What in the world can I say to make this better? The solution dawns on me, and it has the virtue of being true. “There is, though.”
“What?”
“Someone waiting for you. It won’t be soon, but in time someone will come because she needs you. Her life was terribly sad before, but when she meets you, it gets better.”
“Is that true?” he asks.
“On my honor, it is.”
“How do you know? Are you a witch who sees the future?”
“My stepmother was always saying that I need to be careful or the witch finders will take me.” Not quite the answer he’s asked for, but it’s another truth.
Njål appears to accept that without requiring elaboration. “Is your stepmother like the baroness?”
I think of Catherine, hair like straw, bony shoulders and tired eyes, worn hands and downturned mouth. “What’s the baroness like?”
In answer, he shivers and draws into himself, unwilling or unable to respond. Instead, he asks, “Can you tell me more about her, the one who’s waiting for me?”
“Another time,” I hedge.
“Does that mean you’re leaving?”
“Didn’t you want me to before?” It’s a trifle unkind to answer a question with a question, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I did then, but not now. I wish you’d stay longer.” Tentatively, he reaches out and his hand brushes the hem of my nightdress. “I have terrible dreams. It might be better if you were here.”
I’m no one, a complete stranger, but he already trusts me enough to hope I can drive away the nightmares. My heart can’t take such softness. I might be worse than the baroness for all he knows, but maybe he’s honed his intuition in this place and he senses that I would never hurt him. Not this Njål, not the other one either.
“Let’s try then.”
In the dark, we move to his pallet—it’s not even a proper bed—and he climbs beneath the covers. I stay beside him and like a puppy, he tilts his head for my hand, shifting ever closer to where it rests on my lap. When I finally touch his brow, he relaxes. His hair is soft, and I brush it away from his forehead in soothing strokes until his breathing grows deep and slow. In time, I fall under as well, and when I wake, I’m in my own bed.
I feel like weeping. It’s so strange that the keep gave me that glimpse into Njål’s past. For what reason? It’s like this place wants me to love him—and the faster, the better. Probably I ought to be frightened by that impetus, assuming Njål is correct about its motivations. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more happening here than either of us understands. There seem to be two currents, pulling at cross purposes, though nothing I can clarify right now, as I’m an emotional mess.
With a muffled curse, I roll out of bed and wash up swiftly. I put on my work dress and tidy my hair, everything as usual. But when I get to the kitchen, things have changed. Normally, the fire is nearly dead when I rouse, and I heat water for my morning meal. Today, the fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth, the stove has been lit, and the kettle is on.
I’m not used to anyone helping me, so the warmth streaming through me is surely more than such simple chores should elicit. Briefly, I kneel before the flames and bask in the heat Njål provided. To someone else, this might scarcely even register as kindness, but to me, it feels like courtship, more surely than a bouquet of flowers or a silver ring.
Humming, I make breakfast and eat it knowing that he’s unlikely to join me. He hides during daylight hours, much to my dismay. Afterward, I clean up the kitchen and head to the stables, but Agatha and Bart aren’t there. Instead I find them gamboling in the courtyard, playing amid the grisly ice statues. For a few moments, I watch with silent amusement.
Life returns. How delicious.
I start. That cold voice most definitely doesn’t belong to me. It’s alien enough that I spin in place, looking for the speaker, only to establish that I’m alone except for Bart and Agatha. It wasn’t Njål either, not that I imagine he can put thoughts in my mind.
What in the world is happening?
Now more than ever, I suspect that there are two intelligences at war within Bitterburn, and maybe the keep is trying to save Njål. That walk to the past feels like a chance I’ve been granted, but I don’t know what more I’m meant to do.
I hope I can figure it out before it’s too late.
11.
Agatha and Bart clearly hear nothing unusual.
They continue their game for a while, then notice my arrival. They both trot over to greet with me head bumps and receive scritches between the ears. I feel outright unsteady, mostly because I hate confusion and I’m currently living in a constant state of it. None of this makes sense, and Njål doesn’t have the answers either.
When I arrived, I was desperate. I didn’t much care if I lived or died, but a new drive has taken hold—the desire to survive and free Njål. I don’t know if it’s possible, and part of me, the skeptical part, still wonders if he’s committed some heinous sin. If he has, of course he wouldn’t admit it. But he cares so much about not hurting me, not doing anything that I don’t want. Would a truly wicked person feel that way? It’s more likely that he’d take what he wants without waiting for me to be ready, without waiting for me to offer.
I make up my mind then and head to the library. For the first time, I’m not planning to bask in these books and peruse whatever strikes my fancy. I’m looking for something specific. As
