“Now and then. Can we leave? I was curious if what I saw was true, but I don’t wish to linger here. There’s nothing I can do for those who suffered and it’s—”
“Of course. I’ll follow you out.” He doesn’t ask me not to look back.
Doubtful I’d see much if I did. It’s so tempting, though in the stories, that never works out well. In one tale, a man loses his beloved wife forever, and in another, curious girls are turned into pillars of salt. Women always seem to pay the price, regardless who did wrong. I feel my way out, easier said than done, and stumble a few times in the dark.
Njål doesn’t join me in the kitchen straightaway, so I have time to settle my nerves with a cup of tea, and I have dinner on by the time he catches up. He settles in the far corner where shadows gather, and I feel him watching me, not with the usual gentleness either.
“There’s something strange about you, Amarrah.”
“Now you sound like my stepmother.” My tone isn’t as light as I wish, and I break open the small scab on the finger I nicked earlier, grabbing for a pot.
“You’re injured.” Njål moves like he’ll come right to me, join me in the light, but then his steps slow.
“Nothing serious.”
“Since you arrived, I’ve had the strangest sense of familiarity, like we’ve known each other for a long time. I fought that feeling, knowing it made no sense. But . . .”
Oh no.
“It’s been so long that I scarcely recall her face, and it’s not possible. It isn’t, but . . . you’re her, aren’t you? Eloise.”
I close my eyes briefly. How am I supposed to rationalize this? “Eloise is my middle name,” I admit.
“Explain yourself, witch.” Njål’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it and raw menace radiates from him, practically coating the room in frost. I’ve never experienced this aura before, but icy mist prickles on my skin.
“I’ll try.” In a tremulous voice, I recount exactly what happened in my dream and close with, “If I’m a witch, I had no notion of it before arriving here.”
A growl escapes him and a powerful blow slams into the back wall, making the shelves tremble. “I remember that night. Eloise was gone when I woke, and no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find her. I took so many lashes, endlessly searching. She was the only person who didn’t fear the baron, who dared to be kind even for an instant. Eventually I decided she must be a ghost. That or I hallucinated the whole encounter out of loneliness and misery.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I wanted to comfort young Njål but it seems as if I added to his torment instead.
“All this time I’ve been waiting because of what she said that night. But you were talking about yourself, weren’t you?”
Miserably I nod. “I thought I was dreaming. I didn’t realize . . .”
“That you were dream-walking into my past. My head feels odd, as if I have more memories, but I can’t access them, like words hovering at the tip of my tongue. I wonder what that means.”
It seems obvious to me. “Perhaps that was the first time I visited you as Eloise, not the last. Do you have any messages for young Njål?”
“Not at present. This is . . . a great deal to take in.”
“Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know. No aspect of me wants to credit that you came with an agenda, but Bitterburn responds to you in an inexplicable way. You might well be a threat and I don’t wish to acknowledge it because I’m lonely.”
“I understand.” Honestly, I can’t fathom what’s happening either.
Then he shocks me. “It’s also possible that you weren’t a witch before. This place has dire magics bound into its stones, and people tend to . . . change here. Often against their best inclinations.”
“What do you mean?”
“For some, it’s a magical awakening. Gifts or curses that lurked dormant spark to life within Bitterburn’s walls. For others, hidden proclivities come to life. I’ve seen those that I thought were decent folk tumble headlong into depravity.”
“Like the baron and baroness in their murder room?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I never thought they were decent. But there was a respectable matron who visited, no whispers of scandal or hints of lewd behavior. By the end of the week, she was caught by her husband, intimately consorting with four stable boys.”
“Bitterburn draws out people’s secret desires.”
“That’s why it’s so baffling that you seem unaffected. I’ve been waiting for the corruption to set in, but you’re still you. Still cooking, still reading. Still kind to me. And Bitterburn heeds you. You wanted goats and you have them. I’ve been here an unspeakably long time and I have never seen the like. Do you understand my doubts?”
I nod at once. “Given how Bitterburn reacts to me, I could be a powerful sorceress plotting some appalling scheme. Do you want me to leave?”
My heart hurts over making the offer. This place was just starting to feel like home, and I don’t have anywhere to go. Winter is coming as well. I suppose I can try and make it to Kerkhof. From my understanding, it’s about two months with a mule team, and I’ll be walking, possibly in the snow. Maybe I can find a map in the library. That could increase my odds of survival, but they still aren’t good. Evicting me now would be a death sentence.
Finally Njål says in a deep, grave voice, “I don’t want you to go, even if you’re my downfall. Perhaps . . . it might be for the best. I wouldn’t fight if it was you.”
I don’t think, only react. My feet are moving, carrying me to him and as I draw close, I shut my eyes and offer my hands. If he doesn’t reach out, I won’t press the issue. He only leaves me wondering for a few seconds, then he goes a step further,
