The entry stops there, and my heart aches for young Njål in a different way than it does for the person I know now. I understand all too well how he feels. I wish that I could wrap my arms around the boy he was, or at least, let him meet the unloved, overworked little girl from my childhood. They have a lot in common, those two.
I wonder why the baroness watched him. There are those who do terrible things to children in the dark, and I can’t rid myself of grim possibilities. Did she progress to more than silent voyeurism? There will be answers, no doubt, in this journal, but I can’t bring myself to turn the page. Not right now.
To my surprise, I glimpse movement in my peripheral vision. It must be Njål, unless Agatha and Bart have found a way to open the door. He prowls the perimeter of the room, keeping to the shadows, though it’s not as easy in here as it is in the kitchen. Here, wan winter sun streams through the stained glass, burnishing the books in gold and red. I track Njål’s progress, watching as he settles into an upholstered chair at the back of the room, as far from me as possible. This is the first time he’s shown himself outside the kitchen, and I don’t know if I’m meant to clear out or join him.
He hasn’t spoken, but he must know I’m here, unless he’s not aware of me like I am of him. No, that can’t be true. If I had spent years in isolation and suddenly a new person arrived amid my exile, I would know where they were and what they were doing every second of the day. It’s to Njål’s credit that he hasn’t taken to watching me while I sleep.
“May I join you?” I call out.
He doesn’t respond at first. Perhaps he’s hoping I’ll go away?
I don’t move from the writing desk. If he prefers not to respond because a rejection might hurt my feelings, I will go on my own. Still, the quiet does sting, even if it’s not as painful as a verbal rebuff.
As I rise, he says, “I want your company but I don’t want you to see me. Not yet.”
“I could close my eyes,” I offer.
Mostly, it’s a joke, because what in the world can I do with my eyes shut? His slow response says he’s considering it. “Will you trust me?” he asks finally.
That’s a deep question. Life hasn’t rewarded me with the sort of character that proffers faith readily. Yet for Njål I want to try.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Just what you suggested before.”
In answer, I lower my eyelids and I hear him approaching. He touches me for the first time, a large hand wrapped around my wrist. He barely brushes me, such a loose and gentle hold, but my heart races like I’ve been running. Njål tugs lightly, leading me to the corner where he was sitting. Though I can’t see them now, I know there are two armchairs arranged in a cozy reading nook. He guides me carefully around a stack of books, a fact I recognize because I knock into the rectangular pile and I hear him steady the volumes.
“What now?” I ask.
“I thought I would read aloud, if you wouldn’t find it tedious.”
I smile as I settle into my chair. He’s trusting me not to break our compact. It would be so easy to peer through my lashes and see what he’s hiding. But I won’t. Not because I lack curiosity where Njål is concerned, but I don’t want to steal from him. Not his trust, not his truths. I will accept only what’s freely given. And right now, he’s offering his voice.
“What sort of story?”
From the sound of it, he’s tapping his claws while he considers. “Do you have a preference?”
“A mystery with a bit of a love story. Or vice versa,” I answer.
“You’re amenable to a love story with a bit of a mystery?”
“I’m living one, aren’t I?” Oh no, I’m flirting. Not with the reckless abandon I showed Owen, but I can’t restrain the words this time.
A soft intake of breath, and Njål’s voice comes out low, raspy-soft and shocked. “Do you think so?”
Likely out of sheer astonishment, he hasn’t let go of me yet, and in the biggest gamble of my lifetime, I shift my hand in his loose grasp so that my fingers curl around his much larger hand. His skin is cool and rough, and I already know he has claws. I saw them briefly in the kitchen, so the sharpness doesn’t alarm me. Gently, I smooth my thumb over whatever part of Njål I’m touching.
“The potential is there,” I whisper. “Though I must also add that no farmer can ever predict what seeds will grow, even if a grand harvest seems likely at planting time.”
His breath is sharp and ragged, coming fast, as if I’ve undone him with this small, unexpected touch and words that make no promises. Then he wraps both hands around mine slowly, with such hesitation and care that I could free myself with the most minute resistance. I remain still, waiting to see what more he’ll do.
With my eyes closed, I feel everything more intensely—the friction of our skin as he slowly chafes my hand to warm it and the gentle scrape of the claws he tries to keep away from me. He’s startled when I touch him back, adding my other hand to the mix, and it’s too much, too fast I suppose, because he withdraws, just as I’m beginning to enjoy the sensations. The top of my head tingles, a pleasurable feeling that goes all the way down my neck. Too bad, I want to touch him more.
“You truly aren’t afraid of me,” he says in such a marveling tone that I wish I could see his expression.
“Have you given me reason to be?”
“Perhaps I will,”
