Without taking Njål with it.
27.
In the morning, when I check on Agatha, I find her in distress.
It’s too soon, but with my help, she gives birth to a tiny, malformed kid that can’t survive more than a few minutes on its own. She bleats and cries when I take it away and bury the wee body in the kitchen garden, the only place where the soil is soft enough for me to dig the hole. This feels like a bad omen, a blight on my chances of saving Njål.
I’m sad for Agatha, who follows me about as if I can produce a living kid for her to nurse. In the end, I consult my animal husbandry book and struggle to milk her. Agatha does not make it easy, but after about five failures, I figure it out. Apparently, it needs to be done twice a day from here on out. I got my wish, as she’s producing milk, but I can’t feel good about it. As Njål predicted, there were painful consequences.
My mood is grim as I thumb through another tome, learning how to turn this into the cheese I desperately wanted when I first arrived. I didn’t expect that there would be a bereaved goat wandering the kitchen while I did it. It seems that I can use vinegar and salt to create a simple, soft white cheese. I haven’t seen any vinegar since I’ve been here, but I know enough about fermentation to understand that very old wine sometimes turns into vinegar on its own, so I should check the cellar.
The wine cellar has been depleted over the years, and even more by Njål’s recent rampage, but there are a few dusty bottles left. I choose one at random and take it upstairs to pop the cork. Judging by the smell, it’s more vinegar than wine at this point. I suppose I’ll find out if this works. Following the recipe, I heat the goat milk to a simmer, keeping the fire low, then I remove the pot, add some of the white wine vinegar, stir, and wait.
Sure enough, curds eventually form and I use thin cambric to separate the curds from the whey. The book tells me to salt and shape the curds, then chill the finished product. The courtyard is the coldest place I can think of, so I carry the pan outside and place it high enough that Agatha and Bart can’t get to it.
To be fair, both goats are following me like frightened puppies. They lost their baby, and I can’t seem to make them understand. My chest hurts.
Would they be a happy goat family if I hadn’t made that wish? Or would they have starved on the mountain during the long winter?
“What are you doing? You’ll freeze! You’re not even wearing your cloak.” Still scolding me, Njål guides me back inside, but as we reach the kitchen, he registers my expression and draws me in for a hug. “What happened?”
With the goats shadowing us and bumping the backs of my legs, I tell him. He lets go of me and crouches to study Agatha. “Are you well, Lady Doe?”
She rubs her head against his chest, and Njål hugs her too. It should be a ridiculous sight, but he melts my heart with that tenderness. He hasn’t had anyone to love in forever, and his heart is overflowing. Most likely Agatha ought to be resting, but I’ve no ability to force the little mother to do anything against her will. Goats are pure chaos—not even a witch can manage that.
I sigh softly. “Do you think it’s my fault?”
He doesn’t respond right away, and when he does at last, the answer isn’t what I’d wished to hear, so it must represent his true thoughts. “I don’t know. But even if it is, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“You warned me, though. About this place, and how there’s always a price. It’s my fault I didn’t listen. I got what I wanted while Agatha is suffering.”
He earns even more of my devotion by not saying that she’s just an animal, so her pain doesn’t matter. “We’ll comfort her as best we can,” he says quietly.
“I won’t wish for anything more.”
Not even for Njål’s freedom. I’m glad I never framed it that way or the keep might decide to swap his imprisonment for mine, or it could even kill him outright. I still think there are multiple forces in play here, but I can’t sort out the threads—and it’s not for lack of trying. I need more knowledge, slow going in a library of that size.
“Will you entertain them?” I ask.
“I’ll do my best. Where are you going?”
“To the library, and they probably shouldn’t be in there. I’m afraid Agatha will take her feelings out on the books.”
“To me, goats! We’re having an adventure.”
From the sounds of his continued conversation with them, Njål plans to run around with Lord Buck and Lady Doe in the gallery, which is hilarious. But even that prospect doesn’t lift my mood. The weight remains as I head to the library. This won’t help my research, but I indulge myself with another entry in Njål’s journal. I’ve been skimming them here and there as a reward for completing my chores, but I’m nearing the end of what’s written, and in some small corner of my heart, I fear what I’ll find within these pages.
I turn the page, only four more to go, until the final, unfinished entry. The whispered translation begins, even as the unfamiliar words swim on the page.
I’m betrothed.
The baron and baroness chose her for me. They tell me that my family is dead and this is my home now. I’m supposed to marry Gilda. The baron asked me if I think she’s pretty.
I suppose she is. We walked in the garden together today, and she kissed me.
It was my first kiss, but I couldn’t tell her that because she’s clearly
