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
