“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,
