“Esteemed guests,” he calls in a booming, jovial voice. “Thank you for joining us to celebrate the day of Njål’s birth!”
The crowd parts, revealing young Njål being dragged by a pair of burly footmen. He’s a bit older now, tall and gangly. And he looks terrified rather than excited to be at the party, but it appears that I’m the only one who notices, as he’s shoved to the baron’s side. He flinches when the man touches his shoulder and the touch becomes sinister, digging into his bones to keep Njål still and quiet.
When Baron Bitterburn seems sure that Njål won’t try to run, he relaxes his grip and says, “But we have an even more exciting announcement this evening. My beloved foster son will be formally joining our family. I’ve had the scribe add him to our family register. As of tonight, Njål is my heir.”
From the way they treat him, they seem to despise this child. So why would the baron bequeath everything to Njål? As I worry that mental thread, the baron makes a toast and signals for the dancing to commence. He partners the baroness while Njål slips away, dodging the dancers like any one of them might sink a knife between his ribs.
Then he stops, staring right at me with a look of betrayal. “I looked for you everywhere,” he says. “They all insisted I made you up. Go away! I don’t want to talk to you.” Then he rushes off.
And I want to follow, I do, but I’m frozen here watching the dancers spin like I’m standing in the center of a carousel. The baron and baroness swirl closer and . . . she’s smiling. Her teeth are sharp and white. For an instant, they don’t look wholly human, then she whispers in the baron’s ear. “Just hold on a little longer, darling. He’s big enough now, and you know that I like the young ones.”
Horror keeps me still and revulsion crawls all over me like a thousand centipedes. I fear what’s in store for Njål, and—
I wake in bed with a cold compress over my eyes. My body aches, and my brain burns inside my skull. It occurs to me that perhaps I’ve been poisoned by using old provisions or eating that magical food. It maddens me that I’m losing track of what’s real and who I am. Shivering, I sit up, realizing that I hear Njål pacing in the kitchen beyond. He didn’t want to intrude on my privacy and watch me sleep, but he’s worried.
I have someone who worries about me again. I wish that didn’t feel so momentous.
He stills as I step into the doorway, and I respect his preferences by looking away. “How long have I been out?”
“Most of the day.”
It’s a silly thing to wonder about, but . . . “What happened to my laundry?”
“I washed everything, rinsed it, and hung it to dry in the great hall. I tried the courtyard, but Agatha and Bart were having none of it. They thought it great sport to tear everything down. Agatha has quite a predilection for smocks, you know.”
“I didn’t. Thank you.” How unexpected. It’s been ages since anyone did anything for me because they wanted to.
“Are you feeling better? You scared me quite a lot, talking about voices and . . .” He pauses then.
Long enough that I must prompt him. “And?”
“I have a new memory of her. You? Eloise. She was there that night. At the party. I truly don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Neither do I,” I say slowly. “But I’m starting to think it’s meant to happen. Everything ties together. The curse, the voice, my . . . travels. It’s a lot to sort out, but I’ll manage, somehow.”
“We will,” Njål corrects.
“What?”
“If I’m no longer alone, you aren’t either. I haven’t been able to resolve this on my own, and eventually I stopped trying. But now I have a reason to fight.”
“You’ll fight for me?”
“I’d conquer the world for you,” he says simply.
17.
Perhaps that ought to alarm me. Instead a soft thrill shivers through me, gaining power as it goes until my toes curl. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Just Bitterburn, then. This is strange, but my mind feels calm, like my memories have reorganized. I don’t think I saw Eloise after that night.”
Does that mean I’m done dream-traveling? Or that I won’t see young Njål again?
Turning over the possibilities in my mind, I say, “I’m so confused. There’s a force pulling at me, showing me the past. Something else is trying to make me forget everything and stay here without asking questions. Such disparate goals can’t spring from the same source?” I wish I could see Njål’s face, read his expression, but he’s only giving me his voice.
Strained and rough, he replies, “I wish I could remember. I’m trying, but—”
“Don’t force it. When you’re ready to deal with those memories, they’ll come. Do you hate me for causing so much pain when you were young? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I could never hate you. And now that my mind’s settled, it seems so long ago.” Njål sighs. “It’s a bit hard to explain—like I’m him, but not him. And you’re her, but not her.”
“Perhaps, I can understand a little.” How surreal this must be. It’s a wonder he hasn’t fractured into a thousand pieces, never to be whole again.
“We need to talk about the voices you’re hearing. But first . . .” He takes a deep breath, as if this is unspeakably difficult, and then in my peripheral vision, I see him push back the hood of his cloak. “If I want you to trust me with your private thoughts, I should take the first step. Look at me, Amarrah.”
Slowly, I shift my focus from the corner to where he’s standing square
