Provided that they’re not terrifying and dangerous. Perhaps they are.
Or maybe I’ve hurt him for no reason, the first person he’s allowed to see him in who knows how long. I won’t know which until I learn what’s in the east wing.
Sighing, I eat some leftovers from the pantry, fill a watering can, and go inspect my garden. Against all expectations, the charms I cast in the side yard seem to be holding. It’s warm out here compared to the rest of the keep, and the green shoots have grown more than is reasonable in a few days. Though I’m no gardener, I have raised herbs in pots, useful for seasoning what little we had to cook the last few years, and I understand how long it normally takes for them to get this big. At this rate, I might have fresh vegetables in around a month, and there’s no explanation for that apart from magic.
It’s still hard to believe that I’m a witch, but what other explanation is there? I gave you power, the voice whispers. I can give you more. Ask for it. Open to me.
My skin prickles with chills. Before, I wondered if I was going mad; now I’m sure that this comes from an external source, some infernal influence that wants to make a deal. My first instinct is to slam a mental wall between us, but maybe I can learn something.
With my nape covered in gooseflesh and my hair standing on end, I try to follow the energy to the wellspring and when I extend my inner sight, I receive the impression of something desiccated, seething with hatred, and inconceivably ancient. The impact is so strong that for a moment I lose control of my hands and drop the watering can. Instinctively I crouch and wrap my arms around myself to ward off an assault.
Who are you?
There’s no answer and I don’t feel the wickedness anymore. It’s simply gone. Before, I had the sense that Bitterburn shouldn’t be held accountable for the terrible things that have happened here, and that there might be something else. I was right—and that something is whispering to me. Njål needs to know, but I’ve upset him, and I shouldn’t intrude to inform him, so I water the garden in morose solitude.
Afterward, I head for the library. There, I note all my interactions with the voice, everything I can remember that’s been said and the circumstances in which it took place. Then I collect my laundry, currently scattered all over the great hall. Some pieces are still damp; they’ll dry faster in my room, closer to the fire. The rest I can work on transforming, fashioning more modern dresses out of the fabrics from smocks and kirtles. I spend the rest of the day on that task with pitifully little progress to show for as well, since I’m not a skilled seamstress, and just to be difficult, I refuse to go back into the kitchen. I’m too upset to be hungry, and it’s not like this is the first meal I’ve missed.
Yet as I settle into bed, glummer than I’ve been since my arrival, Njål comes into the kitchen and he pauses as if bolstering his nerve. Then he taps on my door, so softly that it seems as if he’s afraid of my answer.
“Are you sleeping?” he whispers.
I hesitate, but I do wish to reconcile with him. “Not yet.”
“May I come in?”
He won’t even enter my room without permission. Suddenly, my earlier fear seems absurd. If he wanted to harm me, there’s no need to make a game of it. I suppose it’s possible that such sport offers the only entertainment he’s had in forever, but in my heart, I know that’s wrong. I’m not an amusement to him, and he doesn’t wish to hurt me either. I just don’t understand the secrecy around the east wing, and that uncertainty infuriates me.
“Go ahead.”
Njål steps across the threshold, and he’s larger than life, taking up most of the space and air. My heart races, though not because I’m scared. We’ve done things right here in my bed, and though I know he hasn’t come for that, I do remember wearing that blindfold and his mouth—
The heat in my cheeks feels like a severe sunburn.
“I’ve thought about what you said, and I understand it. I do. But . . . I’m afraid that allowing you in the east wing will change everything. Do you mind waiting? Until . . . until I’m sure. Of you.”
I consider all the implications. Whatever he’s hiding, it must look bad for him or he wouldn’t be concerned about my reaction to it. But would a true villain care how I viewed him? Likely not. In fact, sometimes awful people do terrible things proudly while arguing that they’re good. Still . . .
“That’s not reassuring,” I mutter. “But you’re saying that if I trust you, you’ll eventually tell me everything.”
His tone is soft, spoken with the surety of stone. “I will. I promise.”
18.
“Then I’ll wait. For now. But do understand that unlike yours, my patience is finite.” The words come out colder than I intend.
I don’t soften that statement, however, because while I’m not putting a time limit on this warning, it is an ultimatum. I know myself, and there will come a time when I lose my temper and search for my own answers. For a long moment, Njål doesn’t respond.
If he runs again tonight, so help me, he won’t
