Why am I the exception? Perhaps it’s because I didn’t intend to take anything away from here. I only ever meant to work and possibly find a place to call my own, even if it seems sinister and strange to the rest of the world. Others might posit that they’re the chosen one, destined to bring life back to this barren place, but me? I’m just another desolate space. So maybe that’s it; the keep recognized me as an extension of itself.
The goat bleats, distracting me from my dark thoughts. “What’s your name, hm?”
Silence. I don’t know what I was expecting, though talking animals wouldn’t seem out of place in the fairy tale I’ve stumbled into.
“Meredith?” I try.
No response.
“Nancy? I guess not.”
The goat stares, as if wondering whether I’ve lost my mind.
“Agatha?”
She bleats in response, so I’m taking that as agreement.
“Excellent. I’m happy to have you here, Agatha, but I’m a bit worried. There’s nothing for you to eat, and I’ve never looked after any animals apart from Brave Sir Reginald. It didn’t end well for him, you see, though that wasn’t entirely my fault. At least my stepmother’s not here or she’d likely roast you over an open fire.”
Agatha widens her eyes, alarmed as well she should be.
I’m studying the goat, trying to decide what to do with her, when I recall that this place has a stable. That’s the natural place for a goat to live, but I don’t know how to herd a goat. To my surprise, she follows me like a puppy when I leave the courtyard, her little hooves clacking on the cobblestone. I lead the way to the stables, which I’ve only seen from the outside, as I’ve been more occupied with making the keep more habitable. I push open the door and stop, rubbing my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
This . . . is not normal. Nothing about Bitterburn is, but there are no signs of pests here either. No rats to nibble the leather or spiders to adorn the place with webs. From the gleaming tack to the pristine feed bags, this space looks untouched by time, the hay perfectly fresh as it must have been on the first day of the curse. Where is the dust? All the grain for the horses is dry and new looking, whereas the supplies sent from the village spoiled in their containers.
How does the magic work exactly? Why did our goods go bad? Because they’re from outside the walls, perhaps. Njål must have carried them in, so they must have dropped them right outside the portcullis. Puzzling over such things makes my head hurt.
I wonder if it’s safe for—
Agatha has no such doubts. She’s already munching on some hay, showing no hesitation or distaste. I should have wished for a pregnant goat, I suppose, because now I have a goat that I won’t kill for meat and that I can’t milk. Still, at least she’s company, and there’s plenty of fodder in the stable for the time being. It’s stocked for forty horses, not a single scrawny goat.
“Stay here,” I tell her. “I have to make supper, but I’ll check on you later. Don’t eat until you’re sick. This has to last for a while.”
Gods know what I’ll do when she runs out of hay, but for now . . . I hurry to the kitchen to check my provisions. I’m already tired of beans, so I’ll make lentil soup instead. It’s a minor but important distinction. Wistfully I think of the venison I took for granted as a little girl, but even the deer herds have thinned because they can’t find enough to eat.
I’ve got the soup simmering when I hear Njål approach. He no longer tries to conceal his arrival, and I don’t feel like I’m being watched anymore. He stays in the shadows near the doorway. My other senses have sharpened since I’ve been here. I can’t see him, but I pinpoint his location by the smell of the raw lye soap he washes with and the hint of pine, likely boughs he’s laid in his drawers to freshen his clothes, though maybe that’s simply how he smells. I don’t even know if he wears clothes. I haven’t washed anything of his since I’ve been here, nor have I seen him doing so, even from a distance.
But then, I avoid the east wing, as instructed. If that’s the best way to keep him happy and to stay safe, it’s the least I can do. And there’s plenty to occupy me elsewhere. When curiosity nibbles at me like a hungry mouse, I shoo it away with impatient hands.
My life is decent. Not idyllic like a child’s imaginings, but life seldom is. There are shadows and sorrows, shards of broken dreams so sharp they’d cut my hands if I reached for them. For me, Owen is that dream, one that almost came true. The “almost” ruins me, time and again, so I wake with tears on my cheeks, my chest stinging with tightness.
The worst part about Owen is that I can’t allow myself to remember what he was like when he was alive. Those memories hurt too much. He had no family, and I was the one who loved him best, so it fell to me to wash his body and lay him out for burial. And once you’ve cleaned someone’s cold hands, you can’t bear to recall how it felt to hold them when they were warm. That chill stays with you, eating away at the memories until you only see their death. I didn’t even have two coppers to set on his eyes. Someone else donated them, and that hurts me too. He died alone in his little room above the smith’s workshop, perhaps waiting for me to come.
And I didn’t. Because my sisters had a touch of the same fever that took Owen, and I was nursing Tillie, who was always smaller and weaker than her twin. Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wonder if I should have chosen him. If I’d left home, if I had nursed him and made him healing broths, could I have saved him instead? But nobody should be forced to make that choice, to decide which sort of love is more precious.
Truly, I didn’t know he was that sick. Not until it was too late. He hid it from me, not wanting me to worry. He met his goal, sure enough—I didn’t worry but I did grieve and I do still, mentally raking my choices like hot coals that give no warmth. Irritated with myself for obsessing over events I can’t change, I slap together the fry bread dough and pummel it a bit more than I need to. It may come out tough but I doubt Njål will complain.
Finally, he speaks. “You seem upset.”
“It’s nothing new.”
“Would it help to talk about it?”
I’m surprised he asked. “Just the opposite. I hate myself for being this way, but sometimes I get stuck, and I can’t stop my thoughts.”
“Mulling over things you can’t change.”
I stare in his direction, wishing I could see his expression, but he’s only given me his voice. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve looped the tale in my head a thousand times. Was there a path I could have taken that led somewhere else? Or do all my roads end this way?”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here,” I say then.
“It’s been ages since I heard that.” The pleasure in his voice is unmistakable, and I’ve started to enjoy that deep rasp. I want him to talk to me; I could listen for hours to the hoarse softness that means Njål is with me.
That unusual anticipation makes me feel . . . something. I’m uncomfortable and not ready to examine it further so I change the subject. “Did you know we have a guest?”
“Who?” he demands, all gentleness erased so cleanly that I wonder if I imagined it.