“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
