“Did it hurt?” I ask.
“What?”
“When you changed, did it hurt?”
“It was excruciating. Bones breaking and realigned. I vomited blood . . .” Njål lets out a long, steadying breath. “I shouldn’t burden you with that.”
“I want to know more, and I’ll ask, once you’re free. Do you promise to answer? Even things that are difficult. You know everything about me, and—”
“Yes. If you break the curse, I will answer all your questions. I promise.”
“Don’t forget you agreed then.”
That’s enough for me. He’s sworn honestly—I’d know if he was lying, as he’s incredibly inept at it. My little sisters are better at deception. Likely it comes from living in isolation for so long, since he’s had nobody to fool. I take his hand, enjoying the chance to pace through the keep with him at my side, no longer hiding from my sight while observing me from the shadows.
The necklace burns in my pocket, still radiating that odd heat, and I touch it in reflex, hoping that my possession of their talismans doesn’t draw them out of the east wing before I’m armed, ready to fight.
“Is it protected also?” he asks as we retrace our steps.
I haven’t checked yet, but I suspect so. A quick peek into the spirit realm confirms it. “Not as strongly as the book, but yes.”
In the great hall I pause. If my suspicions are correct, I need that ritual blade. The last time I was down here, I was too frightened to search, and moreover, I had no notion what I ought to be looking for. But the item is fresh in my mind from dream-walking. I truly believe that Bitterburn—the aspect that isn’t evil—is guiding me.
“I need to go down there,” I say, pausing Njål with a hand on his arm.
To his credit, he doesn’t ask why. And this time he doesn’t discourage me. With startling deftness despite the claws, he pops the secret panel and the door swings open. We don’t have a lamp, but from the gleam of his eyes, I suspect he doesn’t need one.
He leads me downstairs without missing a step, proving me right. “What are we looking for?”
I stumble over what’s most likely a femur and shudder from head to toe. “The ritual knife. I can’t see a damn thing. If you can’t find it, I’ll need to come back with a candle.”
“I’ve got it,” he says tonelessly. “They were meticulous with their supplies before . . .” He trails, unwilling or unable to complete the thought.
If it gives him any horror to handle such a terrible thing, he doesn’t show it. I rush out of the bone room, flesh crawling. Pain leaves a mark, an indelible impression on the ether, and so many died down here, so many souls devoured with unholy relish. I’m shivering when I emerge into the great hall. Njål is slower behind me, bearing the blade as if it carries much more weight. He ports it warily to my room and stows it in a crate without letting me touch it. Even he uses the edges of his shirt, and knowing what it was used for, I can’t blame him.
“I’m so tired.” It’s not an exaggeration when I stretch and hear my joints pop like I’m an extremely old woman. “Would you like to come with me to see Agatha and Bart?”
“There’s nothing I’d enjoy more. Just a moment.”
Njål rushes off in the direction of the library, and when he returns, he’s holding a book. I smile at him, because this proves I was right about him hovering outside the stable that night. Back then, he listened to me read, perhaps with wistful longing, and he chooses to be part of that now, no longer a lonely exile.
Taking my hand, Njål pulls me through the kitchen. It’s cold as abandonment outside, and I shiver as I run from the house to the stable. In the moonlight, the ice statues gleam with eerie light, and I wonder what will happen to them if I break the curse. Will they return as they were? Or will time have their way with them? I suppose it depends on how long they’ve been frozen. There’s nothing in my witching book to explain any of this; I’m doing my best, based on hints and instincts.
The goats huddle together for warmth in the straw. It’s better in here, not as warm as my room with its cheerful, crackling fire. Bart and Agnes bleat in greeting, and we settle in next to them. Then Njål opens the book, a new novel that looks interesting. I said that, rather. He’s read everything in the library, though he doesn’t always recall plot points. As time passes, memories blur for him. That’s the one blessing about his situation. I suspect he’s lost years this way, drowning in fiction and drink.
Listening to Njål read soothes Agatha, and she lets me milk her with minimal protest. Eventually a yawn practically cracks my jaw, and Njål closes the book with a snap. “Good night, Lady Doe and Lord Buck.”
I shouldn’t find it dashing when he sweeps me into his arms and collects the milk pail with one hand, bending effortlessly even while holding my full weight. Just imagine how much harm he could do, if he turned that strength against someone.
But not me, never me. I trust that he’d suffer grievous harm before hurting me.
Maybe Gilda believed that too, the invidious voice whispers.
30.
Before bed, I tend to Njål’s wounds.
The old ones have formed fresh scars and the new slashes are raw. Both have been inflicted by the same source. He doesn’t speak as I clean and dress the gouges in his flesh, not acknowledging that he risked so much to retrieve the necklace, and here I’m not even certain about my methods.
“Better?” I ask.
“Indescribably
