“Have you forgotten that I’m a witch?” I cut in.
I’ve been perusing my book of charms endlessly, and I found one that’s perfect. Illusions are difficult and costly to maintain, but a soft distraction spell could be bound to a talisman that Njål can wear. It would just mean that people won’t pay attention to him. When he passes by, they’ll register a large person, but no special details. With great excitement, I explain my idea.
“Would that work?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“You’re not the one who’ll have people screaming if it fails,” he mutters.
I ignore his skepticism. “Can I borrow something of personal value? It would help if you already have an attachment to the object.”
“My mother’s earring.” Njål produces a small silver hoop, the one he told me about that he didn’t sell for pocket money.
Perfect. I cup the jewelry in my palms and whisper the spell, imbuing it with the fullness of my intent. “You see him pass, but he is glass and you look through. Never see, never tell, he is not the one for you.” The tingle in my fingers tells me the charm took. Pleased, I regard Njål. “It’s done. Is your ear pierced?”
He recoils at once. “It is not.”
“It will be.” With a mock-menacing air, I step toward him.
Gods, but it shouldn’t be so funny when he runs. At first, I laugh so hard I can’t even breathe, let alone chase him, and then the goats get involved.
In the end, it takes all damn afternoon to get the hoop in Njål’s ear.
32.
As spring finally supplants winter, I succeed in convincing Njål that we gain nothing by huddling in this desolate ruin.
With the curse broken, Bitterburn is just a drafty old keep, nothing mystical about it. I’d wondered if the place would still retain its sense of sentience, but no. Pests creep in from the east wing and soon, there’s little I can do to staunch the flow of time. If we stay, we’ll only stand witness to the place’s swift deterioration, and it will break my heart to lose all those beautiful books.
“Is there anything you wish to take away from here?” I ask.
He brushes a tender hand across my hair. “Only you.”
I’m a bit more pragmatic and I take a few valuable texts from the library, including The Witch Within the Walls and a gorgeous illustrated book of fables. Then I choose some jewelry that we can sell to finance our new life. That done, it doesn’t take long for me to pack my things. My “new” clothes are no longer fit to pack, rapidly succumbing to the tides of time, now that the preserving magic has gone. I take only what I arrived with, one dress for work and another for good.
I’m not sure, of course, but I think Cradock went as well when I banished the baron and baroness to the other side of the mirror. Or maybe he lingered long enough to hear Njål recite the prayer for the dead in Old Skyr. At any rate, all three of them have vacated the premises, the curse ended at last. Soon the place will become unlivable, I suspect, and even the stones may tumble as the mortar crumbles.
We need to buy Njål a few things in town before we depart for good. Close inspection may strain the talisman, but there’s a rag and bone shop where he can purchase the bare minimum without submitting to measurements from a tailor. Since he’s large, the selection may be limited, but the smith is a burly man. If need be, I can ask his sizes and have something made.
I find Bart and Agatha in the stable, nearly out of hay. Luckily, it’s spring and they’ll find plenty to eat in the wild. If not for my wish, they might’ve frozen this winter, so I’ll forgive myself for the loss of their kid. They’re not bound to this place by magic anymore and I don’t own them, so I can only say farewell.
“Thank you for your company,” I say sincerely. “We’re leaving now, and you’re free to do as you please. Look after each other and farewell.”
The goats stare at me and then each other. I don’t know if they understood a word I said. Regardless, I’ve done what seems right. Njål’s waiting for me by the gate, eager to be off, now that he’s acclimated to the idea of going.
The weather is fine when we set out, and as it happens, we leave just in time, for we meet five men on the mountain road, armed with cudgels. They’re all lean and grizzled, barely hanging on after the hard winter. From the look of it, they mean to take what they can from Bitterburn or die trying. As we draw closer, I recognize Ezra Cooper. He’s a friend of the kindly miller who drove me up here last fall, and he knows me too.
“Amarrah,” he greets me. “Survived the long ice, did you?”
I wait for them to react to Njål but the charm works. The men each nod in his general direction, but their gazes slide away, back to me. “I did, yes. It’s a wreck, but you might find something worth selling if you search well.”
“That’s the plan. Did we really waste all that food for no good reason?” Cooper slaps his thigh in apparent outrage and disgust.
“I swear there was a monster,” another says in a small voice. “My uncle went in twenty years ago and didn’t come out.”
Someone else nods. “It wasn’t just stories.”
I nip this in the bud, as we need to move on. “Whatever was there isn’t anymore. Maybe it finally died. My man and I are heading to Kerkhof after we get supplies in town.”
“That’s a long journey,” Cooper notes. He shakes his head with a laugh. “Only you could storm off to a haunted castle and return triumphant with a strapping beau.”
Beside me, Njål smothers a laugh at
