Cursed (Gilded, #2)

by Marissa Meyer

“Be brave, my girl. I know you will be. You were always braver than I was.”

“You were always my greatest joy, you and that wild imagination of yours. So much like your mother.” He sighed, and there was a deep sadness beneath it. “I would not change you for all the time in the world.”

It was what she’d sworn from the beginning. She would find a way to free these souls, no matter what. But at this cost? Her own body, her own baby … Could she live with this choice, knowing that she was responsible for allowing the huntress back into the mortal realm? Her gaze dropped to the children, taking them in one by one. Could she live with herself if she didn’t do this?

In that sudden, unexpected loss, there was also a swell of unspeakable happiness. She had done it. They were free.

She had given the Erlking precisely what he wanted. She had lost herself. Lost her baby. She could not help cursing the Mourning Moon for all it had taken from her.

“Don’t you get it, Gild? This is the stuff of fairy tales. You are the stuff of fairy tales. Handsome princes who kill wicked huntresses and get themselves cursed inside haunted castles are the stuff of fairy tales.”

Tyrr—the wyvern. Solvilde—the basilisk. Hulda—the tatzelwurm. Eostrig—the unicorn. Freydon—the gryphon. And Velos—the wolf. The only god not yet captured was Wyrdith, the raptor. God of stories. God of lies. God of fortune and fate. Serilda’s own patron deity.

“I am a vicious thing,” she said. “The graveyard should fear me.”

She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she wanted to meet Wyrdith. The god who had blessed her. The god who had cursed her.

Surely, the hunt cannot know to look for a … plain village maiden.

“Perhaps fate and fortune intended us to meet this way all along.

“It would seem you have a lot of stories to tell.” “That is a vast understatement,”

I’ve often found, when all is forgotten by history, a good story can still live on. A good story can live forever.”

“Do you gods realize that your gifts often end up causing so much trouble?” “Yes,” mused Wyrdith. “Though we generally mean well.”

“Thank you for telling me that story. I feel like I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place where.” The worn pages crinkled in Wyrdith’s fingers. “Indeed. You have heard this story, many times, though I would not expect you to remember. You were so very young, but … but there was a time when it was one of your favorites.”

Wyrdith. God of stories. God of fortune. Her own patron deity. Wyrdith was her mother. Her mother was alive. Her mother was not mortal.

“He’s taken everything from me. I can’t win against him.”

“And you’re gods. I’m just me. A miller’s daughter.” Wyrdith hummed. “You’re my daughter, too.” The words sent a chill racing along Serilda’s spine.

“That is one of the great things about being a storyteller.” Wyrdith nudged Serilda gently. “We get to write our own story, too.”

“I do understand,” said Wyrdith. “Stories are powerful.” They threaded their fingers through Serilda’s. “What you don’t understand is that you have not yet written the ending.”

“The question is, where does the story go from here?”

“Run?” they said, smoothing back Serilda’s hair. “Hide? Give up?” Their cheeks dimpled and they kissed Serilda’s brow. “But what sort of story would that be, my beautiful, strong-willed child?”

The way he looked at her, like she was the most amazing being to ever come from the mortal realm. The way he kissed her, like every touch was a gift. Like she was a treasure so much more valuable than gold.

What sort of story would that be, my beautiful, strong-willed child?

All she had loved in her old life was gone, snatched away from her. All she loved now was here, within these walls.

It all seemed impossible. Nothing but a fairy tale. But she was Wyrdith’s daughter. Stories and lies. Fortune and fate. That had to mean something.

Serilda was not alone. She would have gone anyway, even if she were.

Seven beasts. Seven gods. A solstice moon and a wish.

The story was over. She had won. And she had lost. The wheel of fortune, mocking her again.

Human, god, monster—we are all the victims of fate and fortune. Whether or not the great wheel will land in our favor, only time will tell.

For every great story has a little bit of truth in it, and a little bit of make-believe.