by Ann Aguirre
Njål takes a step back, bracing on the edge of the worktable. “Do you mean . . . were you not yourself when we—”
“No,” I cut in. “I’m not implying that you took advantage of me. Everything that’s happened between us occurred because I was willing. Eager, even. This is more . . . I can’t hold on to certain thoughts, or my mood shifts without my volition and I lose track of facts. It’s like something wants me content and complacent, not examining too much.”
His voice quickens with excitement, and for the first time, I can see the related glimmer in his eyes, the curve of his mouth. “If that’s true, then it’s likely that you hold the secret to unraveling the curse. Perhaps it diverts you when you’re starting to get close?”
“I need to pay attention to when it happens, keep detailed notes. Maybe a pattern will emerge.” Part of me can’t believe I’m this important. I’ve lived my whole life accepting that I’m no one, albeit a bit strange, always asking awkward questions, making people question what they believe to be true, and knowing things without having access to proof.
“Good idea. And tell me when it happens. It might be . . .” He trails off—and now that I’m privy to his expression, I discern that he’s wondering about a secret he keeps, possibly related to the east wing.
Njål has lived alone for so long that he’s forgotten how to hide anything, if he ever knew. I go straight for it because I’m not good at prevarication either. “You’ve thought of something,” I say. “If you know what’s causing this, you should tell me.”
“I’m not sure,” he says slowly.
“But you suspect.”
“I’ll look into it. If anything comes to light, I’ll share it with you.”
Things are different now. We’re lovers. It’s not wrong to call us that, I think, but he still wants to curl up with his secrets as if they can keep him warm. I’ve been trusting him, believing him on all counts, but I only have his word about any of this. It’s possible that he murdered all those people currently lying in the bone room. Maybe he’s played this game with others throughout the ages, and when I lose my willingness to take everything on faith, I’ll join the rest. My heart beats ferociously fast in my chest.
And he hears it, lurching backward like I’ve unexpectedly lodged a blade in his side. “You’re afraid now. Of me.”
“I don’t want to be. But it’s impossible not to wonder what you’re hiding in the east wing,” I say.
Njål goes then. A swirl of his cape and he’s out of the kitchen, away from my pressure and curiosity. I don’t want to doubt him, but I can’t think of any good reason why I’m not allowed to pass. Before, I sort of understood. We were strangers and he had a right to privacy—to space—but now that he’s coming to my bed and has shown me his face, shouldn’t this be the next step? Proving that my trust isn’t misplaced, and that he has faith enough in me to believe that I can handle his secrets.
Provided that they’re not terrifying and dangerous. Perhaps they are.
Or maybe I’ve hurt him for no reason, the first person he’s allowed to see him in who knows how long. I won’t know which until I learn what’s in the east wing.
Sighing, I eat some leftovers from the pantry, fill a watering can, and go inspect my garden. Against all expectations, the charms I cast in the side yard seem to be holding. It’s warm out here compared to the rest of the keep, and the green shoots have grown more than is reasonable in a few days. Though I’m no gardener, I have raised herbs in pots, useful for seasoning what little we had to cook the last few years, and I understand how long it normally takes for them to get this big. At this rate, I might have fresh vegetables in around a month, and there’s no explanation for that apart from magic.
It’s still hard to believe that I’m a witch, but what other explanation is there? I gave you power, the voice whispers. I can give you more. Ask for it. Open to me.
My skin prickles with chills. Before, I wondered if I was going mad; now I’m sure that this comes from an external source, some infernal influence that wants to make a deal. My first instinct is to slam a mental wall between us, but maybe I can learn something.
With my nape covered in gooseflesh and my hair standing on end, I try to follow the energy to the wellspring and when I extend my inner sight, I receive the impression of something desiccated, seething with hatred, and inconceivably ancient. The impact is so strong that for a moment I lose control of my hands and drop the watering can. Instinctively I crouch and wrap my arms around myself to ward off an assault.
Who are you?
There’s no answer and I don’t feel the wickedness anymore. It’s simply gone. Before, I had the sense that Bitterburn shouldn’t be held accountable for the terrible things that have happened here, and that there might be something else. I was right—and that something is whispering to me. Njål needs to know, but I’ve upset him, and I shouldn’t intrude to inform him, so I water the garden in morose solitude.
Afterward, I head for the library. There, I note all my interactions with the voice, everything I can remember that’s been said and the circumstances in which it took place. Then I collect my laundry, currently scattered all over the great hall. Some pieces are still damp; they’ll dry faster in my room, closer to the fire. The rest I can work on transforming, fashioning more modern dresses out of the fabrics from smocks and kirtles. I spend the rest of the day on that task with pitifully little progress to show for as well, since I’m not a skilled seamstress, and just to be difficult, I refuse to go back into the kitchen. I’m too upset to be hungry, and it’s not like this is the first meal I’ve missed.
Yet as I settle into bed, glummer than I’ve been since my arrival, Njål comes into the kitchen and he pauses as if bolstering his nerve. Then he taps on my door, so softly that it seems as if he’s afraid of my answer.
“Are you sleeping?” he whispers.
I hesitate, but I do wish to reconcile with him. “Not yet.”
“May I come in?”
He won’t even enter my room without permission. Suddenly, my earlier fear seems absurd. If he wanted to harm me, there’s no need to make a game of it. I suppose it’s possible that such sport offers the only entertainment he’s had in forever, but in my heart, I know that’s wrong. I’m not an amusement to him, and he doesn’t wish to hurt me either. I just don’t understand the secrecy around the east wing, and that uncertainty infuriates me.
“Go ahead.”
Njål steps across the threshold, and he’s larger than life, taking up most of the space and air. My heart races, though not because I’m scared. We’ve done things right here in my bed, and though I know he hasn’t come for that, I do remember wearing that blindfold and his mouth—
The heat in my cheeks feels like a severe sunburn.
“I’ve thought about what you said, and I understand it. I do. But . . . I’m afraid that allowing you in the east wing will change everything. Do you mind waiting? Until . . . until I’m sure. Of you.”
I consider all the implications. Whatever he’s hiding, it must look bad for him or he wouldn’t be concerned about my reaction to it. But would a true villain care how I viewed him? Likely not. In fact, sometimes awful people do terrible things proudly while arguing that they’re good. Still . . .
“That’s not reassuring,” I mutter. “But you’re saying that if I trust you, you’ll eventually tell me everything.”
His tone is soft, spoken with the surety of stone. “I will. I promise.”
18.
“Then I’ll wait. For now. But do understand that unlike yours, my patience is finite.” The words come out colder than I intend.
I don’t soften that statement, however, because while I’m not putting a time limit on this warning, it is an ultimatum. I know myself, and there will come a time when I lose my temper and search for my own answers. For a long moment, Njål doesn’t respond.
If he runs again tonight, so help me, he won’t eat any bread for a week.
Then he s
teps closer, shoulders slumped in an unquestionably contrite posture. “I’m sorry I left before. It was . . . surprisingly painful to learn that you could fear me.”
A touch of regret shimmers through me because we have only each other. Quietly I extend a hand, waiting in silence for him to clasp it. And eventually, he does.
“Do you want to stay tonight?”
He regards me steadily with those quicksilver eyes. “I’m unclear on the particulars of your invitation.”
“Just offering to let you sleep here.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “I did think it would be odd for you to suggest other pastimes, considering how the day went.”
“Do you want to stay then?”
Njål pulls back the covers, surveying the slice of mattress available. “I do. Your room is cozy and warm, but it’s a pity the bed is so small.”
“Is yours bigger?” I ask, moving over so he can climb in.
“It is, but the room is much chillier and less inviting.”
“And you probably sleep in the east wing.” The dig escapes me before I stop it. One would think I want to fight with him over this, and maybe on some level I do. But that’s telling as well. People don’t dare argue with those they truly fear.
“I stand watch,” he corrects. “But tonight I’m here with you.”
That’s an odd thing to say. I ruminate on it, considering what he’s hiding, a secret that must be guarded. In a fine, incidental distraction, Njål partially disrobes, allowing me to see the scars carved into his body, only they’re more like sigils, akin to the one on his cheek. It would take an absolute monster to do this. I felt the marks on his torso on our first night together. He settles in beside me, and with a trembling hand, I trace the triangle on his chest, wondering what it means. This is not a simple tattoo; it was carved into his flesh before the channel was filled with ink. It must have been agony.
“What . . .” I don’t even know what to ask.
Some people adorn themselves this way, sailors from the Splinter Isles for instance—but such a choice seems out of character for Njål, who wouldn’t even let me look at him for so long. He’s not the type to want more attention on his appearance, not even young Njål. I’ve only encountered him twice in the past, but both times he was either running or hiding. It seems to me that body art is about boldness and celebration. These marks . . . are something else entirely.
“It’s the alchemical symbol for fire. But I suspect that’s not really what you wish to know. That’s more along the lines of why, I imagine. Perhaps even when and who?”
“Yes, all of those things. Unless it’s related to the memories you’ve suppressed or the east wing, and you’ll refuse to tell me,” I mutter.
“It is, at least peripherally, but I’ll answer about this. I can only imagine how frustrating my secrets must be.”
“It’s maddening.”
He nods, as if he understands my response. “You’ve asked about the curse, but never about my . . . transformation. While the two are related, they’re not the same. Since you’re Eloise, you know I didn’t always look this way.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“It would be easier if you weren’t looking at me.” Njål wraps his arms about me, giving me every option to demur. With my head on his chest, he continues, “I didn’t know for a long time . . . what the baron and baroness were. To some degree, I knew that they weren’t right, but I had notion of their nature. Even now, I’m not sure, for there is no terminology for that brand of evil.”
I shiver, despite his proximity and the weight of the covers. “You’re frightening me.”
“Parasites,” he finally says, ignoring my whisper. “For time out of mind, they extended their lives by stealing the bodies of others, destroying souls in the process.”
Shock immobilizes me as I connect this new information to what I heard the baroness saying the night they announced Njål as their heir. It’s not what I imagined, but everything makes sense. After he’s named their heir, the baron can take Njål’s body, the line continues and they keep everything they’ve acquired over centuries of life-theft.
“Oh, Njål . . .”
“I was meant to be only another link in a long line. They’re thousands of years old, ancient and evil beyond belief. The baron chooses his successor, names him heir, and the transfer is made. Within a few years, the baroness follows, taking her new vessel. In that way, they controlled Bitterburn for centuries.”
“The symbols have something to do with the transfer?” I guess. Though I’ve only read one book on crafting charms, I know sigils have power. The ones they put on Njål are likely supposed to weaken his will or make him more receptive to being taken. “But something went wrong.”
He nods, a big hand stroking down my back in compulsive fashion, as if touching me can mitigate these bleak memories. “I didn’t react to the ritual as they expected. Instead of being hollowed out for occupation, I . . . changed.”
“That came before the curse, then.” I recall that he said he . . . did things for them. They must’ve tortured Njål in retaliation for denying the baron his desired host.
He’s said he can’t allow himself to remember those times because he was truly mad then, and he only came to himself later. What, exactly, happened during that period? And what does it have to do with the east wing?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, for I’ve no notion what else to say.
“Not your fault.” Flat tone.
What have I done now? Perhaps he thinks I pity him. Grumpily, I amend, “I’m not accepting blame, but expressing sympathy. Perhaps I should’ve said ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.’ Gods forgive that I got the verbiage wrong.”
“So prickly. I treasure the way you snap at me.”
“Why?”
“Because it means you’re not afraid of my retribution. You believe I’m not a monster, even if I look like one.”
The fact that I was afraid of him earlier—it likely cut deeper than I knew. When someone cares deeply, it gives you power over them. I forgot that. Relationships are complicated, and careless words cut like knives. Those wounds we carry under our skin, undetectable to other eyes.
“I don’t think you do. Not human certainly, but . . .” I shrug. “They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and you appeal to me as you are.”
Njål reaches out with a clawed hand and tilts my face to meet his gaze, seeming thunderstruck. “You mean, even if you could undo the curse, you wouldn’t wish to change how I look as well?”
Since he’s invited me to look, I drink my fill. His features are heavy, too strong at the nose and brow, and cheeks with a jaw so square it’s geometric. His hair is an ashen shock of snow, not as pure as the first fall, but on the second or third day—that shade. I’d like to touch it and explore his little horns, but that would be peculiar.
“I want you to be free. To leave Bitterburn and choose your own course. That’s all.”
His expression sours, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Even if I could, I doubt I’d be accepted.”
Sometimes he’s so vexing that I can’t stand it. “That’s not the problem we need to focus on. Worry about that later.”
That quickly shifts his mood, and I feel his quiet laugh against my hair. “You’ve got me thinking that these things are possible . . . there could be an end in sight, one that doesn’t end in my death. Once, that was all I dreamed about, and even that release seemed improbable and unattainable.”
He’s been so miserable and so alone. I’m glad I came to Bitterburn. Even if I can’t unravel this mess, I won’t regret spending my life with him. Softly, I say it aloud because Njål deserves to hear it, and I should make amends for my doubt this afternoon.
“I don’t want to think about that,” he says, when I finish.
“Why not?”
“You think I’ll want to go on without you? Yet I will have no choice. Please don’t make me envision that desolation tonig
ht.” Absolute anguish rends his voice, leaving it deep and broken.
“I’m sorry.” I’ve hurt him again. For me, hearing this would be a good thing, but he sees time in a way that I can’t fathom. He’s spent centuries alone and knows well what it’s like to gaze into infinity.
“Let’s sleep. It seems we’re both a bit raw.”
That seems like a wise suggestion. We communicate a little longer with soft touches, my fingers on his biceps, his claws tenderly sifting through my hair. And if I dream, I don’t remember it.
In the morning. Njål is stoking the fire when I rise, feeding bits of broken furniture to the hearth. “Good morrow.”
“To you as well,” I reply, starting on our morning meal.
There’s fry bread and beans for breakfast. Gods, but I’m tired of this repetitious menu. It’s odd how fast we can become accustomed to things. When I first arrived, I was so grateful to have this much to eat, and now I can’t wait for Agatha to drop her kid, so I can milk her. That will mean butter, cheese, and delicious, creamy puddings. When the back garden provides fresh vegetables, our meals will seem positively luxurious.
We eat in silence, and I feel strangely shy, considering that Njål slept in my bed last night, and he essentially said that he doesn’t want to live without me. It’s hard for me to meet his gaze, the day after so much intense emotion.
“Are you well?” he asks, likely sensing some of my reticence.
I flash a hesitant smile. “I will be. What’s your plan for the day?”
“I have some . . . private matters to attend, and then I’ll be reading in the library should you need me.”
Private matters—in the east wing. Pain touches my temples, born of impatience and frustration. I don’t say anything but the whisper is back.
You must discover what he’s hiding. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.
That whisper does not represent my instincts toward self-preservation. Now I can recognize the lure of it, trying to trick or entice me. I imagine a door slamming in my head and I hear that awfulness no more.
