by Ann Aguirre
“I expect you’re looking for Agatha,” I say politely.
He bleats in response and I lead him to the stable. When he swaggers in, Agatha runs over and bumps him with her head. They frolic together and make quite a racket as I head for the kitchen. If Njål follows the usual pattern, he’ll arrive while I’m cooking. And sure enough, I hear his soft footfalls as I bring the soup to a boil.
“Good day,” I say.
“Read anything interesting?”
That’s become his new greeting, and I tell him about The Night Watchman along with the animal husbandry tome I’m slogging through. Most of it isn’t too exciting, but as it’s likely that I’ll act as Agatha’s midwife at some point, I need to learn what I can.
“What about you?” I ask.
Njål is partial to poetry, and he quotes a few lines. “‘The night smells of damp wind and rain / soft sweetness of petals drifting / and all the while, the river runs.’”
“What does that mean?” The words are pretty, right enough, but I never had the time to learn how to analyze pretty sentiments. Though I’ve always been an avid reader, I lost my access when the lending library closed. After that, my world was composed of numbers, numbers that always slowly drifted into dun territory.
“There’s no set truth to a poem, no matter what the writer intended.”
“Does that mean each reader brings their own meaning?”
“Indeed, although there are some critics who would insist that their interpretations are the only correct ones. What do you find in those lines?”
I consider that, slowly stirring the soup. “The damp wind and rain feel melancholy, and the mention of flowers makes me think the writer is lonely, reflecting on happier days.”
“And the river?”
“It probably represents time. How it’s always flowing forward, and that means whether you’re happy or sad, the feeling will pass. Because you’re always moving forward, even if it feels like you’re standing still. How did I do?”
Njål laughs softly. “It wasn’t a test. I was curious, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“How you would feel about my work.”
“You wrote that?”
“And the rest of the poem as well. Perhaps I’ll share it with you someday.”
“But you could tell me if I’m right. Maybe you don’t know for sure about other poems, but you wrote that one.”
He lets out a quiet breath, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “To say I was a bit lonely is an understatement, but your instincts are good otherwise.”
I bite my lip, trying to restrain the urge to ask this question, but in the end, I can’t contain it. “When I was in the library, I saw a writing desk and there was a journal. Is it full of your poetry?” I hasten to add, “I didn’t touch it. I’m only curious.”
“Perhaps,” he says. Which is a mystifying and frustrating answer. I don’t understand until he adds, “It’s been a long time since I wrote in there, and I can’t recall what I left behind. It’s possible that was one of my volumes. If so, the work within would reflect the person I was then. Not who I’ve become.”
Ah, that makes sense.
Reluctant curiosity flowers within me. “You wouldn’t mind if I read some of your old poetry then?”
“Not at all. It almost feels as though it was penned by someone else anyway.”
I decide to change the subject because I’m not ready to ask about his past, partly because I want to live in the present and also because I’m afraid he wouldn’t tell me. This fragile peace between us is too delicate to bear rejection. It’s better for us to paddle along as we are; otherwise it could tip the little boat, and I’m not strong enough to swim yet.
“The keep has granted us another guest,” I say then.
“I hope it’s not a cow. The stables weren’t designed for such creatures.”
I laugh softly. “Close. A partner has arrived for Agatha. I expect we shall hear the clatter of tiny goat hooves before the year is out.”
“Please stop wishing for goats. At this rate, we’ll be overrun.”
“If I’d known how it worked before, I would’ve wished for a pregnant goat initially. But now that we have two, I’ll give you the opportunity to name her consort.”
“Consort? Never mind, our Agatha is clearly of royal lineage. Let me think and respond tomorrow. I cannot be precipitous about such a critical matter.”
It charms me that Njål is so serious about naming a goat. Though it’s a bit silly, he’s invested, and I can’t wait to discover what he decides. Smiling, I finish up the meal, then I arrange his food at the far end, with that part of the room in shadow. I perch on the stool and light candles, partly so I can see, but also so the glimmer makes it difficult for me to focus past a certain point.
“Understood. Dinner is done.”
Though we’ve eaten together before, my heart always pounds when he hesitates. Is today the day he rushes away and leaves me alone? No. With each step, he comes closer, until I glimpse his shadow, the edges just visible beyond the flickering candlelight. I focus on my food because if I pay too much attention to him, he’ll run. I made that mistake early on, and I won’t repeat it. Yet I do slide glances his way in my peripheral vision, and I don’t even know why. I shouldn’t yearn for more than I’m given.
He’s gentle with me. Generous. I shouldn’t push. Above all, no matter how he looks, he is a comfortable companion. The townsfolk are wrong; he’s not a monster. But that’s the thing about fascination. You can tell yourself a thousand times not to be so intrigued, but the sensation is like a butterfly that perches on your shoulder. But unlike the flutter of such delicate wings, interest is not so easily dislodged.
And so I watch Njål in secret, trying to pierce the shadows I’ve created. If he knew, he would run. And I don’t want him to.
My eyes have adjusted to the flickering juxtaposition of bright and dark, and I glimpse a large hand tipped in claws. His skin is . . . blue? Or perhaps I’ve seen wrong, and the hue is saturated somehow, a trick of the light. Somehow, I’m more captivated, not less, unquenchably curious about the rest of him. To me, he seems more like a mythic creature, as if I’m the virtuous maiden waiting in a primeval forest with my skirts spread, waiting for a unicorn. If I hold still, will Njål lay his head in my lap?
But that conjures other images, carnal acts I’m not supposed to know about. I only do because Owen once bought a naughty book with explicit sketches called How to Please Your Lover from Deo the peddler. We blushed and giggled as we read it together, and then kissed for half the night without realizing that we’d never have the chance to try anything else. Back then, we thought endless miles of life’s long road unfurled before us—that we had plenty of time.
From that book, I also learned that there can be pleasure without a lover, but in my father’s house, I had no privacy for such matters. Here, I have plenty, but until now, I had no spark of interest. How odd that the urge to explore would return after catching the briefest glimpse of Njål’s hand. Perhaps there’s a trace of perversion in my character, and I’m drawn to the forbidden, finding pleasure where I ought not.
There’s nobody here to tell me I’m bent or wrong, however. As I chat with Njål in clearing away the meal, the feeling intensifies. I don’t need to see more, just his voice is enough to keep the impulse simmering. In time, he slips away, as he usually does, and I check on the goats. By the time I retire, I feel strange and feverish, but not in my cheeks, where the heat lingers when I’m ill. This is different, and I’m experienced enough to identify the sensation. It’s how I got when Owen and I were kissing, the way I wanted more, but was too shy to ask for fear that he’d think I was forward.
In the privacy of my room, I wash up and slip into bed. At first I try to ignore the urge, but I feel soft and slick between my legs, and I’m curious. I ease a hand under the covers and stroke gently, inhaling in surprise at how good it feels. The sketches weren’t too illumi
nating; they showed a woman with her hands right here, but I’m not entirely sure what I’m meant to do, now that I’ve started.
Carefully, I drag my fingers up and down and nearly cry out when I brush a shockingly sensitive spot. I touch it again, delicately, and the pleasure escalates. I can’t stand touching it too much, so I move around, stroking myself where it’s wet and then back to that spot. Soon I have a rhythm going, and I can feel something building inside me, tightening, but it’s a good tension, like it will break me wide open, and I’ll be a new person in the aftermath. My breath comes in shallow pants; my nipples are tight.
I imagine Njål’s hand between my legs, delicate and gentle, caressing me with far more skill and knowledge than I can muster. The feeling spikes and I clench. It’s happening. Everything stops as pleasure slams through me, as if I’m a bow that’s been drawn for ages, and I’ve finally managed to fire the arrow.
Afterward, I snuggle into my covers in blissful appreciation. This is a feeling that I can achieve on my own, but I do wonder if it would be sweeter with a partner. I can’t imagine this with Owen, can’t even fantasize, because of his cold hands and the pennies on his eyes. Of all the things the world has taken from me, I resent that loss the most. I wish there had been someone else to care for him in death as I did in life, but such work cost more than I could pay. Me, without even the coppers for the ferryman.
That old bitterness eats into my joyous haze, so I seal those thoughts away. But before I sleep, one quiet question circles my weary brain.
Does Njål do this alone in his room too?
7.
Bitterburn is finally bowing to my stewardship.
The wood in the main part of the keep shines and I’ve removed all the debris, the evidence that Njål can lose his temper, destroying furniture in a fit of rage. Yet I’ve seen no sign that he’s choleric or short-tempered. In fact, he seems quite gentle for a beast. I’ve polished the stone floors until they shine, and I sense that the keep enjoys being pretty, a strange impression, but true nonetheless, if I accept that this place has a certain sentience and power. I can scarcely deny it when I have two goats wandering about, due largely to my random wishes.
Getting this house in order was a backbreaking endeavor, but now that the heavy work is done, I have a bit more time, and today, I pay attention to the details. Though I’ve walked every inch of the keep, before I was preoccupied with moving detritus, and now, I focus on the architectural features, the vaulted ceilings and the oriel windows. There are cozy spaces amid all the ruined grandeur, and as I study the window seats hidden here and there, I decide these would be lovely places to read, if the keep was warmer. But I only keep a fire burning in the kitchen, and I can see my breath as I move through the great hall.
For the first time in longer than I can recall, I have moments of leisure, as the keep doesn’t seem to attract dust and pests like a normal space. There are signs of decay and neglect, but not nearly as much as one would expect in a largely derelict building. Njål certainly hasn’t been cooking or cleaning regularly; by rights, Bitterburn ought to be home to thousands of rats and spiders, but I haven’t seen a single one.
I head for the library, indisputably my favorite place outside of the kitchen and the cozy room that belongs solely to me. Everything is as I left it, including the handmade leather journal discarded with the pen slanted sideways across the page, as if Njål expected to come right back. But from the way he spoke yesterday, it’s been so long that he can’t remember writing the poetry in these pages.
How old is he?
I’m sure he would tell me that he’s ancient without providing a number, so I won’t bother asking. This time, however, I have permission to look at the book he left behind. It’s not a test that I can fail, and I practically run to the writing desk, sitting where Njål must have before everything went terribly wrong. Carefully, I move the pen aside so I can see the words on the page. The ink is dark and fresh, unfaded despite the passage of time.
This isn’t a book of poetry. I was right in my initial speculation, guessing that it’s an old journal. I don’t hesitate, flipping back to the first page. The paper feels crisp and new beneath my fingertips—another mystery, because parchment should yellow as it ages. Damp should steal the crackle and blunt the edges. This volume feels as it must have done when Njål first set pen to paper, however long ago. The journal is only half filled, with the last entry incomplete, a sentence unfinished, as if he got up in the midst of his thought and simply never returned.
But why?
I don’t read the last page. Even when I had access to storybooks, I was never the sort who read the ending first. Part of the excitement is the slow unspooling of anticipation, nursing that excitement and wonder. Huddling deeper into my gray cape, I start at the beginning. This book interests me more than any other, but I shall ration the entries, taking only nibbles of Njål’s past, when in truth, I’m tempted to gorge.
There’s no date, a revelation that fills me faintly with disappointment. Njål’s penmanship is elegant, but old-fashioned, swooping and curling in an ornate style. Mysteriously, the ink even smells fresh, like he just walked away moments ago. My heart beats a little faster as I try to read. Then I realize that while some of the words are familiar, this isn’t written like the books I’m used to. My head swims a little, and suddenly it’s like someone is whispering the words in my ear.
I don’t like it here.
Father says I needn’t stay long, that he’ll resolve everything soon. Politics are nonsense, and fostering is just another word for taking hostages. It’s his fault, but I’m the one paying the price. I loathe the baron and his wife is no better. There’s something off about her. When she smiles, it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. But his smiles are vacant too, dead eyes in a pleasant face. They’re both bad, I think, and I shouldn’t be here.
I am afraid.
The magical translation stops. That’s all he’s written on this page. It would be easy to let my eyes wander, but I force myself to close the book, chewing on what I’ve learned. On a whim, I find a tome about the customs of nobility and page through it until I come to a section about fostering. It is common for allied noble houses to send children to one another, ostensibly for training, but this exchange often enforces agreement to the terms initially set forth in the peace agreement.
I see what Njål meant when he called himself a hostage. His father sent him here to ensure the baron kept his promises? Perhaps I’m inventing common ground where there is none, but his family let him down too. Just as mine saw me as another mouth to feed, his sire used him as a guarantee of good behavior. I don’t plan on having children, but if I had some, I wouldn’t treat them this way.
Shivering, I leave the library and head for the stable to take care of Agatha and our as yet unnamed guest. From what I’ve been reading in my animal husbandry book, I should let them roam around a bit, but I’m worried about giving them the run of the courtyard. It would break my heart if Agatha and her suitor joined the ice statuary. Apart from Njål, I’m alone here and these two goats are my only friends. Yet if they get weak and ill from confinement, that’s suffering I could prevent.
If Bitterburn wanted to hurt them, it would have happened when they first stepped through the portcullis. Mustering my courage, I leave the stable doors open, so the goats can come and go as they please. For some reason, it feels like a leap of faith.
“Good day,” I call. “I hope you had a pleasant rest.”
Agatha bleats in response while her beau simply gazes at me with remarkable disinterest. That’s when I notice, the hay they’ve been munching on? It’s fully replenished, and a chill goes through me. Do the keep’s stores refill themselves? Suddenly struck, I dash to the kitchen and into the pantry, where I sift through various containers. I stagger at what I discover, catching myself on the chill gray wall.
Though we’ve been eating for weeks, the dry goods are full. Flour, salt, sugar—all completely untou
ched. Though I’ve known this place isn’t normal, that underscores the fact. Bitterburn is taking care of us. We can’t leave, but we won’t starve. I’ve no idea why I find that so alarming, because it should feel magical in a good way, after the privation of my life in town. But part of me can’t help viewing it as sinister, as though Njål was right to fear this place. It wants him to suffer, and it will never let him go.
Perhaps it won’t relinquish me either.
“Amarrah?” Njål calls me from the kitchen, greeting me instead of lurking in the shadows and waiting for me to notice his arrival. His voice is a roaring fire in the heart of winter, rich and deep, rasping and rough, and I would give a small fortune for him to say my name again.
Trying to make that happen, I pretend I haven’t heard. Perhaps he’ll come close enough that I can smell his lye and pine scent, feel his breath on the nape of my neck. No, that’s pure fantasy. Njål rarely comes within six alns, let alone close enough to touch.
For a few seconds, I imagine it nonetheless.
“Amarrah?” Apprehension roughens the profound bass of his voice, so rumbling and low that I feel it in my toes, in the pit of my stomach.
I can’t ignore him any longer. It might hurt his feelings, and that’s the last thing I wish to do. “I’m here.”
“Is everything all right? Normally, you’re making food by now.”
It’s not a complaint. I hear the concern in his tone; he’s not asking about supper, not really. He wants to know if I’m troubled, and it’s been so long since anyone cared that the ice encasing my heart cracks, chipping away a bit more. If he keeps this up, soon I’ll be a living woman again with a riotous, unruly character.
“I was wandering and lost track of time.” As I hurry to make some bread—his favorite dish of everything I cook—I take the plunge and mention what I’ve discovered about the pantry. I’m careful not to reveal my unease, speaking lightly as I knead the dough. “In the stories, if you eat magical food, you’re locked into that place, a trap to prevent people from escaping.”
