We’re both too young, but my foster parents, no, I don’t care what they say, I will never call them that. The baron and baroness want the issue of inheritance settled. There’s nobody I can tell—Eloise is probably a ghost—but the word ‘inheritance’ frightens me. I don’t want to inherit Bitterburn. Bad things happen here.
At night, I hear muffled screaming, but it’s almost worse when it stops.
I wish someone would save me, but no one’s coming. No one ever will.
That’s all. This entry breaks my heart. I wish that I could do more for him, but my dream-walking can’t change the past. For some reason I’m only able to interact with Njål. The rest of the world treats me like I’m invisible. Why is that, anyway?
Putting that question—and the journal—aside for the moment, I pull all the books I can find on magic. Most of them are fanciful, meant for entertainment, not instruction. I lose myself paging through them anyway, hoping for some spark of inspiration. In the end, I’ve wasted my time, and I need to check the cheese.
It’s firmed up nicely in the cold, a rich white round in the ramekin I used as a mold. Shivering, I hurry back to the fire, ready to sample the delicacy that carried such a high price. I smear some on a batch of fry bread that I whip up, and it’s delicious. Not worth our Lady Doe’s suffering, but if I don’t eat it, that seems worse somehow.
Njål joins me on his own soon after. “Success?”
“It’s good, have some.” I hand him a simple tartine—fry bread topped with goat cheese and lentils.
He takes a cautious bite, and then he beams at me, eyes crinkling in delight. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
Save you.
Though I don’t speak the words, I fear they’re true. We eat quietly, devouring most of the cheese in one sitting. I tidy up with a huge shadow on my heart. For all my promises, he’s still trapped, and I don’t seem to be making any progress. Before, I was happy staying here with him, but I can’t go gray and die knowing that Njål will be left alone again. I restrain the urge to thump my fist on the worktable in frustration.
“Where are the cloven ones?” I ask, mostly as a distraction.
“Settled in the stable. Bart is heroically trying to console Agatha.”
I nod, poking up the fire. Njål comes up behind me and settles at my back, drawing me into a full-body embrace. It’s so easy to lean on him. He kisses along my neck and finds the sensitive spot behind my ear. If I let him keep going, we’ll end up in bed. For the first time, I wonder if it’s possible for Njål to get me pregnant. If that happens, will our baby die like what happened with Agatha?
Shuddering, I step away. I would rather stay like this all night, but that won’t accomplish anything.
“I want to search the sewing room. Will you come with me?”
I’ve lost track of whether I’ve actually been there or only in my dreams. Njål went around collecting clothes that had been left, but I was unconscious at the time. I think I saw the room myself, but I’m not positive. My memory is oddly blurred and I constantly expend energy to keep that crawling voice out of my skull.
“Of course. But why?” he asks as we set off.
I shrug. I can’t provide a detailed answer, but instinct assures me that I won’t find anything that mattered to the baroness in public areas. She might’ve been a witch herself, or maybe the baron was a warlock. Njål didn’t tell me who performed the ritual that went wrong. It’s also possible that they’re not human—that they never were—rather, evil spirits that prey on others to work their wickedness in the world.
“Call it curiosity.”
As we climb, I become certain. I came here after I dream-walked, wanting to verify what I saw. Why didn’t I remember? I ran out of this room in abject terror, after smelling a strong rose perfume. Outside the sewing room, I close my eyes, reaching out with other senses. I’m getting better at this; there’s a faint glow, the residue from an incredibly old enchantment. I snap the remaining lines with two precise bursts of energy, and immediately, the air feels lighter, easier to breathe, even outside the chamber. When I step in, I’m not assailed by the sense that I’m trespassing.
Njål regards me with an unreadable expression. “What did you do?”
“Removed an old avoidance spell. The baroness must not have wanted people in here without her permission.” That tells me there might be something worth finding.
The room is just as I left it, including the blood-stained sampler. I bend to pick it up and Njål stops me with a palm on my shoulder. I can feel the tremor in his hand.
“Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” he whispers.
“Why, is it poisoned?” That’s meant as a joke, but as soon as I make it, I grasp that he’s serious. “I suppose that’s one way to remove your rivals.”
His shoulders are set and stiff, his hands locked before him in a posture of profound discomfort. “I remember…the lady who dropped that piece died a few days after her arrival, frothing at the mouth. It was certainly poison. The court whispered that she’d offended the baroness in some fashion.”
“Your memories are terrifying,” I whisper. “I understand why you avoid them. Do you remember any happiness, any joy at all?”
Njål considers, then he says, “My mother loved me. She gave me an earring before I left home, said I could sell it for pocket money. Instead, I’ve kept it with me all
