I must not weaken. I must not let it in.
To encourage me to rest, Njål does half the cooking, despite being endearingly terrible at it. During that time, I don’t dream-travel, though I do have nightmares that I don’t recall upon waking. And he stays with me in my room, five nights out of seven.
I can’t recall anyone caring for me this way. My mother must have, but I was so small then and our roles reversed when I was young, so that I nursed her as she lay dying. Owen was too busy working in the smithy, planning for our future, and we never got the chance to live it. Maybe it’s because Njål only lets himself believe in now but he’s here with me, every heartbeat, every moment.
And it is . . . magical.
“Put on a pretty dress tonight,” he tells me, as I scrub the kitchen floor.
I glance up at him through the tumble of hair that’s escaped from its plait. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“Not at all. Will you indulge me?” When he uses that deep voice, there’s little possibility that I could refuse.
“Very well.”
“Meet me after dinner in the great hall,” Njål says mysteriously.
Plenty of chores await me, but I’m far too excited about this cryptic invitation to focus on any of them. Awash in fervent anticipation, I cook some food and tuck it in the pantry to be heated later, then I indulge myself as I rarely have by hauling ice and snow to heat for a proper bath. I settle into the copper tub before the fire and scrub every inch of my skin until it’s glowing.
Part of me hopes that Njål will interrupt, as that could prove most diverting, but he makes himself scarce all afternoon and into the evening. I wish I had essential oils to make me smell as pretty as I am clean—oh. Dried rosemary and mint might not be an expensive scent, but when I soak the herbs in water and daub the resultant tincture on my pulse points, I smell bright and fresh, the best I can do under the circumstances.
Njål does show up for dinner, and we eat together, but he doesn’t say much. I’m torn between irritation and intrigue at his secretive behavior. This isn’t like the usual mysteries, nothing to do with the east wing.
“Do you plan to tell me what this is all about?” I ask.
“I will not. Let me surprise you, beloved.”
This endearment nearly slays me. The first time he’s called me that—and the word pierces me like an arrow, a sweetly killing shot. “Beloved” is not a term that’s commonly used anymore, unlike “sweetheart” or “darling,” yet I thrill to it, as if I’ve stepped into an epic poem, an ode written in my honor. Njål’s eyes twinkle nonstop, until I finally storm out of the kitchen pretending to be vexed.
I’m not at all. Trying to cool my cheeks with my palms, I wonder what the night has in store. A touch nervous, I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips for I’ve no cosmetics, and then I take down my hair. It’s dark and wild, spilling down my back like a spring torrent. My “pretty dress” I made myself, sewn clumsily, but in the candlelight my poor stitches don’t show, and at least it’s not the one I wore with Owen. The fabric is creamy and clean, dotted with tiny green flowers, and I tie a matching sash around my waist, spending a good five minutes trying to perfect the bow in back. I’ve no shiny shoes to match with it, no glimmering jewels either, but I hope Njål won’t mind.
In appearance I take after my mother, and I’ve never cared if others found me beautiful. Tonight, I wish to take his breath away. My heart races as I make my way to the great hall. Bitterburn tries to show me something, but I block it out. Just once, for tonight, I don’t want to think about anything else. No fear, no foreboding.
Halfway there, I spot candles lining the hall, a veritable sea of them, like a chorus of fireflies standing guard along my path. I come into the great hall and there are even more candles, along with the chandelier that he’s somehow polished and kindled, so this is the brightest this room has ever been since my arrival.
Njål waits for me in the center of the room, standing on one of the white tiles. As always, I avoid the red and move toward him at a stately pace. When I get close, he extends his hand, allowing me to see him fully. No shadows, no hunched shoulders. And he’s dressed in formal wear perfectly tailored to him. Black jacket, crisp white shirt, white vest threaded with silver. From head to toe, he is magnificent. Not human, but when he’s this fierce and resplendent, I don’t know why he’d want to be, either.
As if by magic, a soft, tinny music starts to play, probably from an old music box. My imagination fills in the melody, adding percussion and strings, until it becomes a full orchestra. I put my hand in his and then we’re dancing. He carries me with him more like, swept on the gorgeous tide of his eagerness. Njål knows what he’s doing while I plainly do not. I’ve only ever done festival dances, the stomping and spinning that gets on when people are full of ale and high spirits.
Yet it doesn’t matter that I fumble my steps. I only need to trust and follow him, glory in his grace and strength. His hand in mine, the other at my waist, guiding me through the turns. He gazes down at me like I’m the sun in the sky or the goddess of spring, certainly the most beautiful person he’s ever beheld. His eyes glow like stars, and I
