by Ann Aguirre
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Surely I ought to be inquiring as to your well-being.”
“The usual rules don’t apply between us. You must have worked that out by now.”
With a quiet chuckle, he fetches a cloth and a basin of water, tending to the aftermath of our romp with profound tenderness. Afterward, we snuggle together in bed, and I pet every inch of him that I can reach.
“I don’t know how good that was for you,” he says seriously. “But if you’re kind enough to let me have another try, I’ll make it better next time.”
A giddy breath escapes me. “It was lovely. And kindness has nothing to do with it. You must have noticed that I want you.”
“I don’t understand that at all, but . . . I’m grateful.” He tucks me against his side and I rest my leg on top of his.
“And I appreciate everything you did tonight to show me that I’m special to you, not merely present or convenient.”
“I can see why you’d be afraid of that,” he says slowly, “but I honestly believe that I would have continued hiding with anyone else, assuming the keep let them in.”
“You’re saying I was destined to be yours,” I tease.
“Maybe a little. Is that too fanciful?”
“All things considered, not even slightly.” The idea of fate aggravates me, but I’m willing to give the notion a little leeway, if it means I made my choices freely, and everything is working out as it’s supposed to.
Tonight, Njål drifts off before I do, and I amuse myself by tracing all the fascinating patterns on his body. His entire existence seems to be the result of a ritual gone wrong. If matters had proceeded as the baron and baroness intended, Njål would be gone, his soul devoured in the process. Of course, I have only his word that he isn’t the baron.
Why do you trust him so readily? The awful voice creeps in like a beetle, eagerly scuttling into the space my doubt has made. You wonder what became of the baron. He’s had a hundred lifetimes to pretend, learn the art of seduction. You think you want him, but who is he? So many secrets. So many.
Firmly I close the mental door between us, silently cursing myself for letting my guard down. Just because it’s safe to be with Njål, that doesn’t mean no harm can befall me within these walls. There’s danger here, no doubt about it. When I finally doze, my dreams are bleak and chaotic, full of haunting images that slip away from my waking mind like sand in the fingertips.
Suddenly, the dreamscape changes, and Agatha is standing beside my bed like a guardian wolf. “You should get up. There’s a man outside the gates shouting to the heavens, and since I don’t know him, he must be looking for you.”
That startles me enough that I jolt upright in bed. Beside me, Njål stirs but he doesn’t rouse. Sure enough, Agatha is in the room—how did she manage that—and the nanny bleats for emphasis, then trots into the hall. Shortly thereafter, she sticks her head back inside as if to check whether I’m following. My head feels strange, but I get up anyway, dressing as quickly and quietly as I can.
Agatha leads me all the way to the kitchen, where the door to the courtyard is ajar. If the goats can now work door handles, my life is about to get a lot more complicated. But that’s not even the strangest thing about this, because the moment I step outside, I hear my father’s voice, hoarse from all the hollering.
A bad tremor passes me, killing happiness like insects. All the joy I’ve hoarded drifts away, dried flower petals borne by the wind. With each step closer to the gate, my feet grow leaden until I might as well be suffering from Njål’s curse. I peer through the portcullis, wishing I felt even a spark of excitement regarding this reunion.
“What are you doing here, Da?” It’s not much of a greeting but it’s not even dawn, which means he’s been walking all night. There’s no mule team, no horse pawing the path behind him. Snow sputters down, diamond bright against the dark boughs of firs that line the path.
As ever, the man smells of ale and woodsmoke. Once, I found those smells comforting. He grips the black iron bars between us, eyes wide and fearful in the dark.
“Come with me, Amarrah. Tillie’s down with fever again. All she does is weep. She takes no water and won’t have a bite if it’s not the special soup you make when she’s sick.”
I’m well, thank you for asking. I’m safe and happy, good of you to be concerned.
Of course Da hasn’t come to check on me. His new family’s at risk, and I’m supposed to run, like I’ve always done. Down the years I hear him shouting “sing for me, darling” and I despise him more with each beat of my heart. I don’t want to care about any of them. Not when they have so little regard for me.
Moreover, I hate the guilt that swells within me when I consider refusing. I’m not her mother. Why, why should I—
Tillie . . . is only a little girl. None of this is her fault.
I’ve tested it and I can leave. I just don’t want to, especially not now. What will Njål think if he wakes to find me gone? It would be polite to rouse him and let him know personally, but I can’t bear to look him in the face and say I’m leaving, fresh from his bed.
This probably won’t take long, just a day or two of making possets and herbal soup, bathing her brow and doing what I’ve always done. Then I can return. As Njål has said, he’s patient. He’ll understand why I went and he’ll trust me to come home as soon as I can.
You’ll regret it if you leave, the voice whispers, touching my mind with a wintry chill.
“Why aren’t you answering, daughter? You should already be packing!” Da snaps.
I step toward the portcullis so suddenly that he draws back. “Don’t call me that. You gave up any claim on me when you stepped back from the miller’s cart and held quiet when Catherine said I’m just another mouth to feed. I’ll come for Tillie this once, but I suggest you and my stepmother learn how to look after your own child henceforth.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
“And how dare you steal my childhood and make me feel like I didn’t deserve to be protected and cared for as much as my sisters. I’m not packing because this is my home now, but I’ll fetch a few things and be back shortly.”
Without waiting for a reply, I march off, my breath visible in the frosty air. I’m a damned witch with a mythical “beast” as my lover, I’m a goat-talker and a dream-walker, and I’ll be damned if my own family makes me feel small ever again. Agatha doesn’t traipse after me; instead she heads for the stables, presumably to bed down with Bart.
I stuff a few things into my portmanteau, noting that I have much more now than I did before I arrived, and put my shoes on and wrap up in my gray cloak. That quickly, I’m ready to go, but I still don’t want to. The terrible presence scrabbles at the edges of my mind like a rat in the walls, murmuring of dire consequences that I can’t entirely block out.
Agitated, I rush to the library to write a note. I’m conscious of the vast gulf in the quality of our penmanship, as mine makes it clear that I’m unpracticed, better at reading than I am writing my own words. No time for perfection, I need to get my message across.
Dear Njål,
My father came last night. My sister is sick. I don’t want to leave you, but she’s asking for me. Crying. And I couldn’t stand it if something happened to her because I refused to help. She’s always been a bit frail. I’ll come home as soon as she rallies. Wait for me. I’ll miss you.
Love always,
Amarrah
This isn’t as good as I wish it was, but it’s the best I can do in a hurry. I leave the page beneath a plate of cold fry bread that I pull from the pantry, figuring that Njål will look for me in the kitchen first. I try not to imagine how he’ll feel once he knows I’ve gone. I feel like a philanderer from the troubadour songs, the ones that extol how “she took her pleasure and then moved on.”
But I’m coming back; of course I am.
With everything sorted as best I can manage on short notice, I run to the g
ate and test my power over the keep. Instead of touching the lever, I silently ask the portcullis to open, tugging lightly at the connection I created with the ward.
The black iron teeth slowly grind upward allowing me to pass. And once I’ve exited, it seals in response to my silent command. “Let’s go,” I say coldly.
While I’m in town, I need to be so careful with what I reveal. Or everything may go terribly wrong.
23.
The snow falls in delicate flurries, swirling around us as we walk.
Now that Da has what he wants, he has nothing more to say. Or perhaps it’s because I spoke my mind for the first time, and he’s angry that I’ve developed a spine since I’ve been away. Then it occurs to me that he’s probably worried about Tillie and he’s not thinking about me at all. That’s more plausible, all things considered.
With Da leading the way, we walk through the night. I follow his back, all hunched shoulders and patched coat, until light brightens the edges of the sky. The town is quiet at this hour, only a few merchants stirring to sweep the snow from the cobbles in front of their shops. They will be hanging pine boughs soon and frayed ribbons for the winter solstice. In my childhood, there were food stalls as well, roasted chestnuts and sugared dough sticks, dusted in cinnamon.
Mr. Greenblatt is one of the early morning sweepers, and he raises a cheerful hand as we pass by. “You’re looking well, young Amarrah. Got some roses in your cheeks, and here we all thought you’d be eaten up. What’s it like inside the keep? Did you . . .”
I’m sure he’s about to ask about the beast, and I don’t want to talk about Njål to outsiders, so I cut in before he decides how to finish his sentence. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to chat right now. Tillie is ill and I must see to her.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry to keep you.”
Da passes by without a word, shuffling toward the cottage I called home for over twenty years. The flower boxes I used to tend in the summer are barren and empty, and the herbs I grew in pots outside the kitchen have died as well. It shouldn’t trouble me that there’s nothing left of my influence on this place, but a twinge pains me nonetheless.
Da goes in through the back and I follow. The kitchen fire burns low, and from the loft I once shared with my small sisters, I hear one of them crying. If Tillie is refusing even to sip water, that’s probably Millie. I should make soup and tea first, but I’m not doing this silently and without complaint as I did before.
“Catherine!” I call.
I used to avoid calling her “Mother,” and so I didn’t call her anything at all. Now, I’m making it clear; she is my father’s wife, not my maternal figure.
“What do you need?” she asks, coming to the kitchen doorway.
“It’s more about what you need. Which is to learn how to look after Tillie.”
I don’t wait to see how she reacts to what she’ll doubtless consider impertinence. Instead I immediately fetch the ingredients and start giving instructions as to how they should be combined. To my surprise, she comes in and observes what I do and how I do it, down to the last detail. She even fetches a piece of paper to take notes as I boil the soup, then reduce to a simmer.
“Do you have the medicine from the herbalist?” I ask.
“Is that how you get her to eat and take medicine?” Catherine is quiet, subdued even, hands laced before her.
“You make a game of it. There’s a song. If you sing it, she’ll finish the whole bowl.”
It’s a silly tune I invented about animals eating one another, starting with tiny ones and getting bigger as the song goes on. As I dish up the soup and tea, I sing it to Catherine in embarrassing detail and she writes down every verse.
Just then, the crying pauses. “Amarrah?”
“I’m coming, poppet.” To Catherine, I add, “Pay attention to how it goes. You should know how to look after her too.”
Without waiting for a response, I carefully balance mug and bowl as I climb the ladder. Both girls are huddled together, but I can tell immediately which is sick. We don’t look much alike since they resemble Catherine. They’re thin-faced and grubby, tears and snot smeared down Millie’s gown, while Tillie’s cheeks burn with fever roses.
There’s so little space. When I was crammed in here with the girls, I could barely breathe. The ceiling slopes over the loft so I hunch over and drop to my knees as I inch inward. A feather tick takes up most of the floor with a few wooden toys and rag dolls scattered about the edges. My father made the wooden toys and I sewed the dolls, more than I had at their age. I shouldn’t be bitter about it; there’s no point in dwelling on facts that can’t be changed.
Millie edges toward me and tugs at my sleeve. I tousle her hair and settle next to Tillie, propping her on pillows to resume my role as a nursemaid. It’s frightening how thin and she frail she looks. How long has it been since she ate anything? I understand Da’s desperation now, even if his indifference still hurts me.
“You’ve been giving everyone a hard time?” I say gently, blowing on the spoon.
Tillie sniffs and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “It doesn’t taste the same. And nobody else sings the song.”
In response, I sing the first line and feed her the first bite. Tillie brightens immediately, and she falls back into our old routine humming as she eats. In time the whole bowl disappears, and I get the tea into her too. If only the fever could be conquered so easily—with one bowl of soup and a cup of tea.
“Will you get me a cup of water?” I whisper to Millie.
They both look as if they’ve hardly bathed since I left. I can’t fix that while Tillie is sick, but I can do cool compresses. Millie scampers off and returns with water and a clean cloth. With practiced hands I dip and wring, set the compress on Tillie’s brow until it warms from the fever, then repeat. Eventually, Millie settles onto the pallet to sleep a little more, though it will be light soon.
Da and Catherine are still brewing ale with the supplies we have left, though the tap house closed last year. We couldn’t afford the rent, and before I left, we’d been subsisting on the bottles we sold. The accounts were overdue at various shops, and they’d been muttering about taking what little of value we possessed to pay for ingredients Da had ordered.
I don’t know what the situation is now, though I did notice that the larder was nearly bare when I was in the kitchen. Finally, Tillie drifts off to sleep and I head down to wash the dishes and get more cold water from the well. Silently Catherine feeds Millie a scant breakfast of porridge, no eggs or bread. Not even a glass of milk, just a weak herbal brew that makes Millie wrinkle up her nose.
“Why haven’t you heated water for her bath?” I ask Catherine pointedly.
She’s younger than my mother, strong enough to haul water and fill the tub in the kitchen. Normally I wash the two girls together, but even with Tillie sick, the other little one deserves care. Just looking at Catherine, she seems more worn down than usual, her narrow face pale, eyes dark shadowed. Everyone looks this way in Bitterburn town—downtrodden, hungry, and a bit desperate—but I’ve been gone for a while, living where I have enough to eat and less physical issues to worry about.
To my surprise, Catherine silently fetches the bucket and heads out to the well at the center of the village while I settle Millie in the kitchen with a few toys. Then I head back upstairs to check on her sister.
For the next two days, this becomes my new routine. Cook, tend to Tillie, bathe her face and hands, and repeat. I don’t eat much or sleep myself, partly for fearing that Tillie will get worse—that this time I can’t save her—and partly for worrying about what’s happening back at the keep.
Was Njål fearfully hurt when he read my note? Is he bothering to fix his own meals? He said before that before my arrival, he mostly starved since hunger can’t end his life.
Is he lonely right now?
It’s surprising how much I miss him, how much I want to get back to my life with him, even if it’s a strange one.
But I must save my sister first.
Then I’ll go home and keep my promise. I just wish it didn’t feel strangely as if I’m running out of time.
Deep the third night on toward dawn, Tillie’s fever breaks, leaving her clammy and weak, but from what I can tell there’s no fluid in her lungs and she’s breathing well. The main issue is that there’s little to eat so she can regain her strength. I wish I had packed a few provisions from Bitterburn, but I’m not sure how it would react to me pilfering from the pantry, and I’m slightly troubled by the possibility that the magically-replenishing supplies might turn to ashes and cobwebs once outside the walls. Maybe I’ve been living on maggots and rotten flesh and—
No, let’s not think about that. No dwelling on stolen bodies and devoured souls or fell rituals.
Tillie stirs as I quiet my thoughts, and she crawls out of the covers onto my lap. Millie is asleep on the far side of the pallet, sturdier than her twin and more resistant to fevers.
I stroke Tillie’s hair and she nestles her head on my shoulder. “Can you stay even after I’m well again? I like it better when you’re here.”
She might be the only one who does. Da has hardly spoken to me since I told him to take proper care of the girls, and Catherine seems to have given up hope. Winter is like that here with the harvests dwindling and nobody with a copper to spare.
Can I really go back knowing that there’s nothing to eat here? But what can I do if I stay? Sighing, I rub Tillie’s back and she stirs fretfully when I tuck her back into bed.
I can’t bring myself to crawl in between my sisters, as I used to sleep. I’ve gotten accustomed to my own space, and they both curl into me and kick in their sleep as well. I wrap up in my cloak and prop myself in the corner.
A few more days, that’s all.
Yet I don’t feel good about leaving. Da and Catherine ought to be able to take care of the girls without me, but they’re not doing a stellar job. Something has to change, but I suspect that things won’t improve in town until I resolve the curse at the keep. Maybe I can look on going home as another way of helping my family—because if I break the curse, the seasons should stabilize, and the growing season will stop shrinking. People will be able to grow more food and eat better, no more ten-month winters.
