“What are you doing?” Njål asks.
I jump because I didn’t hear him approach and he never joins me in the daytime like this. Sometimes we speak in the kitchen, but never the courtyard under the pallid sun. Trying not to be obvious about how I’m not looking at him, I study the black iron pot.
“Laundry. Or I would, if I could sort out a small conundrum.”
“Which is?”
“What to wear while I wash everything.”
Njål laughs softly. “I had noticed that you didn’t arrive with much, but I didn’t wish to offend you—”
“By commenting on my impoverished state?”
“More or less. If you’re willing, there are plenty of gowns in storage. Long out of style, but you might repurpose them. The baroness had a sewing room in the west tower where she gossiped, schemed, and embroidered cushions. I haven’t been there in ages, but there ought to be needles and thread.” He pauses. “Can you sew? I don’t even know if that’s a skill people still learn.”
“It is,” I say. “And I can, though mostly for mending tears. I’ve never crafted my own clothing, but I did make simple dresses for my sisters. I might be able to do the same on a larger scale.”
“Wait here. I’ll bring some options.” With that he rushes off.
I’m strangely touched by how eager he is to give me things when he’s already done so much for my happiness. Smiling, I scoop snow into the kettle and wait for it to melt as I watch Agatha and Bart chase each other among the sculptures. The statues that are people.
I forgot.
I can’t believe that I forgot, even for a moment. What is this place doing to me that I can hum while doing chores, surrounded by tragedy and anguish at every turn? Below the great hall lies the room full of bones, and I’ve let that slip from my mind too. It’s not normal that I’m acting this way. Somehow it feels as if I’m slipping under a spell, and that I only awaken to myself rarely. Something else, something—the voice . . . I need to ask Njål. Maybe he hears it or knows—
The water is bubbling. Delighted, I crumble the soap and stir the mixture until I have a lovely white froth, perfect for getting the laundry clean. Everything goes in except what I’m wearing and I agitate the garments vigorously, getting lost in the movements, so I’m startled all over again when Njål returns, laden with possible wardrobe additions. His cloak still covers him from head to toe. Though intellectually I know he’s been trapped here for ages, seeing these clothes drives the point in, like a hammer to a nail.
They’re historic. Underdresses and smocks, kirtles and aprons, and a cascade of bongraces, I’ve never seen the like. I reach out and touch the fabric. Hand-loomed linen, cambric and wool carefully dyed by hand. My head fills with pictures as it has before; I can see the buckets they used, how long it took to get the blue this deep and rich.
“Amarrah?”
“Sorry. Sometimes Bitterburn shows me things. Have I mentioned that?” Vaguely I smooth the top smock, a creamy cambric that will feel nicer against my skin than what I’m wearing. There was something I needed to ask him, maybe? It probably wasn’t important.
Ah well. This is a lot of fabric. I can certainly cut some of these down and stitch a few dresses together. I don’t look up at Njål, keeping my eyes on his offering, because in this light, even the hood won’t be enough to keep me from seeing him. And I’ve promised not to take what’s not given. But maybe he wants me to look? That could be why he’s here.
“Yes, you told me when you explained how you found the bone room. Are you well? You seem a bit strange.”
The bone room exists. The ice statues are people.
Jolted, I clutch Njål’s arm without looking at him. “No, I’m not well. At least I don’t think I am entirely. It comes and goes, the voice, and I forget things that I ought to remember.”
“The voice? What voice?” His alarm is apparent, but I can’t respond.
Tinnitus spikes, so loud that it makes me dizzy. I fall into the echo, and the broomstick that I was using to stir the laundry falls from my hands as I topple sideways.
When I snap to myself again, the scene has changed. No dream-travel because I wasn’t sleeping. Did I faint? I’ve never fainted in my life.
I’m no longer in the courtyard, and Bitterburn bustles with life. Maids carry bundles of linens down the hall where I’m standing and pass through me like I’m a ghost. They chatter eagerly about something that’s happening soon, but I don’t catch the details. I follow them only until a certain point, then I turn, as if my feet already know my planned destination, terrifying because I’ve no control, and I’m pulled along on a course someone else set for me.
The gallery is full of people milling around in old-fashioned formal wear. I marvel at the huge ruffed collars and velvet pantaloons, the gems on the shoe buckles that could be sold to feed a family for years. A stringed quartet plays discreetly in the corner, and the staff offer drinks and trays of delicacies I can’t identify. I wish I could sample some to see if the food’s as delicious as it looks, but I’m here as an observer.
Soon, a bell rings and the crowd heads for the great hall. I’m swept along, as if it’s important that I see this. The baron and baroness are dressed in white, trimmed in silver, and I have the fleeting thought that they look like the king and queen of winter. If I don’t gaze at their eyes, they’re a handsome couple, with strong features and well-coiffed hair. The baron’s is dark, oiled, and caught back in a queue while the baroness’s is pale and over-embellished with feathers and glittering pins, festooned
