and it felt as if a bargain had been struck and signed in blood for all the loftiness the moment carried. Desperate to break the tension, Serilda held her arms out toward them. “I feel so close to you both. Shall we embrace?” Meadowsweet gaped at her. Parsley outright snarled. The tension did not break. Serilda drew her arms quickly back. “No. That would be odd.

I’m done telling tales. Starting today, you’ll get nothing but boring news and the most trivial of facts. For example, did you know that playing three particular notes on the hackbrett will summon a demon?” “You are definitely making that up,” said Nickel. “Am not. It’s true. Ask anyone. Oh! Also, the only way to kill off a nachzehrer is by putting a stone into its mouth. That will keep it from gnawing on its own flesh while you cut off the head.” “Now, that’s the sort of education that might come in handy someday,” said Fritz with an impish grin. Serilda gave a sage nod. “My job is to prepare you for adulthood.

The first thing you ought to know is that it wasn’t my father’s fault. Not the bad luck, not the lies. Certainly not the curse. I know some will try to blame him, but he had little to do with it. And I want to be clear that it wasn’t entirely my fault, either. Not the bad luck, not the lies. Certainly not the curse. Well. Maybe some of the lies.

The superstitions of humans are so often the result of ignorance and ill-placed blame.

The boy slipped the necklace over his head and jutted his chin toward her. “Move.” Serilda tensed, startled by his abruptness. “I beg your pardon?” “You’re in the way,” he said, gesturing at the spinning wheel. “I need space to work.” “Would it hurt to ask politely?” He fixed her with a look so openly annoyed, she wondered if his irritation might rival her own. “I’m helping you.” “And I’ve paid you for the honor,” she said, indicating the necklace at his throat. “I don’t think a shred of civility is unwarranted.” He opened his mouth, but hesitated. His brow furrowed. “Would you like me to give the necklace back and leave you to your fate?” “Of course not. But you still haven’t told me how, exactly, you plan to help me.” He sighed, a bit dramatically. “Suit yourself. After all, why he accommodating when one can be difficult?

Serilda felt immediately comforted by the scent of leather and vellum, parliament and binding glue and ink. She inhaled deeply, ignoring the odd look that Leyna gave her. It was the scent of stories, after all.

Sometimes superstitions are all that we have been given by the gods in order to make sense of our world. Superstitions…and stories.

That tale did not sparkle,” said Gild, rocking back on his heels. “It was mostly gloom and death and darkness.” “You say those words like they’re bad things. But when it comes to the age-old art of storytelling,” she said sagely, “you need darkness to appreciate the light.

She had heard tales of magical ones who could do marvelous things. Of people who really had been blessed by Hulda. Who could spin not only gold, but also silver and silk and strands of perfect white pearls. But the only blessing she carried was from the god of lies, and now her cursed tongue had ruined her.

These things you tell the children, they are… they are…” Preposterous? Absurd? Sort of amusing? “Wicked!

An Endless Moon only occurs when the winter solstice coincides with a bright moon in all its fullness. This is the only night when the great gods are forced to take their beastly forms. Enormous. Powerful. Almost impossible to catch. But if you should be lucky enough, or skilled enough to capture such a prize, the god will be forced to grant a wish.