I must check the east wing. It’s the only place left to look.
But just as I reach the heavy, imposing doors, Njål staggers out. From the smell of him, he started drinking when I left and hasn’t stopped since. He peers at me with bleary eyes, his expression fluttering between despair and hope. He drops to his knees, drunk as hell, and somehow charming for it, though I shouldn’t find his despair so endearing. I should regret causing it, and to some degree I do, but it’s also lovely to be this vital. Oh gods, but I adore him.
Breathing fast, he stares as if I might be a chimera conjured by his deepest longings. “Are you real, Amarrah? Once you got free of this place, I thought I’d never see more of you than that blasted note.”
“I didn’t leave you,” I say softly. “I just went to tend my sister. I promised I would come back.”
“People promise all sorts of things and they mean it at the time. But as the world turns, those feelings change.”
“Mine won’t. This is still where I choose to be.”
Njål seems a bit wild in this state, nearly feral, and I close the distance between us by increments, until I can touch him carefully. He pulls me to him, and he needs a bath. It seems he’s only occupied himself with drinking, those strong spirits and fancy wines he eschewed before. I can tell that he hasn’t been eating either. He’s gaunt in a way he wasn’t prior to my nocturnal flight. It’s true then—hunger can only give him pain, not end his life.
“I don’t understand why,” he whispers.
“Because you’re here.”
Njål enfolds me in his arms, and I feel him shaking, not because I’m so cold, but because he’s so glad.
After a moment, he seems to gather himself, gaining the presence of mind to ask, “Is your sister better?”
“She was when I left.”
He touches me with less fervor, more concern, cupping my face in his hands. “You’re freezing. Let’s get to the kitchen. I’ll build the fire.”
“Is there anything to eat?” My stomach rumbles to punctuate the inquiry.
His gaze slides away from mine. “I haven’t bothered, I’m sorry.”
“I can.” A wave of sudden dizziness strikes me as I try to stand, and Njål catches me.
The world swims, and I lose touch . . . with everything. Instead of being merely cold, I’m on fire and frozen at the same time; I see flashes of Njål’s face furrowed in fear, and firelight, no, candles, a cool cloth, then . . . nothing.
My body aches when I come to myself again. I’m in bed, tucked up beneath a mountain of blankets. Njål is sprawled across the foot of my bed like a great mastiff, head pillowed on his arms.
With hammers striking anvils in my head, it seems clear that I’ve been ill, but I’ve no idea for how long. As I stir, Njål jolts awake.
“You’re back?” he asks in a hoarse voice, as if he’s scarcely had a sip of water since I fell over.
“How long was I out?”
“Nearly a week. You took your sister’s fever. I’ve done what I could, but I’m not much of a cook and we have no medicine.”
Now I see dishes piled around my bed, discarded compresses, basins of cloudy water. Yet he kept me alive despite lack of experience and little knowledge or supplies. I reach for his hand and curl ours together, avoiding his claws.
“You must be tired.”
“Not as much as I was worried. And I’m grateful that you lived. Thank you, Amarrah.”
I smile slightly, half-closing my eyes as he smooths my lank hair. “Nobody’s ever thanked me for surviving before.”
“They should’ve thrown you a party every year.”
“For continuing to exist?”
He whispers something in that language I don’t understand and cradles me in his arms for long, luxurious moments. Then Njål sets me aside with a gentle push toward the pillows. “Rest more. I’ll tidy up your room, now that the fever’s finally broken.”
It takes another full week for me to recover enough to resume my routine—tending to the little garden that’s now producing vegetables, cleaning the rooms that we use, and spending time in the library, perusing the books. There’s also Bart and Agatha, who also seems to be on an accelerated schedule. That, or she was pregnant when she arrived. Either way, she’s about to drop a kid.
Winter has a chokehold on the town below, but it’s less brutal here at the keep. My wards are strong, deterring even ferocious weather, as it’s a force that can inflict harm.
With fresh vegetables, I vary our meals a bit, and I try not to think about what my family is eating. Da tried to sell me for twenty pounds of flour.
“What has you so sorrowful?” Njål asks.
We’re in the library, reading together, one of my favorite pastimes. He likes me to read aloud, and I enjoy hearing his voice as well, so we take turns, finishing The Night Watchman and The Knight’s Mistress that way, and now we’ve started on another novel.
I haven’t told him what happened, and I wasn’t planning to because it’ll upset him when he can’t do anything about it. But trust has to start somewhere. If I want him to believe in me enough to show me whatever’s in the east wing, I should prove I’m worthy of it by putting my faith in him first. I tell him everything, and when I finish, he rises with a roar, slamming a powerful palm into a nearby shelf so hard that it shudders.
For a moment I think we’re about to be buried by a ton of valuable books.
“You will never return there. Not ever. They tried to sell you!”
“I’d already decided that, yes. But I’m glad you’re so angry on my behalf. It’s incredibly heartwarming.”
“I would like to tear your father’s heart out and step on it. He had a perfect rose growing in his garden, and he cut it down with his
