Fear spikes through me, sharp enough that I wake in a cold sweat, shivering in Njål’s arms. That’s a toothless threat; it must be. She can’t cut through the ages to hurt me.
Can she?
Still, I can’t get back to sleep with the visceral fright coursing through me in drowning waves. Njål, on the other hand, dozes like the dead. Carefully I roll to face him, gazing into his face as I don’t dare when he’s awake. Though he’s given me permission to look, it still makes him uncomfortable when I do.
Carefully, I trace the ridge of his brow and smooth his thick eyebrows, the same ashen hue as his hair. His coloring whispers of winter, like the magic of this place has trickled into his bones. I wonder what happened the night of his transformation, and if the baroness succeeded in possessing Gilda.
With a soft sigh, I wriggle out of his arms. I’ll get restless and bother him if I stay here, pinned between his big body and the wall. Despite the popping fire, the floor is cold beneath my bare feet, but I don’t don my shoes until I get in the kitchen. I stop in astonishment because Bart and Agatha are curled up by the fire like a pair of dogs. They’ve also made a bit of a mess and there’s goat dung to clean up as well. On the whole, the damage isn’t as bad as I feared.
Silently I tidy up, then escort Lord Buck and Lady Doe back to their own quarters. Once they’ve settled in the stable, I head to the west tower, more shaken by the encounter with the baroness than I want to admit. Climbing the spiral staircase takes far more effort when I’m not dream-walking, and I’m panting by the time I get to the top. Part of me hoped that all the details would be wrong, proving that I didn’t really go back. It was just a result of exhaustion and imagination.
But no. Time has had its way with this place; the plush fabrics are faded and frayed while the windowpanes sport a few cracks here and there—spiderweb traceries of damage, chips and dings in the glass. I run a fingertip over the broken parts, gazing out into the darkness. From this vantage, that’s all I can see, not even a glimmer from town. I might well be alone in the world.
If Bitterburn was frozen when the curse began, that must have happened decades after his transformation. I peer at a sampler and recognize the brown-red splotch of blood.
There are supplies still in cupboards and baskets, gilt thread meant for decorative work, and silver needles that would fetch a pretty penny in the great city. In Bitterburn town, nobody adorns their dresses anymore, assuming they can afford to replace them. It’s all stolid wool and thick stockings and boots heavy as my heart is now.
I don’t understand the dread permeating my whole body, but it’s a chill I can’t shake off. That warning gnaws at my mind like a worm that can devour my happy thoughts. When I inhale, I breathe in attar of roses, thick and cloying. The perfume fills my lungs, and suddenly, it feels as if she’s watching me, like I’m not the only one who can skim through the years. Shuddering, I run from the tower, taking the stairs at a breakneck pace and it’s only when I stumble and nearly dash my brains out on the stone stairs that I slow, breath heaving in the darkness and silence of Bitterburn.
Hunched over, hands on my knees, I drink down great gulps of air. Here, it’s fresh and clean, none of that awful floral essence. The keep nudges me, trying to show me more of the old wards, more of the tangled webs. I can’t concentrate on this while doing anything else, but what’s more important than this?
Closing my eyes, I let the connections unspool in my head, and I see tendrils extending outward, draining the life from the land surrounding it. Though I was only guessing at the time, I was right. Powerful spells don’t sustain themselves, and the surrounding area is paying the cost. Winter will only get worse, until everyone starves and there’s no life left here at all.
What happens then? Will the spell expire from lack of energy? Or will it just keep draining the world, as winter expands its territory? Right now, nobody in Kerkhof cares about our predicament, but when the snow stops melting farther south, they’ll likely march, and they might bring down the walls with cannons and mortar. The wards react with what feels like emotional distress, filling my head with colors in response to the idea of an army outside these walls.
Njål said he can’t die, but I’m sure he can be hurt. Can any creature survive having his head separated from his neck? I’d rather not find out.
This is my problem to solve, but it’s so weighty. I’m inexperienced. Untrained. It seems likely that I might even make matters worse with my unskilled fumbling. Despair perches on my shoulder like a spider.
As I sit in the drafty hallway, my brain bloated with too much information, I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep the promises I’ve made.
21.
It takes me a full week to recover from laying the wards.
While my spirit is willing, my body is weak. Apparently magic takes a great deal out of you, just like Bitterburn is slowly sapping the life from the countryside. I try not to think of that—of the low harvests and the long winter, how my family might be starving.
They didn’t even want you, that awful voice whispers. You could make them pay.
That’s the right approach, and it takes me longer to silence the enticement than usual. I wish that Da and Catherine would suffer, but if I let this creature dig into my own wounds, they’ll
