Glaring at the book, I leave it be for now and go tend to Agatha. Certain chores won’t wait, and she must be milked regularly. I make more cheese and save the rest of the milk for us to drink with supper. Njål notices my distraction after the second time I fail to respond; I need to do better at prevarication, or he’ll work out what I know.
To cover, I change the subject. “I’ve been reading your journal, the one you left in the library. You said that I could. The last entry was about your betrothal to a girl named Gilda. What happened to her?”
It was all so long ago that it’s impossible for me to be jealous. As he said, everything must feel like it happened to someone else. I can only imagine what it’s like to live so long; at some point, it must feel like torture, a road that stretches on forever with no end in sight and no destination either.
“She died,” he says quietly.
“In the ritual that went wrong?”
His head snaps up, and he stares at me, hard, across the worktable. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Did I let on that I understand more than I’m supposed to?
“How did you know?”
I pride myself on cleverness, and between what I’ve seen and heard while dream-walking and what I read in that infernal tome, I feel like I’ve got a grasp on what Njål suffered, if not on what happened thereafter. But I must be careful how much I reveal.
“She’s not here with you. If she changed as well, wouldn’t she be trapped instead of gone? It’s a reasonable assumption.”
“You . . . you haven’t gone back to that night? To see precisely what happened.”
A chill curls through me. I’m better at reading him now, and there’s definitely something he wants to hide. “No. I haven’t.”
“I see.” His shoulders drop with tangible relief.
I want to trust him because he’s all I have in the world, but doubts trickle in, water seeping into the cracked hull of a boat. I’m meant to believe that he was the victim, from start to finish, and it terrifies me that it might not be true. What if—
No.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop the thought from forming. What if he participated freely? Perhaps he was innocent once, but everyone has a breaking point. Everyone can be corrupted. What if I unravel this curse because he’s fooled me completely with his feigned gentleness, and I unleash a monster on the world?
My old fear returns as well. What if he’s the baron? What if he took Njål’s body after the change? Regardless of what else is true, the monsters in the east wing need to die. That’s undisputable.
And I want to keep believing in Njål. I’ll stay the course. Probably I’m just prone to suspecting everyone, for didn’t my own da try to sell me for twenty pounds of flour?
“The book belongs to the baroness,” I muse aloud. “Which means the baron may have left a similar object behind, something I can use to break the curse. Who knows, if I destroy both items, it might be enough.”
To weaken them to the point that I can destroy them both.
Njål circles the worktable and draws me into his arms, resting his chin atop my head. “Are you sure you wish to continue with this? I meant it when I said I’d rather remain trapped for eternity than see any harm come to you.”
Ah, that’s why I have faith in him. His sincerity shines like the sun, warming me as I settle into his embrace. “I’m certain. Can you think of anything that the baron carried around or used a lot? Something that had sentimental value. I found the spellbook by chance, but I can’t rely on luck going forward.”
He thinks for a moment and then says, “He wore a necklace, always. It was the tooth of some great beast he slew in his first hunt. Do you think—”
“It sounds like a talisman,” I cut in. “Which room did they use?”
Briefly, a conflicted expression twists his countenance. “I’ll take you there.”
It’s entirely possible that the baron is still wearing the damned thing, and that’s why Njål hesitated. He may already be aware there’s no point in searching for this, but I accompany him because I’m curious about the chamber they slept in. I might find something else in here, a weakness to exploit.
“I am so afraid,” Njål says.
At first I don’t register the words because his tone is so level and calm. But when I glance over at him, his hands are clenched, claws biting into his palms until I see the red dripping from self-inflicted wounds. Quickly I pull his fingers back, smearing myself with his blood in the process.
“Why?”
“You’ll break yourself on these walls trying to save me, and I can’t stop you.”
“Break myself because of the keep or the curse?”
“It’s the same, isn’t it? Bitterburn is alive in its own way.”
I agree with that, actually. And I’ve long thought that there were two factors in play here, one malicious and the other wild and full of caprice, like a child who hasn’t learned to be wise. I wonder if the intelligence will persist here after the baron and baroness are slain. And if so, how will this place change?
I say sternly, “You’re my lover, not my guardian. I don’t claim that your concern is misplaced, but please don’t allow it to devour you. And besides, how do you know I’m not supposed to be here, doing exactly what I am? Perhaps I’m supposed to set you free.”
“I’d love to believe that—to believe that I hadn’t been forgotten by fate, that I just have an inordinately long destiny thread.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to be born,” I tease.
“You were
