by Ann Aguirre
“That may be true,” he says somberly.
“Does that mean I can’t leave either?”
“You won’t know until you try. But . . . I don’t want you to, though it’s selfish of me to wish you would stay.”
I almost say that I’ve nowhere to go again, but I swallow the words. Because now, even if I had someplace else to be, someone to take me in, I reckon I wouldn’t leave Njål. Before, this was my last resort, and now it’s my refuge. Deftly, I pat the dough into shape and put it in a bowl to rise near the fire.
Instead, I tell him, “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
“You’re giving me hope again,” Njål says. “I’m not sure you understand how painful that is.”
What is it that he hopes for? Or is any expectation too much to bear after ages alone? I’m not qualified to answer either of these questions, so I ask one of my own.
“I take it that you’ve tried to leave before, and that’s how you know that you can’t.”
“Yes.” A terse response, unencouraging.
“What happens when you try?” Obviously, he doesn’t turn into an ice statue.
A long silence, as if he doesn’t want to answer, then he finally whispers, “It’s painful, like my whole body is full of knives, and my feet turn into blocks of ice. They won’t carry me past the portcullis, no matter how much I want to go.”
The journal probably has more of his story, and possibly I should tell him, right now, that it’s not a book of poetry. I don’t. He already gave me permission to read it. He said everything in the main keep is mine for the taking.
Everything. And he’s here now.
Mine for the taking?
That might be true, but I’ve no idea how that would work when he won’t even let me look at him. Privately, I admit that I want to. I want to see and know him, as nobody has been permitted for centuries. I crave his secrets, each as delicious as the caramels I ate as a wee girl, never realizing that sweetness would become an incredible rarity.
He must be wondering why I asked.
“I was just curious,” I say, conscious of the long pause, drawn long and thin like taffy at the summer festival. “Did you come up with a name for Agatha’s friend?”
“Bartholomew,” he suggests.
“That’s a bit fanciful for a goat. Bart for short?”
“If His Magnificence agrees.” The amusement in his voice makes me smile as well.
Right now, I only have his words to keep me warm, but I’ve begun to want more, what he promised before—and that’s . . . everything.
8.
I’m in the library again.
When I’m not cleaning or preparing food, this is my favorite place to be. I’ve also learned why the keep smelled a bit dank when I arrived, odd considering that most of the furnishings don’t show wear and tear. It came from the supplies sent from the village, rotting burlap bags and decaying wooden crates. Now that I’ve hauled everything to the courtyard and built a huge fire, alarming Agatha and Bart, the odor is diminishing. To amuse my goatish audience, I danced around it like a witch casting a powerful spell. The fire left a charred patch on the ground and melted some of the snow, but in the morning, that area appeared untouched—more of Bitterburn’s strange magic.
I wish I had the power to undo Njål’s curse, but I’m just a half-trained brewer’s assistant, albeit one with an entire library at my disposal. In the last week, I’ve read more books than I had in my entire life prior. It’s an empowering sensation to know that all this is mine for the taking. There are hundreds of novels and entire section of history, another on land and household management. While I grasp that the baron and baroness may have been terrible people—possibly they’re even related to Njål’s curse—I still commend their wide range of literary interests.
I’ve restrained myself for seven days, exploring other tomes, but today I yield to the temptation to savor the next entry in Njål’s journal. Settling at the writing desk, I marvel anew at the beautiful penmanship, but even I can tell that Njål learned his letters a long time ago. As before, the whisper kicks in.
I’ve been here for six months.
The Baroness comes to my room at night, long after I’m supposed to be asleep. I dread the creak of the door, the way her form blocks the light and leaves a shadow on the floor. She says nothing, just watches me. I wish my door had a lock. I don’t like it here.
I don’t feel safe.
Letters from home stopped coming three weeks ago. I don’t know if Father has abandoned me or if they’re stealing my correspondence to make me feel alone. Either is possible, because Father always said he had no need of a feckless fourth son, especially one like me, who didn’t listen. I haven’t cried since I left home. I tell myself that I’m being strong, but the truth is, tears are best saved for when someone cares enough to comfort you.
There has never been anyone who does.
The entry stops there, and my heart aches for young Njål in a different way than it does for the person I know now. I understand all too well how he feels. I wish that I could wrap my arms around the boy he was, or at least, let him meet the unloved, overworked little girl from my childhood. They have a lot in common, those two.
I wonder why the baroness watched him. There are those who do terrible things to children in the dark, and I can’t rid myself of grim possibilities. Did she progress to more than silent voyeurism? There will be answers, no doubt, in this journal, but I can’t bring myself to turn the page. Not right now.
To my surprise, I glimpse movement in my peripheral vision. It must be Njål, unless Agatha and Bart have found a way to open the door. He prowls the perimeter of the room, keeping to the shadows, though it’s not as easy in here as it is in the kitchen. Here, wan winter sun streams through the stained glass, burnishing the books in gold and red. I track Njål’s progress, watching as he settles into an upholstered chair at the back of the room, as far from me as possible. This is the first time he’s shown himself outside the kitchen, and I don’t know if I’m meant to clear out or join him.
He hasn’t spoken, but he must know I’m here, unless he’s not aware of me like I am of him. No, that can’t be true. If I had spent years in isolation and suddenly a new person arrived amid my exile, I would know where they were and what they were doing every second of the day. It’s to Njål’s credit that he hasn’t taken to watching me while I sleep.
“May I join you?” I call out.
He doesn’t respond at first. Perhaps he’s hoping I’ll go away?
I don’t move from the writing desk. If he prefers not to respond because a rejection might hurt my feelings, I will go on my own. Still, the quiet does sting, even if it’s not as painful as a verbal rebuff.
As I rise, he says, “I want your company but I don’t want you to see me. Not yet.”
“I could close my eyes,” I offer.
Mostly, it’s a joke, because what in the world can I do with my eyes shut? His slow response says he’s considering it. “Will you trust me?” he asks finally.
That’s a deep question. Life hasn’t rewarded me with the sort of character that proffers faith readily. Yet for Njål I want to try.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Just what you suggested before.”
In answer, I lower my eyelids and I hear him approaching. He touches me for the first time, a large hand wrapped around my wrist. He barely brushes me, such a loose and gentle hold, but my heart races like I’ve been running. Njål tugs lightly, leading me to the corner where he was sitting. Though I can’t see them now, I know there are two armchairs arranged in a cozy reading nook. He guides me carefully around a stack of books, a fact I recognize because I knock into the rectangular pile and I hear him steady the volumes.
“What now?” I ask.
“I thought I would read aloud, if you wouldn’t find it tedious.”
I smile as I settle into my chair. He’s trusting me not to break our compact. It would be so easy to
peer through my lashes and see what he’s hiding. But I won’t. Not because I lack curiosity where Njål is concerned, but I don’t want to steal from him. Not his trust, not his truths. I will accept only what’s freely given. And right now, he’s offering his voice.
“What sort of story?”
From the sound of it, he’s tapping his claws while he considers. “Do you have a preference?”
“A mystery with a bit of a love story. Or vice versa,” I answer.
“You’re amenable to a love story with a bit of a mystery?”
“I’m living one, aren’t I?” Oh no, I’m flirting. Not with the reckless abandon I showed Owen, but I can’t restrain the words this time.
A soft intake of breath, and Njål’s voice comes out low, raspy-soft and shocked. “Do you think so?”
Likely out of sheer astonishment, he hasn’t let go of me yet, and in the biggest gamble of my lifetime, I shift my hand in his loose grasp so that my fingers curl around his much larger hand. His skin is cool and rough, and I already know he has claws. I saw them briefly in the kitchen, so the sharpness doesn’t alarm me. Gently, I smooth my thumb over whatever part of Njål I’m touching.
“The potential is there,” I whisper. “Though I must also add that no farmer can ever predict what seeds will grow, even if a grand harvest seems likely at planting time.”
His breath is sharp and ragged, coming fast, as if I’ve undone him with this small, unexpected touch and words that make no promises. Then he wraps both hands around mine slowly, with such hesitation and care that I could free myself with the most minute resistance. I remain still, waiting to see what more he’ll do.
With my eyes closed, I feel everything more intensely—the friction of our skin as he slowly chafes my hand to warm it and the gentle scrape of the claws he tries to keep away from me. He’s startled when I touch him back, adding my other hand to the mix, and it’s too much, too fast I suppose, because he withdraws, just as I’m beginning to enjoy the sensations. The top of my head tingles, a pleasurable feeling that goes all the way down my neck. Too bad, I want to touch him more.
“You truly aren’t afraid of me,” he says in such a marveling tone that I wish I could see his expression.
“Have you given me reason to be?”
“Perhaps I will,” he says somberly. “If you could gaze into my heart, I suspect you would find the contents alarming indeed.”
For some reason, chills shiver through me, gooseflesh rising on my arms and legs. Not that I’m in danger exactly, but I truly know little of Njål. What if there’s a good reason he was cursed? Perhaps he deserves this punishment. For all I know, he could be quite wicked and deranged.
At least my reply is composed. “That remains to be seen. Did you have a book in mind, based on my criteria?”
A long pause, and when he responds, his voice has resumed its usual tone, friendly and conversational, lacking that deeper intimacy. “The Knight’s Mistress should do the job nicely. Let me fetch it.”
It’s a title I’ve never heard of, but it’s set in a castle that I imagine to be similar to Bitterburn in its heyday, the tale of a poor man who rises to knighthood, but he can’t marry the woman he loves because his liege orders him to wed his daughter instead. There’s a great deal of skullduggery, tragic and heated glances, and other carrying-on, before the poor wife is murdered, and it’s frankly hard for me to keep track of all the tangled threads when Njål’s voice is so soothing.
At some point, I doze. And I’m dreaming of the softest touch, smoothing my hair like I’m a princess in the stories. Gods, that feels good. I tilt my head for more, and the caress moves to my throat, so delicate that it could only be a fantasy. My nipples perk, and I awaken slowly, realizing that I’m alone in the library and full dark has fallen. His chair is empty, and presumably has been for a while.
I hope he doesn’t take my falling asleep as a sign of disinterest. Maybe he’ll consider it as a compliment because I certainly couldn’t relax so fully if I felt unsafe in his company. Musing on that, I check on Agatha and Bart and interrupt an intimate moment. Averting my eyes, I back out of the stable after ascertaining they have plenty of fodder and clean water. Oh, yes, there will certainly be kids and goat milk in my future. Time to finish that treatise on animal husbandry tucked away in my room.
Though it’s late for a meal, I haven’t eaten since this morning. I really want a roast; chicken or duck would be incredible. Sadly, I’ve no skill at hunting and I’m afraid to leave the keep anyway. How am I supposed to solve this problem? I’m careful not to frame any thoughts that could be construed as wishes because the last thing I want is for haunches of meat to fall from the sky.
I make do with fry bread and lentils, which I’m polishing off as I hear Njål enter the kitchen. Astonishing, this is the first time I’ve encountered him more than once in the same day. It must mean something, but I’ve no idea what.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I’m starved.” There’s something different about him tonight, though I can’t put my finger on what exactly.
At this moment, I just know his energy feels different somehow, the odd sort of notion that made my stepmother call me strange and ill-starred. In addition to my prophetic dreams, I also had . . . hunches about various townsfolk. People know things for factual reasons, Amarrah. They know, or they don’t. Enough with your nonsense. You’ll bring the witch finders down on us with such talk.
“Give me a moment and I’ll make you a plate.”
Njål edges closer, teasing the circle of light from my candles. I see his silhouette and, for the first time, I can see he’s wearing a dark cloak. My heart thunders with the desire to set down the wooden spoon and go to him, to forcibly divest him of his secrets.
No, only what’s freely given.
Then he steps nearer still, and I can barely breathe for the anticipation.
9.
“Close your eyes?” Despite the framing, Njål’s tone makes it a request, not a demand, and I trust him enough to comply. “May I touch you?”
I nod without hesitation.
The caress comes light as a dream, smoothing my hair, my throat, just like my dream. My breath catches. “Did you do this before? In the library.”
His hand stills. “I didn’t. Why?”
“Because I imagined this, exactly this. What does that mean?” This isn’t the first time one of my dreams has come true, but it’s the first time it’s been so personal, deeply attuned to my private desires.
He emits a soft groan and pulls his hands away slowly. “Bitterburn has devised a new way to torment me. I didn’t mean to seek you out, but I had this in my head, whispering over and over, until I felt that I would lose my mind if I didn’t touch you.”
Shaken, I almost step back. But that would hurt Njål and, even if he came to me with pictures implanted by a fearsome power, he still paused to ask my permission. In the village, there were many who didn’t, and they didn’t even have the excuse of a lifetime’s isolation. Not that I think Njål’s suffering gives him the right to ride roughshod over my free will. And he hasn’t.
“I don’t understand. Why would Bitterburn put such ideas in your mind?”
“I’m not sure either. But possibly to incite me and make me doubt at the same time.”
The “incite” part I understand well enough. For some reason, the keep wants us together, but I’m not sure about the doubt. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Simple enough. I’m meant to want you, but not be sure if it’s truly my desire. The whispers and temptation will likely grow over time. I’ll resist. But no matter how I fight, the keep will eventually break my will. You saw how I was tonight. Then—”
“Ah, I see now.” Truly, he’s correct. Bitterburn is the real beast, desiring my destruction in such a way. I am another means to make Njål suffer, and the fact that I will be injured in the process, perhaps beyond repair, matters not at all.
I grasp why he told me not to trust this
place, not to wish for too much and not to believe in its benevolence. The goats are a bribe to keep me complacent, nothing more. And that makes me angry. I’ve barely carved out space for myself in this hostile place, and now it’s trying to use me, like everyone always has. Fury burns away my reservations, my caution, like a wildfire raging through a field, burning everything in its path.
“I’m sorry,” Njål says heavily. “Now that you understand the danger fully, you should go, if the keep will allow it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“While I’m aware that you lack options, surely—”
“We can’t be used in that way if we come together of our own free will,” I cut in. “If we don’t wait for the whispers to escalate.”
You can’t take from me what’s freely given.
While I’m not entirely sure that I’m ready for this right now, I am positive that I would have taken this step with Njål eventually. I wanted him enough to touch myself after glimpsing his hand, and the keep-induced chimera of his touch left me stirred and aching. Now that he’s touched me for real, even in desperation, I can admit I want more. Maybe not this fast, but I refuse to yield my power in this way, becoming a trophy to be stolen.
If I am a prize in this absurd game, then I will award myself.
My eyes are still closed, but I catch the soft inhalation. I’ve surprised him, and that fills me with a fair amount of pleasure. Then his hand is on mine, clasping delicately.
“You’re willing? That changes everything.”
I hold on to him, my heart skipping in my chest. Maybe I’ll be swept off to his lair. But Njål doesn’t move, just holds my hand quietly, and I sense him growing calmer through that one point of contact.
“What now?” I finally ask.
