“Is everything all right? Normally, you’re making food by now.”
It’s not a complaint. I hear the concern in his tone; he’s not asking about supper, not really. He wants to know if I’m troubled, and it’s been so long since anyone cared that the ice encasing my heart cracks, chipping away a bit more. If he keeps this up, soon I’ll be a living woman again with a riotous, unruly character.
“I was wandering and lost track of time.” As I hurry to make some bread—his favorite dish of everything I cook—I take the plunge and mention what I’ve discovered about the pantry. I’m careful not to reveal my unease, speaking lightly as I knead the dough. “In the stories, if you eat magical food, you’re locked into that place, a trap to prevent people from escaping.”
“That may be true,” he says somberly.
“Does that mean I can’t leave either?”
“You won’t know until you try. But . . . I don’t want you to, though it’s selfish of me to wish you would stay.”
I almost say that I’ve nowhere to go again, but I swallow the words. Because now, even if I had someplace else to be, someone to take me in, I reckon I wouldn’t leave Njål. Before, this was my last resort, and now it’s my refuge. Deftly, I pat the dough into shape and put it in a bowl to rise near the fire.
Instead, I tell him, “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
“You’re giving me hope again,” Njål says. “I’m not sure you understand how painful that is.”
What is it that he hopes for? Or is any expectation too much to bear after ages alone? I’m not qualified to answer either of these questions, so I ask one of my own.
“I take it that you’ve tried to leave before, and that’s how you know that you can’t.”
“Yes.” A terse response, unencouraging.
“What happens when you try?” Obviously, he doesn’t turn into an ice statue.
A long silence, as if he doesn’t want to answer, then he finally whispers, “It’s painful, like my whole body is full of knives, and my feet turn into blocks of ice. They won’t carry me past the portcullis, no matter how much I want to go.”
The journal probably has more of his story, and possibly I should tell him, right now, that it’s not a book of poetry. I don’t. He already gave me permission to read it. He said everything in the main keep is mine for the taking.
Everything. And he’s here now.
Mine for the taking?
That might be true, but I’ve no idea how that would work when he won’t even let me look at him. Privately, I admit that I want to. I want to see and know him, as nobody has been permitted for centuries. I crave his secrets, each as delicious as the caramels I ate as a wee girl, never realizing that sweetness would become an incredible rarity.
He must be wondering why I asked.
“I was just curious,” I say, conscious of the long pause, drawn long and thin like taffy at the summer festival. “Did you come up with a name for Agatha’s friend?”
“Bartholomew,” he suggests.
“That’s a bit fanciful for a goat. Bart for short?”
“If His Magnificence agrees.” The amusement in his voice makes me smile as well.
Right now, I only have his words to keep me warm, but I’ve begun to want more, what he promised before—and that’s . . . everything.
8.
I’m in the library again.
When I’m not cleaning or preparing food, this is my favorite place to be. I’ve also learned why the keep smelled a bit dank when I arrived, odd considering that most of the furnishings don’t show wear and tear. It came from the supplies sent from the village, rotting burlap bags and decaying wooden crates. Now that I’ve hauled everything to the courtyard and built a huge fire, alarming Agatha and Bart, the odor is diminishing. To amuse my goatish audience, I danced around it like a witch casting a powerful spell. The fire left a charred patch on the ground and melted some of the snow, but in the morning, that area appeared untouched—more of Bitterburn’s strange magic.
I wish I had the power to undo Njål’s curse, but I’m just a half-trained brewer’s assistant, albeit one with an entire library at my disposal. In the last week, I’ve read more books than I had in my entire life prior. It’s an empowering sensation to know that all this is mine for the taking. There are hundreds of novels and entire section of history, another on land and household management. While I grasp that the baron and baroness may have been terrible people—possibly they’re even related to Njål’s curse—I still commend their wide range of literary interests.
I’ve restrained myself for seven days, exploring other tomes, but today I yield to the temptation to savor the next entry in Njål’s journal. Settling at the writing desk, I marvel anew at the beautiful penmanship, but even I can tell that Njål learned his letters a long time ago. As before, the whisper kicks in.
I’ve been here for six months.
The Baroness comes to my room at night, long after I’m supposed to be asleep. I dread the creak of the door, the way her form blocks the light and leaves a shadow on the floor. She says nothing, just watches me. I wish my door had a lock. I don’t like it here.
I don’t feel safe.
Letters from home stopped coming three weeks ago. I don’t know if Father has abandoned me or if they’re stealing my correspondence to make me feel alone. Either is possible, because Father always said he had no need of a feckless fourth son, especially one like me, who didn’t listen. I haven’t cried since I left home. I tell myself that I’m being strong, but the truth is, tears are best saved for when someone cares enough to comfort you.
There has
