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
