On some level, that ought to alarm me. Because there’s only Bitterburn inside me now, Bitterburn and Njål. When I first arrived, I feared being devoured by this place, but it’s not happening as I predicted. Instead it’s eating up my past in greedy bites, absorbing my pain and loneliness, so only contentment remains.
That . . . that isn’t right. Something is—
The feeling passes. I hum as I cork the bottles and arrange them in the basket. I tie a red ribbon around the handle and rush back to Njål, hoping that he’ll like the lager. This is the first batch I’ve made by myself, and while I didn’t have premium ingredients or ideal conditions, I did the best I could.
He’s not where I left him. Instead he’s standing boldly in the middle of the kitchen so I can see the full shape of him. Njål is massive, cloaked head to toe in deep gray. I suspect the garment was black once, before time had its way with the ragged garment. The sleeves are frayed, as is the hem. This isn’t all he’s got on—I know that from touching him—but the hood prevents me from getting a look at his face.
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
“I don’t want to frighten you,” he says, which isn’t an answer.
“I’m fine.”
I try to act natural, as if this isn’t a huge step forward. In truth, I long for the day when he’ll discard the cloak as well and I can finally see him. To me, it doesn’t matter how he looks because his face will be inexpressibly dear, no matter what shape his features take. Because Njål is precious to me.
Briskly I set the basket on the worktable, nudging it toward him. “My first batch of ale. Would you care to try it?”
“I’d love to. Will you join me?”
“I was hoping you’d ask, but just pour me a bit of yours. I’ve no head for liquor and I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“That might be entertaining.” But he fills a ceramic cup halfway. The ale is light and creamy, the best I could do.
Carefully I take a sip. I made a few creative substitutions and the result is . . . interesting. The flavor is bitter and nutty, like nothing my father ever created. But Njål savors his with every appearance of enjoyment.
“It’s almost like being a regular person,” he says. “We talk, we eat our meals together. You laugh at my silliness, and now we’re having a drink.”
I notice he’s not mentioning the heated kisses or the way I pleasured him with my hands, right in this kitchen. My whole face heats when I think of that. Since then, he’s given me a fair amount of physical space, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I don’t exactly have a list of things that need to happen before I invite him into my bed, and I don’t want to leave it until it’s too late, like I did with Owen. How am I supposed to know when’s the right moment for that?
“I know what you mean. It’s starting to feel like home.”
“Because of you. I used to loathe this place so much, but now, even eternal imprisonment doesn’t seem as bad.”
Anger sparks inside me, blazing like a low fire in my gut. “You shouldn’t have to live that way. I wasn’t jesting when I said I’ll set you free.”
“You shouldn’t go around making vows. Not here. It’s dangerous, Amarrah.”
Considering the goats, I know he’s right. I don’t have the courage to tell him that I’ve let my guard down and wished for bees. “I’ll be careful.”
“Please. It would destroy me if anything happened to you.” I see the tremor in his hand as he lifts the amber bottle and drains it.
And he can’t even die, that awful voice whispers. The presence flickers in my head, a serpentine shadow that seems to relish that prospect. I shake my head like I can dislodge it, and the evil sensation fades. What the hell? I need information and I need answers. The library is one possibility, but I could spend years there without finding out what I really need to know. It’s time to be bold.
“I haven’t asked before,” I say softly. “But I think we need to talk about the origin of your curse. Are you ready to tell me what happened?”
14.
For a long moment, Njål keeps silent.
I doubt he wants to discuss this, but I need to do something or my talk about freeing him will never amount to more than that. I understand his reluctance. If he pressed me for more details about Owen’s death, I’d respond the same way. But I’m not pushing for more information out of idle curiosity or for my own entertainment.
Finally he says, “Are you asking how I came to be cursed? Or is it more about the conditions under which I can gain my freedom?”
“Either could be helpful.”
“I’d rather not talk about the former,” he says. “I’m not being difficult. But I’ve managed to lock that door and throw away the key, and if I force myself to remember . . .”
“Something bad will happen?” That’s how I interpret his grim, hesitant tone.
“You might wonder how I’ve not gone mad, living this way for so long. The truth is, I was after the curse kicked in. I . . . did things for the baron and baroness. I went mad and came back again, only at great cost. I remember fragments of that time, but I can’t scrutinize those memories. I can’t.”
Alarmed by his distress, I move to his side and take his hand. His fingers are cold, trembling in my grasp. He holds on
