Bart and Agatha have taken to following me everywhere, and I let them. Because I noticed yesterday, with two goats running about outside, there should be dung in the stables, poop in the courtyard, and I’ve been too preoccupied with other matters to clean up after the goats. Yet there is none. Not anywhere. This strange fecal phenomenon must be related to the reset I noticed in the pantry, in the stables, and in the ice statue garden when I burned the rubbish. After a certain point, changes to Bitterburn are discarded and it returns to its original state.
So far it hasn’t happened in the kitchen. All my updates remain there, as they do in my cozy little room. It can’t be related to me being a witch, or the fire I started would have caused permanent scarring on the ground. I think. Obsessing over these matters makes my head ache. Never have I devoted so much of my mental energy to esoteric issues.
Bart bumps his horns against the door. I’m not deranged; I won’t be letting Agatha and Bart gobble up my delicate seedlings.
“Settle down,” I call. “I’ll be in presently.”
I pace the perimeter of the garden, my gaze lingering on the empty skeps. Wax and honey would be so useful. “Wish the bees would return,” I murmur, then I clap a hand across my mouth.
But it’s too late. I’ve made another wish. Curse that word anyway. Silently scolding myself, I head inside. The goats might well wreck up the kitchen if I leave them too long. Njål has apparently shooed them out because I find him waiting, but not Agatha and Bart.
“Our Lady Doe looks a bit plump,” he observes.
“Yes, they wasted no time in starting a family. In a few more months, I’ll be a doting auntie, provided I can manage as a midwife.”
“Does that make me a doting uncle?”
“Only if you mean to marry me.” The teasing remark pops out before I can stop it, and it falls like a stone into a still pond, silence rippling outward in rings where there was amiable conversation.
“Would that I could,” he says quietly.
He can, though. It wouldn’t be a formal service with rites pronounced by a cleric, but he could claim me as his wife if he wanted to. The townsfolk, especially those who can’t afford the fees and the festivities, have long since quietly plighted their troth and lived together, raised families together, a kind of common magic. This might not be a rejection. Maybe Njål doesn’t know about that custom, as he was a nobility before, and he’s been trapped here for a long time, so how would he learn?
I lack the courage to inform him because that would seem like I’m trying to coax a declaration out of him. When he asks what I’ve been reading, I answer cheerfully enough. I finished that history book and I’m learning how to make goat cheese from the animal husbandry tome, anticipating a day when I’ll be able to milk Agatha.
“Fry bread and cheese,” he says in a dreamy tone.
“If all goes well. There may be fresh vegetables too.”
He stills. “The garden grew.”
“It did.”
Njål doesn’t speak it aloud, but I’m aware of his thoughts. Bitterburn has awakened my potential, and neither of us can be sure what it means, whether it heralds good or ill. But from what I’ve been reading in The Witch Within the Walls, magic is neither inherently good nor evil. It depends on the intention behind it, and I don’t think I’m a bad person.
Maybe the baroness didn’t believe that either.
I silence that icy whisper, refusing to believe that I’ve been lured here to take on a role as Njål’s tormentor. I had never been near the keep when I decided—of my own free will—to come here. My head feels strange, a touch muzzy, and I realize that the silence is lengthening again, like shadows at nightfall.
“Are you afraid of me?” On the surface, it’s an absurd question. In terms of physical power, Njål could crush me, but I’m sure he understands why I’m asking.
The long pause nearly does me in, and I imagine there’s a gaping hole in my chest, so wide that my heart might spill out.
“Perhaps I should. Not who you are now but what you could become.” Then he sighs. “Even with confirmation that you could be my undoing, what I said before holds true. If you turn into a pillar of fire in my arms, I’ll hold on while you burn me to ash.”
“Njål.” His name is all I can get out.
Nobody has ever said such a thing to me—not even Owen—and I react like a turtle overwhelmed by five grabby children. I drop into a squat and curl into myself, much as little Njål did the night I dream-walked to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in alarm. “Are you hurt?”
I let out a gusty breath. “I’m broken. But I’m starting to think you can fix me.”
“I can?” Such a shocked tone.
Gathering myself, I push upright and decide this is the perfect moment to surprise him with a gift. He’s given me so much since I’ve been here, often without realizing how much I needed those particular words or to feel essential in someone’s life.
“Wait here. I’ll be back presently.”
I don’t wait for questions, and on the way to the storeroom, I herd Agatha and Bart into the courtyard. They bleat in protest, but goats don’t need to gambol in the great hall, no matter how fancy they’ve become with Njål referring to them as Lord Buck and Lady Doe. After closing the door firmly, I mentally cross my fingers that the ale has fermented correctly and will at least be tolerable.
I’ve been checking on it, and it looks right. The smell seems decent, but there’s only one way to be sure. I’ve got clean bottles ready and I pour the jugs deftly, remembering the work I did for my father
