Bitterburn
Author: Ann Aguirre
Date: 2020-10-30 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Romance; Fantasy Romance; retellings; Fairy Tales; Magic; Beauty And The Beast; Gothic; Paranormal Romance; Paranormal
Description: Amarrah Brewer is desperate and grief-stricken. For ages, the town of Bitterburn has sent tribute to the Keep at the End of the World, but a harsh winter leaves them unable to pay the toll that keeps the Beast at bay. Amarrah volunteers to brave what no one has before—to end the threat or die trying. The Beast of Bitterburn has lost all hope. One way or another, Njål has been a prisoner for his entire life. Monstrous evil has left him trapped and lonely, and he believes that will never change. There is only darkness in his endless exile, never light. Never warmth. Until she arrives. It's a tal
Rights: Copyright © 2020 All Rights Reserved

Amarrah Brewer is desperate and grief-stricken.

For ages, the town of Bitterburn has sent tribute to the Keep at the End of the World, but a harsh winter leaves them unable to pay the toll that keeps the Beast at bay. Amarrah volunteers to brave what no one has before—to end the threat or die trying.

The Beast of Bitterburn has lost all hope.

One way or another, Njål has been a prisoner for his entire life. Monstrous evil has left him trapped and lonely, and he believes that will never change. There is only darkness in his endless exile, never light. Never warmth. Until she arrives.

It’s a tale as old as time… where Beauty goes to confront the Beast and falls in love instead.

Table of Contents

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright Page

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Bitterburn

Ann Aguirre

For every “witch” who’s ever been blamed

for pointing out a problem instead of
those who caused it in the first place

Copyright Information

BITTERBURN

Copyright © 2020 by Ann Aguirre

Kindle Edition

Edited by Johanie Martinez-Cools

Cover art by Indigo Chick Designs

Print design by Indigo Chick Designs

Proofreading by Isabel Ngo

Formatting by BB eBooks

Content warning: This story contains violence, dark magic, death, and mentions torture (off-page).

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form whatsoever, without written permission from the author except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Acknowledgments

First, thanks to the readers who are still with me after twelve years of stories.

I’ve always wanted to do a Beauty and the Beast retelling, so I could fix everything that bothered me about the original. Readers, I’m so pleased with how this turned out, and I hope you love Bitterburn as much as I do.

Without delay, let me thank those who support me and offer moral support when I need it most: Rachel Caine, Christa Desir, Bree Bridges, Lilith Saintcrow, Kate Elliott, Yasmine Galenorn, Alyssa Cole, Donna Herren, Thea Harrison, Shawntelle Madison, and Charlotte Stein.

So much appreciation to Skyla Dawn Cameron at Indigo Chick Designs for the gorgeous cover art. This is a cool story—I bought the cover art premade years ago because I fell in love with it, and I sat on it until I hatched the perfect idea like a dragonling from an egg. I studied the image. ‘Doesn’t it look like a frozen keep? But why it is frozen?’ Without this cover, Bitterburn wouldn’t exist, and that would be a shame as I’m so proud of this book.

My editor, Johanie Martinez-Cools, polished this book expertly, and she’s a dream to work with; I will never let her go. Her suggestions were flawless, and I loved squeeing with her, as she was the first person to finish reading the story after I did. Thanks also to Isabel Ngo for the wonderful proofreading. I couldn’t do this without the whole Tessera team.

Finally, thanks to my family. I appreciate their support more than I can say.

Please enjoy this first installment of Gothic Fairytales. I hope the story offers a bit of respite from the real world and that you look forward to the next one.

Prologue

In my tenth winter, I discovered that a monster bided at the Keep at the End of the World. We didn’t call it that, of course; that was the poetic name granted by minstrels and troubadours who romanticized such a foreboding fortress. They gazed from a distance, imagined the mysteries within, wrote their odes, and passed through, ensuring that others would come to gawk and marvel.

Villagers just called the citadel Bitterburn, for the frozen lake that surrounded it. Born from a lack of creativity perhaps—our town bore the same name, and I didn’t refine much upon it. Back then, I listened to the whispered stories with wide-eyed awe and ate roasted chestnuts with vicarious glee as the merchants packed crates full of tribute—dried fish, spices, and grain—to get the beast to leave us be. That winter I had a new, red coat and shiny black shoes, and all my friends had plenty of wood to keep them warm.

In my fifteenth winter, the stories were less riveting. I had someone special then and we walked out together, whispering of secrets, the details of which I’ve long since forgotten. Supplies were a bit scarce, but we ate more porridge and made do during the long ice. I remember that Owen and I kissed beneath a tree laden with snow, and as our mouths touched, shy and tentative, the boughs broke and dumped white all over us.

He had nothing, did Owen, but it didn’t matter. I loved his crooked smile and his scarred hands; he was apprenticed to the smith, and one day, he would make the nails to build our houses, staves for barrels filled with our beer, and shoes for the animals that worked our land. We only had to hold on through a few more winters. But Owen took ill when I was ten and nine. He died of fever before the thaw. Life was bleak and unfair. That was the lesson I learned that season, engraved on my heart with indelible ink.

In my twentieth winter, the town of Bitterburn barely saw spring. We went from cold to cold with two scant months of sunlight. The farms brought little to harvest, and we could scarcely afford to send anything to the keep. Yet the Burgher insisted, and so we did, out of fear of terrible consequences. My anger grew as people starved.

In my twenty-first winter, I’d had enough. I would go to the keep myself and see an end to this, one way or another.

1.

In the back of the miller’s cart, I huddle deeper into my gray wool cape.

Despite my attempt to sneak away, my family has followed me to the town square. Da shouts at his wife as I try to make myself smaller, my meager belongings arrayed around me. I wish I still had something that belonged to my mother, but Da sold everything of hers, including the precious storybook she made for me. My sisters are weeping, barely tall enough to see over the bottom of the cart. Ignoring the dispute, folks go about their business, carrying baskets and drawing water from the well. Though we’re just past the first days of fall, an icy bite already hangs in the air, the threat of a winter worse than the one we barely survived.

My stepmother’s quiet pragmatism cuts through Da’s bluster. “This is for the best. We could do with one less mouth to feed this winter, and with Owen in the ground, who would marry one as strange as her?”

I am odd indeed because I believe women should choose their own fates, because I talk back, I don’t bow my head, I love to read, and I’m tired of belonging to my father and not to myself. There’s also the weird happenstance of me dreaming of things before they happen, leading to all sorts of hateful gossip. When Owen’s eyes first twinkled at me, his affection seemed like more of a gift because of all that, but . . . that future is no longer open to me. I must walk a different path.

“Amarrah isn’t coming back?” That’s Tillie, snot streaming from her red nose. Her twin, Millie, bursts into fresh tears, and they both reach for me.

I don’t move. Because Da has stepped back from the cart, lowering his head as if he agrees with my stepmother. Though I’m committed to this course, that stings a little, it does. But with Owen gone, nobody in Bitterburn will miss me. If I can end this, somehow, best that I get on with it. If not . . .

I’ll be with you soon, my love.

Briskly, I rap on the back of the cart with chapped knuckles. “Let’s go!”

The silent miller seems glad to be shed of the dramatics my family is enacting. Though most ignore us, a few onlookers have gathered, whispering among themselves, and I’ve no wish to linger. Likely this is madness, and I’ll be murdered by the monster who dwells within the Keep at the End of the World. I don’t know whether I dread that conclusion or anticipate it. Either way, it’s an ending and I’m so tired. Tired of the cold, tired of the hunger, tired of never fitting in the space I’m meant to occupy.

Evil stepmothers are a staple of the stories, but mine wasn’t evil so much as . . . disinterested. I wasn’t hers, and she never forgot it. Neither did I. But life wasn’t better when it was only Da and me because he made me his wife in so many respects. He expected me to cook and clean before I was big enough to wield the knife or hold the broom while he drank and shouted for my mother until I couldn’t stand to hear his voice. It was exhausting to be the only brightness in his world for so long, a smothering sort of attention. I rub the scar on my forearm, a memento of those days.

“Amarrah,” he would bellow. “Come and sing for me, darling!”

And I’d crawl out of the loft in the middle of the night, dance and sing while he drank, and . . . it was such a relief when he married Catherine, when he had two more daughters who could also dance and sing. The limelight slid away and gave me some room to breathe. But things were never the same either, as if I was a relic from a past he preferred to forget. When he looked at me, he remembered my mother, my lovely mother, struggling to breathe with bloody specks on her handkerchief. Owen was the only one who saw me as special, irreplaceable, but he was gone, the last tether keeping me here, and now I’m adrift, the final tribute the town will send to the citadel. Normally, there would be crates of provisions instead, but there’s none to spare, and I’ve persuaded the Burgher that offering me up presents our best option.

The miller speaks at last. “Are you dead certain about this, girl? I can take you elsewhere if that’s your wish.”

“Where would I go?” I ask. “No, I’m set on this course.”

The miller makes a sound in his throat, clearly doubting my faculties, but I don’t respond as we cover the ground between town and keep. As we draw closer, the mules grow recalcitrant, braying and digging in their hooves on the frosty path. Finally, with the imposing walls in sight, they can be whipped or coaxed no closer, and I have no stomach to see the miller brutalize his animals. I clutch my portmanteau in both hands and clamber out of the cart.

“I’ll walk from here,” I say with more assurance than I feel. “Thank you.”

The miller pats my shoulder, but he doesn’t linger. Instead he begins coaxing the team to make a roundabout, and the mules seem eager to get away from this place. I understand their nerves. Though we’ve ascended some, the change in altitude can’t explain the chill that lingers in the air, as if spring never touches this place. A slow exhalation shows my breath as I take stock, noting the ice and snow clinging to fir trees. The air is crisp with pine, but that’s all. I detect nothing else, just the purity of cold and the silence of the grave. The view is breathtaking from up here; I can see the tiny lights of town, the silver-blue strip of the frozen lake, and an ocean of green-white trees.

Steeling my resolve, I turn toward the keep and climb the rest of the way. The portcullis is firmly closed, and I stand on the outside, peering in. Why should this be different than anywhere else? Only as I stand there, the iron gate levers up with the groan of ancient metal, just enough for me to venture in, if I dare. The sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears drowns out everything else when I cross that foreboding threshold. With no idea what awaits me, I press forward anyway because there’s nothing for me in town. My stepmother thinks of me as another mouth to feed, and my da didn’t contradict her. My sisters love me, but they’re wee girls, who might survive only if I’m not there.

This truly is a fortress. I pass into a neglected courtyard, broken stones and withered vines with ice crystals formed all over them. This place was beautiful once, but it’s suffered from ages of neglect. The ice statues are uncanny in their precision, so lifelike that I expect the people to speak. Two doors lead out of the courtyard, and I have the eerie sensation that someone is watching me silently, monitoring what decision I’ll make. Mayhap my survival even hinges on my ability to choose.

I study both options and find the handle of one more worn and the hinges are oiled. The other doesn’t seem to have been opened in years. Without reflecting too much, I choose the former because I want to meet the monster, don’t I? I have no interest in finding a corner and holing up to starve. It would be best if we could communicate first, but if this beast intends to kill me, let it be quick.

The handle turns readily and the door swings inward with smooth, silent precision, revealing a dark corridor. Though I didn’t expect lamps in such a place, I shiver anyway and force my feet to carry me farther into enemy territory. It smells a bit dank from decaying fabrics and mildewed stone, as if the cold can’t keep the decomposition at bay. What if this place is empty? That would be the ultimate irony, if superstition robbed us of desperately needed supplies. I suppress a small, desperate chuckle.

No, there’s someone—or something—here. Otherwise, how could the crates be inside? Nobody from town enters the keep and comes out alive. The mysterious denizen also opened the jaws of the keep to let me in, swallowing me whole. Possibly I shouldn’t think of such metaphors, but it does feel as if I’ve been devoured and my essence will be absorbed, a little at a time, into the grim hunger of this place.

It still feels like someone is watching me.

I pass through chill and empty hallways, explore the kitchen and larder, which is shockingly well-stocked, thanks to our annual donations. Some of the supplies have spoiled, and I embrace a fortifying wave of anger. To hell with my unseen host. If the monster prefers to play at hide-and-seek, then I’ll elect not to participate. It’s been six months since I saw this much food.

The kitchen is massive, heavy stone walls with an immense worktable in the center, a few stools, and open shelves made of split beams that hold containers of dry beans, peas, and lentils. Other bins contain dry spices, salt, sugar, flour, and cornmeal. Pots and pans hang from the edges of the shelves, other cooking implements as well. Baskets of rotten food line the walls, and sacks in the pantry have gone bad too.

I bang around the kitchen, cleaning, then I make even more noise lighting the enormous stove. This must have been installed later, as it’s more modern than the rest of the room. A kitchen this size is meant to feed an army, and from the oldest stories, this keep used to garrison at least four hundred. As to where the soldiers all went, our legends are unclear. Some say that there was a great battle and they died protecting the lord of this place, who was later cursed for attacking a cantankerous warlock. Other accounts allege that the beast slew all the warriors and took this citadel as his own.

Right now, I don’t care what’s true. All I know is that I have everything I need to make a hearty bean and barley soup. I can even bake some bread with what I’ve found. Bread and hot soup? Beyond luxurious. For a moment, I think of my sisters and their pinched faces. Somehow I doubt the beast will let me leave as easily as I came in, especially if I try to take food I’ve pilfered from the pantry.

Defiantly, I light every candle I can find, until the kitchen glows with brightness. I even build up a fire in the hearth, using bits of broken furniture scattered throughout the keep. I might as well be full, toasty, and comfortable when I perish, if that’s my fate.

Oddly, I’m not terrified. They say that familiarity eases fear, and maybe that’s true because now that I’m inside the keep, I decide that it might just be a neglected building. Perhaps the same is true of the mysterious master who dwells here?

The sense of scrutiny never lets up as I work, but I finish cooking without seeing anyone. The bread is dense and heavy, as the ingredients aren’t fresh, but it still tastes good dipped in my soup. I eat every bite with gusto, and as I’m cleaning my bowl with a crust, someone speaks from the shadows, a menacing rasp that chills me to my marrow.

“Who are you? And why have you invaded my home?”

Spinning in a slow circle, I square my shoulders and try to face the general direction the words came from. “My name is Amarrah Brewer. And that is most unfair, sir. You can scarcely call it an invasion when you let me in.”

“That was none of my doing. The keep does as it pleases.”

I raise a brow. “Are you saying that this place has a mind of its own?”

“Does that surprise you, little one? You’ve stepped inside a cluster of stones so ancient that they shame the old stories.”

I try to hide my reflexive shiver. Fear snaps at me, but I kick it away and stand my ground. The fact that we’re communicating at all is a good sign since a true monster would attack without hesitation. “Be that as it may, I am no burglar. The way was open.”

“You split hairs because you’re afraid of what will happen when we stop talking.”

“Perhaps,” I admit. “That’s surely reasonable.”

“You still haven’t answered. What are you doing here?”

Some imp of mischief prods me to be recalcitrant, like the mules who refused to climb farther. “I’m eating. Would you like some soup?”

“You’re stealing supplies.” That grim tone sends sheer terror spiraling through me.

It’s unnerving to converse with someone I can’t see, and I can’t sense where he is. All the candles I’ve lit work against me, creating a sea of shadows just beyond the light. He could be quite close, and I’d never spot him until it’s too late. The beast is probably quick. Surprisingly, he’s also better spoken than I’d imagined. As a child, I pictured him as a snarling monster, unable to communicate in the human tongue.

Swiftly, I address the charge. “Hardly. Stealing implies that I intend to remove the food from the premises and flee. Do I not seem comfortable?” That’s an exaggeration, but the point stands. “The town of Bitterburn has sent me as tribute. We can spare nothing from our larders, so I have come to work. I can cook well, and I’ve learned some of the brewing art from my father. My ale is passable, at least. From what I’ve seen so far, I could work my fingers to the bone and still not set this place to rights before I die of old age.”

“Oh hell.” He sounds shocked, if such is truly possible.

Briefly I take pleasure in startling the monster. “Then I’ll take it that you have no objections. Please have some soup and bread. I’ll be fine in the room off the kitchen. I think it must’ve been the cook’s before, and I suppose that’s my job now.”

Along with everything else.

“Get out,” he says, too quietly.

“I’ve nowhere to go. My family can’t afford to feed me for another winter, and my beau died.” I plant my hands on my hips and feign a boldness I don’t feel. “See here, sir, you’ll let me work or kill me where I stand, for I won’t go of my own volition. Now which will it be?”

2.

In the deepest corner of my heart, I can’t believe I’m challenging the beast like this, but it’s true that I cannot go home. And there’s nowhere else for me, a half-trained brewer’s assistant. It’s not as though I can travel hundreds of miles alone to Kerkhof and find employment. The other towns between here and there are too poor for me to make a living, and it’s unlikely they’d hire a single woman anyway. With Owen gone, I’m unwilling to barter myself in marriage, assuming anyone else would wed me. Most likely, considering my reputation in the village, I’d be given to some old man.

The silence builds, tightening my skin over my bones, until I fear I might snap like lute strings adjusted by unskilled hands. Finally, the raspy voice speaks again, “You will avoid the east wing entirely. Do not even approach. If it pleases you to tend to the rest of the keep, so be it.”

“Then I can stay?” I ask cautiously.

“Your kinfolk must be dreadful indeed if you prefer to bide here.”

It’s a personal admission to someone I just met, but maybe it will make him feel sorry for me if I tell the truth. “Not dreadful, just . . . indifferent.”

Perhaps that is worse, though, because I could hate Da if he’d ever truly mistreated me instead of morosely stealing my childhood. He imbued me with the sense that he loves me a little, only . . . not enough. Not enough to see me instead of my dead mother.

“I see.”

“What should I call you?” I ask.

“We won’t interact enough for that to become an issue.”

“That’s most discourteous. I’ve given you my name politely. You can’t do the same? If you choose not to, I’ll resolve the matter, and I promise you don’t want that. I named our pet rat Brave Sir Reginald.”

Pathetic amount of good that did me too. My stepmother found the little animal and promptly broke its neck, shrieking all the while about disease. I got a whipping because I upset my stepmother and cried silently for two days, not just for the rat.

“Njål,” the beast says finally. “In another life, I was known as Njål.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sir Njål.”

“Just Njål. I am owed no honorifics.”

“I see,” I say, although I truly don’t.

It seems too intimate to go straight to first names, though he doesn’t seem to own a second. How long has the monster lived here alone in darkness? A memory scrabbles at the back of my mind, some scrap left from the stories I heard on some old grandmam’s knee as a little one. “Njål means ‘giant,’ doesn’t it?”

But there’s no answer. Instead, I hear quiet footfalls moving off, scrapes of soft soles on stone. Oddly, it’s a comforting noise; I’m not hearing cloven hooves or the scrabble of inhuman claws. He’s deft at staying in the shadows because I didn’t get a glimpse of him, not even an outline.

After that strange encounter, it seems so prosaic, but there’s work to be done. I store the soup in the pantry, which is cold enough to prevent spoilage. The entire keep radiates an unnatural chill, barely beaten back by the fire crackling in the hearth, and I pause before it to warm up before I set about scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom. In time, I’ll tackle a few other rooms, but for now, for the first day, this is where I’ll focus my efforts.

The mysterious Njål didn’t tell me anything about the premises so I investigate on my own, eventually finding a well in a small courtyard that must tap the spring that feeds the lake below. The water appears to be frozen solid, though, so strange. I’ve never known that to happen, no matter how fierce the winter. Sighing, I haul some snow and ice from outside and melt it in a pot. Some of it, I use to clean the kitchen and what’s to be my room. The rest I save for a quick bath. It should still be warm enough when I finish work and I’d love to go to sleep clean. It’s been ages since I could strip down and wash up properly. Such luxuries were reserved for my stepmother and little sisters, though I usually got stuck doing the hauling.

This room shows no sign that anyone has cooked a meal for years, so how has Njål been subsisting here? For all I know he eats live vermin like Brave Sir Reginald. A shiver works through me as I pass from the kitchen into the cozy room at the back, already warmed by the double-sided fireplace, cunningly designed to heat both the cooking area and the private living quarters. The mattress needs a good airing, however, so I haul it out back and whack it until a cloud of dust billows out. Right now, I don’t sense the acute observation that dogged my steps earlier. Njål must have been watching me from the moment I stepped inside.

With effort, I drape the mattress across a desiccated hedge. Will I be expected to tame the garden as well? Probably not, as all the plants are dead and the ground is frozen. The keep is far too large for one person to look after, but at least my days will be full. Likewise, all the linens need to be washed properly. By some miracle, the cloth hasn’t been devoured by moths, despite a lack of proper care. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any signs of pests inside the walls, no tracks in the dust or dead insects. That seems . . . strange, but no odder than anything else in this eldritch place.

I accept there’s little more I can do today and finally take a bath in the kitchen with the water I saved earlier. There’s no one to bother me, and it’s quite nice in front of the fire.

Afterward, I head to my cozy room and roll up in the blanket I brought from home in front of the hearth. From here, I can see through the double-sided fireplace into the shadowed kitchen. The rug is a bit musty, but not enough to keep exhaustion from taking me.

My little room has no windows, so an internal clock wakes me countless hours later, instead of my chattering sisters or the crowing of a rooster. Stiff to the bone, I roll out of my pallet and tame my hair into a simple plait, then don my work dress. I have exactly two, one for work and one for good, though I hate wearing the second one, because I used to glow whenever I put it on to meet Owen.

I can remember better times when I had a new coat every year and shiny shoes, but as the winters got worse, people bought less and less ale, until our family was barely scraping by, and our best went to Tillie and Millie. I tell myself firmly not to think of them and head to the courtyard to retrieve the bedding. It takes me most of the morning to put the room to rights, but I’ll sleep in a proper bed this evening.

Pleased with myself, I put the kettle on and heat the soup I made the day before. Soon the kitchen simmers with a delicious scent, and I hear soft footfalls approaching.

“Good day,” I call out. “There’s enough for two. Will you eat with me?”

“I handle my own meals,” comes the terse rejoinder.

I shrug. “Suit yourself. What can I do for you then?”

Knowing it might be impolite, I can’t help but tuck into my meal because I haven’t eaten since the day before, and I’ve worked more than enough to earn these beans. Njål is near, but damned if I can tell exactly where.

“Amarrah Brewer, was it?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“You said you can make a passable ale, is that right?”

I blink. Of all things, I never imagined that the Beast of Bitterburn might actually be interested in my ability to turn grains into alcohol. Cautiously, I answer, “I can, yes. Mind, it won’t be ready straightaway. It needs time to ferment and for the best results, it could take up to a year. The minimum is—”

“I’ve a surfeit of patience. ‘When’ matters little while you stare into infinity. Take stock of our supplies and see if you can brew some ale. The prospect of sampling it unexpectedly offers some savor.”

I wonder if it’s a good idea to give liquor to somebody who hasn’t had any for a while. It seems odd that there’s no liquor in the keep, but maybe he drank all the ale and lager, leaving only fancy spirits and fine wine? This is all he’s asked of me so far, and it benefits me to appease the beast. I could do worse in terms of a landlord’s demands.

“Right away.” I put my spoon down to check the pantry.

“No hurry,” he cuts in. “Finish your meal, little one. Whatever we have will still be there when you’re done.”

“Thank you.”

At home, nobody thinks twice about sending me on errands and it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. How ironic, I went all the way to the Keep at the End of the World to meet someone other than Owen who cares if I finish my food. Or maybe Njål has been forced to learn patience over these long solitary years, so it’s less about me and more about his state of mind. Either way, I devour my bean and barley soup with great alacrity.

“You’re truly content to work here and bear me company?” he asks at length.

“I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I have nowhere else to go. And winter is coming,” I add.

His tone is somber. “Winter never leaves this place. You’ll find the ice never melts. The snow never goes either.”

“How is that possible?” I breathe. But even before he replies, I feel the answer in the prickle of unease that lingers on my skin.

“You must have sensed the fell magic? This place is cursed, me along with it.”

“That’s what they say in the village,” I whisper. “But it’s hard to know what’s true amid so many old stories.”

“Do they still speak of me? I imagined the world would have long since forgotten.”

“You know they haven’t!” I shouldn’t snap—it’s most unwise—but I can’t staunch the outpouring of angry words. “Our village sends you provisions every winter to entreat your mercy. To keep you from sweeping down on us and—”

A laugh booms out, interrupting whatever else I might have said. “Is that why? Oh, that’s rich.”

“Are you laughing at us? People are starving because of you!”

“Those poor fools. They’re starving because of their own ignorance, aren’t they? I’ve never demanded anything. The truth of the matter is this: I cannot leave this place, so your village was always safe from me. I had no idea why your people were bringing me things, year after year. It’s not as if anyone ever inquired how I felt about it or if I wanted any of this nonsense. I would’ve traded all that grain for a bottle of ale if I’d been asked.”

I could howl with the injustice of it. Fear has left the village of Bitterburn ravaged and for no reason. People have tried to loot the keep, but they never returned. Once every generation, someone decides they’ll creep in and emerge with untold riches, but then they’re just gone forever, and townsfolk worried that we had incurred the beast’s wrath. The Burgher says that’s why we started the tributes. There’s been no communication between village and keep, however, no attempt to leave a note or wait for a response.

I bow my head because I believe him. If he could leave, why hasn’t he? Whoever Njål was before, he’s cursed and powerless beyond these walls. If there had been more food, if Owen had eaten better, maybe he wouldn’t have died of fever. If he’d been stronger.

“If you had left the supplies outside . . .” No, that’s wrong. Once the shipment is dropped off, we don’t return for another year, so we couldn’t have collected them to use. Though if he’d left them, perhaps we would’ve found the rotten remains and stopped sending tribute long ago. “Why do you bring them in, if not to use?”

“It seemed disrespectful not to,” he says.

I swallow my scream, clenching my fists so tight that my ragged nails bite into my palms. I wish I could blame Njål, hate him, but how was he supposed to tell us when he cannot leave and there are no messengers in this desolate place? Leaving a note outside, exposed to the elements, would have ruined paper and ink, long before anyone read it.

Superstition would have killed our town through privation, had I not come, out of abject despair. Those fools indeed.

I let out a breath instead of a cry and quietly clean my dishes. Finally, I can speak. “One day I may ask about the curse, but not today. I’m in no frame of mind to listen with the attention your tale deserves.”

“One day I might answer,” he returns.

He’s gone then.

I still haven’t seen Njål’s face, but it doesn’t matter if I’m working for a mountain troll or a bipedal wolf. As long as he leaves me be, we can scrape along together until I die of old age and go to Owen.

With that admittedly morbid thought, I check the pantry. We have most of what I need for a batch of ale, and I can improvise the rest. The bigger issue is finding the supplies for brewing, as they’re a bit specialized. I suppose I could go back down the mountain to trade, but that would open the door to questions I’m not ready to answer. Just as well that I find odds and ends to turn to my purpose. If I come and go freely, the villagers will decide Njål isn’t as terrible as we’ve always believed, and they might come for him.

In my own way, I’m protecting everyone as best I can.

3.

A person can get used to anything.

The following week proves that. After I assemble the promised batch of ale and leave it to ferment, I spend my days cleaning and trying to restore some semblance of order to the keep, but the task is daunting. As I scrub and straighten, I also explore.

The courtyard has multiple doors, but I enter the keep through the kitchen, which connects to a long corridor dotted with doorways, leading to dim rooms with narrow bunks and wooden partitions; the servants must have been quartered here. Sconces line the walls at regular intervals, but I don’t light them. Wide doors open to the great hall. Here, the floor is tiled in white, black, and red, creating a pattern that disturbs me. I don’t want to step on the red part of the mosaic, so like a child I exaggerate my strides as I cross the floor. It’s probably my imagination. I spend too much time alone, sensing danger when there is none.

I pass through the great hall into the gallery, a vast space full of exquisite paintings in gilt frames. Some are landscapes while others are portraits, elegant people with serious faces dressed in clothing that went out of style hundreds of years ago. Neck ruffs and velvet coats, tight pantaloons and tiny lap dogs. One by one I study their faces, seeking some reflection of Njål, but what do I know of him, really? Mostly the sound of his voice, but I admit my secret interest is gaining traction.

There’s a tale in the storybooks about a woman whose work was always undone in the night by angry pixies, so each morning, she had to start fresh while knowing she’d never finish. It’s a sort of morality play, I think, emphasizing the value of hard work, but even as a little girl, I wondered why the woman didn’t simply apologize to the pixies and see if that made any difference.

Ceasing my ruminations, I explore onward. From the gallery, more hallways lead to multiple towers, each housing a different sort of room—one for gaming, another for embroidery, and the other two appear to have been used for more . . . intimate purposes. There are state rooms as well, appointed in old-fashioned style. The heavy, sumptuous fabrics would sell for a hefty price, even now. Precious gems spill out of jewel boxes, cast aside like mere baubles.

I find no trace of the mysterious Njål.

Keeping to the pattern, he visits me once a day, offering a few words, and then he vanishes, maybe into the forbidden portion of the citadel. I don’t want to be curious because of how the story goes about the cat, but the longer I live here in relative peace, the more I wonder about Njål’s secrets. I still haven’t gotten a single glimpse of him, but I force myself to seal away that interest. Surely it’s not good for me to care too much.

The long silences give me far too much time to fret about my family, however. I wonder if Tillie and Millie are eating enough, if my stepmother is warmer to them without me there to witness it. She’s a strange woman, my stepmother, frosty and pragmatic to a fault. I always thought sheer loneliness must have driven my father to her, and perhaps that’s something else I can blame myself for, because if I had been better or brighter or more somehow, maybe—

No. There’s no point to any of this. The past lies beyond an unbreakable glass wall, so we can see what we’ve done but not change it. Sometimes I think it would be easier to live without memory, so that each day feels brand new and each discovery comes for the first time. I suppose it would be difficult as well, as you would have to learn everything from the beginning, and there’s a limit to what one can master in a single day. Yes, I ought not to wish for that and just carry my memories—of my family and Owen—like a weary old woman hauling water from the well.

I’ve sorted all the usable scraps of broken furniture, turning the refuse into firewood and kindling for the winter that never ends. The rest of the keep is frigid to the point that I shiver when I leave the kitchen fire, but returning to my domain there always fills me with a sense of relief. Not quite homecoming, not yet, but I like how the copper-bottomed pots shine, all hung in orderly precision, and I’ve organized the herbs to my own specifications, so it’s a good feeling to find even a small trace of my presence lasting here, in such an inhospitable place. Sighing, I wish we had a goat because I could do so much more with milk. Right now, my meals are sparse, created from the supplies that haven’t spoiled, mostly dried beans and salted fish. My meals, not Njål’s, as he still prefers to dine alone, though only the gods know what he’s eating.

Before Njål speaks, I sense him watching me. It no longer startles me when his voice sounds nearby. “What has you so pensive?”

“Just wishing for better supplies.”

“I can do nothing for you,” he says, as if I expect him to produce a kitchen garden and livestock out of the frozen courtyard.

This place had a buttery, though, and a stable, plus I saw signs that they once kept bees in the far garden. Now everything is empty and frozen, lifeless apart from those unnerving ice statues. My imagination isn’t quite powerful enough to conjure what Bitterburn must have been like before, but I catch echoes, almost as if the keep wants me to remember memories that are not my own.

“Who asked you to?” I snap. “You inquired as to my thoughts. I answered. That’s all.”

“You’ve remarkable brass to scold the monster lurking in the dark.”

“If you’re a monster, I’m a dragon,” I mutter.

He’s done nothing to harm me or even mildly alarm me. My first few nights I wished I could lock the door to my little room behind the kitchen hearth or barricade it somehow, and I lay awake listening for any sign that he would come to ravish me, but there was never the faintest sense that he was nearby. I only get that feeling just before he speaks, generally in the brightest part of the day, though the sky above never lightens fully as it does in the village. At best it’s a pale and ominous gray, looming like a threat.

“Then you should melt the ice and devour me. I’ve lived this way long enough and I would welcome the end.” There is no levity in his deep voice.

A pang quivers through me. I remember how I felt when I came here—lonely, exhausted, and ready for the terminus of my life. My heart aches as I realize that Njål shares the feeling. I know nothing of him, but the idea of him ceasing to be? I cannot like it.

Yet maybe it would be better for the village, and our crops would grow again. Perhaps the endless winter is spreading from here like a magical sickness, and it explains why our growing season has become shorter over the years.

I surprise myself by admitting, “I felt that way too.”

“Is that why you came to me? Hoping for an end.”

“You could say that,” I answer quietly.

“It does explain a great deal. This is not a place one enters if any hope remains. In truth, I’m surprised the keep allowed you to. Others who have tried . . .”

“The statues.” I repress a shiver at the realization that I could have ended up as an ice sculpture. Questions peck away at me like greedy ravens. Do the frozen ones retain any awareness? That would truly be hell, locked in your own mind for eternity, able to perceive the world but not scream your pain and loneliness. Whatever foul magic afflicts this place, it’s truly diabolic.

“Indeed. It seems that this place recognized you as another lost soul, not one who came to plunder or conquer. Your family truly does not expect you to return?”

“I have said twice that I have nowhere else to go. Why must you force me to admit such a sad thing a third time?”

He surprises me by saying, “I’m sorry. It’s hard to believe that you prefer to be here. Please consider Bitterburn your home, so long as you respect the boundaries I’ve drawn.”

A peculiar warmth fills me. Not even my own father used the word “home” after my mother died. It was either drunken demands for me to sing or angry shouts that I wasn’t working fast enough.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing to thank me for, more of an exile. But I’ve come to be grateful for the sound of your voice. It’s been a lifetime since I spoke to anyone else.”

Some part of me suspects that he means it more literally than I can imagine. I don’t inquire, however, because I intuit that asking personal questions is the quickest way to drive him off, and like Njål, I have come to treasure the sound of his voice. We are not meant to live alone, in total silence. In the middle of the night, I huddle into my blankets and wish it didn’t feel as if I have pitched my camp in someone’s tomb.

“I enjoy your visits,” I say then. “I wish you came to the kitchen more often.”

“Do you?” He sounds astonished, as if it has never occurred to him that I would want his company.

I nod, then realize I’m not sure if he can see me. “Yes, it’s nice to chat while I work. Is there anything you wish I would cook? Bearing in mind our limited supplies.”

“Fry bread, if you have the ingredients. It’s been ages since I had any sort of bread.” His voice carries a wistful tone. “I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn that first day. You’ve no idea how much I regretted not tasting the bread you made then. It smelled so good.”

I’m glad he said it, so I’m not tempted to be pert; there’s no gain in provoking him. “I can whip some up, if you’ll wait a bit.” Silently I hope he’ll stay and eat with me, but I have no idea where he is currently. “It will go nicely with the kettle of beans I have on the hob.”

He doesn’t verbally agree, but I hear him settling nearby, just beyond my range of sight. “Did you find everything you needed to make the ale, by the way?”

“Yes, the first batch is fermenting.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“It’s incredible that you need to ask. You’re the beating heart of this dreadful place, so warm and alive that I come every day to make sure I didn’t dream you.”

I’m startled into silence by the admission, as I had no idea that he thought of me as more than a nuisance. Then I try to imagine what it’s been like, living in such isolation for years untold, and I come up blank. But the ice around my heart that formed when Owen died, it shivers and cracks a bit, because it seems as if Njål needs me somewhat, and nobody else does. I’m . . . necessary here. I work hard, but my efforts are appreciated. He hasn’t berated me or asked for the impossible, and he’s grateful for what I can achieve. Conversely, it makes me want to do more for him; I wish that I could.

If he can see my face, he knows I’m smiling as I mix the simple dough and drop a spoon of lard in the cast iron pan, making the fry bread sizzle as it cooks. He draws in an appreciative breath, audible enough to tell me that he’s close, maybe closer than he’s ever been.

Perhaps I should be frightened, but the outside world has hurt me far more. Njål has never injured me, never made me feel unsafe despite his allegedly monstrous nature. I’m not sure I believe those old tales any longer. He’s been cursed, but he’s no evil fiend, and he certainly can’t sweep down on the town to unleash his wrath. He’s a damn prisoner. And the fact that we gave away so much food is our own fault, not his.

Quickly, I put together a meal of beans, salt fish, fry bread, and weak herbal tea, then I set everything at the far end of the worktable. I have smaller portions of everything, and I turn around, settling on a stool near the stove.

“You didn’t dream me,” I respond at last. “You stay because you can’t leave. I stay because I choose to. As I hope you’ll choose to eat supper with me. I won’t move. I won’t turn around. But we can talk and I . . .” Should I say this? “. . . would enjoy that.”

“As would I.”

There’s a scrape, as if he’s entered the kitchen, trusting me to keep my word. Trusting me. I exhale, because I didn’t realize how tight my chest got waiting for his reply.

“What did you want to discuss?” he asks.

“Nothing in particular. It’s nice to have company.”

“It is,” he agrees.

I don’t hear the scrape of cutlery, and I wonder how he’s eating. Maybe he scrapes the beans up with the flat bread? I do the same and find it works wonderfully, efficient and delicious.

“This is so good.”

I’m not expecting praise, so the soft words fall like gentle rain on parched earth. The feeling warms me further, but I keep my head down, trying not to glow too visibly because it’ll make me seem pathetic—that I’m this starved for kindness. Before Owen died, I drank in his approval, but since then . . .

“I’m glad you like the fry bread. We have enough flour that I can make it more often. I just didn’t know that you enjoyed it.”

“There’s been no one to ask. Or to care. This much is already an unimaginable boon.”

I care. That, I don’t say out loud, because it’s so open to misinterpretation. Though I don’t think he’d take it as an invitation, I don’t trust him fully yet. I only know that he’s more alone than I am, a feat that takes some doing.

“I know that feeling as well,” I say softly.

He moves, but doesn’t approach; it seems as if he wants to. “You make me curious.”

“About what?”

“How you ended up here. Why the keep permitted you to pass when it’s allowed no one else.” His tone is pensive.

“You said it was because I had abandoned all hope and had nowhere else to go.”

“That’s purely speculation. I am not the master of this place,” he says.

“Well, I’m the mistress of the kitchen and I’m glad you had supper with me.”

“As am I. I’ve tested your resolve long enough. I don’t wish for curiosity to get the better of you.”

“You assume I’m curious about you.”

“Are you not? I should take comfort in that, but it’s a bit disappointing somehow. Keep safe and warm until the morn, Amarrah.”

Hearing him speak my name feels so intimate. The warm tremor it creates stays with me for a long while, well past the time when I’ve tidied the remains of our meal and am tucked up in my blankets, staring into the crackle of the fire.

4.

The next day, there’s a goat in the courtyard, and I have no idea how she got there. She seems equally bemused, bleating at me plaintively. The portcullis is still closed, and it’s not as if she could’ve simply dropped from the sky. She’s not injured, though she is a bit thin. Times are tough even for mountain goats, it seems.

But I have nothing to feed her and nowhere for her to graze.

Maybe it would be quicker and kinder to butcher her and smoke the meat, but when I gaze into her eyes, I can’t do it. She’s not as skittish as most wild goats, making me think that she might have belonged to someone once. The animal doesn’t flinch when I approach and holds still as I pick brambles from her fur. In fact, she bumps her head against my hand. Absently I rub her ears, treating her as I would a friendly dog. My family never kept livestock, so I don’t know much about looking after such a creature.

Is this because of my silent wish that I had a goat? The mere idea sends a shiver through me as I conclude that the keep is a sentient force, one capable of making judgments. I’d reckoned that Njål was being clever when he said he didn’t let me in—that the keep had a mind of its own.

But I didn’t tell Njål about that fleeting thought. And here the goat is regardless.

“How am I supposed to feed you?” I ask.

The goat stares at me, surrounded by patches of snow and the eerie ice statues that used to be people. Slowly, I pass through, examining their faces one by one. There are twenty in all. Two seem to be hunters, judging by their apparel and gear, caught in a moment of abject terror, mouths frozen open in matching screams. I shiver, moving to the next, a group of three, minstrels by the look of the instruments they’re carrying. Then there’s five merchants who came to peddle their wares and never left. The last group appears to have arrived together, soldiers prepared to deal with the threat, perhaps. At least that’s what the weapons and armor suggest. They all made it through the portcullis, but the keep deemed them unwelcome and froze them where they stood.

Why am I the exception? Perhaps it’s because I didn’t intend to take anything away from here. I only ever meant to work and possibly find a place to call my own, even if it seems sinister and strange to the rest of the world. Others might posit that they’re the chosen one, destined to bring life back to this barren place, but me? I’m just another desolate space. So maybe that’s it; the keep recognized me as an extension of itself.

The goat bleats, distracting me from my dark thoughts. “What’s your name, hm?”

Silence. I don’t know what I was expecting, though talking animals wouldn’t seem out of place in the fairy tale I’ve stumbled into.

“Meredith?” I try.

No response.

“Nancy? I guess not.”

The goat stares, as if wondering whether I’ve lost my mind.

“Agatha?”

She bleats in response, so I’m taking that as agreement.

“Excellent. I’m happy to have you here, Agatha, but I’m a bit worried. There’s nothing for you to eat, and I’ve never looked after any animals apart from Brave Sir Reginald. It didn’t end well for him, you see, though that wasn’t entirely my fault. At least my stepmother’s not here or she’d likely roast you over an open fire.”

Agatha widens her eyes, alarmed as well she should be.

I’m studying the goat, trying to decide what to do with her, when I recall that this place has a stable. That’s the natural place for a goat to live, but I don’t know how to herd a goat. To my surprise, she follows me like a puppy when I leave the courtyard, her little hooves clacking on the cobblestone. I lead the way to the stables, which I’ve only seen from the outside, as I’ve been more occupied with making the keep more habitable. I push open the door and stop, rubbing my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

This . . . is not normal. Nothing about Bitterburn is, but there are no signs of pests here either. No rats to nibble the leather or spiders to adorn the place with webs. From the gleaming tack to the pristine feed bags, this space looks untouched by time, the hay perfectly fresh as it must have been on the first day of the curse. Where is the dust? All the grain for the horses is dry and new looking, whereas the supplies sent from the village spoiled in their containers.

How does the magic work exactly? Why did our goods go bad? Because they’re from outside the walls, perhaps. Njål must have carried them in, so they must have dropped them right outside the portcullis. Puzzling over such things makes my head hurt.

I wonder if it’s safe for—

Agatha has no such doubts. She’s already munching on some hay, showing no hesitation or distaste. I should have wished for a pregnant goat, I suppose, because now I have a goat that I won’t kill for meat and that I can’t milk. Still, at least she’s company, and there’s plenty of fodder in the stable for the time being. It’s stocked for forty horses, not a single scrawny goat.

“Stay here,” I tell her. “I have to make supper, but I’ll check on you later. Don’t eat until you’re sick. This has to last for a while.”

Gods know what I’ll do when she runs out of hay, but for now . . . I hurry to the kitchen to check my provisions. I’m already tired of beans, so I’ll make lentil soup instead. It’s a minor but important distinction. Wistfully I think of the venison I took for granted as a little girl, but even the deer herds have thinned because they can’t find enough to eat.

I’ve got the soup simmering when I hear Njål approach. He no longer tries to conceal his arrival, and I don’t feel like I’m being watched anymore. He stays in the shadows near the doorway. My other senses have sharpened since I’ve been here. I can’t see him, but I pinpoint his location by the smell of the raw lye soap he washes with and the hint of pine, likely boughs he’s laid in his drawers to freshen his clothes, though maybe that’s simply how he smells. I don’t even know if he wears clothes. I haven’t washed anything of his since I’ve been here, nor have I seen him doing so, even from a distance.

But then, I avoid the east wing, as instructed. If that’s the best way to keep him happy and to stay safe, it’s the least I can do. And there’s plenty to occupy me elsewhere. When curiosity nibbles at me like a hungry mouse, I shoo it away with impatient hands.

My life is decent. Not idyllic like a child’s imaginings, but life seldom is. There are shadows and sorrows, shards of broken dreams so sharp they’d cut my hands if I reached for them. For me, Owen is that dream, one that almost came true. The “almost” ruins me, time and again, so I wake with tears on my cheeks, my chest stinging with tightness.

The worst part about Owen is that I can’t allow myself to remember what he was like when he was alive. Those memories hurt too much. He had no family, and I was the one who loved him best, so it fell to me to wash his body and lay him out for burial. And once you’ve cleaned someone’s cold hands, you can’t bear to recall how it felt to hold them when they were warm. That chill stays with you, eating away at the memories until you only see their death. I didn’t even have two coppers to set on his eyes. Someone else donated them, and that hurts me too. He died alone in his little room above the smith’s workshop, perhaps waiting for me to come.

And I didn’t. Because my sisters had a touch of the same fever that took Owen, and I was nursing Tillie, who was always smaller and weaker than her twin. Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wonder if I should have chosen him. If I’d left home, if I had nursed him and made him healing broths, could I have saved him instead? But nobody should be forced to make that choice, to decide which sort of love is more precious.

Truly, I didn’t know he was that sick. Not until it was too late. He hid it from me, not wanting me to worry. He met his goal, sure enough—I didn’t worry but I did grieve and I do still, mentally raking my choices like hot coals that give no warmth. Irritated with myself for obsessing over events I can’t change, I slap together the fry bread dough and pummel it a bit more than I need to. It may come out tough but I doubt Njål will complain.

Finally, he speaks. “You seem upset.”

“It’s nothing new.”

“Would it help to talk about it?”

I’m surprised he asked. “Just the opposite. I hate myself for being this way, but sometimes I get stuck, and I can’t stop my thoughts.”

“Mulling over things you can’t change.”

I stare in his direction, wishing I could see his expression, but he’s only given me his voice. “How did you know?”

“Because I’ve looped the tale in my head a thousand times. Was there a path I could have taken that led somewhere else? Or do all my roads end this way?”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here,” I say then.

“It’s been ages since I heard that.” The pleasure in his voice is unmistakable, and I’ve started to enjoy that deep rasp. I want him to talk to me; I could listen for hours to the hoarse softness that means Njål is with me.

That unusual anticipation makes me feel . . . something. I’m uncomfortable and not ready to examine it further so I change the subject. “Did you know we have a guest?”

“Who?” he demands, all gentleness erased so cleanly that I wonder if I imagined it.

“Her name is Agatha. She’s currently munching on hay in the stables.”

“Pardon me?”

“Agatha is a goat,” I clarify. “I’ve no idea how the hay is still good, but it’s perfectly preserved.” On impulse, I share the fleeting wish I made silently the day before, finishing with, “It’s rather odd, isn’t it? Can the keep read my mind?”

“Not exactly,” he says.

Startled, I ask, “But it’s something like that?”

“For some reason, the keep wants you to stay. Therefore, it provides what you require as an inducement. I would be careful, however, as it can be cruel and mercurial.”

“If I wished to see my family, it might lure them here and turn them to ice,” I suggest. “That sort of thing.”

“So they can be with you eternally.” There’s a heaviness to his tone now, as if he has personal experience in this area.

I don’t ask. Part of me wants to, but getting close to Njål doesn’t seem like the wisest idea for a whole host of reasons. Silently, I admit that I’m tempted, but I’m here to cook and clean, not delve into the mysteries of Bitterburn and its fascinating captive. Resolutely I stir the soup and roll out the first piece of flatbread, then drop it in the skillet. The bread puffs as it sizzles and Njål draws in an appreciative breath.

“I could eat that daily for ten years and not get tired of it.”

“What did you do before I arrived?”

He said he handled his own meals, but the kitchen didn’t show any signs of use before I cleaned it. There’s a long pause, as if he doesn’t want to answer.

I’m about to disavow the question when he says softly, “I starved, mostly. There was no reason to bother.”

“You . . . just didn’t eat?” Starvation eventually leads to death, even among the cursed. Or at least, I thought that must be true.

“When I said I can’t leave, I meant it utterly. If simple hunger could end my life, I’d have died long since.”

“You’re saying that you can’t die.” I wonder if he gets weak and thin, or if he doesn’t need to eat? I doubt he’d welcome my curiosity, however.

“If only I could,” he says wearily. “But the keep and its magic sustain me, keeping me alive to ensure that the torment is eternal and that my isolation is infinite.”

“But it’s not. Not anymore. The keep let me in. What does that mean?”

Njål lets out a long breath. “I wish I knew. But long and terrible experience makes me fear that Bitterburn has found a new way to torment me.”

5.

It’s difficult to conceal my reaction to that unexpectedly hurtful remark.

My presence is a torment? Njål has been amiable so far, but I ought to have known not to get comfortable with such kindness. I finish my food in silence, then I begin clearing the remainder of the meal without replying. What can I say anyway? He knows that I have nowhere to go, even if I’m made to feel vastly unwelcome.

“Amarrah?” The questioning tone makes it worse, as if he truly has no notion how terrible I feel.

“Is there something more you require, sir?” That formality is my only defense, and I use it like a shield.

“I can tell that you’re upset, but I don’t know why.”

That’s the last straw. I can’t pretend to be fine, speak politely when I want to chuck this dish at his head. I hurl the rag in his general direction instead. “You just said I exist to plague you! Those who scrub and toil have feelings, Sir Njål. Perhaps that will come as a shock, as I suspect you enjoyed a life of leisure before you got yourself cursed.”

“Oh.” The single syllable does nothing to appease me and I’m about to keep ranting when he adds quickly, “That’s not what I mean. Bitterburn granted you as an unexpected gift, and I’m afraid that when I come to depend on you, look forward to eating and speaking with you, once I settle into that comfort, you’ll be taken. I don’t want you to be hurt because of me! And renewed isolation would be a fresh torture. I greatly fear . . .”

“Losing me?” That changes everything. My anger fades as fast as it came, as realization dawns. “You’re afraid something bad will happen.”

“I fear for your safety,” he admits softly.

“Is that why you tried to keep your distance initially?” I ask.

“Part of it. But I also thought you’d soon see how bleak and terrible this place is, and that you’d go after a night or two.”

“I like it here,” I say.

Here, nobody rebukes me. No one is disappointed. I have my own private, cozy space, and for the time being, there’s plenty of food. That won’t always be true, of course, with no more supplies coming from town, but neither of us eats that much and we have years of staples to work through. And I have Agatha now. Slowly, the keep is coming to feel like home, and maybe I’m foolish, but I don’t fear this place the way Njål seems to. I don’t feel uneasy or threatened, though the keep is admittedly strange, much like Njål.

Who has been silent for so long that I imagine he means to creep off quietly without responding. But he finally says, “I’ve no idea why, as there’s nothing here that anyone would want. But I’m glad.”

“You’re here.” Oh, gods, why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?

Judging by the sharp intake of breath, I’ve stunned him. “Are you . . . you can’t be saying what I think you are.”

“That I want you?”

Do I? I’m not even sure in what sense, but yes. I’d miss his visits if he stopped coming. I’d hate eating alone and having no contact to liven up my daily chores.

“Amarrah, don’t game with me. You’ve no idea how desperate and wild you’re making me feel.”

“I’m sorry for that. I’m not provoking you intentionally. I wasn’t saying I want your company in the night yet, but I do like having you in the kitchen.”

“Ah,” he says.

And I have the sense that I’ve hurt him, raised his hopes and dashed them nearly in the same breath. It’s too soon, though. Owen’s death haunts me and I know little of Njål, only the sound of his voice, really. And by all the bright gods, I never loved Owen fully, not in the physical sense, because we were waiting for the right time, for him to finish his apprenticeship and for us to build a little cottage where it would be just the two of us.

I ought to have gone to his room and showed him my adoration, even if it was awkward, because then at least I’d have the memory to keep me warm. Life is a series of imperfect occasions, messy and convoluted and full of doubts. Waiting for perfection simply means waiting forever and never experiencing anything at all.

“Amarrah. You said ‘yet.’”

I smile as I pick up the cloth I threw. “I did. There may come a time when my bed feels empty and I’ll ask you to join me there. I can’t promise that I will, however, because feelings are often uncertain, unpredictable as butterflies. Will you wait?”

He surprises me with a soft chuckle. “I can do little damn else. If patience is a virtue, then I’m a saint and need only to be recognized by the church.”

“Somehow I doubt it’ll be easy to get a cleric up here.”

“And if one came, he’d likely be added to the ice garden,” he says somberly.

It’s still baffling that I wasn’t. “True enough.”

“You’re worth waiting for, if there’s a chance that you’ll develop any fondness for one such as me.”

Njål has too many secrets and I have none. He knows that my family doesn’t want me and my lover perished. Such a sorrowful litany of truths, but they make me who I am.

This conversation carries too much weight. I’m not ready to make any declarations, especially not when it’s likely our hearts are swayed by sadness. He’s spoken with nobody else in countless years, so there’s no way he’s smitten with me personally. He might think Agatha is a fetching lass as well, given his lack of other options.

“I promised to check on our guest,” I say then. “You’re welcome to accompany me.”

He hesitates, at least, before refusing. “Best not.”

“What do you do with your time?” I ask, surprising myself.

“Mostly, I read. The keep has an extensive library, and I’ve read every book in it multiple times. Some I’ve reread so often that I can quote long passages, not that there was anyone to listen before.”

Wonder trickles through me. I’ve never known anyone who owned multiple books, apart from the old woman who ran the lending library when I was little. Visiting her was the bright spot of my week, and I was often punished for shirking chores to hole up with a storybook. When she passed away, her books were sold off to passing peddlers. Numbers took precedence in my father’s house, long hours devoted to balancing his ledgers and trying to find a few extra coppers if we cut back on candles or—

No, I won’t think about my old life.

“Is the library in the east wing?” I ask.

“It’s not. Why do you ask?”

I press my lips together, scared to make this request, because if he denies it, I’ll be angry and resentful. It’s difficult to ask for the things you want most.

“Because I would like to see it . . . and borrow books.” I rush onward. “I’ve never cared for a goat, you see, so perhaps I can find a book on animal husbandry, and—”

“Amarrah.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve little enough to give that might make you happy. Read every book in the library if you wish. Carry a whole pile of them to your room. Everything in the main keep is yours for the taking.”

I notice he still qualifies his bequest, but my heart trembles a little anyway, even though I understand that it means he doesn’t trust me completely. Perhaps I’ll invite him to my bed when he does.

In another life, I might have flirted with him. Said that currently he’s in the main keep, does that mean he belongs to me too? But whatever’s growing between Njål and me is too tender and tentative to tolerate such coquetry. He will take too much pleasure in my casual words, and I’ll regret that I can’t immediately deliver my whole heart on a platter. But it’s been diced so neatly that it will take time for me to reassemble the pieces, if that’s even possible. Perhaps I can only ever give him a pile of mince where my dearest love ought to be, and sadly, I reckon Njål might accept it because it’s more than he’s had in ages.

But we both deserve more. Perhaps time can grant it to us, just as it takes love away, like a sword that cuts both ways.

“I don’t know where it is. The place is huge, and I’d rather not risk a wrong turn.”

In response he gives precise directions that I memorize and repeat silently until I’m confident I can find the library without breaching his faith. Brimming with anticipation, I explode into motion, cleaning the kitchen with a fervor I’ve seldom felt. Imagine, a whole room full of books. I can’t even envision what they’d all be about. Stories or histories or dry accounts of the best way to grow turnips?

“You’re alight,” he says with a gruff sort of wonder.

At some point during my tidying spree, he slips away, leaving me to finish and wash my hands. I shouldn’t touch the precious books with grubby fingers. That done, I rush through the keep, taking the turns he specified, until I come to a pair of imposing double doors. They open silently, revealing a room that steals my breath. I’d imagined something like a gentleman’s study, but this? It’s a cathedral full of books with high arched windows covered in stained glass, roses grown wild on a wall, thorns and blooms entwined in equal measure. The shelves go all the way to the vaulted ceilings and there are multiple ladders with wheels on the bottom. I could spend two full weeks in here and not even skim all the titles. My heart flutters like a caged songbird.

Njål gave me this without hesitation. He said I could cart away books by the pile, hoard them in my room like a miser with a stack of gold. Exultation swells until I feel like shouting, and then I realize I don’t need to hold it in.

Who’s going to tell me I can’t scream with excitement? I do, joyous shrieks as I run from wall to wall, perusing the titles until I’m dizzy with the exhilaration. Drawing in a deep breath, I savor the smell of old parchment and fine leather, the touch of ink. A writing desk nestles into the corner, an antique pen discarded on an expensive looking notebook, along with pristine pages of expensive vellum. I’m tempted to poke through those notes, but he didn’t give permission for that. Maybe he’s forgotten they’re here?

I hesitate. He said anything in the main keep is mine. Is this a test?

In the end, I decide not to read what might be a private journal. If he’s checking to see if I can be trusted, I won’t take advantage of his kindness on a technicality. Besides, there are so many other things for me to read.

I lose track of time choosing one volume after another, and when I leave, I have poetry, a book of fairytales, a hefty tome on animal husbandry, and a thin little book called The Night Watchman. By now, the light has gone, just a faint glow to burnish the stained glass. I light a candle and carry everything back to the kitchen. I wish Njål was here to discuss my reading choices, but we can talk tomorrow.

Belatedly, I recall that I promised to call on Agatha. It’s true that she’s a goat with no sense of time, but promises are important. If I make excuses for my failures and rationalize the reasons why I don’t need to follow through, soon my word will mean nothing at all.

On impulse, I take The Night Watchman with me, along with the candle in its holder. Agatha is curled up in the straw when I arrive, and she blinks long-lashed eyes at me. Apparently, my absence alarmed her not at all.

On a whim, I ask, “Shall I read a chapter of this?”

She bleats. Somehow I doubt my animal husbandry book will insist that goats require bedtime stories, but I’m taking it as permission, so I settle onto a stool and open the book to the first page.

“‘The hours between midnight and dawn are the longest part of the night, the time when ghosts are most likely to wander . . .’” A soft sound outside makes me falter, and then I know, not because I can hear anything or smell his soap and pine scent, but because he’s familiar to me, like the shape of my own hands. Njål is here, standing outside listening to the story, desperate for contact and comfort but afraid to step out of the shadows. I wish he dared. I wished I was brave enough to open the door and invite him in, but I’m not. I let him lurk and keep reading as if I suspect nothing.

My heart aches for both of us.

6.

I work and I read.

I take care of Agatha to the best of my ability and I talk to Njål once a day. He seems to think that something dreadful will happen if we communicate more often. Those fleeting moments have become the brightest part of my day. Sighing, I scatter a few kitchen scraps for Agatha along with her hay. The keep gave me a goat, but I wish they had sent two. That way, they could breed and I’d be able to milk her.

Two days after I make that throwaway wish, I find another goat—a male one—bleating outside the gates. Common sense suggests that he’s looking for Agatha, that they were together before I took her in, but I shiver over the coincidence. It seems the keep does have the ability to grant my wishes, but what if it’s like the magic in the stories? For me to get what I want, it must be taken away from someone else.

There might be a farmer whose family will starve this winter because Bitterburn stole from him. But I don’t know where the goats came from, and I can’t wander around asking. Others would certainly claim a fine pair of breeding goats, even if they didn’t belong to that household originally.

Come to that, it might not be safe for me to leave. If I step outside the portcullis, the keep may not let me back in. Leaving and returning might turn me into an ice statue. As I stand there weighing the best course, the iron teeth raise enough for the goat to trot inside. He seems to have no doubts about where he’s supposed to be.

“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 illuminating; 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 untouched. 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.”

“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.

“It’s too soon. If you intend to come to me, I can withstand the temptation. As I’ve said before, patience is my primary virtue. Only when you’re ready will I do more than touch your hand.”

Part of me is relieved to hear this. “Will it be so easy? Bitterburn drove you to me tonight, and you were . . . different.”

Hungry. A bit wild.

“My guard was down, and I didn’t realize that my own impulses were being used against me. I know the difference now, and if the tide rises again, I won’t repeat this mistake. If it becomes necessary, I’ll lock myself in the east wing so I can’t get to you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say then.

A scene flashes in my head, a cloaked figure dashing himself against the wall, until he’s wounded and dazed. Njål cares about me; I’m sure of it. He’d rather hurt himself than allow harm to befall me.

“Perhaps you should be.”

“Rubbish.” This is bold, but I want to give this much, and he’s promised that I will set the pace. “Can I hug you? I won’t peek, I promise.”

“Amarrah . . .”

“Yes?”

“In my current state, this is most unwise, but I’m reluctant to deny you anything.”

I take that as permission and step into his arms, moving closer until I feel the incredible breadth of his chest. Njål is massive, and his body temperature bewilders me, as if he burns with a cold so deep that it emerges as heat. I slide my arms around him, breathing in his distinctive lye and pine scent. My hands don’t quite meet around his back, and I feel him tucking his cloak around me. He holds me with such tentative care, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“It’s been so long,” he whispers with an agonized elation that makes my heart turn over, quivering like a fish at the river’s edge.

Njål does wear clothes. I feel the rasp of a linen shirt, the leather of a belt and part of a buckle. His shirt has laces; they’re slippery against my cheek. For long moments, I hold on to him, until he gently puts me away from him and takes a step back.

“You’re going?” I guess.

“I’ve lingered too long. Don’t underestimate my desire for you.”

Oh, I won’t. It would be impossible to ignore such a sizable response, but it seems polite not to mention it. Part of me is intrigued, however. I wonder how that hard length would feel in my hands. Later, Njål might rub it frantically until he spurts and goes soft. Is that even possible with his claws? Perhaps, if he’s careful, and if so, I hope he thinks of me.

“I won’t. Keep safe and warm until the morning, Njål.” I speak his name with purpose, for the same reason I’m giving his salutation back to him. He should know that he’s seen. I know who he is and often treasure his words.

He says nothing more and I hear him departing. I wait a few moments more to be sure he has the chance to get clear before opening my eyes. Trying to settle my nerves, I put a couple of pieces of wood on the fire. What will I do when we exhaust the broken furniture I’m currently using? No answers spring to mind, but that’s a dilemma for another day.

Exhausted, I stoke the flames to make sure they’ll last the rest of the night, then trudge to my room. My bed is soft and inviting, nicer than the pallet I shared in the loft with Tillie and Millie. I don’t expect to fall asleep quickly, but my body is tired even if my mind is full. I have no impression of drifting off, but suddenly, noise from the kitchen alerts me.

I dart out to find the space transformed. There are people everywhere: a plump, apple-cheeked cook, two thin girls chopping and stirring, a lanky young man rushing out with a platter. Nobody pays any attention to me, attending to their work with single-minded focus. One of the girls drops her paring knife, earning a brisk scold from the chubby woman who must be the cook.

“You’ll get no quarter from the baron if you ruin his banquet. Hurry now! If everything’s not ready in half an hour, they’ll have our heads.”

The tremor in the assistant’s hands tells me that this isn’t an idle threat. Though I don’t understand at all what’s happening because this seems too real to be a dream—it’s more like I’ve traveled back in time—it must be that the keep is allowing me this glimpse of how things used to be. And while I’m alarmed, I’m also curious enough to step out of the kitchen and follow the footman down the long corridor that leads to the great hall.

He edges the door open and I slip in after him. The table is highly polished with gilt dishes at each setting, fluted goblets shimmering with wine as dark as blood. None of the guests in their silks or brocades even look at the young man carefully setting food on their plates, skewered meat and stuffed eggs. They don’t notice me either, but I think that’s because I’m not actually here. Otherwise someone would surely point at the bedraggled, barefoot woman in her nightgown with sleep plaits coming unraveled. Instead, I circle the table taking note of each face. The ones at each end must be the baron and baroness, and I can’t say that I think young Njål exaggerated their twisted nature in his journal. If anything, their blank stares fill me with even more foreboding.

Is Njål at this party?

I take a second look, but none of the guests are as young as I imagine him to be, and they’re all falsely effervescent, as if forced laughter can stave off whatever dreadful thing lurks on the other side of this lavish meal. As I watch, the staff come and go with tray after tray of beautifully prepared food while these ungrateful bastards take one or two bites and then display ennui, waving away their nearly full plates. The waste sickens me.

I hope the kitchen workers get to eat the leftovers. Otherwise I might expire of rage before this dream ends.

“What will you do with him?” A man with a full beard poses the question, snagging my attention.

Before now, the conversation has been related to some hunt that I don’t give a damn about, but this feels pertinent.

“Does he know that his family is dead?” an old woman asks.

The casual cruelty stuns me. I know that people can be terrible, but the pleasure thrumming in this room, the anticipation of Njål’s pain—and it must be Njål they’re speaking of—it enrages me. I wish that I could reach into the past and destroy them before he’s locked into his current torment.

The baron and baroness share a speaking glance. Then the baron replies, “Do we not treat him as our own already?”

Even these terrible people find that statement of ownership alarming, but nobody pursues the matter. Suddenly, a boy bursts into the room in his pajamas. He’s thin with a strong jaw, a sharp nose, and narrow eyes, impossible for me to guess the color in this light. He glares at the baron, hands curled into fists, and I can see that he’s furious but also frightened. He knows there will be punishment for this defiance.

“Why have you told Gerard to stop posting my letters?”

The elderly woman with hands bedecked with too many rings answers before the baron can. “Child, I weary of this game. There is no one to reply, even if he sent them.”

“That’s impossible. Mother and Father are healthy! I have three brothers. Why—”

“That is how the plague works,” the old woman replies in a frosty tone, as if his ignorance affronts her.

“What about the estate? I should be there to—”

“The crown has appointed an executor,” the baron cuts in. “I have been your guardian for the past year and shall continue in that role for the foreseeable future.”

This is the moment when Njål learns that he has nothing. No power, no home waiting for him. His family is dead, and his inheritance has been stolen. They’ve kept this knowledge from him for entertainment and now his grief amuses them as well. Young Njål lets out a choked cry and wheels to run. He dashes past a startled servant, desperate to keep the avid audience from feeding on his pain.

With an aching heart, I follow.

10.

Dream Njål heads for the east wing.

I pause. I’ve been instructed to steer clear, but surely that doesn’t apply to time travel dreams. Another possibility occurs to me. Maybe this entire scene is nonsense? I’ve heard that people will create their own answers if none are available, and that might be what I’m doing. Trying to frame Njål’s imprisonment in a way that offers a palatable explanation. Since I’m drawn to him, I don’t want to entertain the potential that he could’ve been truly bad, so my mind supplies a suitable scenario, encouraged by the journal he claimed not to remember writing. The suspiciously new-looking journal—

I’ll drive myself mad like this. Even if Njål wrote that recently and none of it is true, he can’t walk into my dreams.

Can he?

I’m alone with only my wits to save me, and all my instincts shout that I should follow young Njål, who’s just learned that he’s alone in the world, fully dependent on the baron and baroness. From what little I’ve seen and heard, that’s a dreadful predicament. Maybe I can’t console him, but I should witness this moment, assuming it’s real. Quickly, I decide that this doesn’t count as disregarding his orders regarding the east wing because I’m not really there.

Or am I? What if I’m sleep walking?

That alarms me enough that I almost wake, and for a spit second, I feel the bedsheets beneath my hand. Then I’m solidly back in the dream, committed to this course. I dash the way Njål came, stopping every now and then to listen. Even in the past, the servants don’t clean the east wing regularly. I can tell that at once, as a musty smell permeates everything. Cobwebs hang heavy in the corners, and there are tracks in the dust, tiny footprints made by rats or mice.

This is how they force him to live? Hidden from the world in the most neglected corner of the keep. I’d thought I couldn’t get angrier, but now rage boils my brain inside my skull.

A heartbroken sound reaches me, so faint that I might be imagining it. Yet I chase those little sobs, making wrong turns and backtracking because the east wing is a maze, full of locked doors and inexplicably ominous rooms. Sometimes I stop outside a closed door and I’m simply certain to my bones that something frightful lurks on the other side. I move on, trial and error, until I find Njål hidden in the smallest of chambers. No window, it’s more of a cupboard, but I can tell that he sleeps here. He’s weeping as quietly as he can manage, face tucked into his knees, armed hooked around his lower legs like he wishes he could make himself so small that he would disappear.

I’m intimately acquainted with that desire.

As I step closer, his head snaps up, and he appears to be staring right at me. He can see me? The others definitely couldn’t, and he didn’t seem to before. I have no explanation for any of this.

“Who are you?”

“Eloise.” The reply slips out before I can stop it—my second name, given for my paternal grandmother. I’m named for two of them, Amarrah from my mother’s side.

“Do you work here?” Njål doesn’t wait for my response, hastening to add, “You should go. The baron will punish both of us if he finds you here.”

In fact I do work here, just not right now, so my silence is not precisely a lie. Instead of leaving from fear of reprisal, as he doubtless expects, I close the door and sit before it, leaving sufficient space between us that he shouldn’t fear my intentions. If this is how Njål lived, no wonder he’s more comfortable in the dark, never being seen. I thought that preference related to his current appearance, but perhaps it started earlier than I realized. Here, the shadows are complete.

“I heard what they said. I’m sorry,” I say, because too many words clot my throat, and none of them will come out properly. I could easily burst into tears, like the ones Njål is valiantly fighting.

“That’s odd. Nobody ever comes, no matter what they do to me.”

“I’m new.” Which is also sort of true. I probably ought to be careful what I reveal to Njål in case this isn’t a dream and I’m somehow touching his past.

I wish I could hug this version of him as I did the older Njål in the kitchen, but this version of him would find it entirely alarming. He’s skittish as a feral cat, using the darkness as a shield, even from me. His breathing steadies though, the sobs receding to an occasional unsteady inhalation.

“That means you arrived recently. Is it true what they said about the plague? You wouldn’t know about my family, but if there’s a disease you’d have word of it.”

That much is true, but I don’t have much formal education and before the lending library closed, I read only on matters that interested me. I search my memory and come up with a whisper of knowledge. It does seem that there was a disease that ravaged the land four centuries ago, taking fully one-third of the population. Women were burned as witches for starting it and doctors went about in bird-face masks, claiming it prevented transmission of the illness.

Could Njål have lived that long?

“The plague is real,” I say then, aware that I’m condemning him to despair.

He only reacts with a subtle drop of his shoulders. “Then it’s probably true that my family is gone as well.”

I can’t bring myself to speak aloud the possibility that they might not be. If they’ve made some terrible deal with the baron and agreed not to demand Njål’s release, how would that be better? “I’m sorry,” I say again, like those are magic words.

“It’s not your fault. Don’t you mind, though?”

“Mind what?”

“I already said you’ll get in trouble, that you’ll be punished. You might be beaten or let go for being here with me. Aren’t you afraid of the baron?”

“Not even slightly.” I can say that with complete assurance because in my time, the baron is gone, no more than a bitter memory. In fact, Njål might be the only one who remembers what happened here.

“How are you so brave?”

It’s easy to be brave when you can’t be hurt. I start to demur and realize he’s inching closer. Tiny incremental movements that close the distance until his knee nudges mine. The door is against my back, so I can’t withdraw, not that I want to. He’s so desperate for companionship that anyone will do.

“I’m not, really. It just seemed as if you could use some company.”

His leg is still touching mine, all bony with adolescent awkwardness. “I miss them. My father was cross with me when I left, and I don’t even remember why. He said I wouldn’t be here long. I believed him. Do you think he had no intention of retrieving me?”

So that’s occurred to him as well. That the baron could feel free to lie about everyone dying because Njål’s family has abandoned him to the tender mercies of this place. What’s more, I can’t conceive of the right words to comfort him when I know that for him, the situation only gets worse, not better. Ages hence, he’ll still be trapped, unable to put Bitterburn behind him.

“It’s better to believe they died,” I say with brutal honesty.

“I think so too, but it hurts knowing that nobody is waiting for me.” Such a small voice, cracking with the start of the deepening change. One day, he’ll sound like my Njål, but right now, he’s a boy in a cupboard confronting the specter of his own mortality.

What in the world can I say to make this better? The solution dawns on me, and it has the virtue of being true. “There is, though.”

“What?”

“Someone waiting for you. It won’t be soon, but in time someone will come because she needs you. Her life was terribly sad before, but when she meets you, it gets better.”

“Is that true?” he asks.

“On my honor, it is.”

“How do you know? Are you a witch who sees the future?”

“My stepmother was always saying that I need to be careful or the witch finders will take me.” Not quite the answer he’s asked for, but it’s another truth.

Njål appears to accept that without requiring elaboration. “Is your stepmother like the baroness?”

I think of Catherine, hair like straw, bony shoulders and tired eyes, worn hands and downturned mouth. “What’s the baroness like?”

In answer, he shivers and draws into himself, unwilling or unable to respond. Instead, he asks, “Can you tell me more about her, the one who’s waiting for me?”

“Another time,” I hedge.

“Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“Didn’t you want me to before?” It’s a trifle unkind to answer a question with a question, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I did then, but not now. I wish you’d stay longer.” Tentatively, he reaches out and his hand brushes the hem of my nightdress. “I have terrible dreams. It might be better if you were here.”

I’m no one, a complete stranger, but he already trusts me enough to hope I can drive away the nightmares. My heart can’t take such softness. I might be worse than the baroness for all he knows, but maybe he’s honed his intuition in this place and he senses that I would never hurt him. Not this Njål, not the other one either.

“Let’s try then.”

In the dark, we move to his pallet—it’s not even a proper bed—and he climbs beneath the covers. I stay beside him and like a puppy, he tilts his head for my hand, shifting ever closer to where it rests on my lap. When I finally touch his brow, he relaxes. His hair is soft, and I brush it away from his forehead in soothing strokes until his breathing grows deep and slow. In time, I fall under as well, and when I wake, I’m in my own bed.

I feel like weeping. It’s so strange that the keep gave me that glimpse into Njål’s past. For what reason? It’s like this place wants me to love him—and the faster, the better. Probably I ought to be frightened by that impetus, assuming Njål is correct about its motivations. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more happening here than either of us understands. There seem to be two currents, pulling at cross purposes, though nothing I can clarify right now, as I’m an emotional mess.

With a muffled curse, I roll out of bed and wash up swiftly. I put on my work dress and tidy my hair, everything as usual. But when I get to the kitchen, things have changed. Normally, the fire is nearly dead when I rouse, and I heat water for my morning meal. Today, the fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth, the stove has been lit, and the kettle is on.

I’m not used to anyone helping me, so the warmth streaming through me is surely more than such simple chores should elicit. Briefly, I kneel before the flames and bask in the heat Njål provided. To someone else, this might scarcely even register as kindness, but to me, it feels like courtship, more surely than a bouquet of flowers or a silver ring.

Humming, I make breakfast and eat it knowing that he’s unlikely to join me. He hides during daylight hours, much to my dismay. Afterward, I clean up the kitchen and head to the stables, but Agatha and Bart aren’t there. Instead I find them gamboling in the courtyard, playing amid the grisly ice statues. For a few moments, I watch with silent amusement.

Life returns. How delicious.

I start. That cold voice most definitely doesn’t belong to me. It’s alien enough that I spin in place, looking for the speaker, only to establish that I’m alone except for Bart and Agatha. It wasn’t Njål either, not that I imagine he can put thoughts in my mind.

What in the world is happening?

Now more than ever, I suspect that there are two intelligences at war within Bitterburn, and maybe the keep is trying to save Njål. That walk to the past feels like a chance I’ve been granted, but I don’t know what more I’m meant to do.

I hope I can figure it out before it’s too late.

11.

Agatha and Bart clearly hear nothing unusual.

They continue their game for a while, then notice my arrival. They both trot over to greet with me head bumps and receive scritches between the ears. I feel outright unsteady, mostly because I hate confusion and I’m currently living in a constant state of it. None of this makes sense, and Njål doesn’t have the answers either.

When I arrived, I was desperate. I didn’t much care if I lived or died, but a new drive has taken hold—the desire to survive and free Njål. I don’t know if it’s possible, and part of me, the skeptical part, still wonders if he’s committed some heinous sin. If he has, of course he wouldn’t admit it. But he cares so much about not hurting me, not doing anything that I don’t want. Would a truly wicked person feel that way? It’s more likely that he’d take what he wants without waiting for me to be ready, without waiting for me to offer.

I make up my mind then and head to the library. For the first time, I’m not planning to bask in these books and peruse whatever strikes my fancy. I’m looking for something specific. As I skim the titles, I hesitate, torn between a history of the keep and a book on witches. I need to learn about both, so I draw down both volumes and carry them to a table. To decide which I’ll read first, I play a child’s game, moving my finger back and forth whispering a quiet rhyme. In the end, I pause on The Witch Within the Walls: A Simple Guide to Household Charms.

I hope to learn about curses in this book, and I open it intending to search the front index for the right section, but the cover drops open and the pages flip as if they have a mind of their own. A shiver courses through me since there’s no breeze, no rational explanation for this.

More mysterious magic? Bitterburn must want me to see this.

Taking it as a sign, I examine the illustration. It shows a lovely young woman in a garden with flowers blooming all around her. This sketch is fascinating because I’ve never seen a witch depicted in a way that wasn’t horrifying, like some withered crone with a basket full of poison apples.

I read the opposite page. When a witch moves to a new residence, the first thing she must do is ward her surroundings. I skim further, noting the process for laying wards, but it sounds complicated, so I turn the page. Your kitchen garden will produce much faster with only a few drops of your blood. Perform this charm to ward off pests and keep your produce safe from harm. It also serves to bind the land to you. If the weather is not favorable, you can extend the growing season thus.

I have everything I need to do this. It’s probably pointless, but an internal whisper encourages me, gaining volume until I memorize both charms and head for the kitchen to gather supplies. I have no idea how I’ll explain this impulse to Njål, but thankfully I don’t encounter him. Excitement carries me through the kitchen to the side garden, opposite the door that leads to the exterior courtyard. At the back of the yard, there’s a row of empty skeps where bees used to flit in and out. The beekeeper would have harvested both wax and honey. This must have been a lovely place once, a sanctuary for the staff. Suddenly I can see how it was with flowers planted and a small garden beyond the reach of the baron and baroness, who never would have come to the kitchen, let alone the servant’s yard.

I blink and that fleeting glimpse is gone. Once more, I’m standing in a desolate, frozen garden, about to perform two charms because I have too much time on my hands. First, I walk the perimeter in measured strides, just as the book laid out. In doing so, I’m marking my territory, and as I go, I scatter a mixture of ash from the kitchen hearth, feathers from my pillow, and locks of my hair.

“From here to there and there to here, my will is clear. I claim what’s mine and own it well. Let none unmake this simple spell.” A childish rhyme but as I finish the words and empty my basket, energy gathers, buzzing strong enough to raise the hair on my arms.

Am I imagining this or did something truly happen?

Cautious now, I move to the bare patch of ground that I know used to be the kitchen garden. The certainty is unshakable, granted to me through extraordinary means. I don’t hesitate, slicing my fingertip with the paring knife I produce from the pocket of my work dress. Then I move along each ancient furrow speaking the next incantation, sprinkling droplets of my blood as I walk.

“With blood I shield and blood I bind. To the elements you will pay no mind. Deep your roots and deep your love, bring forth your bounty up above.”

I wait, as though vegetables will spring forth immediately. The ground remains barren, cold dirt bereft of life when I finish. My finger is wounded, and I’ve given my blood to the ground, for what little it’s worth. Maybe I did imagine the spark before, a result of an overactive imagination. Just because my stepmother found me strange and cautioned me with the witch finders, it doesn’t mean I have any secret power.

Sighing, I kick at a clod of earth and . . . it’s not frozen. Not like the ground in the ice statue courtyard. Startled, I kneel and collect a palm full of soil. Loose, ready for planting. That’s not normal at any time of year, but certainly not in late fall approaching winter. Though I’m not much for science, I know things swell in the heat and contract with cold. I learned that watching Owen in the smithy.

I can’t decide if that means my charm is taking effect or not, but I hurry into the kitchen just in case. There are a variety of jars filled with seeds and some aren’t even labeled. Before I can change my mind, I go out and plant a variety of them in the garden. At worst, I’ve wasted a little time and effort. I’ve raised herbs before, grown in small pots in the kitchen, so I’m aware that it takes a couple of weeks for seeds to germinate.

In the meantime, there’s no gain in standing here wondering. It’s not quite time for me to start cooking yet, so I return to the library. My books are where I left them, the witch book still open to the page that contains the charms I cast. If it turns out that they worked, I might try another. Until then, I’m done meddling in such matters.

I open the history book and begin to read. Bitterburn was built as a bastion against the frost giants in the north. Though their numbers were not great, their titanic strength meant they could destroy a town with a few warriors. In the year 1013 AC, King Ethred the Ill-Prepared seized the land from a treasonous lord and created the Bitterburn barony, whereupon a magnificent citadel would be constructed by the first Baron Bitterburn.

There’s a sketch of the first baron, and I believe I saw him in the gallery. Imagine having family portraits painted for six hundred years, lining them up generation after generation. I keep reading and finish half the book in one sitting, but it’s dry, and none of the facts help me understand where everyone went and why Njål is cursed.

Sighing, I close the book. This doesn’t account for what happened to the treasonous lord, either. Probably he was executed by the crown, and it’s unlikely that his descendants came for revenge centuries later. This type of research is outside my area of expertise, and I fight disappointment as I stand, rolling my neck and shoulders to ease the strain of sitting in a hard chair reading about dead people for hours.

On a whim, I pass by the gallery, taking an incredibly circuitous route to the kitchen. I walk until I identify the sketch from the history book. The first baron looks a fair amount like the next with broad forehead, deep eyes, a long nose, and an underwhelming chin. As I glance between them, a scene flashes into my head. The great hall is decorated for a party with candles in glass sconces, glittering like fireflies. Women in silk gowns laugh brightly, but the tones are hollow, as if something dreadful will happen if they stop. A velvet tapestry stirs and the baron slides out from behind it. He grabs a woman in a green dress—arm across her throat, hand over her mouth, and pulls her behind the hanging, and then they’re both gone. Nobody has seen a thing; the dancing continues while I process the ancient abduction I’ve just witnessed. I have no notion why the keep is showing me such things, giving me pieces when I can’t even be sure they fit the puzzle I’m trying to assemble.

There must be a secret passage in the great hall.

Instead of going to the kitchen, I detour to the great hall. I’ve no idea why I’m bothering, as it’s far too late to save that woman from whatever grim fate has befallen her. But maybe the keep will show me something else, more relevant to the current situation. What do I expect from a cursed edifice anyway?

Yet I still pace the great hall, searching for the tapestry from my vision. I hate that word, as it reminds me of my stepmother, but there’s no better term. Eventually I find it, a touch faded but not tattered or moth-eaten, as one would expect in such an antique. I move the hanging aside and find a solid wall. Undeterred, I run my fingers over each stone and along the mortared edges, knocking now and then to see if it sounds hollow. The wall is too thick for that, but I’m convinced this must open somehow. Maybe not from this side?

Then I find it near the top, barely within my reach. I press my finger into the divot and hear a click, then the wall opens slowly. I hesitate and then dash to the kitchen. I’ve read enough novels to know that venturing into darkness unprepared is a poor idea. When I return, the panel is ajar and I’ve got a candle in one hand and a kitchen mallet in the other.

Instead of a secret passage, I’ve found stairs leading down. They are stark and sharp, like razored teeth guarding the throat of the beast. For some reason, chills course through me and they just won’t stop, as if I’m in terrible danger. Possibly that should be enough to warn me off, but I don’t think it’s imminent, more like the echo of old terror. I think what I’m feeling belongs to someone else, so I shake it off and descend carefully, shining the candle to see where to set my feet.

It wouldn’t be strange if the keep had a dungeon, but it does seem odd that it’s situated directly below the great hall. I emerge in a big, dark room, and even after all these years, I still smell a faint tinge of copper. So much blood must have been spilled here. With a trembling hand, I move the candle and confirm my fears. I have no name for most of the implements and devices here, but they’re all sharp and spiked, blades coated in red-brown residue, chains attached to ceiling and walls.

And bones. So many bones.

The tremor in my hand intensifies, moving through the rest of my body, until I can barely keep a hold of the mallet. As if I’ve been ensorcelled, I move to the far corner of the room, where a skeletal corpse hangs, still chained at wrist and ankle. I take in the green scraps of her ballgown and know I’m looking at the remains of the woman I saw taken. Beside her, someone hangs in harlequin rags, skull turned toward her.

“What the hell are you doing? How did you find this place?”

12.

I startle and scream, dropping the candle as I raise the mallet.

From the shadows, Njål snatches it mid-air, so swift that the flame goes out. He radiates suspicion and fearsome energy, the most danger I’ve ever sensed from him. I don’t want to have a conversation down here, but he’s between me and the stairs leading out. There’s no way he’ll let me leave without getting answers.

“Sometimes the keep shows me things. I saw a woman being . . . taken from a ball. I don’t know why it wanted me to see that.” In fact, I wish it hadn’t shared this with me, but now I know why Bitterburn feels like a tomb.

“You get these . . . impressions often?” he asks in a strange tone.

It takes me a moment to realize that fear shadows his voice. Njål is afraid of what I’ll learn, of what Bitterburn will reveal. I should be alarmed about standing in a torture chamber with a cursed soul who doesn’t want me to learn his secrets.

“Now and then. Can we leave? I was curious if what I saw was true, but I don’t wish to linger here. There’s nothing I can do for those who suffered and it’s—”

“Of course. I’ll follow you out.” He doesn’t ask me not to look back.

Doubtful I’d see much if I did. It’s so tempting, though in the stories, that never works out well. In one tale, a man loses his beloved wife forever, and in another, curious girls are turned into pillars of salt. Women always seem to pay the price, regardless who did wrong. I feel my way out, easier said than done, and stumble a few times in the dark.

Njål doesn’t join me in the kitchen straightaway, so I have time to settle my nerves with a cup of tea, and I have dinner on by the time he catches up. He settles in the far corner where shadows gather, and I feel him watching me, not with the usual gentleness either.

“There’s something strange about you, Amarrah.”

“Now you sound like my stepmother.” My tone isn’t as light as I wish, and I break open the small scab on the finger I nicked earlier, grabbing for a pot.

“You’re injured.” Njål moves like he’ll come right to me, join me in the light, but then his steps slow.

“Nothing serious.”

“Since you arrived, I’ve had the strangest sense of familiarity, like we’ve known each other for a long time. I fought that feeling, knowing it made no sense. But . . .”

Oh no.

“It’s been so long that I scarcely recall her face, and it’s not possible. It isn’t, but . . . you’re her, aren’t you? Eloise.”

I close my eyes briefly. How am I supposed to rationalize this? “Eloise is my middle name,” I admit.

“Explain yourself, witch.” Njål’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it and raw menace radiates from him, practically coating the room in frost. I’ve never experienced this aura before, but icy mist prickles on my skin.

“I’ll try.” In a tremulous voice, I recount exactly what happened in my dream and close with, “If I’m a witch, I had no notion of it before arriving here.”

A growl escapes him and a powerful blow slams into the back wall, making the shelves tremble. “I remember that night. Eloise was gone when I woke, and no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find her. I took so many lashes, endlessly searching. She was the only person who didn’t fear the baron, who dared to be kind even for an instant. Eventually I decided she must be a ghost. That or I hallucinated the whole encounter out of loneliness and misery.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I wanted to comfort young Njål but it seems as if I added to his torment instead.

“All this time I’ve been waiting because of what she said that night. But you were talking about yourself, weren’t you?”

Miserably I nod. “I thought I was dreaming. I didn’t realize . . .”

“That you were dream-walking into my past. My head feels odd, as if I have more memories, but I can’t access them, like words hovering at the tip of my tongue. I wonder what that means.”

It seems obvious to me. “Perhaps that was the first time I visited you as Eloise, not the last. Do you have any messages for young Njål?”

“Not at present. This is . . . a great deal to take in.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know. No aspect of me wants to credit that you came with an agenda, but Bitterburn responds to you in an inexplicable way. You might well be a threat and I don’t wish to acknowledge it because I’m lonely.”

“I understand.” Honestly, I can’t fathom what’s happening either.

Then he shocks me. “It’s also possible that you weren’t a witch before. This place has dire magics bound into its stones, and people tend to . . . change here. Often against their best inclinations.”

“What do you mean?”

“For some, it’s a magical awakening. Gifts or curses that lurked dormant spark to life within Bitterburn’s walls. For others, hidden proclivities come to life. I’ve seen those that I thought were decent folk tumble headlong into depravity.”

“Like the baron and baroness in their murder room?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I never thought they were decent. But there was a respectable matron who visited, no whispers of scandal or hints of lewd behavior. By the end of the week, she was caught by her husband, intimately consorting with four stable boys.”

“Bitterburn draws out people’s secret desires.”

“That’s why it’s so baffling that you seem unaffected. I’ve been waiting for the corruption to set in, but you’re still you. Still cooking, still reading. Still kind to me. And Bitterburn heeds you. You wanted goats and you have them. I’ve been here an unspeakably long time and I have never seen the like. Do you understand my doubts?”

I nod at once. “Given how Bitterburn reacts to me, I could be a powerful sorceress plotting some appalling scheme. Do you want me to leave?”

My heart hurts over making the offer. This place was just starting to feel like home, and I don’t have anywhere to go. Winter is coming as well. I suppose I can try and make it to Kerkhof. From my understanding, it’s about two months with a mule team, and I’ll be walking, possibly in the snow. Maybe I can find a map in the library. That could increase my odds of survival, but they still aren’t good. Evicting me now would be a death sentence.

Finally Njål says in a deep, grave voice, “I don’t want you to go, even if you’re my downfall. Perhaps . . . it might be for the best. I wouldn’t fight if it was you.”

I don’t think, only react. My feet are moving, carrying me to him and as I draw close, I shut my eyes and offer my hands. If he doesn’t reach out, I won’t press the issue. He only leaves me wondering for a few seconds, then he goes a step further, pulling me all the way into his arms. I feel his racing heart along with his nervous gulps of breath.

“I’m not your nemesis,” I whisper against his chest. “I intend to save you.”

Because we’re some distance from the guttering fire, he tucks me inside his cloak and I stay, resting against him like I belong here. Njål touches me gently, stroking a big hand down my back. There’s some temptation to open my eyes, but I resist.

“When you say things like that, it becomes difficult for me to believe that you’re a simple brewer’s assistant.”

“Why? Because common folk can’t be daring? The bravest people I’ve ever known often have no idea how they’ll feed their families through the winter. They fight hunger and cold instead of dragons.”

“Point taken. I would rather fight a war against demons than return to my solitary state. The unseen enemies can be the fiercest.”

“I won’t leave you,” I promise.

A shiver rolls through me, as if Bitterburn has heard and marked my promise. Perhaps it’s my mental state, but I feel as if I cannot leave, like it’s no longer my choice.

“May I kiss you?”

Oh.

The soft rumble of his request, so close to my ear, sends pleasurable chills throughout my body, and my stomach flutters. I still haven’t seen his face, but I don’t mind. He said he wouldn’t touch more than my hand until I was ready, and I am. I want Njål’s mouth on mine like I want my next breath.

“Please.”

With exquisite care, he kisses me, so delicate that I barely feel it. That won’t do at all. With my eyes still closed, I tangle my hands in his hair. It’s coarser than it was when I soothed him to sleep, a bit tangled as well. I urge him on with soft pressure at the back of his head. I can tell he barely remembers how to do this—it’s been so long—and I lead the way, with soft turns of my lips, pressing and grazing, until he opens his mouth on a moan.

I deepen the kiss with a teasing tongue, reminding him how to give and take, stroke and slide, until he kindles. The kiss grows fierce, increased heat and demand. I can tell that he has sharper canines than most, and his stubble scrapes against my jaw. Nothing about his touch troubles me. In fact, I only want more. My body throbs, slick and hot, and I resist the urge to rub against him. I crave more kisses, and I ache at the idea of him stroking me between my legs, long caresses right there until I twist and writhe and wet his hand.

He makes irresistible noises as we kiss, deep in his throat, as if I’m utterly delicious. I suck lightly on his lower lip, then soothe it with my tongue, glad that I’m good at kissing at least. I have no more bedsport skills, but this feels incredible. My excitement builds as he pulls me closer, whispering incoherent accolades against my mouth.

“So good. You feel so good.” Agonized pleasure, just from the kissing. His lips rove to my neck, and he licks me like a dessert. He’s shamelessly hard against my belly, so big that it feels intimidating. “Amarrah . . . will you . . .”

Njål stops, he doesn’t ask for what he wants. He pauses with his lips against my shoulder, his big body curved over mine as he trembles. I don’t know if the keep is filling his head with lusty images, but this need is real. I created it and I want to do this.

Bold as brass, I slip my hands inside the front of his pants and rub. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it must feel good. He pants and pushes, sliding his hot, hard length against my palm, faster and faster, and then he helps me, adorably awkward with his claws, showing me how to grasp and tug. Njål wants it hard, and he goes wild when I get it right. Little grunts and whines escape him as I work. Soon, he shudders and does it in my hand, so it’s all messy and wet when he’s finished.

I’m not satisfied but I’m not ready to ask for anything. I can take care of myself later if I’m still feeling the tingle when I go to bed.

He rests his head on mine, still shaking slightly. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you?”

Eyes still closed, I laugh softly. “Not at all.”

“I lost myself a little. You . . . did I take advantage?”

“Freely given,” I assure him. “I’m glad I could please you.”

I’m used to having my eyes closed when he’s near, and I wonder if he’ll blindfold me when we become lovers. In my head, it’s when, not if. I think I’ll be all right with that.

He sighs. “Normally I have more self-control. I had no intention of pressing for that.”

“You didn’t, precisely. Don’t worry, if I hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t have. And no matter how the keep was whispering to you, I trust that you’d respect my wishes.”

“I would. I swear.” Njål is built like a mountain, I can tell that from touching him, but he would never use that strength to hurt me.

Not ever.

13.

I am a witch.

Two weeks after I cast those charms in the kitchen garden, green shoots push out of the earth. Out here, it’s tangibly warmer too. I can’t do anything about the wan sunlight, but it seems like it’s enough for plants to grow. It’s too soon for me to know what’s emerged, but I planted strawberries, yellow gourds, beans, potatoes, and onions. The rest of the crop will be a surprise, and it will take months—

Or maybe not.

If I’m a witch, then my blood will make the vegetables grow faster. I wonder what else I can do with that book of charms. The warding spell seemed complicated but if it means I could properly take ownership of Bitterburn, perhaps I ought to try. I might even find the key to unlocking Njål’s curse if the keep becomes more receptive to my will.

Bart and Agatha have taken to following me everywhere, and I let them. Because I noticed yesterday, with two goats running about outside, there should be dung in the stables, poop in the courtyard, and I’ve been too preoccupied with other matters to clean up after the goats. Yet there is none. Not anywhere. This strange fecal phenomenon must be related to the reset I noticed in the pantry, in the stables, and in the ice statue garden when I burned the rubbish. After a certain point, changes to Bitterburn are discarded and it returns to its original state.

So far it hasn’t happened in the kitchen. All my updates remain there, as they do in my cozy little room. It can’t be related to me being a witch, or the fire I started would have caused permanent scarring on the ground. I think. Obsessing over these matters makes my head ache. Never have I devoted so much of my mental energy to esoteric issues.

Bart bumps his horns against the door. I’m not deranged; I won’t be letting Agatha and Bart gobble up my delicate seedlings.

“Settle down,” I call. “I’ll be in presently.”

I pace the perimeter of the garden, my gaze lingering on the empty skeps. Wax and honey would be so useful. “Wish the bees would return,” I murmur, then I clap a hand across my mouth.

But it’s too late. I’ve made another wish. Curse that word anyway. Silently scolding myself, I head inside. The goats might well wreck up the kitchen if I leave them too long. Njål has apparently shooed them out because I find him waiting, but not Agatha and Bart.

“Our Lady Doe looks a bit plump,” he observes.

“Yes, they wasted no time in starting a family. In a few more months, I’ll be a doting auntie, provided I can manage as a midwife.”

“Does that make me a doting uncle?”

“Only if you mean to marry me.” The teasing remark pops out before I can stop it, and it falls like a stone into a still pond, silence rippling outward in rings where there was amiable conversation.

“Would that I could,” he says quietly.

He can, though. It wouldn’t be a formal service with rites pronounced by a cleric, but he could claim me as his wife if he wanted to. The townsfolk, especially those who can’t afford the fees and the festivities, have long since quietly plighted their troth and lived together, raised families together, a kind of common magic. This might not be a rejection. Maybe Njål doesn’t know about that custom, as he was a nobility before, and he’s been trapped here for a long time, so how would he learn?

I lack the courage to inform him because that would seem like I’m trying to coax a declaration out of him. When he asks what I’ve been reading, I answer cheerfully enough. I finished that history book and I’m learning how to make goat cheese from the animal husbandry tome, anticipating a day when I’ll be able to milk Agatha.

“Fry bread and cheese,” he says in a dreamy tone.

“If all goes well. There may be fresh vegetables too.”

He stills. “The garden grew.”

“It did.”

Njål doesn’t speak it aloud, but I’m aware of his thoughts. Bitterburn has awakened my potential, and neither of us can be sure what it means, whether it heralds good or ill. But from what I’ve been reading in The Witch Within the Walls, magic is neither inherently good nor evil. It depends on the intention behind it, and I don’t think I’m a bad person.

Maybe the baroness didn’t believe that either.

I silence that icy whisper, refusing to believe that I’ve been lured here to take on a role as Njål’s tormentor. I had never been near the keep when I decided—of my own free will—to come here. My head feels strange, a touch muzzy, and I realize that the silence is lengthening again, like shadows at nightfall.

“Are you afraid of me?” On the surface, it’s an absurd question. In terms of physical power, Njål could crush me, but I’m sure he understands why I’m asking.

The long pause nearly does me in, and I imagine there’s a gaping hole in my chest, so wide that my heart might spill out.

“Perhaps I should. Not who you are now but what you could become.” Then he sighs. “Even with confirmation that you could be my undoing, what I said before holds true. If you turn into a pillar of fire in my arms, I’ll hold on while you burn me to ash.”

“Njål.” His name is all I can get out.

Nobody has ever said such a thing to me—not even Owen—and I react like a turtle overwhelmed by five grabby children. I drop into a squat and curl into myself, much as little Njål did the night I dream-walked to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks in alarm. “Are you hurt?”

I let out a gusty breath. “I’m broken. But I’m starting to think you can fix me.”

“I can?” Such a shocked tone.

Gathering myself, I push upright and decide this is the perfect moment to surprise him with a gift. He’s given me so much since I’ve been here, often without realizing how much I needed those particular words or to feel essential in someone’s life.

“Wait here. I’ll be back presently.”

I don’t wait for questions, and on the way to the storeroom, I herd Agatha and Bart into the courtyard. They bleat in protest, but goats don’t need to gambol in the great hall, no matter how fancy they’ve become with Njål referring to them as Lord Buck and Lady Doe. After closing the door firmly, I mentally cross my fingers that the ale has fermented correctly and will at least be tolerable.

I’ve been checking on it, and it looks right. The smell seems decent, but there’s only one way to be sure. I’ve got clean bottles ready and I pour the jugs deftly, remembering the work I did for my father with a touch of nostalgia. That life seems almost like a dream now. I remember how unhappy I was, and I know I lived with them for over twenty years, but even the village where I lived and the woods where I walked with Owen—those moments have faded, like a bright banner left for ages in the sun.

On some level, that ought to alarm me. Because there’s only Bitterburn inside me now, Bitterburn and Njål. When I first arrived, I feared being devoured by this place, but it’s not happening as I predicted. Instead it’s eating up my past in greedy bites, absorbing my pain and loneliness, so only contentment remains.

That . . . that isn’t right. Something is—

The feeling passes. I hum as I cork the bottles and arrange them in the basket. I tie a red ribbon around the handle and rush back to Njål, hoping that he’ll like the lager. This is the first batch I’ve made by myself, and while I didn’t have premium ingredients or ideal conditions, I did the best I could.

He’s not where I left him. Instead he’s standing boldly in the middle of the kitchen so I can see the full shape of him. Njål is massive, cloaked head to toe in deep gray. I suspect the garment was black once, before time had its way with the ragged garment. The sleeves are frayed, as is the hem. This isn’t all he’s got on—I know that from touching him—but the hood prevents me from getting a look at his face.

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

“I don’t want to frighten you,” he says, which isn’t an answer.

“I’m fine.”

I try to act natural, as if this isn’t a huge step forward. In truth, I long for the day when he’ll discard the cloak as well and I can finally see him. To me, it doesn’t matter how he looks because his face will be inexpressibly dear, no matter what shape his features take. Because Njål is precious to me.

Briskly I set the basket on the worktable, nudging it toward him. “My first batch of ale. Would you care to try it?”

“I’d love to. Will you join me?”

“I was hoping you’d ask, but just pour me a bit of yours. I’ve no head for liquor and I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“That might be entertaining.” But he fills a ceramic cup halfway. The ale is light and creamy, the best I could do.

Carefully I take a sip. I made a few creative substitutions and the result is . . . interesting. The flavor is bitter and nutty, like nothing my father ever created. But Njål savors his with every appearance of enjoyment.

“It’s almost like being a regular person,” he says. “We talk, we eat our meals together. You laugh at my silliness, and now we’re having a drink.”

I notice he’s not mentioning the heated kisses or the way I pleasured him with my hands, right in this kitchen. My whole face heats when I think of that. Since then, he’s given me a fair amount of physical space, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I don’t exactly have a list of things that need to happen before I invite him into my bed, and I don’t want to leave it until it’s too late, like I did with Owen. How am I supposed to know when’s the right moment for that?

“I know what you mean. It’s starting to feel like home.”

“Because of you. I used to loathe this place so much, but now, even eternal imprisonment doesn’t seem as bad.”

Anger sparks inside me, blazing like a low fire in my gut. “You shouldn’t have to live that way. I wasn’t jesting when I said I’ll set you free.”

“You shouldn’t go around making vows. Not here. It’s dangerous, Amarrah.”

Considering the goats, I know he’s right. I don’t have the courage to tell him that I’ve let my guard down and wished for bees. “I’ll be careful.”

“Please. It would destroy me if anything happened to you.” I see the tremor in his hand as he lifts the amber bottle and drains it.

And he can’t even die, that awful voice whispers. The presence flickers in my head, a serpentine shadow that seems to relish that prospect. I shake my head like I can dislodge it, and the evil sensation fades. What the hell? I need information and I need answers. The library is one possibility, but I could spend years there without finding out what I really need to know. It’s time to be bold.

“I haven’t asked before,” I say softly. “But I think we need to talk about the origin of your curse. Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

14.

For a long moment, Njål keeps silent.

I doubt he wants to discuss this, but I need to do something or my talk about freeing him will never amount to more than that. I understand his reluctance. If he pressed me for more details about Owen’s death, I’d respond the same way. But I’m not pushing for more information out of idle curiosity or for my own entertainment.

Finally he says, “Are you asking how I came to be cursed? Or is it more about the conditions under which I can gain my freedom?”

“Either could be helpful.”

“I’d rather not talk about the former,” he says. “I’m not being difficult. But I’ve managed to lock that door and throw away the key, and if I force myself to remember . . .”

“Something bad will happen?” That’s how I interpret his grim, hesitant tone.

“You might wonder how I’ve not gone mad, living this way for so long. The truth is, I was after the curse kicked in. I . . . did things for the baron and baroness. I went mad and came back again, only at great cost. I remember fragments of that time, but I can’t scrutinize those memories. I can’t.”

Alarmed by his distress, I move to his side and take his hand. His fingers are cold, trembling in my grasp. He holds on to me desperately, as if these lost memories are hateful indeed. Given how Baron Bitterburn mistreated Njål before the curse, I can imagine what dreadful tasks he was assigned afterward.

“It’s fine. I won’t ask anymore.”

He nods, controlling his emotions as I comfort him with little strokes on the back of his hand. “I can only describe that time as living at the bottom of a deep pit. No light. Only the sense of being trapped and powerless and all the while, I was . . . doing things. For them. When I finally came back to myself, so much time had passed.”

A sudden thought strikes me. “Do you know the date?”

Njål laughs. “I’m not even certain of the year.”

Though I’ve stopped paying attention to such things, I do know what day I left and how long I’ve been here. Quickly I count forward and tell him where we are on the calendar. There are only six weeks left in the year, and I make a mental note to do something special for the winter solstice. Back in town, they’ll do their best, but scant provisions will make it difficult. In my childhood, there was hot spiced cider and roasted chestnuts, sleigh rides, and skating on the frozen lake. Carolers would sing to usher in the deepest part of winter while also entreating the return of spring.

“I could tell by your clothes that things were very different in the world, but it’s been much longer than I realized,” he says softly.

“The writing in your journal . . . I can’t read it. But you speak as I do now.” I wonder if he can answer this much without a fearful reaction.

“Language evolves over time. I wasn’t alone at first, even after the curse.”

He seems calmer, his hand no longer shaking in mine. I don’t want to hurt him and it will make the situation immeasurably worse if I drive him back into that pit within his mind. If that happens, I suspect I won’t be safe either, but at least I know the danger now.

Even so, I must try to learn what I can, in ways that won’t harm him. My impetus remains the same. “What about the conditions for breaking the curse?”

“In the stories, it’s always so simple, isn’t it? Earn someone’s devotion. Receive true love’s kiss. Perform a noble deed.” His tone carries a mocking edge, caustic as he speaks in a way that makes me want to curl into myself to keep from being cut by his contempt.

I believe in love. I did while Owen was alive and I still do, though it seems that Njål doesn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t even credit my words if I told him that my sorrowful heart is healing because of him.

“Does that mean you don’t know how to earn your freedom?”

“Freedom is not something that should need to be earned,” he snaps, yanking his hand away.

And I have no response, because . . . he’s right. However he ended up like this, it’s wrong, a crime of the highest order. With no part of my heart do I imagine that he’s utterly wicked and deserves this fate. If he has done wrong, it wasn’t of his own free will. Whatever happened, it was so terrible that his mind snapped and it took ages to mend.

“I put that badly. I’m sorry.”

He sighs. “No need to apologize. I get so angry when I think of them. And I understand what you were asking and why. In truth, I had no power in this place. I was lucky to be fed or not to be beaten on any given day.”

While Njål might not realize it, that information helps me. That means the curse was born from his tormentors, somehow. “Do you remember what the keep was like before? Did you have the same sense of . . . sentience?” That might be the wrong word, but I think he’ll grasp what I mean.

He drums his claws against the table thoughtfully. “My memory is blurred from that time, but . . . I don’t think so. I feared the baron and baroness, not this place in particular.”

Yes. That’s valuable knowledge.

“Then the logical conclusion is that when you changed, Bitterburn did as well.”

I need to know what happened, but I can’t torture Njål with it. There are two potential options for me to explore: his journal and dream-walking. I can visit the library anytime, but I have no control over when I slip into the past, and if I manage to repeat that feat, I can’t choose where I appear. Unless I can learn to guide the ability in the witch book.

That seems unlikely though, as the charms I’ve encountered so far seem to be directed at household management. Still, it’s worth a look, I suppose. It’s a slim volume so it won’t take long for me to read it cover to cover.

“Yes,” he says slowly, as if he’s turning an idea over in his mind.

“What is it?”

“Let’s say you’re right about my fate being tied to Bitterburn. I was just wondering if I’d die if the keep was destroyed.”

Oh hell.

“Don’t think that way,” I beg.

“Death would be freedom,” he says gently.

“It’s just an ending. Don’t you want to live—”

“Can I, though? Even if you break the curse, there’s no guarantee I’ll survive. Fell magic forced me to exist this long, and let’s say you untangle it. I might crumble into dust.”

That . . . makes a terrible amount of sense. Fresh dejection surges through me and I slump across the worktable, propping on my elbows. Maybe I ought to stop poking at this. When I said I’ll set Njål free, I didn’t mean I would kill him.

End the cycle. Save the village, the awful, insidious voice whispers.

I tense, but before I can react otherwise, he steps up and wraps his arms around me from behind. His size swallows me, but I feel safe in his embrace. I straighten and lean against him; Njål takes my weight easily, holding me with such tenderness. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so precious.

“This time with you is a gift,” he whispers against my hair. “No matter how it ends, I will not regret a moment that we’ve spent together.”

On the surface, it’s a sweet thing to say, but a shiver still rolls through me. Because it’s like he knows that I will be the instrument of his demise, and he still cradles me like a priceless treasure. Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks as a sadness I can’t master overwhelms me. I should go. Before whatever tragedy he’s expecting comes to pass.

Slowly he nuzzles the top of my head and I lose the will to move, let alone leave. There’s no point in deceiving myself. Even if Bitterburn lets me, I won’t abandon him. He’s sunk the hook too deep. When I arrived, my heart was too damaged for him to take hold of it, so he’s latched on deeper and woven his lonely threads through the tapestry of my soul.

Belatedly I realize that I’ve only offered silence in response. “I wish you wouldn’t take such a tragic tone,” I say lightly. “Perhaps we’re meant to live out our days together.”

But to him, even that would be painful, as I can’t stay forever. My mortal lifetime precludes it. From his shuddering breath against my back, Njål knows it too but he allows me the illusion of a happy ending.

“I hope so.” He tightens his arms, loath to let me go.

“Me too.”

I snuggle against him, content to remain this way as long as he wants to. The reassuring thump of his heartbeat against my back fills me with peace, and the tension trickles out of me, leaving me boneless in his arms.

“It’s maddening how much you trust me,” he growls.

“Is it?”

“I want you so much that it’s all I can do not to drag you to bed. I remember the way you stroked me and . . .” Njål shifts, his hardness jutting against my back.

Heat scalds my cheeks, but it’s not all embarrassment. “I thought you were sated for the time being since you haven’t made any overtures.”

“I’m never satisfied. I ache for you constantly.” His hips move as he speaks, reinforcing my impression of his desire. Then he quiets himself with effort that renders his entire body rigid, muscles locked.

I recall the way he panted and came undone as I touched him, the salty smell of his juices on my fingers. It would be so easy to do that again, a quick and dirty stroke to offer him some relief, but I want more. He’s proven that he’ll wait for me. I’m ready to go a bit farther and learn a little more.

Making a swift decision, I say, “If I say that I want to do . . . other things but not that, yet, will you honor it?”

Njål’s voice deepens, sending an exciting shock through me when he speaks near my ear. “You want me to promise not to ravish you.”

“Yes. And I would like to . . . explore more of you, if you’re willing. I can wear a blindfold,” I add quickly, as he’s expressed a desire not to be seen.

A little shudder runs through him. “I’m willing. Let me wash and I’ll come to your room when I’m done. Wait for me?”

He’s gone before I can respond. I put my hands to my hot cheeks, wondering whether this is wise, but I have no intention of changing my mind. A bath sounds like a good idea because I don’t know what will happen between us precisely. Springing into motion, I haul some ice and snow, melt it into warm water, and scrub up quickly. There’s no time to wash my hair, but I damp it with herb-freshened water and then plait it like I’m going to bed. I have no mirror in my tiny room and it occurs to me that Njål might prefer my hair tumbling loose.

I don’t know how to get ready for such an assignation.

Eventually, I don my nightdress and unbraid my hair, fluffing it so it crackles with electricity. The last step is the blindfold I mentioned. I pull the sash from my good dress, fold it over, and wrap it around my eyes, tying it neatly behind my head. At last I fumble my way to bed and slide under the covers.

Now I’ve only to wait for the lover whose face I’ve never seen.

15.

I know Njål has come from the soft footfalls and the scent of lye soap and pine.

But he hesitates in the doorway. He’s never been this close to my private space before, and he seems unsure. So I invite him in. “Please, I want you here.”

For him, this little room will be all firelight, shifting and romantic. For me, it’s darkness, but I know where I am and who’s with me. I’m not afraid.

Tentatively he approaches the bed and I put out my hand. He takes it. “Are you sure? I don’t want to push you.”

“I was certain in the kitchen, and that hasn’t changed. I still want to kiss and touch you, all night if you’ll let me.”

The mattress sinks at his weight and the bedframe groans. I never considered this issue; I just want this to happen where I feel safe. Too late to suggest a change of venue. I expect we’ll be close enough tonight that the size of the bed won’t matter.

“I’ve never seen your hair down. It’s beautiful.”

Self-conscious, I touch the long, wild locks, but I believe him. “Thank you. I don’t often wear it this way.”

Njål draws in a deep breath, possibly incited by some aspect of my gesture. “Ah, what you do to me,” he growls.

I reach out and encounter bare flesh. For the first time, he’s dispensed with the cloak and he’s not wearing a shirt either. His skin feels unusual. Inhuman. Thicker and tougher, not as soft. I don’t find it off-putting; it’s just another facet of him. Njål trusted me to keep my promise about the blindfold, and somehow, not seeing what I’m touching makes this more exciting. I learn the shape of his muscles and find intriguing scars by skimming my hands over his chest, arms, and shoulders. The marks seem more precise than I expect, some lines angle in geometric shapes. He bears with this exploration with remarkable patience, only reacting with a sharp jerk when I delve lower, tracing over his abdomen.

“Does that feel good?” I ask.

While I suspect I know the answer, I need to hear it. Suddenly I’m starved for praise and I want all the pretty words about how I make him feel.

“It’s exquisite torture. I haven’t been touched in so long. See what you’ve done?”

He pulls my hand up and places it on his heart, so I can feel the wild, thundering rhythm. I listen with my fingertips for a few seconds, then I smooth my palm sideways, marveling at the breadth and strength of his chest. I find a tight nipple, and he moans when I swirl my fingertips in a circle. I get the same reaction when I tease the other one, and his unfettered response makes me so wet. The more I touch Njål, the softer and slicker I become, as if his pleasure is tied to mine. At the rate we’re going I might burst when he does without anyone touching me down there at all.

“More?”

“Whatever you wish,” he gasps. “I’ve boasted of my patience more than once, and I’m regretting it now.”

Slowly I lower my head and plant kisses along his collarbone, moving upward until I find the curve between his neck and shoulder, then I linger there with my mouth. His skin tastes clean; I can tell that he washed, and he trembles beneath me, his erection burning like a hot iron bar between us. I brush it now and then with my hip, and he reacts like I’m hurting him, pleasure gone through the looking glass.

I return to his nipples because they must be aching as mine are, to be touched and licked and sucked. When I do all those things, a growl escapes him, but his hands are gentle on the back of my head, stroking and caressing while I do my best to drive him wild.

Finally he pulls my mouth away with a gasped plea. “Please. Please let me.”

I know what he wants and I straighten enough to pull my nightgown over my head. There’s a certain decadence in knowing that I’m completely exposed while I can see nothing. I don’t know why that excites me, but it does.

“You’re beautiful. You are so beautiful.” Hotly admiring whispers, given to my skin as he nuzzles his face into my chest.

And then he does to me what I’ve done to him—lips and teeth and tongue, soft and sharp and hot, on my neck, my shoulders, and finally my breasts. When his teeth graze my budded nipple, I react with a demanding sound, one I didn’t even know I could make. Njål does it again and again, until my body throbs and I can’t stop those helpless noises. I’m wet, so very wet, and I’ve forgotten why I didn’t mean to bed him completely. Now I’m ready to climb on top of him. I don’t care about the east wing or why he doesn’t want me to see him. There’s only this insistent pleasure, stealing my sanity.

“You’re so excited,” he teases.

There’s no point in answering that. Anything other than the obvious “yes” would be a lie. I quiver when his touch glides downward. I imagine his hand there as I did the first time I rubbed myself and squeeze my thighs together in response to the powerful surge of excitement.

“Look at you, aching for more. Shall I go on?”

“Yes. Whatever you like. Please.”

I squeak when he moves me, and then my nerves catch fire. I think I’m perched on his chin and his mouth moves down there, licking me up and down like a delicious treat. This is beyond all decency and I’m torn between ecstasy and shame. Soon, the shame dies in a fiery conflagration as Njål tastes me and nuzzles into my softest parts, and I can’t keep still or quiet. I moan and squirm, until I realize the feelings are building like they did when I stroked myself, only a thousand times more powerful.

“That’s it, beauty. Show me how much you like it,” he whispers.

Utterly seduced, I relax and move with more purpose against his mouth, shifting my weight, learning when to lift and tilt, how to offer myself so he can reach where it feels best. The sounds, oh, the sounds—wet and decadent—he’s taking so much satisfaction in this. When I brace my hands on the wall, offering myself fully, Njål goes wild, licking and sipping, and then he focuses right there. I’ve never felt anything so good.

“Oh. Oh. Njål!”

My stomach tightens as I crest, rubbing wildly against his lips and tongue. When I go limp, he catches me, tucking me against his side. I nestle into his arms, wishing that I didn’t feel so . . . done. But I’m relaxed and sleepy now, bewildered by the shivers still spiraling through me.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks in a sweet, husky tone.

“You know that I did.” I hide my face against his chest, not that he can see much of my expression beneath the blindfold. I hope.

“Have you ever done that before?”

Now I know how he felt when I was poking at the curse, because I don’t want to ruin this glow by thinking—or speaking—about Owen. Owen and his cold hands and the pennies on his eyes.

“I haven’t.” To forestall further questions, I add, “I’ve never done much other than kissing and cuddles.”

“Ah,” he says. If he’s curious about anything else, he holds it in.

“Give me a minute to recover and I—”

“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t want this to be transactional. You trusted me enough to permit me into your bed. This is enough.”

“But . . .”

“In the strictest sense, this is equitable,” he tells me sternly. “You got nothing from our encounter in the kitchen, so I’m merely recompensing you.”

“You said not to make this transactional. And anyway, that’s not true.”

Njål makes a scoffing sound. “What could you possibly have gained from that?”

“I got to touch you.”

“Like that’s worth anything,” he mutters.

Right, enough of that. I lever up on my elbow and glare down into his face. Well, in that vicinity anyway, as I’m still wearing the makeshift blindfold. “It is to me. You are fucking priceless, do you understand?”

In a guttural, shaken tone, Njål whispers something in a language I don’t speak, but there’s absolute adoration in his tone. Then he crushes me to him without his usual care. He’s not hurting me, but I feel the fear and urgency in his hold.

“Please stop saying these things. How am I supposed to live without you now?”

The assurances tremble on the tip of my tongue—that I won’t leave, that he won’t have to—but I understand how irresponsible it is to make promises that I’m not sure I can keep. Even if things don’t go dreadfully wrong, I will die someday. I can’t stay with him forever because I’m not cursed, and Bitterburn won’t keep me alive indefinitely. He’s so scared of losing me that he’s not hard anymore, so I hold him until the shaking subsides, stroking his back in gentle sweeps.

“Stay with me,” I whisper. “It will be a tight fit, but I don’t want you to go.”

“Are you sure? This is your safe place. I don’t—”

“I’m safe with you too,” I cut in.

“My precious Amarrah, I would fight an army to keep you so.” From his somber tone, he means it literally.

“Hopefully we’ll never be invaded. Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“I will. At least for a while. I am . . . a restless sleeper and if it becomes a problem, I’ll go before I trouble you.”

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 with 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.

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 steps 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 tonight.” 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.

Unaware of my inner turmoil, Njål kisses my cheek after breakfast, like we’re a normal couple separating for a day’s work. On that odd if cheerful thought, I finish two of the rough dresses I tacked together yesterday. Now I have four to wear, along with better quality undergarments than I’ve ever owned before. Now, though, it’s time for me to tackle a bigger task. I had put it off because it looked complicated, but according to the book of charms, I should have warded this place to make it mine first thing. That’s evidently what a witch does when she moves into a new residence.

I didn’t have the courage to try since it looked so complex, but with the garden responding to my magic, it would be cowardly not to attempt it. I’ve skimmed the section about trying this when there might be older magics in place, so I’m aware of the risks. This could explode spectacularly, and not in the metaphorical sense. But if I survive, I should learn something about what I’m dealing with. Reckless? Certainly.

But being careful doesn’t change the world.

19.

I collect The Witch Within the Walls from the library, first.

Then I gather components needed for a ward, and fortunately, all the supplies are present in the kitchen, dried herbs perfectly preserved. Following the next step, I burn the herbs with an open flame, until fine ash remains. Now I’m supposed to add a few drops of my blood. That’s similar to what I did in the side garden, but the components and binding chants are different. My pulse skitters as I prepare the protective mixture, or whatever it’s called. There’s probably a proper witchy term, but I don’t know it.

If Njål knew what I was attempting and how risky this could be, he would likely stop me, all the more reason to muster my courage and get it done swiftly. No more hesitation. Today, I’ll find out if I can leave the keep, if I’ll be frozen when I return.

I don my gray cloak. Fear dogs my steps down the hall and into the courtyard, where I find Agatha and Bart racing around. They bleat and fall in behind me like I’m leading a goat parade, and we go all the way to the portcullis, a massive black iron obstacle. I don’t even know how to raise this thing.

“Will you open the gate for me?” I ask politely.

Like that will work. And it doesn’t.

Bitterburn keeps what it claims, and I suppose I’m no exception, but I refuse to give up this easily. I’m not a prisoner. I’m not cursed. And this place has answered my requests.

After some searching, I discover a pulley to one side. I haul with all my strength, and eventually the portcullis raises enough for me to crawl out. The goats follow. I wait for that feeling, the lead in my feet like Njål mentioned, but I only feel odd about leaving. What if Njål notices that I’ve gone and thinks—oh, never mind. Surely I won’t be gone that long.

I turn to address the goats sternly. “Do not eat what I drop, you understand? This is serious business and if you interfere there could be consequences.” Bart bleats in a querulous tone, and I interpret it as a serious inquiry. “I’m not sure what will happen, but I expect it won’t be good. For all I know, wayward magic might turn you both into people, then you’d have to wear shoes and get jobs. How horrid would that be?”

Agatha seems suitably chastened, ready to treat this occasion with the solemnity it requires. They both follow from a respectful distance. So far, everything is fine. The portcullis is open behind me, as if granting me permission to do this and return.

“Let none pass that would do harm. These walls shall keep us safe and warm. My will is strong, and I say it clear. I am now the mistress here.” The first time I intone the words, I feel faintly ridiculous, so the rhyme comes out as a whisper.

I’m supposed to do this every six alns. Honestly, I’ve no idea if I even have enough supplies to cover the perimeter. But something happens as I walk. My steps become firm and measured like I’m marching to war. No longer am I quiet or hesitant. I proclaim the chant repeatedly in loud, ringing tones, as if my blood and will can make this true.

I lay claim. I lay wards. I feel them forming, soft pulls of energy that tickle beneath my feet. They’ve been created before—though I’m not sure by who—but it’s been a long time since anyone touched them, and the strength of what’s already there astounds me, as if I’ve learned there’s a dragon sleeping in a cavern beneath the keep.

Though I’m only walking, flicking ash, and speaking words, this is physically taxing, and it gets worse when I must climb, because Bitterburn is built into a cliff. It would have been easier to do this from inside the keep, but the book said it’s best to craft the wards externally. I imagine the witch who wrote it was talking about a small cottage, not a citadel like this one, but she’s the expert, not me.

It requires all my resolve not to look down. Yet I still stumble and nearly fall, grabbing on to the icy rocks. Clinging to them, I catch a glimpse over the side, all sheer stones, plummeting into the frozen gray of the lake below. Arms trembling, I haul myself upward, the basket shaking on my arm. I tumble onto safe ground and roll over in the snow. So cold. In time, I get to my feet and stay close to the walls, resuming my progress, scattering ashes and chanting.

Oddly, the goats are still with me. They haven’t gotten bored or wandered off. Agatha and Bart nudge me onward, so I keep moving. My muscles burn with this unaccustomed exertion, and I’m only half done. I can do this. I can.

I trip, coming down on the other side, tumble down the slope and scrape my legs. The blood won’t stop me. Shakily, I use the implacable stones of Bitterburn’s external wall to pull myself upright and keep moving. With each step I take, the wards get stronger, attuning to me like an instrument only I can play.

By the time I round the last corner, closing the circle, my voice booms like thunder. Or maybe it only feels that way to me because my entire body thrums with energy, and I see a shadow behind Bitterburn, a dreadful coiled thing that afflicts the keep but isn’t part of it. Maybe I’m so exhausted that I’m starting to hallucinate, but I stagger onward, determined to finish what I’ve started.

When I reach the portcullis from the far side, scatter the last of the ash, and speak the words for the final time, the pressure in my head gives, like an explosion contained inside my skull. I tumble backwards and Bart tries to catch me, but he’s a goat. So I fall on top of him and Agatha nudges me with her head. As I lay on the cold dirt staring up at the sky, my ears ringing, I realize that it’s gotten dark.

The stars are out. I haven’t seen them in so long.

In the village, there was no time to look, always so much work to do. And here, I just don’t come out to the courtyard at night. The ice statues are creepy, and it’s cold as the heart of someone who’s stopped loving you. For a few moments, I gaze up at the brilliance of the distant stars.

Just for a little longer, I’ll rest.

Bart and Agatha grow frantic, but I can’t be bothered. Some part of me knows this is a terrible idea. If not because of the cold, there are other dangers in the dark, hungry wolves and ice cats that must be starving. Get up, I tell myself, but my body doesn’t respond.

As if through a deep tunnel, I hear Njål shouting my name. I blink and try to face him. He’s close. Why does it sound so far? The ringing in my ears intensifies, drowning his frantic cries. I think . . . he’s throwing himself at the portcullis, trying to get to me, but unlike the supplies, I’m too far for him to reach.

I hear the groan of him ripping the gate up entirely, and I think he’s trying, trying so desperately to reach me, but I feel the pressure now because I’m part of the wards. It’s a thousand pounds weighing him down. He’ll be crushed, all the pain of dying without the peace, and his crazed effort sparks some hidden reserve. With the goats shoving at me, I stir my fingertips and then my toes, and with the last of my strength, I crawl.

Inch by inch, until I’m near enough for Njål to pull me in, and I come through the barrier with a pop that nearly deafens me. I can pass through it, but he can’t. And it’s definitely there, crafted by someone much more experienced than me.

Njål tumbles backward, though he’s careful to shield me from impact, arms around me like he’ll never let go. “Amarrah! Can you speak? You’re bleeding, oh gods, what am I supposed to do? I can’t—”

“I’ll live.” It’s all I can say.

Because Bitterburn is chattering at me in ways that I didn’t know were possible. It’s not the voice, but the echo of ten thousand lives that imprinted on this place and eventually, it acquired life of its own, although not the sort anyone in the village would acknowledge. This is strange, witchy stuff, and I can’t process half of what the keep’s trying to tell me with my ears still ringing, blood oozing down my shins, and my brain doing its best to turn off.

“I thought you left. What were you doing out there?”

“Protecting us.” With unsteady hands, I touch the bruises he’s inflicted on himself, the blood trickling down his face. “You tried to break the portcullis? And the barrier? With brute strength.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t attempted before. And with you lying there as night fell . . . please don’t do this again,” he begs, hands still roving over me like I’m made of glass.

“You can’t feel the difference, can you?” Njål has lived here for ages, and he has no clue that Bitterburn cares for him in its way.

It’s why the keep let me in.

He peers at me in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

We pass through the courtyard and neither of us turns into an ice statue. That means I can come and go as I please. Not right now, of course, with my bones on fire and my mind pulled in a thousand directions, from whispered input that I can’t filter or understand. My wards are tied to older ones, complex in ways it might take me forty years to understand.

The goats chase us as Njål carries me into the kitchen, quietly muttering to himself as he tends my wounds. I don’t respond until he puts a cup of warm herbal tea in my hand and folds my fingers around the mug, leaving his in case I can’t manage on my own.

Please, I tell the keep silently. I’ll listen later. I promise. Can you give me some peace?

Slowly the noise scales back to a more tolerable level, and the ringing in my ears dies down. I sip the tea and realize that I sense a fox sniffing at the spot where I fell outside the keep. The animal prowls the area for a while before fleeing for the familiarity of the forest.

When I return to myself, my injuries are wrapped and Njål is staring at me with an unreadable expression. “You were a thousand miles away,” he says softly.

“Not so far as that.”

I don’t know how to bridge this. Now that I’ve done it, I do think these wards could have killed me. I’m not strong. I’m not practiced at this. Most likely I ought to have started smaller, warded a room, not the whole keep. Even I think this isn’t one of my best decisions, and I’m rather known for strange fancies in the village. Once, in the middle of winter, I convinced Owen to search for pixies, like the angry ones from that story. We both caught a terrible cold with nothing to show for our efforts.

In a small voice, I explain everything.

As I speak, he touches me compulsively—my cheeks, my throat, my shoulders. He doesn’t interrupt, but his hands hold a hard tremor, as if he’s controlling strong emotion through sheer effort. He must be furious, and I’ve seen the wreckage in the wake of his temper, haven’t I? All that broken furniture, left for me to tidy up.

But the wrath I expect doesn’t erupt. Instead, Njål drops to his knees before me and rests his head against my knees. The broken sounds tell me that he’s crying, shoulders hunched in a way that hurts more than the stinging scrapes on my shins. Bewildered, I rest my hands on his hair, comforting him as best I can.

At last he says, “Don’t risk yourself for me. I would rather be trapped for eternity than for you to suffer the slightest harm, especially for my sake.”

20.

“I’m here,” I tell Njål, though it’s clear that he’s not listening. “Safe and sound.”

I end up stroking his head for a long while, until the shakes subside in us both. Since I’m entirely depleted, I would’ve gone to bed on an empty stomach, but he insists on cooking for me. He’s not good at it, and it’s difficult for him to use certain implements with his claws, but the fact that he’s trying? My heart quivers in my chest, and the last of the ice falls away. Eternal winter rules Bitterburn, but not my soul. Not anymore.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Njål asks eventually.

“Like what?”

“I’m afraid to say, in case it’s not true.”

I prop my chin on my hand, hiding a smile in my palm. “Then hold on to that impression until you’re confident enough to be sure.”

He makes a thin gruel without help from me, the type of porridge we often eat in the village, so I down it without savor. At least it’s hot and serves to drive away hunger. Wearily I stretch, watching Njål drink his from a cup, like it’s medicine.

“You’re done in,” he says tenderly.

And before I can respond, he lifts me in his arms and, oh, I’ve seen this hold before, usually a princess in a storybook being carried off by the charming knight who rescued her. Brewer’s assistants don’t get cradled like this and neither do witches, and it seems that I’m both. Of course, Njål more resembles the beast that the knight must best to win his lady love, so we’ve turned this fable entirely on its head.

As I wrap my arms about his neck, I can’t claim that I mind. “Will you stay?”

In answer, he tucks me beneath the covers and tends the fire, then he joins me, spooning up against my back so that I feel completely sheltered. The keep has quieted in my mind, evidently saving its whispers for when I’m more able to comprehend them. I hear the goats clattering about the kitchen, and I’ll probably regret letting them remain indoors when I’m scrubbing up the mess, but I’m currently too tired to care.

I drop into sleep like I’m diving into deep water, and I emerge on the other side of time. Damn it, I have to stop dream-traveling. How am I supposed to recover when I expend energy asleep and awake?

From the look of the keep, the party is over. This must be the next morning because the staff are still tidying up in the great hall and removing decorations. The floor is sticky with spilled wine and splattered food; I wonder how wild the revels got after Njål fled. Before, I had no control over where I went, but this time, I appear to be free.

Nobody takes note of me, affirming my status as a time-ghost. I search for Njål, but instead of finding him, I arrive in the west tower, where the baroness holds her sewing circles. Five women occupy the space at present, and if it wasn’t for the terrifying monster holding court, it would be quite a pleasant room. Oriel windows let in the light, diffused by the leaded glass panes, and there are cushioned benches in addition to luxuriously upholstered chairs. All the baroness’s guests seem nervous, pricking their fingers about as much as they manage to embellish the embroidery in their laps.

“It’s such a pity you can’t have children,” a young lady says in a breathless voice.

The others flash her looks of such horror and dismay that the temperature drops inside the room, despite the fire crackling merrily in the brazier. One lady drops her sewing and takes an inordinately long time in collecting it.

“Gilda!” An older woman presses the younger one’s arm, but she seems unwilling or unable to heed the warning.

She chatters on, “You’re so lucky to have the baron. Most men would set aside a barren wife or at least choose a leman to provide him with a natural heir.”

“You do not hesitate to speak your mind,” the baroness responds in an icy tone.

“Not in the slightest! My mother despairs of me in that regard but it seems a great waste of time, never saying what one is truly thinking. For instance . . .” The girl locks eyes with the baroness, and I immediately reevaluate what’s happening here. “Did you know he came to my room last night?”

A collective intake of breath, and the rest of the women mumble excuses, gathering their embroidery, and then they flee like rabbits scenting wolves in the wind. Soon, only the baroness and this young challenger remain. She is, I admit, a beautiful girl, with ebony ringlets and sparkling eyes, and I admire her boldness even as I fear for her.

She must be flattered by the attention, but I guarantee it won’t end as she expects.

“You were saying?” the baroness prompts.

“I finished my statement. You didn’t answer.”

“As to whether I knew that my husband came to your private chambers?” The baroness smiles, and it’s the most chilling expression I’ve ever seen, all teeth and no joy, a dead hollow behind her eyes. “Of course I did, my dear. I’m the one who selected you.”

That isn’t what Gilda expected to hear. Her fingers tighten on the cushion cover in her lap. “You . . . you’re lying.”

“Why would I bother? I suspect you’d go quite mad if you knew the truth, so I’ll only share a piece of it. The baron does nothing without my permission. I studied all the options carefully last night and I determined that you would do. Then I informed him and he availed himself of your . . . amenities. A trial, if you will. He reported that you were most satisfactory, and that I should find myself most comfortable in your environs.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying at all! You . . . told him to—”

“Yes, dear. He came to your bed with my blessing. That’s all you’re capable of grasping. Run along now, but don’t quit the keep in a fit of pique. You’ll fulfill the rest of your purpose soon enough.”

Horror creeps over me. With what Njål has told me, I understand even if the girl doesn’t. This will be the baroness’s next body. I hurry after Gilda, but before I take more than two steps, the baroness speaks. “I sense you. I cannot see you, but I know you’re here. Mark me, I’ll find you, spy. And you will regret having moved against me.”

Fear spikes through me, sharp enough that I wake in a cold sweat, shivering in Njål’s arms. That’s a toothless threat; it must be. She can’t cut through the ages to hurt me.

Can she?

Still, I can’t get back to sleep with the visceral fright coursing through me in drowning waves. Njål, on the other hand, dozes like the dead. Carefully I roll to face him, gazing into his face as I don’t dare when he’s awake. Though he’s given me permission to look, it still makes him uncomfortable when I do.

Carefully, I trace the ridge of his brow and smooth his thick eyebrows, the same ashen hue as his hair. His coloring whispers of winter, like the magic of this place has trickled into his bones. I wonder what happened the night of his transformation, and if the baroness succeeded in possessing Gilda.

With a soft sigh, I wriggle out of his arms. I’ll get restless and bother him if I stay here, pinned between his big body and the wall. Despite the popping fire, the floor is cold beneath my bare feet, but I don’t don my shoes until I get in the kitchen. I stop in astonishment because Bart and Agatha are curled up by the fire like a pair of dogs. They’ve also made a bit of a mess and there’s goat dung to clean up as well. On the whole, the damage isn’t as bad as I feared.

Silently I tidy up, then escort Lord Buck and Lady Doe back to their own quarters. Once they’ve settled in the stable, I head to the west tower, more shaken by the encounter with the baroness than I want to admit. Climbing the spiral staircase takes far more effort when I’m not dream-walking, and I’m panting by the time I get to the top. Part of me hoped that all the details would be wrong, proving that I didn’t really go back. It was just a result of exhaustion and imagination.

But no. Time has had its way with this place; the plush fabrics are faded and frayed while the windowpanes sport a few cracks here and there—spiderweb traceries of damage, chips and dings in the glass. I run a fingertip over the broken parts, gazing out into the darkness. From this vantage, that’s all I can see, not even a glimmer from town. I might well be alone in the world.

If Bitterburn was frozen when the curse began, that must have happened decades after his transformation. I peer at a sampler and recognize the brown-red splotch of blood.

There are supplies still in cupboards and baskets, gilt thread meant for decorative work, and silver needles that would fetch a pretty penny in the great city. In Bitterburn town, nobody adorns their dresses anymore, assuming they can afford to replace them. It’s all stolid wool and thick stockings and boots heavy as my heart is now.

I don’t understand the dread permeating my whole body, but it’s a chill I can’t shake off. That warning gnaws at my mind like a worm that can devour my happy thoughts. When I inhale, I breathe in attar of roses, thick and cloying. The perfume fills my lungs, and suddenly, it feels as if she’s watching me, like I’m not the only one who can skim through the years. Shuddering, I run from the tower, taking the stairs at a breakneck pace and it’s only when I stumble and nearly dash my brains out on the stone stairs that I slow, breath heaving in the darkness and silence of Bitterburn.

Hunched over, hands on my knees, I drink down great gulps of air. Here, it’s fresh and clean, none of that awful floral essence. The keep nudges me, trying to show me more of the old wards, more of the tangled webs. I can’t concentrate on this while doing anything else, but what’s more important than this?

Closing my eyes, I let the connections unspool in my head, and I see tendrils extending outward, draining the life from the land surrounding it. Though I was only guessing at the time, I was right. Powerful spells don’t sustain themselves, and the surrounding area is paying the cost. Winter will only get worse, until everyone starves and there’s no life left here at all.

What happens then? Will the spell expire from lack of energy? Or will it just keep draining the world, as winter expands its territory? Right now, nobody in Kerkhof cares about our predicament, but when the snow stops melting farther south, they’ll likely march, and they might bring down the walls with cannons and mortar. The wards react with what feels like emotional distress, filling my head with colors in response to the idea of an army outside these walls.

Njål said he can’t die, but I’m sure he can be hurt. Can any creature survive having his head separated from his neck? I’d rather not find out.

This is my problem to solve, but it’s so weighty. I’m inexperienced. Untrained. It seems likely that I might even make matters worse with my unskilled fumbling. Despair perches on my shoulder like a spider.

As I sit in the drafty hallway, my brain bloated with too much information, I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep the promises I’ve made.

21.

It takes me a full week to recover from laying the wards.

While my spirit is willing, my body is weak. Apparently magic takes a great deal out of you, just like Bitterburn is slowly sapping the life from the countryside. I try not to think of that—of the low harvests and the long winter, how my family might be starving.

They didn’t even want you, that awful voice whispers. You could make them pay.

That’s the right approach, and it takes me longer to silence the enticement than usual. I wish that Da and Catherine would suffer, but if I let this creature dig into my own wounds, they’ll not only fester, my soul will rot from the inside. Shuddering, I roll over in bed and slam the door between us.

I must not weaken. I must not let it in.

To encourage me to rest, Njål does half the cooking, despite being endearingly terrible at it. During that time, I don’t dream-travel, though I do have nightmares that I don’t recall upon waking. And he stays with me in my room, five nights out of seven.

I can’t recall anyone caring for me this way. My mother must have, but I was so small then and our roles reversed when I was young, so that I nursed her as she lay dying. Owen was too busy working in the smithy, planning for our future, and we never got the chance to live it. Maybe it’s because Njål only lets himself believe in now but he’s here with me, every heartbeat, every moment.

And it is . . . magical.

“Put on a pretty dress tonight,” he tells me, as I scrub the kitchen floor.

I glance up at him through the tumble of hair that’s escaped from its plait. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Not at all. Will you indulge me?” When he uses that deep voice, there’s little possibility that I could refuse.

“Very well.”

“Meet me after dinner in the great hall,” Njål says mysteriously.

Plenty of chores await me, but I’m far too excited about this cryptic invitation to focus on any of them. Awash in fervent anticipation, I cook some food and tuck it in the pantry to be heated later, then I indulge myself as I rarely have by hauling ice and snow to heat for a proper bath. I settle into the copper tub before the fire and scrub every inch of my skin until it’s glowing.

Part of me hopes that Njål will interrupt, as that could prove most diverting, but he makes himself scarce all afternoon and into the evening. I wish I had essential oils to make me smell as pretty as I am clean—oh. Dried rosemary and mint might not be an expensive scent, but when I soak the herbs in water and daub the resultant tincture on my pulse points, I smell bright and fresh, the best I can do under the circumstances.

Njål does show up for dinner, and we eat together, but he doesn’t say much. I’m torn between irritation and intrigue at his secretive behavior. This isn’t like the usual mysteries, nothing to do with the east wing.

“Do you plan to tell me what this is all about?” I ask.

“I will not. Let me surprise you, beloved.”

This endearment nearly slays me. The first time he’s called me that—and the word pierces me like an arrow, a sweetly killing shot. “Beloved” is not a term that’s commonly used anymore, unlike “sweetheart” or “darling,” yet I thrill to it, as if I’ve stepped into an epic poem, an ode written in my honor. Njål’s eyes twinkle nonstop, until I finally storm out of the kitchen pretending to be vexed.

I’m not at all. Trying to cool my cheeks with my palms, I wonder what the night has in store. A touch nervous, I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips for I’ve no cosmetics, and then I take down my hair. It’s dark and wild, spilling down my back like a spring torrent. My “pretty dress” I made myself, sewn clumsily, but in the candlelight my poor stitches don’t show, and at least it’s not the one I wore with Owen. The fabric is creamy and clean, dotted with tiny green flowers, and I tie a matching sash around my waist, spending a good five minutes trying to perfect the bow in back. I’ve no shiny shoes to match with it, no glimmering jewels either, but I hope Njål won’t mind.

In appearance I take after my mother, and I’ve never cared if others found me beautiful. Tonight, I wish to take his breath away. My heart races as I make my way to the great hall. Bitterburn tries to show me something, but I block it out. Just once, for tonight, I don’t want to think about anything else. No fear, no foreboding.

Halfway there, I spot candles lining the hall, a veritable sea of them, like a chorus of fireflies standing guard along my path. I come into the great hall and there are even more candles, along with the chandelier that he’s somehow polished and kindled, so this is the brightest this room has ever been since my arrival.

Njål waits for me in the center of the room, standing on one of the white tiles. As always, I avoid the red and move toward him at a stately pace. When I get close, he extends his hand, allowing me to see him fully. No shadows, no hunched shoulders. And he’s dressed in formal wear perfectly tailored to him. Black jacket, crisp white shirt, white vest threaded with silver. From head to toe, he is magnificent. Not human, but when he’s this fierce and resplendent, I don’t know why he’d want to be, either.

As if by magic, a soft, tinny music starts to play, probably from an old music box. My imagination fills in the melody, adding percussion and strings, until it becomes a full orchestra. I put my hand in his and then we’re dancing. He carries me with him more like, swept on the gorgeous tide of his eagerness. Njål knows what he’s doing while I plainly do not. I’ve only ever done festival dances, the stomping and spinning that gets on when people are full of ale and high spirits.

Yet it doesn’t matter that I fumble my steps. I only need to trust and follow him, glory in his grace and strength. His hand in mine, the other at my waist, guiding me through the turns. He gazes down at me like I’m the sun in the sky or the goddess of spring, certainly the most beautiful person he’s ever beheld. His eyes glow like stars, and I have never been as happy as I am at this moment.

When the music stops, so do we. Njål bends so slowly that I could avoid the kiss, but instead I rise on tiptoe to meet him. His mouth burns mine with icy heat, and I stretch upward even more, twining my arms about his neck to fall into the embrace that sweeps me like an avalanche, until I dig my fingers into his shoulders because the world is spinning beneath my feet. My soul fills with him, even as our lips glide and nuzzle, a steamy softness that fills me with urgency.

His tongue touches mine, and I feel that delicate stroke everywhere. Njål catches my gasp in his mouth and swings me into his arms. “Come to bed with me.” The deep, low growl vibrates in my stomach, creating a shockwave of pleasurable chills.

I nod and snuggle into his arms, no longer worried about anything. He spent so much time giving me a magical memory that I don’t doubt my own desires. The past doesn’t matter, neither does the future. For once in my life, I wish to be reckless.

He carries me from the great hall in long strides, and I hold on to him. But we don’t go to my little room in the kitchen or the east wing. Instead, he’s created a bower for us from one of the empty state rooms. More candles in here, I’d no idea there were so many in storage, and part of me cavils at the waste. We ought to have put out the ones we left burning in the hall. What if—

“Shh. Stop thinking,” he whispers, claiming me for another bone-melting kiss.

When I ease back, my whole body is quivering, and I’m hot all over. Immediately I untie the sash and pull the dress over my head, leaving me clad only in a thin cambric. His shining gaze lingers on the dark points of my nipples, plainly visible in the flickering light. Njål inhales sharply and then he’s scrambling at his own clothes, a task made more difficult by his claws. As he snarls in frustration, I step closer and help with the buttons.

“I hate how I am,” he snaps, though he doesn’t refuse my aid.

“I love how you are.” His tense posture eases as I slip the shirt from his shoulders, tug the sleeves carefully from his arms. “Though I do wonder why you have attire like this if it irks you so.”

“In the early days after the change, they thought it was amusing. To trot me out on formal occasions and put the beast on display.”

Ah. And he went to war with those humiliating memories, fought them to a standstill for me. To try and become the sort of romantic hero he thinks I desire and deserve.

I’m melting. Boneless. There’s only this endless ache, and only Njål can satisfy it.

Like a hungry cat, I pounce on him, unfastening his pants with an alacrity that must startle him. I can’t touch him enough, and the way he shudders beneath my hands, it only makes me want more. More of his pleasure, more of his moans and desperation. Njål arches as I plant kisses on his broad chest, tonguing the graven patterns.

The bed in this room is clean and large. We stumble backward and fall, together, hands and mouths wild. He tries to ask if I’m sure or I think he does, but I tug his body over mine, wrapping my legs around his hips. His sharp intake of breath tells me he wants this as much as I do. Njål props himself on his arms, slowly rolling his hips against mine.

I want to eat him up.

And I do, pulling him into another ravenous kiss—all teeth and tongue until my mouth feels deliciously swollen. I cup his cheek, stroking my thumb across the strong ridge. Njål closes his eyes, taking so much pleasure in that tiny caress that it unravels me. I’m molten to the core, and I roll my hips under him, letting him feel that sweet yearning.

“Can’t believe this isn’t a dream,” he whispers. “But here you are.”

“Please, Njål. I know you’re patient but don’t make me wait.”

In response, he reverses our positions, so that I’m sprawled atop his naked body. “It would be so easy for me to hurt you. Why don’t you take what you need? Whatever that might be.”

Such a beautiful, generous offer. I settle onto his hips, teasing both of us with a slow glide. He feels massive, but there’s no rush. Njål kisses the tip of my breast, and I pull his head to me, silently inviting more. When he adds his teeth, I whimper, moving on him helplessly as the familiar tension builds.

Carefully, so carefully, he touches my center with the pads of his fingers. With my thighs splayed in erotic display, I hold still, because otherwise, this will be too difficult for him. Slow, delicate circles, gentle sweeps meant to relax me, but I only get wetter and more excited. He can’t stretch me with his fingers beforehand, so I do it, holding his sparkling gaze as I work myself with one finger and then two.

“Faster,” he says, watching my face with a heat that envelops my whole body.

Obediently I press inward, finding my rhythm, and I don’t even care that he’s watching, feeling my slickness right on his shaft. Groaning, he shifts beneath me, dragging his hard cock against my soft folds. I remember the way he responded to my touch in the kitchen, and I can’t stop humping my fingers.

Oh gods.

Surely that’s enough preparation. I can’t wait another second to have Njål inside me.

22.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

Njål offers an agonized chuckle. “Am I the one who needs to answer?”

“Absolutely. Your feelings matter as much as mine.”

“Then yes,” he says simply.

I expect taking him to sting and it does, but since I’m in charge of how fast and how deep, I get us there slowly, easing down until he’s fully seated. Then I rest, simply feeling how Njål throbs inside me. His patience truly is remarkable because even with his entire body rigid, tremors shaking through him in deep waves, he doesn’t move.

“How’s that?”

He smooths a hand over my hip. “Beautiful. You feel even better than I imagined.”

“Have you fantasized about me?”

“Constantly. But the reality of you far surpasses my dreams.”

The sweet words spur me into motion. I’m the one who can’t wait. I want to know everything, and I learn. How he responds to my hands braced on his chest as I ride him, the agonized way he tilts his head, eyes half-closed with exquisite pleasure, but he can’t look away either. Can’t stop gazing up at me as I ride him, bearing down on his cock until we’re both panting and wild. I don’t know if I can get there this way because it’s very new and I’m a bit sore, but I can make it happen for Njål.

Already, he’s jerking beneath me, helpless little thrusts as his urgency escalates. I curve my body to his, bending to kiss his neck, and with that shift, I can feel how wet I am. My juices are smeared between us, on my thighs and bottom as well. He feels it too and lets out a desperate whine, trying to bring me with him as he spills, long pulses of heat deep inside me.

And with clumsy strokes of my own fingers, his lingering passion drags me over, not as strong as when he used his mouth, but I bask with him in the afterglow nonetheless, tumbled and messy, sticky and wet, and sweaty and delighted. I finally know what all the fuss is about, but unlike all the oblique warnings that came from various married women in Bitterburn town, I don’t feel ruined.

Rather, I feel like a fucking conqueror.

Njål pets my hair with gentle, trembling hands, as if I’ve drained all his strength whereas I could lay the wards four times over. I laugh silently to myself; perhaps some of the old stories are true and witches do steal a man’s strength through his seed.

“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 gate 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.

The night is long, and I don’t sleep much. In the morning, I change my pattern and cook what I can find for my family, including fritters and vegetable soup. The last of the potatoes are withered and the carrots are wrinkly, but they soften up in the salted water. I find a handful of walnuts and add them to the broth as well. This is what my family has, and I’ve no idea if they can acquire more. The miller probably won’t extend credit for more flour; he didn’t seem pleased with Da letting me go like that.

Tillie is well enough to climb down on her own to eat, and she’s so delighted to sample my cooking again that I feel guilty because I’m already mentally packing my bags. I can’t wait to go home. Can’t wait to stop feeling guilty and miserable within walls that are no longer—no, never were—my own.

Da and Catherine eat in morose silence, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but there seems to be a tension present here that wasn’t before.

Exactly what’s going on?

24.

Da and Catherine exchange a look, and I sense them talking silently. Then Da says, “It’s good to have you back.”

Is it because he’s honestly happy, or because I made soup and corn fritters and Catherine’s food doesn’t taste as good? The girls devour their portion as if it’s been ages since they had anything this delicious. Tillie eats while sitting on my lap. We’re all gathered around the low table in the living area with the fire crackling.

Since the cottage is small and my sister is in my lap, it’s warmer than usual, at least physically. A scene like this should feel cozy, but it never did before. And it still doesn’t because a secret hangs heavy in the air, tangible enough that only the girls don’t notice.

“Thank you for coming,” Catherine says finally.

It seems difficult for her to get the words out. I can’t recall if she’s ever thanked me for anything before. Both she and Da always took for granted that I would work, as if I were born for the role.

That peculiar tension persists even after the meal. I play with the girls for a while, but Tillie tires swiftly so I help her back to the loft. Our parents head out to the brewing shed out back, not that there’s any point in working there anymore.

Up in the loft, I tuck Tillie in, pulling the quilt up to her chin. I hear Millie acting out a scene with her dolls downstairs and wonder why my sisters are so different in resilience despite being twins. I’ve been ignoring the soft taps on the wards I laid at Bitterburn, not heeding signals of what’s going on there. But for the first time, I realize that I can sense threads here too, as if something has awakened since I went away and returned.

A little shiver runs through me, and I recognize the feeling. That terrible voice tried to claim that I got my power from Bitterburn, but it’s still here with me, electrifying my skin and lifting the hair on the back of my neck, like the ability wants me to use it. On impulse, I close my eyes and extend my senses toward my sleeping sister. Inside her, I find a tangle of inky threads, like the ones that tie Bitterburn to the land. Something is drawing the vitality straight out of Tillie, and with this new internal sight, I can tell she won’t last the winter. The next fever will take her.

I don’t have a book of charms, no formal chant to power this spell, but I can’t look away. I can’t leave without attempting to save Tillie. Calming myself, I reach and try, knowing it will hurt her if I sever all these tendrils that are woven through her like a web. I must search for loose ends and pull gently, like I’m unraveling a badly knit scarf.

I focus all my attention on searching, until I can’t even feel my body. The world recedes until I can only see the whorls of darkness, homing in until I see the starting point. I’m intuiting how to do this, but it feels right and natural, slowly drawing it out. Even dark energy must go somewhere, so I feed it into a dying tree in the back garden. Something must be draining her life with purpose, but whoever is using Tillie in this way, they will only kill the tree, and then there will be no more life to take. The tree’s already dying, riddled with rot, so I’m not doing anything dire. At least I hope I’m not. Maybe this is how one becomes a wicked witch, choosing who to save.

But I’ve already done this once, when I nursed Tillie and neglected Owen. If I don’t save Tillie now, it will be like he died for nothing. At last I excise the final thread, and as I open my eyes, Tillie relaxes in her sleep, her little hands uncurling.

Quickly I check the tree to make sure the parasitic strands aren’t sinking into the surrounding land, using the roots to feed, but the tendrils are tangled up in the roots that have rotted and are no longer pulling nutrients from the soil. Good, I’ve created a trap for whatever this is, instead of starting a blight.

But this energy is so familiar. It reminds me of the curse, what I feel inside Bitterburn. There must be a connection, but I’m missing something. I’m the primary link between those two places. But I . . . couldn’t have put a hex on Tillie without realizing it, could I? Like I wished for goats, perhaps before I realized that I have power, I angrily wished that she would disappear? I have no idea if magic works that way outside of the keep, and there’s no one I can ask.

Or . . . maybe there is.

Silently I slip out of the loft and head for the brewing shed. Millie grabs my skirt as I pass by. “Are you going?”

“Just to talk to Da,” I say.

She smiles so brightly as she lets go that I feel guilty because I’m not staying. The truth is that I am going, but I can nurse Tillie for a day or two longer to make sure that my spiritual and physical treatments took, and that Tillie will thrive even after I’m gone. It’s ironic that she was impacted, because she always loved me most, like anyone who cares for me will inevitably suffer harm.

Maybe I’m just not thinking straight. Truth is, I’m exhausted and hungry, as I haven’t eaten more than two bites since I’ve been here. I can’t eat comfortably in this house, as Da and Catherine always made me feel like I’m stealing food directly from the girls’ mouths. And they still do, though now their gazes are layered with . . . I don’t know what. Expectation? But what more can they possibly want from me? I curl my hands into fists.

The brewing shed is a ramshackle wooden hut with a scrap of rawhide where the door ought to be. A strong wind could topple this place, and there would be no funds to restore it. I can’t see Da and Catherine, but I hear them talking, as there’s nothing to block the sound in such a rickety outbuilding. I’m sure they don’t expect me to bother them, as I never have. Before, I looked after the girls without hesitation or complaint, but things have changed since I left.

As I approach, Catherine says in a low voice, “It’s for the best. Just give her the medicine, and when she wakes up, she’ll belong to Bascom. It’s a miracle he wants—”

“What are you talking about?” I shove past the door flap and storm into the brew shed, folding my arms with barely restrained fury. “What medicine?” They can’t possibly mean what I think they do. Bascom is the baker, and he’s older than my father.

Catherine has the grace to look ashamed, her eyes cutting away from mine. She won’t explain, so it falls to Da.

“It won’t hurt you,” he says gruffly. “Just a little something to make you sleep. It’s past time you started living like a normal woman, and Bascom asked for you.”

“Promised us twenty pounds of flour for your hand,” Catherine adds, like that makes it better, not worse.

“I’m not yours to sell!” I snarl. The power comes, tingling in my fingertips. “I never was, but especially not now.”

“It’s nothing other women don’t do,” Catherine snaps. “You just need to lay back and think of something else.”

“Bascom is three times my age and he’s already got a wife!” That’s not even the worst part of this. I can’t get my head around it; that’s how awful and looming it is.

“She’s dying,” Da says in a toneless voice. “And he needs a helpmeet in his twilight years, someone to help with the bakery and warm his bed. You’ll do. I married your mother when she was younger than you! It’s time for you to contribute—”

“I’ve done nothing but contribute since I was small! And the fact that you married my mother when she was practically a child is nothing to brag about, you deviant.”

“How dare you. I loved that woman with my whole heart and—”

Slamming a palm against the wall, Catherine cuts off Da’s declaration, glaring at both of us. “You loved her, aye, her and her witchy ways. She ensorcelled you, she did, or you’d have been mine to start with.”

“Go inside,” Da tells Catherine firmly.

And she listens, albeit not without directing another hard look at me. Once she’s gone, I close my eyes, willing myself to be patient. But my resolve snaps when Da says, “I fed you. Clothed you. You owe—”

“Nothing,” I cut in. “I cooked. I cleaned. I assisted in the brewing shed and looked after my sisters. There shouldn’t be debt between parents and children, but if there is, then mine is paid in full. We will not discuss this again. I won’t eat anything you give me while I’m here, so don’t even try. I’m sorry Bascom’s wife is dying, but I won’t replace her.”

I take a step, planning to exit on that line, but then I realize I’ve been diverted from my purpose. I meant to ask about my mother, the one Catherine called “witchy.”

“Before I go, answer one thing.”

“What?” he snaps.

“Why did Catherine say my mother had witchy ways?” Did I inherit this from her?

He shrugs, eyes going distant. “She always claimed she was descended from the old baron, from an unofficial line. And your ma was beautiful, but . . . strange. Other-like. You remember how birds would come to her when she sang? Voice of an angel . . . squirrels would eat out of her hand. Nonsense like that had people talking, and it got bad before she died. They were talking about calling the witch finders because somebody’s milk went off. But why’re you suddenly asking about your ma? You know it’s hard for me.”

I sigh. Everything is always about him. He’s never once cared what might be best for me. I refuse to apologize. Not after what they planned to do to me. I say nothing, but he’s not done complaining.

“All the light left when she did,” he mutters. “I haven’t slept well any night since.”

“Yes. You’ve told me.”

So many times.

But it sounds as if my mother might be descended from one of the baron’s bodies? Some party long ago, where people drank and tumbled, a maidservant who left the keep with a seed planted? I’m only guessing, of course, but maybe it explains my connection to the keep and this power that awakened unexpectedly.

I’m numb.

I must be, because it doesn’t even hurt, staring at this man and knowing he planned to give me a sleeping draught and turn me over to Bascom, who would’ve done gods know what to my unconscious body with his wife dying in the other room. No wonder witches become evil—I feel myself slipping, wanting to punish Da for treating me this way.

“We would’ve had enough to eat for the whole winter,” Da says quietly. “If you were willing to help.”

“Why not boil me down to bones and gobble me up instead?” My voice breaks, and I hate that weakness. “You might as well consume me directly.”

“Such a sick mind.” Da takes a step back, like my diseased brain might be contagious.

“You’re the one who tried to barter me. I won’t stay the night.”

“It’s on your conscience if we can’t last the winter.”

“Why?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “I’m your daughter too. Why must I always be the sacrifice? You wouldn’t ask this of Millie or Tillie.”

“They’re just children!” His fury has weight, but I don’t step back.

I take in the broken veins in his nose, his unshaven jaw, and the silver threading his hair. Townsfolk would say I shouldn’t speak to my father like this; they would only call me disrespectful, unfilial, and strange—percolating with outrageous ideas, likely learned from books I ought not to have been reading when there was real work to be done.

“So was I, Da. Though you never let me be. Do you know I have a scar, here?” I bare the mark on my forearm. “From cooking when I was too small to properly lift the pan. I scrubbed until my knuckles bled and you only ever expected more. Why do they get to be little girls but not me?”

He has no answer for that, but I didn’t expect one either. Perhaps a small part of me hoped he would offer some explanation, maybe even an apology, because surely he knows—he sees—how differently he treats me from the twins. The silence is colder than the longest winter night.

I turn and leave the brewing shed then. It reeks in here, the bitter scent of hops and the sweet-sour stink of fermenting mash.

Gods, but I want to go home.

25.

I’m so tired.

I haven’t dared eat anything since I overheard Da and Catherine plotting to sell me to Bascom, so I’ve only had water that I draw personally from the well. Now, my sisters are asleep, and Da is tucked up in bed with Catherine in the niche on the other side of the kitchen. The cottage is mainly one open room with alcoves here and there for the illusion of privacy. Only a curtain separates the parents from the children, and my heart pounds like a team of runaway horses as I creep out of the loft.

After I climb down the ladder, I pause, avoiding the squeaky floorboard that will give me away. I’ve said my goodbyes. When I got in the miller’s cart the first time, I didn’t plan on coming back. I’m not sorry I returned for Tillie, but I’m finished with this place.

I’ve done enough, and the fact that I’m connected to these people by blood doesn’t mean they can demand mine. If they deserve to live freely, so do I.

Slowly, I sneak out of the cottage, careful not to bump anything. My bag is light and I’m quiet as a mouse in leaving this house for what I hope will be the last time. I bear no ill will toward the girls, but I’ve had my fill of being used.

I deserve better.

The snow is still falling, pristine and untouched by carts and wagons at this hour. Everything is blanketed in white, the tree branches glazed in ice, and it’s pretty in a stark, desolate way. As I trudge down the road that leads out of town, Bascom steps out of his house, situated right next to the bakery. It makes sense that he would be awake to make the day’s bread, assuming he has any supplies left to do so. Or maybe he just needs a break from watching his dying wife.

He’s an old man, stooped and thin, with a shock of salt and pepper hair. Bakers ought to be round and jolly, but this one isn’t, all pinched features and a permanent scowl. “Leaving already,” he says. “You must really like it up at the keep.”

There are so many things I could say.

“And you must not love your wife very much if you’re already lining up her replacement before she’s even gone.”

“I’ll make you sorry, you little—”

The spark flickers from me without my volition and suddenly his overcoat is smoldering. Bascom drops to the snow and he’s rolling to extinguish the tiny flame as I stride away into the darkness. I’d rather be a witch than a helpless damsel any day. This whole town can go to hell.

Soon, I regret that waste of energy as my defiance fades, leaving me vulnerable to cold and hunger as I climb. The path didn’t seem this steep or winding when I rode most of the way in the miller’s cart, but now that I’m dragging my tired body up the mountain under my own power, it might as well be five hundred miles, all the way to the great city of Kerkhof. I’ve always wanted to go, but now I’ll be lucky to make it back to Bitterburn.

I stumble in the snow, pitching forward onto my knees. The pillowy coldness cushions my fall, but it’s hard to get up again. My hands and feet are numb; so is my face. Whirling snow makes it hard to see as well, though I stick to the path as best I can. Hopefully I’m almost there, as I don’t know how much longer I can walk. Perhaps I should have waited until daylight; at least it would be warmer then.

It feels like I’ve been climbing forever, but I’ve no idea how far I’ve come.

To my amazement, a familiar figure comes trotting toward me. Agatha bleats expectantly, trots forward a few steps, then waits, as if expecting me to follow. I stagger forward and hold on to her neck, letting her support and guide me.

The storm lessens as we push upward, which seems odd, but maybe the wards I laid are helping? I only tried to impact the weather in the kitchen garden, but it’s better here than it was in the village. It should get colder as we climb—and it did before—but now, the air hurts my lungs less the closer we get to Bitterburn.

I made the place mine. Naturally it’s more hospitable to my needs.

That’s my own inner voice, not the scary one.

At last, the keep comes into sight, looming and forbidding as always, but somehow it feels more welcoming than the cottage I left, likely because Njål is waiting for me inside.

The portcullis is partly raised. How the hell did Agatha manage that? Or did Njål ask her to go look for me? The fact that the gate is open worries me though, and with my last burst of energy, I dash inside, through the courtyard and into the kitchen, where the fire has gone out.

“Njål!” I call.

Everything is still and quiet, like it was when I first arrived, though my traces remain. The way I organized the pantry, the order of the copper pots, and the bundles of dried herbs—that’s all the same.

But Njål doesn’t answer.

I search everywhere I’m allowed to go, and he still doesn’t come.

Though I’m cold and starved, fear takes the upper hand. What if something happened while I was away? Maybe the curse ended because I left and he died; perhaps it qualified as abandonment—how should I know how ancient curses work?—and now I’ll only ever find a pile of dust with no answers as to what I was supposed to do instead. Shouting his name, I stumble from one end of the keep to the other, running from library to gallery to great hall, all the state rooms, until my vision blurs.

I must check the east wing. It’s the only place left to look.

But just as I reach the heavy, imposing doors, Njål staggers out. From the smell of him, he started drinking when I left and hasn’t stopped since. He peers at me with bleary eyes, his expression fluttering between despair and hope. He drops to his knees, drunk as hell, and somehow charming for it, though I shouldn’t find his despair so endearing. I should regret causing it, and to some degree I do, but it’s also lovely to be this vital. Oh gods, but I adore him.

Breathing fast, he stares as if I might be a chimera conjured by his deepest longings. “Are you real, Amarrah? Once you got free of this place, I thought I’d never see more of you than that blasted note.”

“I didn’t leave you,” I say softly. “I just went to tend my sister. I promised I would come back.”

“People promise all sorts of things and they mean it at the time. But as the world turns, those feelings change.”

“Mine won’t. This is still where I choose to be.”

Njål seems a bit wild in this state, nearly feral, and I close the distance between us by increments, until I can touch him carefully. He pulls me to him, and he needs a bath. It seems he’s only occupied himself with drinking, those strong spirits and fancy wines he eschewed before. I can tell that he hasn’t been eating either. He’s gaunt in a way he wasn’t prior to my nocturnal flight. It’s true then—hunger can only give him pain, not end his life.

“I don’t understand why,” he whispers.

“Because you’re here.”

Njål enfolds me in his arms, and I feel him shaking, not because I’m so cold, but because he’s so glad.

After a moment, he seems to gather himself, gaining the presence of mind to ask, “Is your sister better?”

“She was when I left.”

He touches me with less fervor, more concern, cupping my face in his hands. “You’re freezing. Let’s get to the kitchen. I’ll build the fire.”

“Is there anything to eat?” My stomach rumbles to punctuate the inquiry.

His gaze slides away from mine. “I haven’t bothered, I’m sorry.”

“I can.” A wave of sudden dizziness strikes me as I try to stand, and Njål catches me.

The world swims, and I lose touch . . . with everything. Instead of being merely cold, I’m on fire and frozen at the same time; I see flashes of Njål’s face furrowed in fear, and firelight, no, candles, a cool cloth, then . . . nothing.

My body aches when I come to myself again. I’m in bed, tucked up beneath a mountain of blankets. Njål is sprawled across the foot of my bed like a great mastiff, head pillowed on his arms.

With hammers striking anvils in my head, it seems clear that I’ve been ill, but I’ve no idea for how long. As I stir, Njål jolts awake.

“You’re back?” he asks in a hoarse voice, as if he’s scarcely had a sip of water since I fell over.

“How long was I out?”

“Nearly a week. You took your sister’s fever. I’ve done what I could, but I’m not much of a cook and we have no medicine.”

Now I see dishes piled around my bed, discarded compresses, basins of cloudy water. Yet he kept me alive despite lack of experience and little knowledge or supplies. I reach for his hand and curl ours together, avoiding his claws.

“You must be tired.”

“Not as much as I was worried. And I’m grateful that you lived. Thank you, Amarrah.”

I smile slightly, half-closing my eyes as he smooths my lank hair. “Nobody’s ever thanked me for surviving before.”

“They should’ve thrown you a party every year.”

“For continuing to exist?”

He whispers something in that language I don’t understand and cradles me in his arms for long, luxurious moments. Then Njål sets me aside with a gentle push toward the pillows. “Rest more. I’ll tidy up your room, now that the fever’s finally broken.”

It takes another full week for me to recover enough to resume my routine—tending to the little garden that’s now producing vegetables, cleaning the rooms that we use, and spending time in the library, perusing the books. There’s also Bart and Agatha, who also seems to be on an accelerated schedule. That, or she was pregnant when she arrived. Either way, she’s about to drop a kid.

Winter has a chokehold on the town below, but it’s less brutal here at the keep. My wards are strong, deterring even ferocious weather, as it’s a force that can inflict harm.

With fresh vegetables, I vary our meals a bit, and I try not to think about what my family is eating. Da tried to sell me for twenty pounds of flour.

“What has you so sorrowful?” Njål asks.

We’re in the library, reading together, one of my favorite pastimes. He likes me to read aloud, and I enjoy hearing his voice as well, so we take turns, finishing The Night Watchman and The Knight’s Mistress that way, and now we’ve started on another novel.

I haven’t told him what happened, and I wasn’t planning to because it’ll upset him when he can’t do anything about it. But trust has to start somewhere. If I want him to believe in me enough to show me whatever’s in the east wing, I should prove I’m worthy of it by putting my faith in him first. I tell him everything, and when I finish, he rises with a roar, slamming a powerful palm into a nearby shelf so hard that it shudders.

For a moment I think we’re about to be buried by a ton of valuable books.

“You will never return there. Not ever. They tried to sell you!”

“I’d already decided that, yes. But I’m glad you’re so angry on my behalf. It’s incredibly heartwarming.”

“I would like to tear your father’s heart out and step on it. He had a perfect rose growing in his garden, and he cut it down with his own hands.”

My heart flutters. I set my book down and curl into his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. At first, he found such intimacy awkward, but now he settles me close with an eagerness I find irresistible.

I find Njål irresistible.

26.

To be fair, I don’t even try.

There’s no reason to deny myself when I want him this much and I’m finally recovered. But as I tug at his shirt, he clasps my hands, stilling them suddenly. His heart races beneath my palms, but I hope he’s not afraid of me? Njål must know that if he’s not in the mood for bedsport, that I won’t press the matter.

Eyes wide, I stare at him, startled because he’s never reacted that way to my touch before. “Is something wrong?”

“You need to rest more and shouldn’t exert yourself so soon after your illness,” he says gently.

That doesn’t ring true, and when he averts his gaze, I’m positive he’s lying.

I relax, as if I intend to comply with his edict. The moment he lets go, I pounce, pulling his shirt open at the laces; that move reveals deep gouges in his flesh, barely scabbed and with evidence that they’ve recently been oozing. He tries to push me away but he won’t use brute force, and I discover wounds on his arms as well—and at such an angle that it seems impossible that they were self-inflicted.

“You’ve been fighting.” Njål says nothing as I slide off his lap and take a step back. “But you can’t leave and we’re the only ones here. Aren’t we?”

Clearly, one of those things is not true. As I reconsider our interactions, I’m sure he said he’s been tortured by being trapped here, and he’s mentioned the unbearable solitude, but I don’t know if he ever expressly said he’s the only one here. There could be other prisoners he avoids. He ordered me to stay out of the east wing, but . . . what if it’s not a secret so much as it is for my own protection?

Still, he’s silent.

“Or do you claim that Bart inflicted that much damage?” It’s a test.

I know damn well those injuries didn’t come from goat horns, and if he lies to me about this, after trying to keep me from uncovering his wounds, I won’t be able to trust anything he’s said so far. And that . . . that would be heartbreaking, because as of now, he’s the only person in the world that I did believe in.

Slowly, he shakes his head. “There’s a reason I told you to keep out of the east wing. I stay away as much as I can, but sometimes the call is overwhelming, and I lose myself. It’s worse when I’m drinking, as I did when you went away.”

“I don’t understand! Can’t you just tell me?”

“No. I wish I could, but it’s impossible.” Such a despondent tone—I’ve never seen him look this hopeless, eyes downcast and shoulders bent. His posture speaks of abject defeat. He wants to spill everything, but he can’t.

Perhaps he means it literally. In the old stories, people could be compelled to silence, not to speak of certain things. Could this be part of his curse? On impulse, I close my eyes and switch to spirit sight, checking Njål over as I did Tillie. And I find grim and terrible threads, woven through him like the careless stitches they make in a dead man’s wounds, only caring about making him presentable for burial. But that’s not all. There are multiple tethers, showing me all too clearly how bound he is to this place. Considering all the binding threads, it’s a miracle he can even make it to the portcullis. Between these threads and the barrier, no wonder he can’t pass through. And he’s been cursed for so long that it’s become part of him in a way that the tendrils weren’t for Tillie.

It would take me days to unravel this, even assuming I could survive the ordeal. I don’t know if Njål could either, for Bitterburn does seem to be sustaining his life, and separating them would free Njål, but he’d also die in the process. Because his natural body is unfathomably old. The minute the magic stops preserving his life, I suspect he’ll return to the dust he would already be, if not for the curse.

What am I to do?

With an aching heart, I take his hand. His head comes up in surprise, and he regards me warily. I think he imagines that this is where I draw the line and decide he’s not worth the effort. Has anybody ever fought for him? Fought hard?

“Amarrah?”

“Let’s tend your wounds. You needn’t suffer alone anymore. I’m with you.”

He seems bewildered as I tow him to the kitchen, where I boil some water and wash all the rents in his chest and forearms. I watch the softening of his expression as I tend to him, the light of hope returning. Actions speak so much more than words or promises. This, he understands. I’m not giving up on him, and I never will. I cut up one of the smocks he brought me and use the linen strips as bandages. There’s no medicine, as he said, only soap and water, but surely this is better than nothing.

“You’re not angry?” he asks, once I’ve finished.

“Why would I be? You said you can’t tell me. That’s not a lie. I confirmed the bindings on you through my own abilities. Those tethers are ancient, and you can’t break free simply because you want to.”

He lets out a long breath. “I have tried.”

“I know.”

Now I do. I’m not just taking his word for it. I’ve confirmed that there are multiple restrictions on his freedom. My poor, precious Njål.

Before he can don his shirt, I rise on tiptoe and pull him down for a kiss. This time, he doesn’t argue that I need to recover more. Njål kisses me back, his lips soft and rough at the same time. I part for his tongue, because we’re so far past innocent pecks. Between us it’s all desperate desire, endlessly yearning for deeper and more.

I can’t get enough of him.

“We can stop if you wish.” He breathes the words into the side of my neck.

“I’d rather finish, more satisfying that way. But only if you’re up to it,” I tease.

“I’ll find the energy somehow.”

Njål sweeps me into his arms and carries me into my little room. The fire is already lit here, making it the natural place for us to continue. I pull off my own clothes, and he removes his, each of us making a silent statement about our choices. Before coming to Bitterburn, I rarely thought of my own body, but I hope he finds me pleasing.

“Just look at you,” he says.

I’m too busy looking at him to feel shy. At his cock in particular, immense and stiff already as he prowls toward me, covered only by the bandages here and there. It’s a bit difficult for me to believe that’s been stuffed inside me or that I rubbed him in the kitchen until he spilled in my hands. Right now, Njål seems more like a force of nature than a flesh and blood being.

“Is it always hard?” I ask.

He follows my gaze downward. “I collect you mean this . . .” He gestures at his shaft. “And not life in general.”

“Yes.”

“No, not always, beauty. It hadn’t been for ages, and it took some time for me to remember what desire was, even after you arrived.”

“When did you first want me?”

He pauses. “When you said you like it here. I didn’t understand, because there was nothing anyone would want, and you said—”

“You’re here,” I finish.

“Those words awakened me, reminded me how yearning felt. I started craving you then, and it soon became a physical need.”

“I can see that. Come, let’s assuage the ache.”

Njål groans, closing the distance between us in three strides. We tumble to the narrow bed together and he pulls me onto his broad chest, careless with his own wounds. I try to ease back.

“You’ll hurt yourself!”

“It’s a pain I’ll bear gladly. I’d happily die with you on top of me.”

Despite myself I laugh. “Just imagine how regrettable it would be for me, though.”

“True. Kiss me like you love me, Amarrah.” A soft entreaty, one I’m helpless to resist.

Maybe I ought to say the words instead of speaking with my lips. I cup his face in my hands, stroking his cheeks as I touch our mouths together, light and teasing. I deepen the kiss with exquisite care, never rushing, never demanding, until he’s breathing fast, and I drink down those gasps, soft strokes with my tongue. We kiss for ages, until my mouth is swollen and I feel his cock pulsing under me. He rolls his hips until I settle exactly where I ought to be, giving us both incredible pleasure with each thrust and slide.

Njål cups my breasts, watching my face intently, and he reads my expressions like one of his treasured books, adjusting pressure according to my response. My nipples are tight, and I want him so much that I can’t think of anything else. Soon, I’m moaning, squirming around on him, and I’m so slick that it’s a little embarrassing.

“Put it in me,” I whisper.

“Say it specifically. Ask for what you want.”

I know the words; they were written as captions in the naughty book Owen and I got from the peddler. It gives me a thrill to utter them for Njål’s pleasure. “Your cock. Please fuck me now.”

A shudder shakes through him and then he lifts me. I help him, holding his shaft with one hand, and he teases us both by sliding around, rubbing himself against my most sensitive spot, until I could finish just from that. I can’t keep quiet, making helpless sounds that mingle with my panting breaths. Gods, this feels good.

Slowly, with exquisite patience, he works his cock into me and I bear down. My whole body feels flushed, practically glowing with pleasure. Njål grips my hips, lightly pricking with his claws, but even that feels exciting, a hint of danger to augment the shockingly delicious sensations. I feel him throbbing inside me though he hasn’t moved. There’s no sting this time, just heat and fullness.

“How is it?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“Beautiful.”

That word acts as a lever; he lunges upward with his whole body, until he’s holding me in his arms, enveloping me completely. He’s still inside me, but from this angle, I can wrap my legs around behind him and now we’re completely entwined. It means I can’t ride him precisely, but we move together, push and pull, and it’s a slow, sweet fucking as we hold each other.

“Does it feel good this way?”

I can’t speak anymore. There’s too much brightness in my body, so I nod and gaze into his eyes, falling into him deeper, until I lose all sense of separation. When I close my eyes, I sense his mounting pleasure, waves of it, and his movements become quick and jerky. He kisses me as I lose control, taking all my gasps and groans. With my core still pulsing around him, he finally lets go, filling me with heat.

Afterward, I kiss his chin, still completely entwined. “You seem pleased.”

Tremors still wrack him as he settles us both under the covers. I’m too relaxed to care about washing up just now. I’ll do that in a bit.

“I’m sleepy,” he admits. “The damnable calling is painful, and I don’t get much rest without you.”

I wish I understood what he’s talking about. “It’s easier to ignore when I’m here?”

“Most definitely. It was much better when you laid the wards, but after you left . . .”

“Perhaps my proximity strengthens them?” I suggest.

“Possibly. I know little of such matters, other than what’s been done to me.”

Though I don’t say so, I haven’t given up on the idea of saving him. There must be a way; I’m just too green to untangle the complex skein of ancient magic. But if the curse was born here, it can die here as well.

Without taking Njål with it.

27.

In the morning, when I check on Agatha, I find her in distress.

It’s too soon, but with my help, she gives birth to a tiny, malformed kid that can’t survive more than a few minutes on its own. She bleats and cries when I take it away and bury the wee body in the kitchen garden, the only place where the soil is soft enough for me to dig the hole. This feels like a bad omen, a blight on my chances of saving Njål.

I’m sad for Agatha, who follows me about as if I can produce a living kid for her to nurse. In the end, I consult my animal husbandry book and struggle to milk her. Agatha does not make it easy, but after about five failures, I figure it out. Apparently, it needs to be done twice a day from here on out. I got my wish, as she’s producing milk, but I can’t feel good about it. As Njål predicted, there were painful consequences.

My mood is grim as I thumb through another tome, learning how to turn this into the cheese I desperately wanted when I first arrived. I didn’t expect that there would be a bereaved goat wandering the kitchen while I did it. It seems that I can use vinegar and salt to create a simple, soft white cheese. I haven’t seen any vinegar since I’ve been here, but I know enough about fermentation to understand that very old wine sometimes turns into vinegar on its own, so I should check the cellar.

The wine cellar has been depleted over the years, and even more by Njål’s recent rampage, but there are a few dusty bottles left. I choose one at random and take it upstairs to pop the cork. Judging by the smell, it’s more vinegar than wine at this point. I suppose I’ll find out if this works. Following the recipe, I heat the goat milk to a simmer, keeping the fire low, then I remove the pot, add some of the white wine vinegar, stir, and wait.

Sure enough, curds eventually form and I use thin cambric to separate the curds from the whey. The book tells me to salt and shape the curds, then chill the finished product. The courtyard is the coldest place I can think of, so I carry the pan outside and place it high enough that Agatha and Bart can’t get to it.

To be fair, both goats are following me like frightened puppies. They lost their baby, and I can’t seem to make them understand. My chest hurts.

Would they be a happy goat family if I hadn’t made that wish? Or would they have starved on the mountain during the long winter?

“What are you doing? You’ll freeze! You’re not even wearing your cloak.” Still scolding me, Njål guides me back inside, but as we reach the kitchen, he registers my expression and draws me in for a hug. “What happened?”

With the goats shadowing us and bumping the backs of my legs, I tell him. He lets go of me and crouches to study Agatha. “Are you well, Lady Doe?”

She rubs her head against his chest, and Njål hugs her too. It should be a ridiculous sight, but he melts my heart with that tenderness. He hasn’t had anyone to love in forever, and his heart is overflowing. Most likely Agatha ought to be resting, but I’ve no ability to force the little mother to do anything against her will. Goats are pure chaos—not even a witch can manage that.

I sigh softly. “Do you think it’s my fault?”

He doesn’t respond right away, and when he does at last, the answer isn’t what I’d wished to hear, so it must represent his true thoughts. “I don’t know. But even if it is, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You warned me, though. About this place, and how there’s always a price. It’s my fault I didn’t listen. I got what I wanted while Agatha is suffering.”

He earns even more of my devotion by not saying that she’s just an animal, so her pain doesn’t matter. “We’ll comfort her as best we can,” he says quietly.

“I won’t wish for anything more.”

Not even for Njål’s freedom. I’m glad I never framed it that way or the keep might decide to swap his imprisonment for mine, or it could even kill him outright. I still think there are multiple forces in play here, but I can’t sort out the threads—and it’s not for lack of trying. I need more knowledge, slow going in a library of that size.

“Will you entertain them?” I ask.

“I’ll do my best. Where are you going?”

“To the library, and they probably shouldn’t be in there. I’m afraid Agatha will take her feelings out on the books.”

“To me, goats! We’re having an adventure.”

From the sounds of his continued conversation with them, Njål plans to run around with Lord Buck and Lady Doe in the gallery, which is hilarious. But even that prospect doesn’t lift my mood. The weight remains as I head to the library. This won’t help my research, but I indulge myself with another entry in Njål’s journal. I’ve been skimming them here and there as a reward for completing my chores, but I’m nearing the end of what’s written, and in some small corner of my heart, I fear what I’ll find within these pages.

I turn the page, only four more to go, until the final, unfinished entry. The whispered translation begins, even as the unfamiliar words swim on the page.

I’m betrothed.

The baron and baroness chose her for me. They tell me that my family is dead and this is my home now. I’m supposed to marry Gilda. The baron asked me if I think she’s pretty.

I suppose she is. We walked in the garden together today, and she kissed me.

It was my first kiss, but I couldn’t tell her that because she’s clearly good at it. That means she’s been kissing someone else, and she knows more than me. Her mouth tasted of tea and toast, but I don’t think I ought to have been considering what she’s been eating. I’ll marry Gilda, won’t I? I wonder if I’ll ever be happy.

We’re both too young, but my foster parents, no, I don’t care what they say, I will never call them that. The baron and baroness want the issue of inheritance settled. There’s nobody I can tell—Eloise is probably a ghost—but the word ‘inheritance’ frightens me. I don’t want to inherit Bitterburn. Bad things happen here.

At night, I hear muffled screaming, but it’s almost worse when it stops.

I wish someone would save me, but no one’s coming. No one ever will.

That’s all. This entry breaks my heart. I wish that I could do more for him, but my dream-walking can’t change the past. For some reason I’m only able to interact with Njål. The rest of the world treats me like I’m invisible. Why is that, anyway?

Putting that question—and the journal—aside for the moment, I pull all the books I can find on magic. Most of them are fanciful, meant for entertainment, not instruction. I lose myself paging through them anyway, hoping for some spark of inspiration. In the end, I’ve wasted my time, and I need to check the cheese.

It’s firmed up nicely in the cold, a rich white round in the ramekin I used as a mold. Shivering, I hurry back to the fire, ready to sample the delicacy that carried such a high price. I smear some on a batch of fry bread that I whip up, and it’s delicious. Not worth our Lady Doe’s suffering, but if I don’t eat it, that seems worse somehow.

Njål joins me on his own soon after. “Success?”

“It’s good, have some.” I hand him a simple tartine—fry bread topped with goat cheese and lentils.

He takes a cautious bite, and then he beams at me, eyes crinkling in delight. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Save you.

Though I don’t speak the words, I fear they’re true. We eat quietly, devouring most of the cheese in one sitting. I tidy up with a huge shadow on my heart. For all my promises, he’s still trapped, and I don’t seem to be making any progress. Before, I was happy staying here with him, but I can’t go gray and die knowing that Njål will be left alone again. I restrain the urge to thump my fist on the worktable in frustration.

“Where are the cloven ones?” I ask, mostly as a distraction.

“Settled in the stable. Bart is heroically trying to console Agatha.”

I nod, poking up the fire. Njål comes up behind me and settles at my back, drawing me into a full-body embrace. It’s so easy to lean on him. He kisses along my neck and finds the sensitive spot behind my ear. If I let him keep going, we’ll end up in bed. For the first time, I wonder if it’s possible for Njål to get me pregnant. If that happens, will our baby die like what happened with Agatha?

Shuddering, I step away. I would rather stay like this all night, but that won’t accomplish anything.

“I want to search the sewing room. Will you come with me?”

I’ve lost track of whether I’ve actually been there or only in my dreams. Njål went around collecting clothes that had been left, but I was unconscious at the time. I think I saw the room myself, but I’m not positive. My memory is oddly blurred and I constantly expend energy to keep that crawling voice out of my skull.

“Of course. But why?” he asks as we set off.

I shrug. I can’t provide a detailed answer, but instinct assures me that I won’t find anything that mattered to the baroness in public areas. She might’ve been a witch herself, or maybe the baron was a warlock. Njål didn’t tell me who performed the ritual that went wrong. It’s also possible that they’re not human—that they never were—rather, evil spirits that prey on others to work their wickedness in the world.

“Call it curiosity.”

As we climb, I become certain. I came here after I dream-walked, wanting to verify what I saw. Why didn’t I remember? I ran out of this room in abject terror, after smelling a strong rose perfume. Outside the sewing room, I close my eyes, reaching out with other senses. I’m getting better at this; there’s a faint glow, the residue from an incredibly old enchantment. I snap the remaining lines with two precise bursts of energy, and immediately, the air feels lighter, easier to breathe, even outside the chamber. When I step in, I’m not assailed by the sense that I’m trespassing.

Njål regards me with an unreadable expression. “What did you do?”

“Removed an old avoidance spell. The baroness must not have wanted people in here without her permission.” That tells me there might be something worth finding.

The room is just as I left it, including the blood-stained sampler. I bend to pick it up and Njål stops me with a palm on my shoulder. I can feel the tremor in his hand.

“Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” he whispers.

“Why, is it poisoned?” That’s meant as a joke, but as soon as I make it, I grasp that he’s serious. “I suppose that’s one way to remove your rivals.”

His shoulders are set and stiff, his hands locked before him in a posture of profound discomfort. “I remember…the lady who dropped that piece died a few days after her arrival, frothing at the mouth. It was certainly poison. The court whispered that she’d offended the baroness in some fashion.”

“Your memories are terrifying,” I whisper. “I understand why you avoid them. Do you remember any happiness, any joy at all?”

Njål considers, then he says, “My mother loved me. She gave me an earring before I left home, said I could sell it for pocket money. Instead, I’ve kept it with me all this time.”

I kiss him on the check. “I’m glad.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks, seeming to want to change the subject.

I let him. With a jolt of pure determination, I toe the wretched sampler aside and open the nearest cupboard. “I’ll know when I find it.”

28.

We search for hours.

Piece by piece, I pull everything out of the cupboards and scrutinize each half-completed sewing project. Then I inspect the tools and the furniture, moving chairs, and settees with Njål’s help. There are no loose floorboards, no secret panels in the wall. The window bench does open, but I only find piles of sumptuous fabric, silks, and velvets perfectly preserved and fit for a queen. Of course, there’s white and silver cloth, same as the baron and baroness wore the night they named Njål their heir.

“This is maddening,” I mutter.

I’m exhausted and ready to give up when it occurs to me that I haven’t looked inside the pillows and bolsters. I study them all, checking for something hidden, and when I come to the chair that the baroness was using in my dream, I find odd edges within the upholstered cushion. Without hesitation, I cut into the fabric and uncover a book. It’s a vile thing that radiates malevolence, leather the exact hue of dried blood, with arcane symbols burned into the cover; the tome also carries a faint stench, like charred flesh and sulfur.

The moment this thing sees daylight, the voice stirs in my head, full of spite. Human skin, touch and see, human skin, so soft and supple. There’s no fear from it as I slam the door between us, no worry that I’ve located a weakness. I hope they continue underestimating me, as everyone always has.

Njål doesn’t need to caution me. If it wasn’t safe to touch the sampler, I certainly shouldn’t pick this up with my bare hands either. It was important enough to hide, so it must be critical. I find a pair of old gloves tucked into a sewing basket, waiting for centuries to have the dangling lace mended, and pull them on, protecting myself from this artifact.

Even before I grasp the thing, it fills me with revulsion, trying to force me away with an echo of the deterrent spell. I fight through the urge to flee, and crack open the spine. Gods, why does it sound so gruesome? Even the pages being flipped remind me of the scratching of old, dry bones. With growing horror, I read the notes—experiments run and spells attempted. This appears to be a working grimoire, though not of anyone who was ever human. I’m reading accounts of infernal magic, much different from the benign power I’ve been using.

All the alchemical notes aside, it’s an account of how the baron and baroness perfected the art of stealing bodies and devouring souls, and they did it for centuries before Njål came. These wretches are unfathomably old, and . . . they never left.

I remember the explicable wounds on Njål’s body, his cryptic words, and I’m suddenly sure. This is what he’s hiding in the east wing. He’s protecting me from them. He can’t leave, and he can’t kill them, because they’re preserved by the curse, just as he is. They’re the cause of the grim web drawing energy from the land even now, destroying the natural balance of the seasons to prolong their lives. The baron and baroness are still here, and they’ve created this endless, encroaching winter.

They must have some power over him, even now. Njål said something about “the call,” and maybe he hears the voice I mentioned. It must be one of them, crawling into my head, trying to get me to do their bidding. That will never, ever happen.

But I can’t tell him that I know. He might try to stop me, either out of fear for my safety, or because he’s unable to resist some unnatural compulsion as part of the curse. No, I must finish this quickly and quietly. I can’t let on that I finally understand what’s happening here. Or what’s waiting in the east wing.

“What is that?” he asks.

Does he really not know?

I turn, trying to keep my expression neutral. “It’s a spellbook. I think it belonged to the baroness. I suspect that destroying it might weaken your curse, however. It appears to retain some power even now, long after she’s gone.”

His gaze flickers away. Yes, I’m right. Njål is a terrible liar. And she’s not gone at all. He managed to contain them somehow, but none of them can leave. Or die. Until I came, they were at an impasse.

“Do you think so?” he asks, a hopeful note lilting the question.

“It can’t hurt to try.”

We head out of the sewing room and return to the kitchen, where I attempt the promised destruction. The damned book has protections on it, layers and layers. I can’t cut it with a knife and when I throw it in the fire, it doesn’t burn. Cursing, I pull it out with metal tongs and try another tactic.

Closing my eyes, I assess the magical binding that keeps the book safe from harm. This looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before, red and seething, as if malice has become an arcane shield. I can’t find any loose threads, only smooth edges, no weakness I could use to break this apart or dismantle it.

Before I go, I shift my attention to the east wing. The keep is riddled with tendrils, but now that I know what to look for, I follow two particularly leprous threads and find the slow, faint pulse of life—or un-life, perhaps—as these two fiends ought to have been long dead. One of them lashes out with a burst of psychic force, noticing my attention, and my head is throbbing when I pull back.

“Don’t fall ill again,” Njål says, touching my cheek with a worried expression. “Give yourself time to study the problem.”

I understand that he’s not afraid. He’s cohabitated with these monsters for ages, but I no longer feel safe. What prevents the real beasts from leaving the east wing? That question haunts me, but I don’t dare trespass until I’m sure confrontation will end in victory, so I’ll bide my time.

Glaring at the book, I leave it be for now and go tend to Agatha. Certain chores won’t wait, and she must be milked regularly. I make more cheese and save the rest of the milk for us to drink with supper. Njål notices my distraction after the second time I fail to respond; I need to do better at prevarication, or he’ll work out what I know.

To cover, I change the subject. “I’ve been reading your journal, the one you left in the library. You said that I could. The last entry was about your betrothal to a girl named Gilda. What happened to her?”

It was all so long ago that it’s impossible for me to be jealous. As he said, everything must feel like it happened to someone else. I can only imagine what it’s like to live so long; at some point, it must feel like torture, a road that stretches on forever with no end in sight and no destination either.

“She died,” he says quietly.

“In the ritual that went wrong?”

His head snaps up, and he stares at me, hard, across the worktable. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Did I let on that I understand more than I’m supposed to?

“How did you know?”

I pride myself on cleverness, and between what I’ve seen and heard while dream-walking and what I read in that infernal tome, I feel like I’ve got a grasp on what Njål suffered, if not on what happened thereafter. But I must be careful how much I reveal.

“She’s not here with you. If she changed as well, wouldn’t she be trapped instead of gone? It’s a reasonable assumption.”

“You . . . you haven’t gone back to that night? To see precisely what happened.”

A chill curls through me. I’m better at reading him now, and there’s definitely something he wants to hide. “No. I haven’t.”

“I see.” His shoulders drop with tangible relief.

I want to trust him because he’s all I have in the world, but doubts trickle in, water seeping into the cracked hull of a boat. I’m meant to believe that he was the victim, from start to finish, and it terrifies me that it might not be true. What if—

No.

Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop the thought from forming. What if he participated freely? Perhaps he was innocent once, but everyone has a breaking point. Everyone can be corrupted. What if I unravel this curse because he’s fooled me completely with his feigned gentleness, and I unleash a monster on the world?

My old fear returns as well. What if he’s the baron? What if he took Njål’s body after the change? Regardless of what else is true, the monsters in the east wing need to die. That’s undisputable.

And I want to keep believing in Njål. I’ll stay the course. Probably I’m just prone to suspecting everyone, for didn’t my own da try to sell me for twenty pounds of flour?

“The book belongs to the baroness,” I muse aloud. “Which means the baron may have left a similar object behind, something I can use to break the curse. Who knows, if I destroy both items, it might be enough.”

To weaken them to the point that I can destroy them both.

Njål circles the worktable and draws me into his arms, resting his chin atop my head. “Are you sure you wish to continue with this? I meant it when I said I’d rather remain trapped for eternity than see any harm come to you.”

Ah, that’s why I have faith in him. His sincerity shines like the sun, warming me as I settle into his embrace. “I’m certain. Can you think of anything that the baron carried around or used a lot? Something that had sentimental value. I found the spellbook by chance, but I can’t rely on luck going forward.”

He thinks for a moment and then says, “He wore a necklace, always. It was the tooth of some great beast he slew in his first hunt. Do you think—”

“It sounds like a talisman,” I cut in. “Which room did they use?”

Briefly, a conflicted expression twists his countenance. “I’ll take you there.”

It’s entirely possible that the baron is still wearing the damned thing, and that’s why Njål hesitated. He may already be aware there’s no point in searching for this, but I accompany him because I’m curious about the chamber they slept in. I might find something else in here, a weakness to exploit.

“I am so afraid,” Njål says.

At first I don’t register the words because his tone is so level and calm. But when I glance over at him, his hands are clenched, claws biting into his palms until I see the red dripping from self-inflicted wounds. Quickly I pull his fingers back, smearing myself with his blood in the process.

“Why?”

“You’ll break yourself on these walls trying to save me, and I can’t stop you.”

“Break myself because of the keep or the curse?”

“It’s the same, isn’t it? Bitterburn is alive in its own way.”

I agree with that, actually. And I’ve long thought that there were two factors in play here, one malicious and the other wild and full of caprice, like a child who hasn’t learned to be wise. I wonder if the intelligence will persist here after the baron and baroness are slain. And if so, how will this place change?

I say sternly, “You’re my lover, not my guardian. I don’t claim that your concern is misplaced, but please don’t allow it to devour you. And besides, how do you know I’m not supposed to be here, doing exactly what I am? Perhaps I’m supposed to set you free.”

“I’d love to believe that—to believe that I hadn’t been forgotten by fate, that I just have an inordinately long destiny thread.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to be born,” I tease.

“You were worth the wait.”

Utterly undone by his artless charm, I stroke his cheek while dodging away from his kiss. “None of that. I’m on a mission, and I won’t stop, no matter your blandishments.”

29.

Even after all these years, the baron and baroness’s bedroom is opulent.

I expect the white and silver motif to continue here as well, but instead, everything is green and gold, real gilt by the look of it. The fittings on the dresser could feed a family for a year. Though I haven’t cleaned, no dust has formed on the furnishings, and the bed curtains are pristine, a deep, mossy velvet with golden tasseled cords. Somehow, I anticipated a sinister sanctuary with signs of evil writ large. If not in blood on the walls, then the decor ought to show some sign of how wicked the prior occupants were.

But no. Down to the peaceful, pastoral paintings on the walls, this is an elegant, well-appointed room. Silver-backed brushes wait on the dressing table for someone to sit on the padded bench and admire themselves in the clouded looking glass. A shaving kit is placed beside the wash basin, razor still bearing whiskers from its last use. This . . . is eerie.

“You didn’t get rid of their things,” I say, mostly to see what Njål will say.

“It seemed like wasted effort.” He doesn’t explain that statement.

Nor do I press him as I open the nearest wardrobe, which is stuffed full of dresses. He must have brought clothes other visitors had left behind, nothing that belonged to the baroness. I appreciate that.

Next, I target the baron’s armoire, an ornate piece with green cloisonné panels inset into the doors. He has fewer garments than his wife, but they’re all expensive and luxurious. I rummage through various boxes, chests, and drawers, finding ear cuffs and lapel pins, jeweled rings and a larger set that looks like an embellished set of manacles. I can imagine what that’s used for. Unfortunately, I don’t locate the necklace Njål mentioned.

“A pity, but I don’t think the talisman is here.”

As I slump on the floor in dispirited exhaustion, he squares his shoulders. “Wait a moment. I think I know where it is.”

Before I can say a word, he rushes off. I know damn well he’s going to the east wing, possibly to wrest the thing from the baron by force. With every fiber of my being, I want to follow, but innate caution holds me back. When I face them, I want every advantage, and that means destroying their objects of power first—but it will be a slow process, requiring all my limited patience. Acting on impulse will mean the end of both Njål and me. I might’ve been ready for a grim conclusion when I first arrived, but that’s not true any longer.

Both of us deserve to live. I want to travel the world and have adventures, not grow old within these walls. At best I have one chance to set things right. I’ll wait for the perfect opportunity and strike, so swift and sure that they have no chance to mount a defense.

Even Njål doubts that I can do this; he fears me destroying myself like a moth flying into a flame. Best for him to carry that impression back to our enemies.

I have no intention of falling asleep—hell, I’d never drift off in their room of my own free will—but suddenly I’m falling, and I hit the ground with a thud. It hurts. The stairs loom before me and I recognize the descent into the bone room, though with torches lit, it isn’t as terrifying as when I found it. Carefully, I descend step by step as an audible chant rises from below, syllables repeated in a language I neither speak nor comprehend. It’s nothing I’ve heard, not from Njål or any foreign traveler who’s passed through Bitterburn.

I creep to the edge of the wall and peer around. Young Njål is strapped to a table, as is his betrothed, Gilda. Their eyes are wide and terrified, but they can’t scream against the metal and leather pieces fitted across their mouths. The baron and baroness are chanting, and the baron smiles as he raises the knife, etched with occult sigils.

A touch startles me and I flail, arms swinging, until Njål steadies me. When I open my eyes, I’m curled on my side in front of the bed in the green and gold state room. He kneels before me, eyes lambent with worry. “What happened?”

As I push upright, I smell fresh blood. “You’re hurt!”

“Just a scratch,” he says. “Here, I got the necklace.”

He unfolds a blood-stained handkerchief to reveal a large yellow fang with a hole through the wide end, a crude leather cord strung through it. This looks nothing like a powerful treasure. It’s a brutal, violent talisman, and before I even touch it, my inner arms warm with the heat it radiates, like fresh blood hot from a kill.

Njål likely expects me to ask where he found it. I don’t because there’s no reason to make him lie. I can smell the fetid aura attached to this thing, as if it’s just been plucked out of putrid flesh. No matter how terrifying this gets, I must not waver. Grimly I accept this hideous token and wrap the cloth edges about it.

Njål pulls me to my feet and I tuck the baron’s amulet in the pocket of my dress. For a moment, I let myself rest against his strong chest and listen to his heart, the one that shouldn’t still be beating, the one that will destroy me if it stops. I’ve already lost one person I love; there’s no way I can survive another parting where I’m left behind. All or nothing, then—we both leave here safe and well, or neither.

Yet I’m also resolute. No retreat. No more making do.

I gaze up at his face, so rare that he lets me look my fill without trying to hide, at least a little. We’ve done so much more, but it feels like a risk when I reach up and touch the small horns nestled in his wild hair. From what I know of animals, he probably can’t feel this, unless I touch his head near the base.

“Did it hurt?” I ask.

“What?”

“When you changed, did it hurt?”

“It was excruciating. Bones breaking and realigned. I vomited blood . . .” Njål lets out a long, steadying breath. “I shouldn’t burden you with that.”

“I want to know more, and I’ll ask, once you’re free. Do you promise to answer? Even things that are difficult. You know everything about me, and—”

“Yes. If you break the curse, I will answer all your questions. I promise.”

“Don’t forget you agreed then.”

That’s enough for me. He’s sworn honestly—I’d know if he was lying, as he’s incredibly inept at it. My little sisters are better at deception. Likely it comes from living in isolation for so long, since he’s had nobody to fool. I take his hand, enjoying the chance to pace through the keep with him at my side, no longer hiding from my sight while observing me from the shadows.

The necklace burns in my pocket, still radiating that odd heat, and I touch it in reflex, hoping that my possession of their talismans doesn’t draw them out of the east wing before I’m armed, ready to fight.

“Is it protected also?” he asks as we retrace our steps.

I haven’t checked yet, but I suspect so. A quick peek into the spirit realm confirms it. “Not as strongly as the book, but yes.”

In the great hall I pause. If my suspicions are correct, I need that ritual blade. The last time I was down here, I was too frightened to search, and moreover, I had no notion what I ought to be looking for. But the item is fresh in my mind from dream-walking. I truly believe that Bitterburn—the aspect that isn’t evil—is guiding me.

“I need to go down there,” I say, pausing Njål with a hand on his arm.

To his credit, he doesn’t ask why. And this time he doesn’t discourage me. With startling deftness despite the claws, he pops the secret panel and the door swings open. We don’t have a lamp, but from the gleam of his eyes, I suspect he doesn’t need one.

He leads me downstairs without missing a step, proving me right. “What are we looking for?”

I stumble over what’s most likely a femur and shudder from head to toe. “The ritual knife. I can’t see a damn thing. If you can’t find it, I’ll need to come back with a candle.”

“I’ve got it,” he says tonelessly. “They were meticulous with their supplies before . . .” He trails, unwilling or unable to complete the thought.

If it gives him any horror to handle such a terrible thing, he doesn’t show it. I rush out of the bone room, flesh crawling. Pain leaves a mark, an indelible impression on the ether, and so many died down here, so many souls devoured with unholy relish. I’m shivering when I emerge into the great hall. Njål is slower behind me, bearing the blade as if it carries much more weight. He ports it warily to my room and stows it in a crate without letting me touch it. Even he uses the edges of his shirt, and knowing what it was used for, I can’t blame him.

“I’m so tired.” It’s not an exaggeration when I stretch and hear my joints pop like I’m an extremely old woman. “Would you like to come with me to see Agatha and Bart?”

“There’s nothing I’d enjoy more. Just a moment.”

Njål rushes off in the direction of the library, and when he returns, he’s holding a book. I smile at him, because this proves I was right about him hovering outside the stable that night. Back then, he listened to me read, perhaps with wistful longing, and he chooses to be part of that now, no longer a lonely exile.

Taking my hand, Njål pulls me through the kitchen. It’s cold as abandonment outside, and I shiver as I run from the house to the stable. In the moonlight, the ice statues gleam with eerie light, and I wonder what will happen to them if I break the curse. Will they return as they were? Or will time have their way with them? I suppose it depends on how long they’ve been frozen. There’s nothing in my witching book to explain any of this; I’m doing my best, based on hints and instincts.

The goats huddle together for warmth in the straw. It’s better in here, not as warm as my room with its cheerful, crackling fire. Bart and Agnes bleat in greeting, and we settle in next to them. Then Njål opens the book, a new novel that looks interesting. I said that, rather. He’s read everything in the library, though he doesn’t always recall plot points. As time passes, memories blur for him. That’s the one blessing about his situation. I suspect he’s lost years this way, drowning in fiction and drink.

Listening to Njål read soothes Agatha, and she lets me milk her with minimal protest. Eventually a yawn practically cracks my jaw, and Njål closes the book with a snap. “Good night, Lady Doe and Lord Buck.”

I shouldn’t find it dashing when he sweeps me into his arms and collects the milk pail with one hand, bending effortlessly even while holding my full weight. Just imagine how much harm he could do, if he turned that strength against someone.

But not me, never me. I trust that he’d suffer grievous harm before hurting me.

Maybe Gilda believed that too, the invidious voice whispers.

30.

Before bed, I tend to Njål’s wounds.

The old ones have formed fresh scars and the new slashes are raw. Both have been inflicted by the same source. He doesn’t speak as I clean and dress the gouges in his flesh, not acknowledging that he risked so much to retrieve the necklace, and here I’m not even certain about my methods.

“Better?” I ask.

“Indescribably so. A kiss would heal me entirely.”

I curl my hand behind his neck and drag his face to mine to provide the proper incentive, then Njål takes me to bed, and I don’t sleep for half the night. In the morning, I’ve breakfast to cook and a goat to milk, but afterward, I settle at the worktable, staring at the necklace and the tome. Experimentally, I nudge them together with a wooden spoon, but nothing happens when the items touch. I was hoping for a hiss or a shower of sparks.

How can I destroy these?

The enchantments on the necklace are less potent, so I close my eyes and center myself, examining the article from all angles. Then I send testing charges against it, seeking a fissure, and the place where the leather threads through the fang vibrates slightly. There, I scrape my energies against it, over and over, until a soft glow starts, like I’m starting a magical fire. The shield reacts and I imagine my power as a knife, levering between protections, forcing them apart. One layer cracks and it’s weaker below. I keep going like this, until the necklace quivers on the counter and then stills.

I did it.

But I’m exhausted. I can’t even look at the spellbook today. The remainder of the afternoon, I rest and commune with Agatha. Njål joins us eventually, regarding me with fond amusement. At least, that’s how I choose to interpret his smile.

“I succeeded with the necklace,” I tell him, as he settles on the straw next to me.

“You stripped the protections from it?”

I should probably be offended by his shock, but weariness has a bony hand wrapped around my throat. Nodding, I indicate the book tucked beneath his arm. “You came to read to us, I take it?”

He answers by pulling me onto his lap, starting the next chapter as the goats quiet for the night. In the morning, I repeat the prior day’s pattern and apply myself to the spellbook. This time, Njål appears as I settle down to work. His presence is a bit distracting, for he watches me intensely, but I close my eyes anyway.

The tome is like a beacon, darkly glowing in the ether. Shadows flutter all around in my peripheral vision, drawn to its malice. I shouldn’t let my guard down, not even for a second. I imagine myself enfolded head to toe in a bright patina of protection. I can’t let a lesser threat derail me.

Brute force won’t work; I’m not strong enough to power through such an ancient, intricate aegis. What does the book want? Perhaps if I can figure that out, I can trick it. I let light flutter around it, not a threat at all, and fill that spell-wisp with the surety that I have a secret, knowledge passed down through generations. The cover stirs and the pages flutter.

Yes, I’ve read it right. The grimoire knows that I can use magic, and its pages are full of terrible spells. Yet it still yearns for more. Such is the nature of endless hunger; no matter how much it devours, it can never be sated. As the book snaps at my spell-wisp, trying to capture it, I snag the red ribbon that runs down the center, a small thing left to mark the page, but here, it’s also a weakness I couldn’t grasp until the book opened on its own.

I tug hard and envision the ribbon that connects to the bindings unraveling the book from the inside out, cover falling off, pages unbound, a broken vessel. Fierce resistance meets my efforts, a terrible game of tug-of-war, but I’ve weighted my side because the spell-wisp lands on a blank page and the words spread like spilled ink.

Give everything for love.

It’s not a spell, but my heart’s truth, and the shock of my devotion sends a magical ripple over the book, allowing me to dig in and unwind. Once the unspooling starts, the power bleeds in a spinning pinwheel. I can only absorb the shocks, even as I start to feel numb. How much of this can I withstand? Even the spirit realm grows dim, but I hang on, refusing to yield until the thrashing stops.

I tumble sideways as I pop out of spirit sight, and Njål catches me. He has no eyes for the grimoire, every iota of his attention locked on me. “Can you speak?”

Trembling, I hold up a hand and point, but my throat is too dry to ask, even in a croak. Fortunately, he follows my gesture to the carafe of water, and he fetches me a cup quickly, even bringing it to my mouth to let me drink. I take long, deep pulls, until my tongue no longer feels like a withered husk.

“I did it.”

After a stunned moment, Njål picks me up and whirls me around. “I’m starting to believe that you can set me free,” he says exultantly. “I never dared hope, before. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you, Amarrah.”

Thanks to the dream-walking, I do have some notion, but it’s unsettling to contemplate. I wrap my arms around his neck as he slides me down his body. My knees will barely hold me, but we’re almost there. I need to rest a few days before the final battle, but once I recover my strength, we’ll finish this.

For three days, I bide my time, eating well, doing the bare minimum in housekeeping and tending to the goats. I sleep a lot.

On the fourth day, I slip out of bed, crawling over Njål in the process; he spends his nights with me now instead of on watch in the east wing. Either he trusts me fully or he doesn’t think there’s any risk of the baron or baroness getting out. I wish I knew which it is.

It’s time. I will never be stronger or readier than this.

I fetch the heavy kettle I’ve been using for laundry and build a fire in it. Then I drop the grimoire into the flames, and the book screams as it catches, twisting and writhing as if I’m charring a live creature. The leather pops and sizzles, but it does burn. I tend the fire until ashes remain. Those I set aside in a ceramic crock.

To me, it seems reasonable that these ashes might weaken the baron and baroness. Certainly losing their anchors hurt them; even without checking the spirit realm, I sense their access to the tendril web has lessened. But I imagine throwing the ashes on them, watching them scream and writhe as if stung by a thousand wasps. I don’t know if anything will happen, of course, but at worst, I pelt them with proof that I diminished their power.

As I’m about to tackle the necklace, Njål steps into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing?”

I step back. “You can do the honors. The mallet is over there. Don’t hold back.”

He snags the meat mallet and strikes the fang with a blow so thunderous that it dents the worktable. The tooth explodes into shards and dust; I rake the debris into the kettle and drop the leather strap after it. That accomplished, I build another fire and leave Njål to tend it while I go milk Agatha.

It takes ages for bone to burn, and the kitchen smells horrendous. But eventually, I have a second container of ashes. There’s no way I’ll be able to eat until the smell fades, and my nerves won’t let me put the confrontation off for another day.

“It’s time for me to visit the east wing,” I say quietly. “Get the ritual dagger.”

“You already know, don’t you?”

I touch his cheek, stroking the strong ridge of his cheekbone. “You’re not that good at keeping secrets.”

“What’s your plan?”

“You fight them physically. Use the ritual blade. It’s imbued with their vile energies, and those wounds should be more debilitating. Use the ashes as well. I don’t know for sure what good it’ll do, but it can’t hurt.”

“And you’ll be . . . ?”

“Battling in the spirit realm to free you from this place. Guard me and destroy their bodies if possible. I’ll do the rest.” I hope I sound confident, for Njål’s life depends on me.

“Amarrah, I lo—”

“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You’re not telling me about your feelings now. Say it when we’re both safe, understand?”

He leans down to kiss me. “Perfectly. It’s a promise.”

“Another one? Apparently I collect them like seashells.”

“I’ll keep them all, every last one. Let’s go.” He tucks the dagger into his belt and picks up the two ash crocks.

Njål leads the way to the east wing, a wretched place I’ve only been in my dreams. When he throws open the forbidding double doors, a draft of fetid air sweeps over me. Something here is wrong, deeply wrong. My flesh crawls as we move over the threshold. Here, the preserving magic has faded or never took, because the wood is rotten and the stones are crumbling away. There’s evidence of mice and spiders, webs and droppings, and a terrible, unearthly rasp fills the corridor, like something immense breathing through disease-riddled flesh.

He pauses just outside a chamber, and the smell, dear gods, the smell. The door is open, and I see why he’s not worried about them leaving. They cannot.

I have never beheld such a monstrosity. The baron and baroness have grown together, all entwined in vines of flesh, some rotting away, others tumorous, and they are rooted where they stand, desiccated and withered, but part of Bitterburn so completely that I cannot tell where they end and the floor begins. They cannot be alive, but they’re not dead either, and their eyes burn like gates into hell, gazing at me with avid hunger.

“You finally bring our guest to greet us, son.” That speech is barely intelligible, a loose and flapping tongue in a sideways mouth.

The room is a disaster; no furnishings remain apart from an old mirror, propped against the wall. Though I had no clue what I was asking when I told Njål to fight them, I can’t let horror overwhelm me. The plan hasn’t changed.

Njål aims a tender look at me and then charges the true beast of Bitterburn, slashing wildly with the dagger. Wounds open and maggots pour out. He’s entangled in the flesh vines, and I can’t leave him struggling, can’t drop into the spirit realm yet. Desperately, I shout, “The ashes!”

And he manages to tip the pot into an open wound. Even I didn’t expect such an intense reaction. The creature thrashes and shrieks, smoke pouring from the cut. It must feel pain because Njål fights free and deploys the other ash pot, and then the whole mass goes up in a pillar of flame. He gets singed as he dives clear.

“They’re still here,” he pants, landing hard next to me. “I feel them, crawling in my head. They’ll try to make me hurt you.”

“Resist. Fight with all your strength to protect me. It’s my turn.”

I close my eyes and set to work on all those tendrils, cutting and pruning, because this is my garden, not theirs. Yet even with the writhing strands cut, they’re still present. I can’t force them out of existence. Brute strength isn’t my gift. I have survival and cunning, not the power to move mountains. But the solution is within my grasp. It must be. I haven’t come so far, only to falter now.

The mirror glitters in the spirit realm, twinkling like a pond, and I give an experimental push. A few strands struggle but they pass through. Elated, I keep nudging, and something on the other side of the mirror helps, pulling with inexorable force. It’s like water falling over a cascade. Soon, every last trace of the baron and baroness are gone, vanished into the looking glass.

I pop out to tell Njål that I’ve done it, only he’s . . . fading. Light and motes of dust, his body swirls with an otherworldly glow. As winter yields to spring, soon he’ll be gone entirely. In a dead panic, I dive back into the ether and snatch the fluttering ties that bind him to Bitterburn and keep him alive. There’s only one way to save him. I do it without hesitation, linking him to me, instead of this place. Cutting the ancient bonds would destroy him, so I embrace them instead.

If it means I only get half as long in this realm, and I spend every moment with him, it’s worth it.

31.

Gasping, I fall to my knees with the force and speed of that last working.

Hardly daring to look at Njål, I crawl over to him, afraid that it’s not enough, that I must watch him perish. But his color returns, the specter of death receding. Soon, he sits up and takes my hand, staring in awe. The air swirls with ash while the mirror flickers in the scant light, clouded, hateful shapes swirling in the glass.

“You gave me half your life,” he whispers.

“I’d give you all of it.”

“No. I won’t let you,” Njål says, wrapping me in his arms.

I settle against him, too tired to move. “If I can’t live without you, the opposite ought to be true as well. And I’ll learn to pull from the land. Not irresponsibly, like the baron and baroness did, only enough for us to live into old age without causing undue harm. But . . . that would mean we need to keep moving to spread the drain.”

“I’ve always wanted to travel. Is it truly over?”

“Let’s test it.”

I sweep the citadel with spirit sight and find that the wicked web is gone, no longer leaching from the world so that it threatens all life in the region. Njål helps me to my feet and I lean on him as we make our way back to the heart of Bitterburn. The kitchen still reeks a bit. Outside, in the courtyard, the ice statues are gone, a handful of sparkling dust where they once stood.

“I didn’t honestly think they could come back to life,” Njål says softly. “But I’m still sad. Is that strange?”

I take his hand crossways, palm to palm. “Not at all. I’m opening the portcullis. Go ahead, see what happens.”

Njål steps to the gate and pauses, gazing across the threshold with an agony of hope and indecision; his hesitation breaks my heart. Even if he can leave, I don’t know if he’s able to. The world has changed so much, and I wish to show him everything, but he might be afraid. Of being persecuted for his appearance or of the unknown.

Then he takes one step, another. Until he’s on the other side of the wall. No longer trapped, no longer entombed with a monster.

“Oh gods, I’m really free.” He throws both arms heavenward in exultation and spins, unfettered and joyous as I’ve never seen him.

I dash over to join him in the silly, celebratory dance, and the goats gambol over, stamping all over the snow. It’s too brisk to stay outdoors, but even the cold is different. Natural. Not the icy barrenness that drains all life. Njål shows no signs of wanting to go back in. For at least an hour, I watch him run around with the goats, up and down the path, until my toes feel frozen.

Smiling, I head back inside to make some hot drinks. Soon after, he comes up behind me and hugs around my shoulders as I steep the herbal tea. “I’ve no idea how I got so lucky. How did you do it? I thought they were unkillable, like fiends from a story.”

“I didn’t, exactly.”

“No?” Now he seems worried, turning me to face him. “Can they come back?”

“I don’t see how. They’re locked inside the mirror.” As best I can, I explain what happened, but it’s difficult since he doesn’t have spirit sight and he can’t sense the same things I can.

Finally he says, “I think I understand. The baroness used that mirror for scrying, so maybe that’s why it worked? It was already attuned to magic.”

I smile tiredly. “I don’t care about why. As long as they’re gone and you’re safe, that’s what matters most.” It occurs to me then. “You know, it’s odd but I have no idea what their names were, other than Baron and Baroness Bitterburn.”

“Neither do I,” Njål says somberly. “They used stolen ones for so long that I doubt even they remembered at the end.”

Maybe I shouldn’t ask right now, but . . . I kept my promise, and deals should be honored, even among loved ones. “I know there’s something you don’t want to tell me about the ritual. You promised to answer, after. What happened to Gilda?” I recall how she was strapped to the table in the bone room.

His joy fades, leaving his expression alarmingly blank. Stepping away, Njål turns his back and I immediately miss his warmth. Even his body temperature feels different now that he’s free, properly alive for the first time in ages.

“I killed her,” he says.

“You did?”

He gives the account in a neutral tone. “She was the first person I killed. Not the last. After I changed, the baroness attempted to steal her body. I tried to get us both out, but the room was warded and locked. They would’ve destroyed her and worn her like a glove. I killed her rather than let that happen. They punished me with these marks. Not for violence. For acting outside their interests. And for a long time, the sigils controlled me.”

Part of me is horrified and the other half wants to comfort him. He murdered Gilda . . . for the right reasons? Killed her body to save her soul. That’s not something I ever imagined I’d believe, yet I do.

“If it was me,” I say carefully, “I would prefer the quick end. You gave her soul another chance. If they had their way, she would’ve just been gone.”

“You’re trying to be kind. No need. I’ve done terrible things, so much that I probably don’t deserve to be free. For years I lived as their puppet. I fought in what you might liken to bear-baitings for their amusement. Against men, against creatures. And sometimes they forced me to perform . . . in other ways. For entertainment.”

I can imagine and it sickens me. Now I wish I hadn’t insisted on these revelations, because Njål must think I can’t possibly love someone like him. A monster. A beast.

“It’s not your fault. You were a child when you came, and later you were a prisoner. It’s not a crime to survive. I regret that you had to hurt others, because your heart is gentle and the memories pain you. But I am not even slightly sorry that you withstood those trials. Can I be glad instead?”

He turns then. “Of what?”

“That you were here waiting for me to find you.”

“Oh gods, Amarrah.”

In two steps, he has me in his arms, and I hug him so tightly that if he was smaller or weaker, I might well break his ribs. He will never look like other men, but I adore him exactly as he is.

“Do you hate that I’m a witch? You must be wary of mystic powers.”

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, not letting go of me. “I suspect only a witch could’ve saved me, and you would never hurt me.”

True, though I would burn down the world to protect him. Once we leave here, I’ll look for a mentor, someone to teach me how to use this power responsibly. But I doubt he’s ready to talk about our departure yet, and it’s best to winter within stout walls. I stretch up to kiss his chin.

“Do you have any clue why the ritual went wrong?” Idly I reach up to fondle his horns, and he lets me, deep in thought.

“Nothing certain. But . . . there were always legends in my family about how there might be frost giant blood in our line. And the baroness said something about an unusual reaction to the demon blood . . . I’m glad that I’m still me mostly, on the inside, instead of being used and discarded like a pair of old shoes.”

“Me too.”

“Do you have more questions?”

I nod, stroking his hair. “Just one. How did they end up like that?”

“They grew overconfident. With a beast like me on leash, who could stand against them? They brought a warlock in and used him as a jester. He fell in love with one of the ladies-in-waiting, and the baron . . . took her. To the bone room. The poor devil fought for the woman he loved to his last breath, and as he perished, he invoked a powerful curse.”

“Used his own life to fuel it,” I say with a shiver.

“You’d know about that more than me.”

“I wonder . . .” That magical curse might have been the adhesive, collecting the energy of those who died. It might be why I sensed a secondary force trying to guide me, though nothing so organized or intelligent as the baron and baroness.

“What?”

“I’ve sensed a presence here. It seemed to be helping me, pushing me in the right direction. Could that be related to the warlock who died? Do you remember his name?”

“Cradock,” he answers at once. “I think he’s still in the bone room.”

“We should help them all rest now.” Though I have no intention of living here forever, it still feels like the right thing to do.

The next day, Njål and I descend to the bone room. Quietly I absorb the scene, seeing it with different eyes—the woman in green being dragged from the party and the man in harlequin garb gazing at her as he died. Theirs is a love story without a happy ending, and in my heart, I want to believe Cradock guided me because he hoped for a different resolution to our tale. Thank you, I mouth.

Then I set to work with Njål as we haul the bones, terrible and grisly work. It’s warm enough that the snow is starting to melt. Outside the walls, we level the earth and build a cairn. Njål seems to find it exhilarating, working in the fresh air. For me, it’s merely exhausting, but I’m not sorry as we finish up at the end of the day.

“We should say a few words,” Njål murmurs. “Have funeral rites changed? They used to say a prayer to Frigga.”

Some things are the same, but it’s fun to tease him. “We all worship trees now. Please close your eyes as I recite the litany of the alder.”

He pauses, as if he’s waiting for me to begin, then his eyes narrow. “You’re making a game of me,” he accuses.

“A little. Feel free to speak the old prayer for the dead if you remember it.”

Njål declaims in a strange language, the one he uses sometimes during our private moments, and now that I hear more, I realize I can identify it, even if I can’t understand. Some of the words are similar because he’s speaking ancient Skyr, an older version of the tongue we currently speak. That’s how old he is. I knew that before, but this is a different sort of knowing.

Can I possibly be enough for someone with such vast experience?

Uneasy peace settles on Bitterburn thereafter, but I’m aware that we’re biding our time. He shouldn’t hide here for the rest of his days, but he’s a bit strange and secretive. It seems that he’s hiding something from me again. There’s so much I want us to see and do, together, but perhaps he fears how the world will treat him.

A separate concern—with the curse broken, our supplies don’t replenish, and we’ll run out of food sooner or later. Bart and Agatha are already making deep inroads on the hay left in the stable. We leave the portcullis open so they can rove for forage as the mountain thaws, but it’s a stopgap solution at best.

Eventually, as winter trudges toward spring, at dinner I bridge the subject that’s been weighing on me. “Would you consider leaving with me?”

“I want to,” he says slowly. “But how can I? I don’t want to be hounded from villages or hunted like a—”

“Have you forgotten that I’m a witch?” I cut in.

I’ve been perusing my book of charms endlessly, and I found one that’s perfect. Illusions are difficult and costly to maintain, but a soft distraction spell could be bound to a talisman that Njål can wear. It would just mean that people won’t pay attention to him. When he passes by, they’ll register a large person, but no special details. With great excitement, I explain my idea.

“Would that work?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“You’re not the one who’ll have people screaming if it fails,” he mutters.

I ignore his skepticism. “Can I borrow something of personal value? It would help if you already have an attachment to the object.”

“My mother’s earring.” Njål produces a small silver hoop, the one he told me about that he didn’t sell for pocket money.

Perfect. I cup the jewelry in my palms and whisper the spell, imbuing it with the fullness of my intent. “You see him pass, but he is glass and you look through. Never see, never tell, he is not the one for you.” The tingle in my fingers tells me the charm took. Pleased, I regard Njål. “It’s done. Is your ear pierced?”

He recoils at once. “It is not.”

“It will be.” With a mock-menacing air, I step toward him.

Gods, but it shouldn’t be so funny when he runs. At first, I laugh so hard I can’t even breathe, let alone chase him, and then the goats get involved.

In the end, it takes all damn afternoon to get the hoop in Njål’s ear.

32.

As spring finally supplants winter, I succeed in convincing Njål that we gain nothing by huddling in this desolate ruin.

With the curse broken, Bitterburn is just a drafty old keep, nothing mystical about it. I’d wondered if the place would still retain its sense of sentience, but no. Pests creep in from the east wing and soon, there’s little I can do to staunch the flow of time. If we stay, we’ll only stand witness to the place’s swift deterioration, and it will break my heart to lose all those beautiful books.

“Is there anything you wish to take away from here?” I ask.

He brushes a tender hand across my hair. “Only you.”

I’m a bit more pragmatic and I take a few valuable texts from the library, including The Witch Within the Walls and a gorgeous illustrated book of fables. Then I choose some jewelry that we can sell to finance our new life. That done, it doesn’t take long for me to pack my things. My “new” clothes are no longer fit to pack, rapidly succumbing to the tides of time, now that the preserving magic has gone. I take only what I arrived with, one dress for work and another for good.

I’m not sure, of course, but I think Cradock went as well when I banished the baron and baroness to the other side of the mirror. Or maybe he lingered long enough to hear Njål recite the prayer for the dead in Old Skyr. At any rate, all three of them have vacated the premises, the curse ended at last. Soon the place will become unlivable, I suspect, and even the stones may tumble as the mortar crumbles.

We need to buy Njål a few things in town before we depart for good. Close inspection may strain the talisman, but there’s a rag and bone shop where he can purchase the bare minimum without submitting to measurements from a tailor. Since he’s large, the selection may be limited, but the smith is a burly man. If need be, I can ask his sizes and have something made.

I find Bart and Agatha in the stable, nearly out of hay. Luckily, it’s spring and they’ll find plenty to eat in the wild. If not for my wish, they might’ve frozen this winter, so I’ll forgive myself for the loss of their kid. They’re not bound to this place by magic anymore and I don’t own them, so I can only say farewell.

“Thank you for your company,” I say sincerely. “We’re leaving now, and you’re free to do as you please. Look after each other and farewell.”

The goats stare at me and then each other. I don’t know if they understood a word I said. Regardless, I’ve done what seems right. Njål’s waiting for me by the gate, eager to be off, now that he’s acclimated to the idea of going.

The weather is fine when we set out, and as it happens, we leave just in time, for we meet five men on the mountain road, armed with cudgels. They’re all lean and grizzled, barely hanging on after the hard winter. From the look of it, they mean to take what they can from Bitterburn or die trying. As we draw closer, I recognize Ezra Cooper. He’s a friend of the kindly miller who drove me up here last fall, and he knows me too.

“Amarrah,” he greets me. “Survived the long ice, did you?”

I wait for them to react to Njål but the charm works. The men each nod in his general direction, but their gazes slide away, back to me. “I did, yes. It’s a wreck, but you might find something worth selling if you search well.”

“That’s the plan. Did we really waste all that food for no good reason?” Cooper slaps his thigh in apparent outrage and disgust.

“I swear there was a monster,” another says in a small voice. “My uncle went in twenty years ago and didn’t come out.”

Someone else nods. “It wasn’t just stories.”

I nip this in the bud, as we need to move on. “Whatever was there isn’t anymore. Maybe it finally died. My man and I are heading to Kerkhof after we get supplies in town.”

“That’s a long journey,” Cooper notes. He shakes his head with a laugh. “Only you could storm off to a haunted castle and return triumphant with a strapping beau.”

Beside me, Njål smothers a laugh at this description.

“That’s me, lucky as they come. Good fortune in the looting.”

Cooper waves, the motion signaling the rest of his party that this conversation is done. “We may be at it for a while, so keep well, and my best to your family if I don’t see you before you take to the road.”

I return the salute, starting down the rutted track. It’s always much easier coming down the mountain than it is going up, but I won’t make this climb again. We walk for a few minutes in silence before Njål says softly, “It worked. They just . . . didn’t notice me.”

I take his hand. At some point after the fell magic died, he’s filed down his claws to make these intimacies easier and less risky for me. “You can travel as you wish and live as you please. This doesn’t change who you are, only how you seem.”

“It doesn’t matter where we go. Anything you deem worthwhile, I’m willing to follow you. My life is yours, and not because you saved it.” Njål swings our joined hands, taking pleasure in that simple gesture. “I can’t believe I’m out, walking in the sunshine.”

We’re halfway down the mountain when frenzied bleating makes me glance back. Bart and Agatha come racing after us and they butt our legs like they can’t believe we left without them. I scratch both their heads in turn.

I laugh. “Lord Buck. Lady Doe. Did you decide to accompany us?”

“We should call them Bart and Agatha. Since we’re no longer living in a castle, it might seem pretentious to be escorted by titled goats.” Only the glint of his eyes gives away the gentle humor, and affection surges within me.

“You’re right. Bart and Agatha it is.” To the goats, I add, “Come along then.”

To my amazement, they follow us like dogs, all the way to the outskirts of town. Here, they stop to graze, and I decide that might be best. The main road veers west from here, so once we finish our shopping, we can be off.

“We’ll be back presently,” Njål says.

Our arrival causes a bit of a stir, not because of him, but because I crept off on a winter night, and I expect even my family thought I must be dead and frozen by now. We’re surrounded by neighbors who can’t believe I’m alive. It takes me a while to placate them and handle all their greetings. It seems that spring and sunlight have softened them toward me; nobody is calling me that strange Brewer girl anymore.

“Yes,” I say eventually. “It’s good to see all of you too. But if you’ll excuse us, Njål and I have some shopping to do.”

“Njål? Is that your man’s name? How did you meet him?”

I can’t even tell who asked the question, just one of the eager gossip mongers who hangs around the well, and I make up an answer on the spot. “He’s a hunter who spent the winter with me at Bitterburn.”

A host of suggestive chuckles, then one man says, “Aye, then you’re cleaved for life. Might already be quickening, lass.”

That’s enough of that. Njål seems to agree because he shoulders through the crowd, pulling me with him, and then I take the lead because he has no idea where anything is. “Have you ever been here?” I ask softly. “I mean, before?”

Before the curse. Before he changed.

He nods. “When I first arrived, I sneaked out and went with some of the castle staff. The town is . . . unrecognizable.”

“What was it like then?”

“The streets were mud, pig shit everywhere. All the houses had thatched roofs.”

Again, I’m assailed by the sense of how old he is. I’ve tied him so that he can’t leave me, but will he regret our bond some day? I put that fear aside as best I can and turn my attention to practical matters.

“Right, let’s get what we need,” I say.

First stop is the rag and bone shop, where I pick out the biggest trousers and tunics I can find. They’re rough but clean. His cloak will do as we’re heading into spring and summer. With any luck, we’ll reach Kerkhof by autumn and we can buy something better there. I can’t believe I get to see the great city. Excitement clamors in my veins like the strongest of spirits, leaving me giddy.

“What did you pack anyway?” I ask, indicating his rucksack.

In answer he shows me his ragged cloak, some stockings, a money pouch, and two bottles of ale. “I couldn’t leave this. You made it for me.”

It’s absurd how touched I am. “It’s not even very good,” I mutter.

“It’s the first gift I’ve had since I left home,” he says. “Unless I count your arrival, in which case, it’s the second.”

Gods, but I could get used to this sweetness. Quickly I stretch up and kiss him, then continue our quest for supplies. Hopefully nobody will steal our goats while we’re otherwise occupied, though I suspect Bart and Agatha won’t make it easy. They seem to have chosen us without magical inducement, and I’m glad.

There’s plenty of room in Njål’s pack for the clothes we bought. Before we buy dry goods, I talk to Deo, the peddler who settled here recently. If I recall correctly, he’s got a cart and mules to sell. Bitterburn is small enough that I track him down quickly, as he’s married a widow and moved into her cottage on the edge of town. Sure enough, his old peddler cart—a sturdy wagon with a canvas top—sits behind the house and the mules graze in an enclosure nearby. Mules are expensive to feed and he’s not using them anymore. I can probably negotiate a deal.

An hour later—after some intense haggling and in exchange for three gold bracelets—I take possession of our new home. The peddler even includes the odds and ends he used on the road, such as cookware, bowls and cutlery, cushions and bedding to make our life cozier. Our progress draws interest, as we lead the mules through town.

Last stop is the dry goods store; Njål pays for our provisions with a pocketful of antique silver coins, and the clerk loads our cart. Discreetly, I pinch myself to ensure that this is truly happening, and it stings. This is real. I’ve come into my power, and I’m truly leaving Bitterburn, going off with my true love to have marvelous adventures.

At the well, I fill a few jugs with water and stow them in the cart. The mules are restive, ready to get moving; I share their sentiment.

But before we make our escape, Tillie and Millie push through the crowd and they both hug me around the thighs. I gently disengage them, crouching to embrace each of my sisters in turn. As I’m snuggling them, I discreetly check with spirit sight and let out a relieved sigh.

Tillie’s fine, thank the gods. No more encroaching tendrils.

I may never know what happened there, if it was something I did unconsciously or if the baron and baroness reached that far to fuel their evil, possibly through that rumored connection to my maternal line. In life, not every question is answered, and sometimes it’s messy and inexplicable. For me, it’s enough that Tillie’s alive and she can get stronger.

“Love you both. Grow up well and be good to each other,” I say.

Then I step back and let them go. If Da and Catherine are lurking somewhere in the crowd, I don’t care and I don’t look for them. I never will either.

It’s time to move on.

33.

Njål figures out how to get the mules moving; otherwise my grand goodbye could have become humiliating.

We leave Bitterburn, moving at a slow clip to collect Bart and Agatha, who are well able to keep up with the cart’s pace. In good weather, we’ll get ten or fifteen miles behind us, depending on how motivated the team feels. They’ve rested all winter, and it’s a minor miracle that Deo didn’t kill and eat them. He must have a kind heart.

Mentally, I assess our preparations. We have food in our storage bins, fodder on board for the mules and goats, and all the animals can free graze as we travel. There’s fresh water and—oh, I might as well relax and enjoy myself. If any problems crop up, we’ll face them together. Smiling, I tilt my head back, basking in the sunshine.

Njål aims a gentle glance at me. “How long do you think it’ll take to get to Kerkhof?”

“I’m not sure. I’m guessing we’ll be there by fall, even allowing for rest breaks, adverse weather, and setbacks.”

“If possible, I’d like to spend the winter there and travel onward in the spring.”

I nod enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Splinter Isles.”

“From there, Maharabad, the jewel of the singing sands?”

I let out an excited shriek, startling a bird as we pass, and blue wings flutter in the greening boughs, flashes of color through tender leaves. “That would be incredible.”

“Do you suppose Bart and Agatha will enjoy seafaring?”

“Only one way to find out.”

To my witchy, new senses, the world feels alive in a way it didn’t before. I’m attuned to the mouse scampering toward his burrow, to the squirrels darting along the branches overhead. The new stimulus is a bit overwhelming, but I’ll learn to manage it. With any luck, I’ll find a mentor in Kerkhof and I can spend the winter in daily studies and nightly adoration of my Njål.

In the afternoon, we pause at a small stream that parallels the road, probably a tributary that feeds the lake below the abandoned keep. The mules drink and eat the tender shoots on the riverbank while Agatha and Bart frolic in the rocky shallows. I smile watching them, and Njål offers me water in a metal cup.

“Should we name them?” he asks.

“The mules? Perhaps you weren’t paying attention during the negotiation, but Deo told me they’re called Bray and Bellow.” I indicate which is which with my free hand. The mules peer in our direction, ears flickering, proof that they know their names. I address the animals next. “It’s fine. Rest a bit more before we move on.”

With a delighted sigh, Njål sprawls in a dappled patch of sunlight. “How can this be real?” he wonders aloud. “It’s glorious.”

“You’re easily pleased.”

“Only because I’m with you.” He kisses my forehead to punctuate the sweet words.

The heat in my cheeks startles me. It’s because of the sun; I’m not blushing, not after everything we’ve seen and done. Embarrassed, I hastily pack the remainder of our meal while Njål hitches the mules to the cart. We keep moving until past nightfall.

Traveling southwest as we are, the road is a gentle slope from the mountains toward the foothills. We’re not far enough away to see a difference in the forest yet, but I bet the trees and bushes will change, the farther we get from Bitterburn. I never once left the town I was born in, until I went to the keep.

And that choice changed everything.

When the stars are up fully, Njål halts Bray and Bellow and we make camp in a clearing that’s been used by travelers before, enough that there are stones set and the remains of previous fires evident. I gather enough wood to build our own blaze, big enough to cook on. We have fresh veggies from the kitchen garden—I was a little sorry to leave it—and dried fish. I can make a nice soup to finish the day.

Belatedly, I wonder how my wards will impact the looters. Since I’m no longer in residence and they’re not trying to hurt me, it should be fine. In time, my magical mark on Bitterburn will fade since I’m not there to strengthen and feed it. One day, there will only be fallen stones, spiders, bats, and mice left. That’s a melancholy realization.

While I’ve been absently poking at the fire, Njål has tended the animals, feeding them and setting out water. Quickly, I fetch the cookware and ingredients to prepare our supper. At night, it’s a touch chilly, and I wrap up in my gray cloak as I stir the bubbling soup, acutely aware that I’m a witch tending a pot beneath the open sky. I laugh softly.

Was the world always so beautiful? Above, the stars spread out like crushed ice, thickly dusting the deep blue of the horizon. The moon is a coy, yellow crescent, hiding the rest of its curve from my admiring gaze.

“The soup is delicious,” Njål says as we eat. “But I miss your fry bread.”

“Thought you must be tired of it by now. I can make some in the morning if you like.”

“Just as I’m patient, I’m also loyal. I love what I love forever.” Setting his empty bowl aside, he takes my hands. “May I tell you now?”

I remember how I stopped him from saying it before. “I wish you would. I haven’t mentioned it since then, and you haven’t either.”

“I tried to show you because actions speak louder than words. But words matter too. I love you, Amarrah. Always and forever, you hold my heart in your pretty, precious hands.”

My hands are rough as rawhide, scarred from years of work and callused on the palms. But the way he studies them, you’d think they were exquisite, the delicate fingers of a princess. I suppose love makes us beautiful to those who cherish us. He slips a ring onto my finger; it’s carved from wood, a treasure he must’ve been working on secretly as winter faded into spring, long before we left the citadel. I wonder if this is what made him act skittish and secretive, not the silent fears I imagined.

“Am I truly enough for you?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve lived for so long, seen so much, and I—”

“I existed,” he corrects. “I didn’t start living until I met you.”

With my heart overflowing, I whisper my love against his lips, and he takes my mouth in a ferocious kiss, all delving tongue and absolute desire. I can’t stop touching him—his wild hair, his strong back and broad shoulders, the silver hoop that ties past to present and lets him move freely, a prisoner no more. When I dig my fingers in, Njål groans and arches into me, burying his face in the curve between my neck and shoulder.

“I fear I’m about to scandalize our travel companions,” he whispers.

“Hm. I’m willing to risk it.”

Since I’ve granted permission, he tumbles me back, using my cloak as additional cushion on top of the soft grass. Starlight, moonlight, and his mouth, I tip my head back at the stars as he works utter magic on my throat, my breasts, my nipples, his strong hands working lower. It seems that only my pleasure matters, and I squirm, breathless.

“Take your dress off, beloved.”

Shameless witch that I am, I do, and then I lie back. There’s no muffling my moans and no need to either. When we’re not traveling, I want his mouth down there and I want to do it to him too, but not until we take a proper bath. Still, this feels amazing, and—oh. He kisses the tip of my breast, sips and nuzzles, and teeth, oh, the teeth.

I’m tingling all over, so wet that I’m tempted to rub myself to verify how this is possible. Panting, he eases over me, braced on his arms.

“Tell me I can have you now,” Njål growls.

“Now and forever.”

He thrusts deep, and we moan in unison. I wrap my legs around his hips, loving the hot glide of him taking me hard and fast. I run my hands over the strange lines of his beautiful-to-me face, over his wide chest and straining arms. At my touch he trembles. I trace the sigils they left on him, caressing his marks because I love them as I do him.

He gasps, throwing his head back. “You feel incredible.”

“So do you.”

I pull his mouth to mine, kissing him hard and deep. His tongue teases mine, taking my mouth as he claims my body. With fraying control, he drives me wild until I’m sobbing with need, writhing beneath him.

“That’s it. Show me how you like it, beauty.”

At his inciting words, I reach between my thighs and rub that spot, working my own juices around, and I even caress his shaft as he slides in and out. Njål snarls in pleasure, his features ravaged with ferocious hunger, and moves faster, pumping with relentless demand.

“Ah. Just like that. Don’t stop. I’m going to—”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know if . . . should I not . . .” Njål can’t get his breath to finish the thought, shudders ravishing him as he moves over me, inside me. He can’t stop, not even to ask a presumably important question.

I’m getting close, so it takes me a few seconds to grasp what he’s trying to say. He’s finished inside me before, so he must be wondering if he can get me pregnant. Since he was changed and cursed, I’m not sure either. He rolls his hips, hitting a spot that makes me scream. How am I supposed to make logical decisions right now? I want, I just want—

“Yes! Keep going. Talk later.”

Pleasure mounts, tightening my body, and I clench on his cock, coming so hard I see stars. There’s a million overhead and those sparking behind my eyes too. The pleasure is too much, overwhelming, and I reel from the wildness of it. As aftershocks quiver my thighs, Njål arches into me, filling me in long, luxurious spurts.

Harsh rasps of breath escape him as he kisses my neck, then touches his forehead to mine. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispers.

I smile. “After all the trouble I went to saving you? I would never. That would be a criminal waste.”

“Every time, it’s a little better. How?” He shakes his head in mock amazement. “Mathematically speaking, it’s quite improbable.”

“It’s because I love you more, exponentially more with each passing moment. So much that there’s no one clever enough to factor the volume.”

“Call it infinite then?” His expression is so soft just before he kisses me.

For a while, we cuddle by the fire, but eventually, not even his body heat can keep me warm. “Shall we tidy up and retire for the night?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Njål puts away the leftovers and washes the cookware while I do a quick lower-half wash. I save some warm water for him, then I don my dress amid chilly shivers. By the time he douses the fire and settles the animals for the night, I’ve got our bed laid in the wagon. He crawls in and maneuvers carefully because it’s a tight fit and he’s a large person. But horizontally, we nestle together beneath the blankets, a cozy space.

I settle into his arms, awash in utter bliss. “Our life will be marvelous, won’t it?”

Njål strokes my hair, sending a lovely thrill through me. His touch is infused with sensual reverence. “It already is. Before you came, I’d lost all hope. I had not even the slightest spark to keep me from despair. Nothing changed. I didn’t imagine it ever could.”

“And now?”

“I have a future, something I never dreamt possible. Because of you.”

I kiss him with all the sweetness in my soul, for I need to give him ten lifetimes worth of joy. Life isn’t always magical. Terrible things happen, and good people are tormented and cursed through no fault of their own, but sometimes, sometimes we make the right choices. Mine led me to Njål and profound happiness.

By surmounting our travails, we fight past the wall of thorns to the flower garden, a fairytale ending that we earned by our own efforts, not one granted by gods or fate.

For us, though, for us, this is the beginning, not the end.

Epilogue

Tales persist about Amarrah and Njål, legends of monsters vanquished and other curses broken. Some say that she was a sorceress, who sold small charms to earn their bread; others claim she was an eerily accurate fortune-teller. The pair lived simply, as wanderers on the road, though by all reports, they could have amassed power and wealth, positioned themselves as advisors to generals and kings. Multiple songs have been written about their exploits, and according to the Ballad of Bitterburn, they always kept a pair of goats in their retinue.

The accounts cannot agree whether she was dark or fair, but troubadours concur that she was exquisitely beautiful, like a perfect rose at the moment of its fullest bloom. Stories also state that Njål was always at her side, an immense man who oddly made few impressions on passersby. Onlookers noted his great protectiveness and intense devotion, but nothing of his physical appearance. Until the end of days, the two were inseparable and could be parted neither by calumny nor adversity.

Whatever is true of their fabled adventures, they certainly lived happily ever after.

Author’s Note

I’m so thrilled that you read Bitterburn and hope you’re eager for more in the Gothic Fairytales series. Bitterburn is the first book in a projected three-book series, as follows:

Bitterburn

Mirror, Mirror

Widow of Wildwood

This isn’t a series in the usual sense. Rather, the stories occur in the same pervasive world, linked by an object featured in the prior story. For example, in Mirror, Mirror, you find out what happens to that cursed looking glass.

Would you like to know when the next book will be available and/or keep up with exciting news? Visit my website at www.annaguirre.com/contact and sign up for my newsletter. Follow me on Instagram at instagram.com/ann_aguirre_author or “like” my Facebook fan page at facebook.com/ann.aguirre for exclusive content, contests, and fun swag.

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