“I don’t think you do. Not human certainly, but . . .” I shrug. “They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and you appeal to me as you are.”
Njål reaches out with a clawed hand and tilts my face to meet his gaze, seeming thunderstruck. “You mean, even if you could undo the curse, you wouldn’t wish to change how I look as well?”
Since he’s invited me to look, I drink my fill. His features are heavy, too strong at the nose and brow, and cheeks with a jaw so square it’s geometric. His hair is an ashen shock of snow, not as pure as the first fall, but on the second or third day—that shade. I’d like to touch it and explore his little horns, but that would be peculiar.
“I want you to be free. To leave Bitterburn and choose your own course. That’s all.”
His expression sours, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Even if I could, I doubt I’d be accepted.”
Sometimes he’s so vexing that I can’t stand it. “That’s not the problem we need to focus on. Worry about that later.”
That quickly shifts his mood, and I feel his quiet laugh against my hair. “You’ve got me thinking that these things are possible . . . there could be an end in sight, one that doesn’t end in my death. Once, that was all I dreamed about, and even that release seemed improbable and unattainable.”
He’s been so miserable and so alone. I’m glad I came to Bitterburn. Even if I can’t unravel this mess, I won’t regret spending my life with him. Softly, I say it aloud because Njål deserves to hear it, and I should make amends for my doubt this afternoon.
“I don’t want to think about that,” he says, when I finish.
“Why not?”
“You think I’ll want to go on without you? Yet I will have no choice. Please don’t make me envision that desolation tonight.” Absolute anguish rends his voice, leaving it deep and broken.
“I’m sorry.” I’ve hurt him again. For me, hearing this would be a good thing, but he sees time in a way that I can’t fathom. He’s spent centuries alone and knows well what it’s like to gaze into infinity.
“Let’s sleep. It seems we’re both a bit raw.”
That seems like a wise suggestion. We communicate a little longer with soft touches, my fingers on his biceps, his claws tenderly sifting through my hair. And if I dream, I don’t remember it.
In the morning. Njål is stoking the fire when I rise, feeding bits of broken furniture to the hearth. “Good morrow.”
“To you as well,” I reply, starting on our morning meal.
There’s fry bread and beans for breakfast. Gods, but I’m tired of this repetitious menu. It’s odd how fast we can become accustomed to things. When I first arrived, I was so grateful to have this much to eat, and now I can’t wait for Agatha to drop her kid, so I can milk her. That will mean butter, cheese, and delicious, creamy puddings. When the back garden provides fresh vegetables, our meals will seem positively luxurious.
We eat in silence, and I feel strangely shy, considering that Njål slept in my bed last night, and he essentially said that he doesn’t want to live without me. It’s hard for me to meet his gaze, the day after so much intense emotion.
“Are you well?” he asks, likely sensing some of my reticence.
I flash a hesitant smile. “I will be. What’s your plan for the day?”
“I have some . . . private matters to attend, and then I’ll be reading in the library should you need me.”
Private matters—in the east wing. Pain touches my temples, born of impatience and frustration. I don’t say anything but the whisper is back.
You must discover what he’s hiding. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.
That whisper does not represent my instincts toward self-preservation. Now I can recognize the lure of it, trying to trick or entice me. I imagine a door slamming in my head and I hear that awfulness no more.
Unaware of my inner turmoil, Njål kisses my cheek after breakfast, like we’re a normal couple separating for a day’s work. On that odd if cheerful thought, I finish two of the rough dresses I tacked together yesterday. Now I have four to wear, along with better quality undergarments than I’ve ever owned before. Now, though, it’s time for me to tackle a bigger task. I had put it off because it looked complicated, but according to the book of charms, I should have warded this place to make it mine first thing. That’s evidently what a witch does when she moves into a new residence.
I didn’t have the courage to try since it looked so complex, but with the garden responding to my magic, it would be cowardly not to attempt it. I’ve skimmed the section about trying this when there might be older magics in place, so I’m aware of the risks. This could explode spectacularly, and not in the metaphorical sense. But if I survive, I should learn something about what I’m dealing with. Reckless? Certainly.
But being careful doesn’t change the world.
19.
I collect The Witch Within the Walls from the library, first.
Then I gather components needed for a ward, and fortunately, all the supplies are present in the kitchen, dried herbs perfectly preserved. Following the next step, I burn the herbs with an open flame, until fine ash remains. Now I’m supposed to add a few drops of my blood. That’s similar to what I did in the side garden, but the components and binding chants are different. My pulse skitters as I prepare the protective mixture, or whatever it’s called. There’s probably a proper witchy term, but I don’t know it.
If Njål
