by Ann Aguirre
Restless? Perhaps he rolls or kicks, but if he wanted to say more, he would. My chest aches over Njål having nightmares with nobody to comfort him. I’ve glimpsed how it was when he was small, and it seems to me that he’s already suffered so much more than anyone should. Yet he’s afraid for me, frightened that he’ll lash out in his sleep and injure me with his great strength.
“I trust you.”
That’s all it takes for him to settle. It’s closer than I’ve ever slept with anyone because in truth, we both barely fit in my bed, so I half-crawl on top of him. I’m not wearing my nightdress. I lunge upright, feeling around for it, and Njål claims my hands and presses a kiss to each.
“Don’t get dressed unless you’re cold. I know my body temperature isn’t normal.”
Maybe I’m confused, but he feels warm to me now, not like that initial burst so cold that it burned. The idea that Bitterburn is changing me too bobs to the surface again, but I’m sleepy, and I can’t hold on to that possibility. Other suspicions flicker in my mind like minnows, too slick for my tired brain.
Slowly, I sink down and settle in against him, my back to his front. He spoons up behind me and I feel his cheek barely brushing my hair. It will probably annoy him, falling over his face while he’s trying to sleep, but right now he seems to be enjoying the feel and scent of the strands. He strokes me gently, one arm wrapped around my hips.
I’m closer to the wall, so he doesn’t feel trapped. The last thing I want is for Njål to react like a wild animal caught in a snare.
No, that’s not true.
The last thing I want is to hurt him. I’ve become aware of my own power; the keep listens to me and tries to please me while he’s still a prisoner. I don’t understand what that means yet, but the balance has shifted.
What I do here will have lasting consequences.
16.
Njål is gone when I awaken.
Unsurprising, but I’m still a bit sad. He also removed my blindfold, as it’s folded neatly and laid across the foot of the bed. At least I suppose it must have been him. If I’d torn it off in my sleep, I doubt I would’ve folded it. I imagine him untying it with great care and gazing on my face, hopefully with profound affection. When I move, my thighs are tender, abraded by his whiskers, and when I wash up it gives me shivers because I’m still sensitive down there. Imagine what it will be like when we do everything—I won’t be able to leave my bed for two days.
Chuckling at myself, I don my work dress. Really I need to launder it, but I’ve been making do with rinsing my shift, as it’s such a chore to heat the water and scrub the garments properly. Now that we’ve frolicked in my sheets, I probably ought to wash them as well. Not looking forward to that.
Putting off a task never makes it more pleasant, however. First, I eat some leftover fry bread, then I check on Agatha and Bart. They happily devour the kitchen scraps I offer, and they’ve still got plenty of hay since it replenishes on its own. Next, I peek at the garden to find that the shoots are doing well. The soil’s a bit dry so I water it, not too much, as that’s worse than too little.
But there are no bees. Interesting, as the goat wishes came true straightaway. I instantly regretted using the word “wish” when I said that. Perhaps Bitterburn interpreted that as me changing my mind? I wish I understood how this works, but regardless, it seems unlikely that we’ll be swarmed. If it was going to happen, it would have by now.
Now I have no excuse not to do the laundry. Groaning, I fetch the heavy kettle and frame, haul both into the courtyard, then I build a fire and hang the kettle above it. Despite the chill, I’m already sweating. If I wash everything I own, I’ll be standing naked in the cold. I do have—
“What are you doing?” Njål asks.
I jump because I didn’t hear him approach and he never joins me in the daytime like this. Sometimes we speak in the kitchen, but never the courtyard under the pallid sun. Trying not to be obvious about how I’m not looking at him, I study the black iron pot.
“Laundry. Or I would, if I could sort out a small conundrum.”
“Which is?”
“What to wear while I wash everything.”
Njål laughs softly. “I had noticed that you didn’t arrive with much, but I didn’t wish to offend you—”
“By commenting on my impoverished state?”
“More or less. If you’re willing, there are plenty of gowns in storage. Long out of style, but you might repurpose them. The baroness had a sewing room in the west tower where she gossiped, schemed, and embroidered cushions. I haven’t been there in ages, but there ought to be needles and thread.” He pauses. “Can you sew? I don’t even know if that’s a skill people still learn.”
“It is,” I say. “And I can, though mostly for mending tears. I’ve never crafted my own clothing, but I did make simple dresses for my sisters. I might be able to do the same on a larger scale.”
“Wait here. I’ll bring some options.” With that he rushes off.
I’m strangely touched by how eager he is to give me things when he’s already done so much for my happiness. Smiling, I scoop snow into the kettle and wait for it to melt as I watch Agatha and Bart chase each other among the sculptures. The statues that are people.
I forgot.
I can’t believe that I forgot, even for a moment. What is this place doing to me that I can hum while doing chores, surrounded by tragedy and anguish at every turn? Below the great hall lies the room full of bones, and I’ve let that slip from my mind too. It’s not normal that I’m acting this way. Somehow it feels as if I’m slipping under a spell, and that I only awaken to myself rarely. Something else, something—the voice . . . I need to ask Njål. Maybe he hears it or knows—
The water is bubbling. Delighted, I crumble the soap and stir the mixture until I have a lovely white froth, perfect for getting the laundry clean. Everything goes in except what I’m wearing and I agitate the garments vigorously, getting lost in the movements, so I’m startled all over again when Njål returns, laden with possible wardrobe additions. His cloak still covers him from head to toe. Though intellectually I know he’s been trapped here for ages, seeing these clothes drives the point in, like a hammer to a nail.
They’re historic. Underdresses and smocks, kirtles and aprons, and a cascade of bongraces, I’ve never seen the like. I reach out and touch the fabric. Hand-loomed linen, cambric and wool carefully dyed by hand. My head fills with pictures as it has before; I can see the buckets they used, how long it took to get the blue this deep and rich.
“Amarrah?”
“Sorry. Sometimes Bitterburn shows me things. Have I mentioned that?” Vaguely I smooth the top smock, a creamy cambric that will feel nicer against my skin than what I’m wearing. There was something I needed to ask him, maybe? It probably wasn’t important.
Ah well. This is a lot of fabric. I can certainly cut some of these down and stitch a few dresses together. I don’t look up at Njål, keeping my eyes on his offering, because in this light, even the hood won’t be enough to keep me from seeing him. And I’ve promised not to take what’s not given. But maybe he wants me to look? That could be why he’s here.
“Yes, you told me when you explained how you found the bone room. Are you well? You seem a bit strange.”
The bone room exists. The ice statues are people.
Jolted, I clutch Njål’s arm without looking at him. “No, I’m not well. At least I don’t think I am entirely. It comes and goes, the voice, and I forget things that I ought to remember.”
“The voice? What voice?” His alarm is apparent, but I can’t respond.
Tinnitus spikes, so loud that it makes me dizzy. I fall into the echo, and the broomstick that I was using to stir the laundry falls from my hands as I topple sideways.
When I snap to myself again, the scene has changed. No dream-travel because I wasn’t sleeping. Did I faint? I’ve never fainted in my life.
I’m no longer in the courtyard, and Bitterburn bustles wit
h life. Maids carry bundles of linens down the hall where I’m standing and pass through me like I’m a ghost. They chatter eagerly about something that’s happening soon, but I don’t catch the details. I follow them only until a certain point, then I turn, as if my feet already know my planned destination, terrifying because I’ve no control, and I’m pulled along on a course someone else set for me.
The gallery is full of people milling around in old-fashioned formal wear. I marvel at the huge ruffed collars and velvet pantaloons, the gems on the shoe buckles that could be sold to feed a family for years. A stringed quartet plays discreetly in the corner, and the staff offer drinks and trays of delicacies I can’t identify. I wish I could sample some to see if the food’s as delicious as it looks, but I’m here as an observer.
Soon, a bell rings and the crowd heads for the great hall. I’m swept along, as if it’s important that I see this. The baron and baroness are dressed in white, trimmed in silver, and I have the fleeting thought that they look like the king and queen of winter. If I don’t gaze at their eyes, they’re a handsome couple, with strong features and well-coiffed hair. The baron’s is dark, oiled, and caught back in a queue while the baroness’s is pale and over-embellished with feathers and glittering pins, festooned into a veritable tower of tresses. She holds her head like it’s a lot of weight to bear, and for an instant, I think her eyes meet mine. But she scans onward at once with an empty expression waiting for the baron to proceed with . . . whatever this is.
“Esteemed guests,” he calls in a booming, jovial voice. “Thank you for joining us to celebrate the day of Njål’s birth!”
The crowd parts, revealing young Njål being dragged by a pair of burly footmen. He’s a bit older now, tall and gangly. And he looks terrified rather than excited to be at the party, but it appears that I’m the only one who notices, as he’s shoved to the baron’s side. He flinches when the man touches his shoulder and the touch becomes sinister, digging into his bones to keep Njål still and quiet.
When Baron Bitterburn seems sure that Njål won’t try to run, he relaxes his grip and says, “But we have an even more exciting announcement this evening. My beloved foster son will be formally joining our family. I’ve had the scribe add him to our family register. As of tonight, Njål is my heir.”
From the way they treat him, they seem to despise this child. So why would the baron bequeath everything to Njål? As I worry that mental thread, the baron makes a toast and signals for the dancing to commence. He partners the baroness while Njål slips away, dodging the dancers like any one of them might sink a knife between his ribs.
Then he stops, staring right at me with a look of betrayal. “I looked for you everywhere,” he says. “They all insisted I made you up. Go away! I don’t want to talk to you.” Then he rushes off.
And I want to follow, I do, but I’m frozen here watching the dancers spin like I’m standing in the center of a carousel. The baron and baroness swirl closer and . . . she’s smiling. Her teeth are sharp and white. For an instant, they don’t look wholly human, then she whispers in the baron’s ear. “Just hold on a little longer, darling. He’s big enough now, and you know that I like the young ones.”
Horror keeps me still and revulsion crawls all over me like a thousand centipedes. I fear what’s in store for Njål, and—
I wake in bed with a cold compress over my eyes. My body aches, and my brain burns inside my skull. It occurs to me that perhaps I’ve been poisoned by using old provisions or eating that magical food. It maddens me that I’m losing track of what’s real and who I am. Shivering, I sit up, realizing that I hear Njål pacing in the kitchen beyond. He didn’t want to intrude on my privacy and watch me sleep, but he’s worried.
I have someone who worries about me again. I wish that didn’t feel so momentous.
He stills as I step into the doorway, and I respect his preferences by looking away. “How long have I been out?”
“Most of the day.”
It’s a silly thing to wonder about, but . . . “What happened to my laundry?”
“I washed everything, rinsed it, and hung it to dry in the great hall. I tried the courtyard, but Agatha and Bart were having none of it. They thought it great sport to tear everything down. Agatha has quite a predilection for smocks, you know.”
“I didn’t. Thank you.” How unexpected. It’s been ages since anyone did anything for me because they wanted to.
“Are you feeling better? You scared me quite a lot, talking about voices and . . .” He pauses then.
Long enough that I must prompt him. “And?”
“I have a new memory of her. You? Eloise. She was there that night. At the party. I truly don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Neither do I,” I say slowly. “But I’m starting to think it’s meant to happen. Everything ties together. The curse, the voice, my . . . travels. It’s a lot to sort out, but I’ll manage, somehow.”
“We will,” Njål corrects.
“What?”
“If I’m no longer alone, you aren’t either. I haven’t been able to resolve this on my own, and eventually I stopped trying. But now I have a reason to fight.”
“You’ll fight for me?”
“I’d conquer the world for you,” he says simply.
17.
Perhaps that ought to alarm me. Instead a soft thrill shivers through me, gaining power as it goes until my toes curl. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Just Bitterburn, then. This is strange, but my mind feels calm, like my memories have reorganized. I don’t think I saw Eloise after that night.”
Does that mean I’m done dream-traveling? Or that I won’t see young Njål again?
Turning over the possibilities in my mind, I say, “I’m so confused. There’s a force pulling at me, showing me the past. Something else is trying to make me forget everything and stay here without asking questions. Such disparate goals can’t spring from the same source?” I wish I could see Njål’s face, read his expression, but he’s only giving me his voice.
Strained and rough, he replies, “I wish I could remember. I’m trying, but—”
“Don’t force it. When you’re ready to deal with those memories, they’ll come. Do you hate me for causing so much pain when you were young? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I could never hate you. And now that my mind’s settled, it seems so long ago.” Njål sighs. “It’s a bit hard to explain—like I’m him, but not him. And you’re her, but not her.”
“Perhaps, I can understand a little.” How surreal this must be. It’s a wonder he hasn’t fractured into a thousand pieces, never to be whole again.
“We need to talk about the voices you’re hearing. But first . . .” He takes a deep breath, as if this is unspeakably difficult, and then in my peripheral vision, I see him push back the hood of his cloak. “If I want you to trust me with your private thoughts, I should take the first step. Look at me, Amarrah.”
Slowly, I shift my focus from the corner to where he’s standing square in the kitchen by the worktable, highlighted by the dancing fire in the hearth. My gaze skims upward, locking onto the face he hasn’t wanted me to see. And perhaps it’s because I’ve gotten to know him, but he doesn’t seem monstrous. Only . . . inhuman. His brow ridge is heavy and sharp, his ashen hair wild like a mane, and his skin is blue-gray. On his left cheek, a sigil has been etched into his skin in dark ink, an inward spiral. He looks a bit like the frost giants I’ve seen depicted in story books, though his claws and fangs are more demonic, and he has vestigial horns half-hidden in his hair. His eyes gleam an eerie silver, catching the light like a creature that prefers hunting in the dark.
But I’ve been in his arms. I’ve kissed that mouth. I smile at him, meeting his gaze fully. “So this is you.”
Njål regards me with timorous hope, taking a step closer with the air of one who fears startling a bird. “You’re not frightened?”
“Not at all. I didn’t have any expectations,
and you’ve filled in the gaps of my knowledge. I’m glad you did.”
Perhaps the next step will be him allowing me to see whatever’s hidden in the east wing. Considering the bone room lurking in Bitterburn’s depths, I ought to be worried about what he finds troubling enough to conceal. And how much of a role did Njål play in the evisceration of this place? I want to believe he’s innocent, and while he certainly was an blameless victim in the past, I’ve no idea what happened when he grew up. The townsfolk only speak of the beast, not how he became one.
I hold my ground as he moves until he’s standing right before me, and I breathe in his lye and pine scent while gazing into his unnaturally brilliant eyes. Really, they’re like quicksilver or the heart of a star. I imagine the latter, as I’ve only seen the stars from far away. He reaches out and I don’t flinch when he cups my cheek in his palm, careful with his claws. Instead I cover the back of his hand with my fingers, telling him with silent strokes that the reality of him is far less disturbing than the mystery.
“I had long since given up on the gods, but now I might consider. Because I have no other explanation for you.”
“You think I’m heaven-sent?”
“I can find no other explanation. Perhaps it took this long for them to act on my desperate pleas, but at last, here you are.”
“While I don’t mind the notion of being a divine emissary, it removes free will from the equation. And I like it better when I’m the one who made this decision and acted on it.”
“Yes, I can see why you would. Then let me thank you instead of absent gods.”
“You’re welcome.” It’s strange to look at his face as we talk, but not in a bad way.
He pulls his hand from my cheek with a soft sigh. “While I’d much rather spend the day on more agreeable topics—”
“The voice.” Before the odd, fuzzy feeling returns, I start with a summation of the nonverbal force, the one that shows me visions like the one of the bone room and how I think it’s related to my dream forays into the past. I finish with what the presence has been whispering and how I sometimes don’t feel like myself.
