This room shows no sign that anyone has cooked a meal for years, so how has Njål been subsisting here? For all I know he eats live vermin like Brave Sir Reginald. A shiver works through me as I pass from the kitchen into the cozy room at the back, already warmed by the double-sided fireplace, cunningly designed to heat both the cooking area and the private living quarters. The mattress needs a good airing, however, so I haul it out back and whack it until a cloud of dust billows out. Right now, I don’t sense the acute observation that dogged my steps earlier. Njål must have been watching me from the moment I stepped inside.
With effort, I drape the mattress across a desiccated hedge. Will I be expected to tame the garden as well? Probably not, as all the plants are dead and the ground is frozen. The keep is far too large for one person to look after, but at least my days will be full. Likewise, all the linens need to be washed properly. By some miracle, the cloth hasn’t been devoured by moths, despite a lack of proper care. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any signs of pests inside the walls, no tracks in the dust or dead insects. That seems . . . strange, but no odder than anything else in this eldritch place.
I accept there’s little more I can do today and finally take a bath in the kitchen with the water I saved earlier. There’s no one to bother me, and it’s quite nice in front of the fire.
Afterward, I head to my cozy room and roll up in the blanket I brought from home in front of the hearth. From here, I can see through the double-sided fireplace into the shadowed kitchen. The rug is a bit musty, but not enough to keep exhaustion from taking me.
My little room has no windows, so an internal clock wakes me countless hours later, instead of my chattering sisters or the crowing of a rooster. Stiff to the bone, I roll out of my pallet and tame my hair into a simple plait, then don my work dress. I have exactly two, one for work and one for good, though I hate wearing the second one, because I used to glow whenever I put it on to meet Owen.
I can remember better times when I had a new coat every year and shiny shoes, but as the winters got worse, people bought less and less ale, until our family was barely scraping by, and our best went to Tillie and Millie. I tell myself firmly not to think of them and head to the courtyard to retrieve the bedding. It takes me most of the morning to put the room to rights, but I’ll sleep in a proper bed this evening.
Pleased with myself, I put the kettle on and heat the soup I made the day before. Soon the kitchen simmers with a delicious scent, and I hear soft footfalls approaching.
“Good day,” I call out. “There’s enough for two. Will you eat with me?”
“I handle my own meals,” comes the terse rejoinder.
I shrug. “Suit yourself. What can I do for you then?”
Knowing it might be impolite, I can’t help but tuck into my meal because I haven’t eaten since the day before, and I’ve worked more than enough to earn these beans. Njål is near, but damned if I can tell exactly where.
“Amarrah Brewer, was it?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You said you can make a passable ale, is that right?”
I blink. Of all things, I never imagined that the Beast of Bitterburn might actually be interested in my ability to turn grains into alcohol. Cautiously, I answer, “I can, yes. Mind, it won’t be ready straightaway. It needs time to ferment and for the best results, it could take up to a year. The minimum is—”
“I’ve a surfeit of patience. ‘When’ matters little while you stare into infinity. Take stock of our supplies and see if you can brew some ale. The prospect of sampling it unexpectedly offers some savor.”
I wonder if it’s a good idea to give liquor to somebody who hasn’t had any for a while. It seems odd that there’s no liquor in the keep, but maybe he drank all the ale and lager, leaving only fancy spirits and fine wine? This is all he’s asked of me so far, and it benefits me to appease the beast. I could do worse in terms of a landlord’s demands.
“Right away.” I put my spoon down to check the pantry.
“No hurry,” he cuts in. “Finish your meal, little one. Whatever we have will still be there when you’re done.”
“Thank you.”
At home, nobody thinks twice about sending me on errands and it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. How ironic, I went all the way to the Keep at the End of the World to meet someone other than Owen who cares if I finish my food. Or maybe Njål has been forced to learn patience over these long solitary years, so it’s less about me and more about his state of mind. Either way, I devour my
