For some reason, chills shiver through me, gooseflesh rising on my arms and legs. Not that I’m in danger exactly, but I truly know little of Njål. What if there’s a good reason he was cursed? Perhaps he deserves this punishment. For all I know, he could be quite wicked and deranged.
At least my reply is composed. “That remains to be seen. Did you have a book in mind, based on my criteria?”
A long pause, and when he responds, his voice has resumed its usual tone, friendly and conversational, lacking that deeper intimacy. “The Knight’s Mistress should do the job nicely. Let me fetch it.”
It’s a title I’ve never heard of, but it’s set in a castle that I imagine to be similar to Bitterburn in its heyday, the tale of a poor man who rises to knighthood, but he can’t marry the woman he loves because his liege orders him to wed his daughter instead. There’s a great deal of skullduggery, tragic and heated glances, and other carrying-on, before the poor wife is murdered, and it’s frankly hard for me to keep track of all the tangled threads when Njål’s voice is so soothing.
At some point, I doze. And I’m dreaming of the softest touch, smoothing my hair like I’m a princess in the stories. Gods, that feels good. I tilt my head for more, and the caress moves to my throat, so delicate that it could only be a fantasy. My nipples perk, and I awaken slowly, realizing that I’m alone in the library and full dark has fallen. His chair is empty, and presumably has been for a while.
I hope he doesn’t take my falling asleep as a sign of disinterest. Maybe he’ll consider it as a compliment because I certainly couldn’t relax so fully if I felt unsafe in his company. Musing on that, I check on Agatha and Bart and interrupt an intimate moment. Averting my eyes, I back out of the stable after ascertaining they have plenty of fodder and clean water. Oh, yes, there will certainly be kids and goat milk in my future. Time to finish that treatise on animal husbandry tucked away in my room.
Though it’s late for a meal, I haven’t eaten since this morning. I really want a roast; chicken or duck would be incredible. Sadly, I’ve no skill at hunting and I’m afraid to leave the keep anyway. How am I supposed to solve this problem? I’m careful not to frame any thoughts that could be construed as wishes because the last thing I want is for haunches of meat to fall from the sky.
I make do with fry bread and lentils, which I’m polishing off as I hear Njål enter the kitchen. Astonishing, this is the first time I’ve encountered him more than once in the same day. It must mean something, but I’ve no idea what.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“I’m starved.” There’s something different about him tonight, though I can’t put my finger on what exactly.
At this moment, I just know his energy feels different somehow, the odd sort of notion that made my stepmother call me strange and ill-starred. In addition to my prophetic dreams, I also had . . . hunches about various townsfolk. People know things for factual reasons, Amarrah. They know, or they don’t. Enough with your nonsense. You’ll bring the witch finders down on us with such talk.
“Give me a moment and I’ll make you a plate.”
Njål edges closer, teasing the circle of light from my candles. I see his silhouette and, for the first time, I can see he’s wearing a dark cloak. My heart thunders with the desire to set down the wooden spoon and go to him, to forcibly divest him of his secrets.
No, only what’s freely given.
Then he steps nearer still, and I can barely breathe for the anticipation.
9.
“Close your eyes?” Despite the framing, Njål’s tone makes it a request, not a demand, and I trust him enough to comply. “May I touch you?”
I nod without hesitation.
The caress comes light as a dream, smoothing my hair, my throat, just like my dream. My breath catches. “Did you do this before? In the library.”
His hand stills. “I didn’t. Why?”
“Because I imagined this, exactly this. What does that mean?” This isn’t the first time one of my dreams has come true, but it’s the first time it’s been so personal, deeply attuned to my private desires.
He emits a soft groan and pulls his hands away slowly. “Bitterburn has devised a new way to torment me. I didn’t mean to seek you out, but I had this in my head, whispering over and over, until I felt that I would lose my mind if I didn’t touch you.”
Shaken, I almost step back. But that would hurt Njål and, even if he came to me with pictures implanted by a fearsome power, he still paused to ask my permission. In the village, there were many who didn’t, and they didn’t even have the excuse of a lifetime’s isolation. Not that I think Njål’s suffering gives him the right to ride roughshod over my free will. And he hasn’t.
“I don’t understand. Why would Bitterburn put such ideas in your mind?”
“I’m not sure either. But possibly to incite me and make me doubt at the same time.”
The “incite” part I understand well enough. For some reason, the keep wants us together, but I’m not sure about the doubt. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Simple enough. I’m meant to want you, but not be sure if it’s truly my desire. The whispers and temptation will likely grow over time. I’ll resist. But no matter how I fight, the keep will eventually break my will. You saw how I was tonight. Then—”
“Ah, I see now.” Truly, he’s correct. Bitterburn is the real beast, desiring my destruction in such a way. I am another means to make Njål suffer, and the
