I turn and leave the brewing shed then. It reeks in here, the bitter scent of hops and the sweet-sour stink of fermenting mash.
Gods, but I want to go home.
25.
I’m so tired.
I haven’t dared eat anything since I overheard Da and Catherine plotting to sell me to Bascom, so I’ve only had water that I draw personally from the well. Now, my sisters are asleep, and Da is tucked up in bed with Catherine in the niche on the other side of the kitchen. The cottage is mainly one open room with alcoves here and there for the illusion of privacy. Only a curtain separates the parents from the children, and my heart pounds like a team of runaway horses as I creep out of the loft.
After I climb down the ladder, I pause, avoiding the squeaky floorboard that will give me away. I’ve said my goodbyes. When I got in the miller’s cart the first time, I didn’t plan on coming back. I’m not sorry I returned for Tillie, but I’m finished with this place.
I’ve done enough, and the fact that I’m connected to these people by blood doesn’t mean they can demand mine. If they deserve to live freely, so do I.
Slowly, I sneak out of the cottage, careful not to bump anything. My bag is light and I’m quiet as a mouse in leaving this house for what I hope will be the last time. I bear no ill will toward the girls, but I’ve had my fill of being used.
I deserve better.
The snow is still falling, pristine and untouched by carts and wagons at this hour. Everything is blanketed in white, the tree branches glazed in ice, and it’s pretty in a stark, desolate way. As I trudge down the road that leads out of town, Bascom steps out of his house, situated right next to the bakery. It makes sense that he would be awake to make the day’s bread, assuming he has any supplies left to do so. Or maybe he just needs a break from watching his dying wife.
He’s an old man, stooped and thin, with a shock of salt and pepper hair. Bakers ought to be round and jolly, but this one isn’t, all pinched features and a permanent scowl. “Leaving already,” he says. “You must really like it up at the keep.”
There are so many things I could say.
“And you must not love your wife very much if you’re already lining up her replacement before she’s even gone.”
“I’ll make you sorry, you little—”
The spark flickers from me without my volition and suddenly his overcoat is smoldering. Bascom drops to the snow and he’s rolling to extinguish the tiny flame as I stride away into the darkness. I’d rather be a witch than a helpless damsel any day. This whole town can go to hell.
Soon, I regret that waste of energy as my defiance fades, leaving me vulnerable to cold and hunger as I climb. The path didn’t seem this steep or winding when I rode most of the way in the miller’s cart, but now that I’m dragging my tired body up the mountain under my own power, it might as well be five hundred miles, all the way to the great city of Kerkhof. I’ve always wanted to go, but now I’ll be lucky to make it back to Bitterburn.
I stumble in the snow, pitching forward onto my knees. The pillowy coldness cushions my fall, but it’s hard to get up again. My hands and feet are numb; so is my face. Whirling snow makes it hard to see as well, though I stick to the path as best I can. Hopefully I’m almost there, as I don’t know how much longer I can walk. Perhaps I should have waited until daylight; at least it would be warmer then.
It feels like I’ve been climbing forever, but I’ve no idea how far I’ve come.
To my amazement, a familiar figure comes trotting toward me. Agatha bleats expectantly, trots forward a few steps, then waits, as if expecting me to follow. I stagger forward and hold on to her neck, letting her support and guide me.
The storm lessens as we push upward, which seems odd, but maybe the wards I laid are helping? I only tried to impact the weather in the kitchen garden, but it’s better here than it was in the village. It should get colder as we climb—and it did before—but now, the air hurts my lungs less the closer we get to Bitterburn.
I made the place mine. Naturally it’s more hospitable to my needs.
That’s my own inner voice, not the scary one.
At last, the keep comes into sight, looming and forbidding as always, but somehow it feels more welcoming than the cottage I left, likely because Njål is waiting for me inside.
The portcullis is partly raised. How the hell did Agatha manage that? Or did Njål ask her to go look for me? The fact that the gate is open worries me though, and with my last burst of energy, I dash inside, through the courtyard and into the kitchen, where the fire has gone out.
“Njål!” I call.
Everything is still and quiet, like it was when I first arrived, though my traces remain. The way I organized the pantry, the order of the copper pots, and the bundles of dried herbs—that’s all the same.
But Njål doesn’t answer.
I search everywhere I’m allowed to go, and he still doesn’t come.
Though I’m cold and starved, fear takes the upper hand. What if something happened while I was away? Maybe the curse ended because I left and he died; perhaps it qualified as abandonment—how should I know how ancient curses work?—and now I’ll only ever find a pile of dust with no answers as to what I was supposed to do instead. Shouting his name, I stumble from one end of the keep to the other, running from library to gallery
