by Ann Aguirre
And I didn’t. Because my sisters had a touch of the same fever that took Owen, and I was nursing Tillie, who was always smaller and weaker than her twin. Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wonder if I should have chosen him. If I’d left home, if I had nursed him and made him healing broths, could I have saved him instead? But nobody should be forced to make that choice, to decide which sort of love is more precious.
Truly, I didn’t know he was that sick. Not until it was too late. He hid it from me, not wanting me to worry. He met his goal, sure enough—I didn’t worry but I did grieve and I do still, mentally raking my choices like hot coals that give no warmth. Irritated with myself for obsessing over events I can’t change, I slap together the fry bread dough and pummel it a bit more than I need to. It may come out tough but I doubt Njål will complain.
Finally, he speaks. “You seem upset.”
“It’s nothing new.”
“Would it help to talk about it?”
I’m surprised he asked. “Just the opposite. I hate myself for being this way, but sometimes I get stuck, and I can’t stop my thoughts.”
“Mulling over things you can’t change.”
I stare in his direction, wishing I could see his expression, but he’s only given me his voice. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve looped the tale in my head a thousand times. Was there a path I could have taken that led somewhere else? Or do all my roads end this way?”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here,” I say then.
“It’s been ages since I heard that.” The pleasure in his voice is unmistakable, and I’ve started to enjoy that deep rasp. I want him to talk to me; I could listen for hours to the hoarse softness that means Njål is with me.
That unusual anticipation makes me feel . . . something. I’m uncomfortable and not ready to examine it further so I change the subject. “Did you know we have a guest?”
“Who?” he demands, all gentleness erased so cleanly that I wonder if I imagined it.
“Her name is Agatha. She’s currently munching on hay in the stables.”
“Pardon me?”
“Agatha is a goat,” I clarify. “I’ve no idea how the hay is still good, but it’s perfectly preserved.” On impulse, I share the fleeting wish I made silently the day before, finishing with, “It’s rather odd, isn’t it? Can the keep read my mind?”
“Not exactly,” he says.
Startled, I ask, “But it’s something like that?”
“For some reason, the keep wants you to stay. Therefore, it provides what you require as an inducement. I would be careful, however, as it can be cruel and mercurial.”
“If I wished to see my family, it might lure them here and turn them to ice,” I suggest. “That sort of thing.”
“So they can be with you eternally.” There’s a heaviness to his tone now, as if he has personal experience in this area.
I don’t ask. Part of me wants to, but getting close to Njål doesn’t seem like the wisest idea for a whole host of reasons. Silently, I admit that I’m tempted, but I’m here to cook and clean, not delve into the mysteries of Bitterburn and its fascinating captive. Resolutely I stir the soup and roll out the first piece of flatbread, then drop it in the skillet. The bread puffs as it sizzles and Njål draws in an appreciative breath.
“I could eat that daily for ten years and not get tired of it.”
“What did you do before I arrived?”
He said he handled his own meals, but the kitchen didn’t show any signs of use before I cleaned it. There’s a long pause, as if he doesn’t want to answer.
I’m about to disavow the question when he says softly, “I starved, mostly. There was no reason to bother.”
“You . . . just didn’t eat?” Starvation eventually leads to death, even among the cursed. Or at least, I thought that must be true.
“When I said I can’t leave, I meant it utterly. If simple hunger could end my life, I’d have died long since.”
“You’re saying that you can’t die.” I wonder if he gets weak and thin, or if he doesn’t need to eat? I doubt he’d welcome my curiosity, however.
“If only I could,” he says wearily. “But the keep and its magic sustain me, keeping me alive to ensure that the torment is eternal and that my isolation is infinite.”
“But it’s not. Not anymore. The keep let me in. What does that mean?”
Njål lets out a long breath. “I wish I knew. But long and terrible experience makes me fear that Bitterburn has found a new way to torment me.”
5.
It’s difficult to conceal my reaction to that unexpectedly hurtful remark.
My presence is a torment? Njål has been amiable so far, but I ought to have known not to get comfortable with such kindness. I finish my food in silence, then I begin clearing the remainder of the meal without replying. What can I say anyway? He knows that I have nowhere to go, even if I’m made to feel vastly unwelcome.
“Amarrah?” The questioning tone makes it worse, as if he truly has no notion how terrible I feel.
“Is there something more you require, sir?” That formality is my only defense, and I use it like a shield.
“I can tell that you’re upset, but I don’t know why.”
That’s the last straw. I can’t pretend to be fine, speak politely when I want to chuck this dish at his head. I hurl the rag in his general direction instead. “You just said I exist to plague you! Those who scrub and toil have feelings, Sir Njål. Perhaps that will come as a shock, as I suspect you enjoyed a life of leisure before you got yourself cursed.”
“Oh.” The single syllable does nothing to appease me and I’m about to keep ranting when he adds quickly, “That’s not what I mean. Bitterburn granted you as an unexpected gift, and I’m afraid that when I come to depend on you, look forward to eating and speaking with you, once I settle into that comfort, you’ll be taken. I don’t want you to be hurt because of me! And renewed isolation would be a fresh torture. I greatly fear . . .”
“Losing me?” That changes everything. My anger fades as fast as it came, as realization dawns. “You’re afraid something bad will happen.”
“I fear for your safety,” he admits softly.
“Is that why you tried to keep your distance initially?” I ask.
“Part of it. But I also thought you’d soon see how bleak and terrible this place is, and that you’d go after a night or two.”
“I like it here,” I say.
Here, nobody rebukes me. No one is disappointed. I have my own private, cozy space, and for the time being, there’s plenty of food. That won’t always be true, of course, with no more supplies coming from town, but neither of us eats that much and we have years of staples to work through. And I have Agatha now. Slowly, the keep is coming to feel like home, and maybe I’m foolish, but I don’t fear this place the way Njål seems to. I don’t feel uneasy or threatened, though the keep is admittedly strange, much like Njål.
Who has been silent for so long that I imagine he means to creep off quietly without responding. But he finally says, “I’ve no idea why, as there’s nothing here that anyone would want. But I’m glad.”
“You’re here.” Oh, gods, why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?
Judging by the sharp intake of breath, I’ve stunned him. “Are you . . . you can’t be saying what I think you are.”
“That I want you?”
Do I? I’m not even sure in what sense, but yes. I’d miss his visits if he stopped coming. I’d hate eating alone and having no contact to liven up my daily chores.
“Amarrah, don’t game with me. You’ve no idea how desperate and wild you’re making me feel.”
“I’m sorry for that. I’m not provoking you intentionally. I wasn’t saying I want your company in the night yet, but I do like having you in the kitchen.”
“Ah,” he says.
And I have the sense that I’ve hurt him, raised his hopes and dashed them nearly in the
same breath. It’s too soon, though. Owen’s death haunts me and I know little of Njål, only the sound of his voice, really. And by all the bright gods, I never loved Owen fully, not in the physical sense, because we were waiting for the right time, for him to finish his apprenticeship and for us to build a little cottage where it would be just the two of us.
I ought to have gone to his room and showed him my adoration, even if it was awkward, because then at least I’d have the memory to keep me warm. Life is a series of imperfect occasions, messy and convoluted and full of doubts. Waiting for perfection simply means waiting forever and never experiencing anything at all.
“Amarrah. You said ‘yet.’”
I smile as I pick up the cloth I threw. “I did. There may come a time when my bed feels empty and I’ll ask you to join me there. I can’t promise that I will, however, because feelings are often uncertain, unpredictable as butterflies. Will you wait?”
He surprises me with a soft chuckle. “I can do little damn else. If patience is a virtue, then I’m a saint and need only to be recognized by the church.”
“Somehow I doubt it’ll be easy to get a cleric up here.”
“And if one came, he’d likely be added to the ice garden,” he says somberly.
It’s still baffling that I wasn’t. “True enough.”
“You’re worth waiting for, if there’s a chance that you’ll develop any fondness for one such as me.”
Njål has too many secrets and I have none. He knows that my family doesn’t want me and my lover perished. Such a sorrowful litany of truths, but they make me who I am.
This conversation carries too much weight. I’m not ready to make any declarations, especially not when it’s likely our hearts are swayed by sadness. He’s spoken with nobody else in countless years, so there’s no way he’s smitten with me personally. He might think Agatha is a fetching lass as well, given his lack of other options.
“I promised to check on our guest,” I say then. “You’re welcome to accompany me.”
He hesitates, at least, before refusing. “Best not.”
“What do you do with your time?” I ask, surprising myself.
“Mostly, I read. The keep has an extensive library, and I’ve read every book in it multiple times. Some I’ve reread so often that I can quote long passages, not that there was anyone to listen before.”
Wonder trickles through me. I’ve never known anyone who owned multiple books, apart from the old woman who ran the lending library when I was little. Visiting her was the bright spot of my week, and I was often punished for shirking chores to hole up with a storybook. When she passed away, her books were sold off to passing peddlers. Numbers took precedence in my father’s house, long hours devoted to balancing his ledgers and trying to find a few extra coppers if we cut back on candles or—
No, I won’t think about my old life.
“Is the library in the east wing?” I ask.
“It’s not. Why do you ask?”
I press my lips together, scared to make this request, because if he denies it, I’ll be angry and resentful. It’s difficult to ask for the things you want most.
“Because I would like to see it . . . and borrow books.” I rush onward. “I’ve never cared for a goat, you see, so perhaps I can find a book on animal husbandry, and—”
“Amarrah.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve little enough to give that might make you happy. Read every book in the library if you wish. Carry a whole pile of them to your room. Everything in the main keep is yours for the taking.”
I notice he still qualifies his bequest, but my heart trembles a little anyway, even though I understand that it means he doesn’t trust me completely. Perhaps I’ll invite him to my bed when he does.
In another life, I might have flirted with him. Said that currently he’s in the main keep, does that mean he belongs to me too? But whatever’s growing between Njål and me is too tender and tentative to tolerate such coquetry. He will take too much pleasure in my casual words, and I’ll regret that I can’t immediately deliver my whole heart on a platter. But it’s been diced so neatly that it will take time for me to reassemble the pieces, if that’s even possible. Perhaps I can only ever give him a pile of mince where my dearest love ought to be, and sadly, I reckon Njål might accept it because it’s more than he’s had in ages.
But we both deserve more. Perhaps time can grant it to us, just as it takes love away, like a sword that cuts both ways.
“I don’t know where it is. The place is huge, and I’d rather not risk a wrong turn.”
In response he gives precise directions that I memorize and repeat silently until I’m confident I can find the library without breaching his faith. Brimming with anticipation, I explode into motion, cleaning the kitchen with a fervor I’ve seldom felt. Imagine, a whole room full of books. I can’t even envision what they’d all be about. Stories or histories or dry accounts of the best way to grow turnips?
“You’re alight,” he says with a gruff sort of wonder.
At some point during my tidying spree, he slips away, leaving me to finish and wash my hands. I shouldn’t touch the precious books with grubby fingers. That done, I rush through the keep, taking the turns he specified, until I come to a pair of imposing double doors. They open silently, revealing a room that steals my breath. I’d imagined something like a gentleman’s study, but this? It’s a cathedral full of books with high arched windows covered in stained glass, roses grown wild on a wall, thorns and blooms entwined in equal measure. The shelves go all the way to the vaulted ceilings and there are multiple ladders with wheels on the bottom. I could spend two full weeks in here and not even skim all the titles. My heart flutters like a caged songbird.
Njål gave me this without hesitation. He said I could cart away books by the pile, hoard them in my room like a miser with a stack of gold. Exultation swells until I feel like shouting, and then I realize I don’t need to hold it in.
Who’s going to tell me I can’t scream with excitement? I do, joyous shrieks as I run from wall to wall, perusing the titles until I’m dizzy with the exhilaration. Drawing in a deep breath, I savor the smell of old parchment and fine leather, the touch of ink. A writing desk nestles into the corner, an antique pen discarded on an expensive looking notebook, along with pristine pages of expensive vellum. I’m tempted to poke through those notes, but he didn’t give permission for that. Maybe he’s forgotten they’re here?
I hesitate. He said anything in the main keep is mine. Is this a test?
In the end, I decide not to read what might be a private journal. If he’s checking to see if I can be trusted, I won’t take advantage of his kindness on a technicality. Besides, there are so many other things for me to read.
I lose track of time choosing one volume after another, and when I leave, I have poetry, a book of fairytales, a hefty tome on animal husbandry, and a thin little book called The Night Watchman. By now, the light has gone, just a faint glow to burnish the stained glass. I light a candle and carry everything back to the kitchen. I wish Njål was here to discuss my reading choices, but we can talk tomorrow.
Belatedly, I recall that I promised to call on Agatha. It’s true that she’s a goat with no sense of time, but promises are important. If I make excuses for my failures and rationalize the reasons why I don’t need to follow through, soon my word will mean nothing at all.
On impulse, I take The Night Watchman with me, along with the candle in its holder. Agatha is curled up in the straw when I arrive, and she blinks long-lashed eyes at me. Apparently, my absence alarmed her not at all.
On a whim, I ask, “Shall I read a chapter of this?”
She bleats. Somehow I doubt my animal husbandry book will insist that goats require bedtime stories, but I’m taking it as permission, so I settle onto a stool and open the book to the first page.
“‘The hours between midnight and dawn are the longest part of the night, the time when ghosts are most likely to
wander . . .’” A soft sound outside makes me falter, and then I know, not because I can hear anything or smell his soap and pine scent, but because he’s familiar to me, like the shape of my own hands. Njål is here, standing outside listening to the story, desperate for contact and comfort but afraid to step out of the shadows. I wish he dared. I wished I was brave enough to open the door and invite him in, but I’m not. I let him lurk and keep reading as if I suspect nothing.
My heart aches for both of us.
6.
I work and I read.
I take care of Agatha to the best of my ability and I talk to Njål once a day. He seems to think that something dreadful will happen if we communicate more often. Those fleeting moments have become the brightest part of my day. Sighing, I scatter a few kitchen scraps for Agatha along with her hay. The keep gave me a goat, but I wish they had sent two. That way, they could breed and I’d be able to milk her.
Two days after I make that throwaway wish, I find another goat—a male one—bleating outside the gates. Common sense suggests that he’s looking for Agatha, that they were together before I took her in, but I shiver over the coincidence. It seems the keep does have the ability to grant my wishes, but what if it’s like the magic in the stories? For me to get what I want, it must be taken away from someone else.
There might be a farmer whose family will starve this winter because Bitterburn stole from him. But I don’t know where the goats came from, and I can’t wander around asking. Others would certainly claim a fine pair of breeding goats, even if they didn’t belong to that household originally.
Come to that, it might not be safe for me to leave. If I step outside the portcullis, the keep may not let me back in. Leaving and returning might turn me into an ice statue. As I stand there weighing the best course, the iron teeth raise enough for the goat to trot inside. He seems to have no doubts about where he’s supposed to be.
