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
