“Her name is Agatha. She’s currently munching on hay in the stables.”
“Pardon me?”
“Agatha is a goat,” I clarify. “I’ve no idea how the hay is still good, but it’s perfectly preserved.” On impulse, I share the fleeting wish I made silently the day before, finishing with, “It’s rather odd, isn’t it? Can the keep read my mind?”
“Not exactly,” he says.
Startled, I ask, “But it’s something like that?”
“For some reason, the keep wants you to stay. Therefore, it provides what you require as an inducement. I would be careful, however, as it can be cruel and mercurial.”
“If I wished to see my family, it might lure them here and turn them to ice,” I suggest. “That sort of thing.”
“So they can be with you eternally.” There’s a heaviness to his tone now, as if he has personal experience in this area.
I don’t ask. Part of me wants to, but getting close to Njål doesn’t seem like the wisest idea for a whole host of reasons. Silently, I admit that I’m tempted, but I’m here to cook and clean, not delve into the mysteries of Bitterburn and its fascinating captive. Resolutely I stir the soup and roll out the first piece of flatbread, then drop it in the skillet. The bread puffs as it sizzles and Njål draws in an appreciative breath.
“I could eat that daily for ten years and not get tired of it.”
“What did you do before I arrived?”
He said he handled his own meals, but the kitchen didn’t show any signs of use before I cleaned it. There’s a long pause, as if he doesn’t want to answer.
I’m about to disavow the question when he says softly, “I starved, mostly. There was no reason to bother.”
“You . . . just didn’t eat?” Starvation eventually leads to death, even among the cursed. Or at least, I thought that must be true.
“When I said I can’t leave, I meant it utterly. If simple hunger could end my life, I’d have died long since.”
“You’re saying that you can’t die.” I wonder if he gets weak and thin, or if he doesn’t need to eat? I doubt he’d welcome my curiosity, however.
“If only I could,” he says wearily. “But the keep and its magic sustain me, keeping me alive to ensure that the torment is eternal and that my isolation is infinite.”
“But it’s not. Not anymore. The keep let me in. What does that mean?”
Njål lets out a long breath. “I wish I knew. But long and terrible experience makes me fear that Bitterburn has found a new way to torment me.”
5.
It’s difficult to conceal my reaction to that unexpectedly hurtful remark.
My presence is a torment? Njål has been amiable so far, but I ought to have known not to get comfortable with such kindness. I finish my food in silence, then I begin clearing the remainder of the meal without replying. What can I say anyway? He knows that I have nowhere to go, even if I’m made to feel vastly unwelcome.
“Amarrah?” The questioning tone makes it worse, as if he truly has no notion how terrible I feel.
“Is there something more you require, sir?” That formality is my only defense, and I use it like a shield.
“I can tell that you’re upset, but I don’t know why.”
That’s the last straw. I can’t pretend to be fine, speak politely when I want to chuck this dish at his head. I hurl the rag in his general direction instead. “You just said I exist to plague you! Those who scrub and toil have feelings, Sir Njål. Perhaps that will come as a shock, as I suspect you enjoyed a life of leisure before you got yourself cursed.”
“Oh.” The single syllable does nothing to appease me and I’m about to keep ranting when he adds quickly, “That’s not what I mean. Bitterburn granted you as an unexpected gift, and I’m afraid that when I come to depend on you, look forward to eating and speaking with you, once I settle into that comfort, you’ll be taken. I don’t want you to be hurt because of me! And renewed isolation would be a fresh torture. I greatly fear . . .”
“Losing me?” That changes everything. My anger fades as fast as it came, as realization dawns. “You’re afraid something bad will happen.”
“I fear for your safety,” he admits softly.
“Is that why you tried to keep your distance initially?” I ask.
“Part of it. But I also thought you’d soon see how bleak and terrible this place is, and that you’d go after a night or two.”
“I like it here,” I say.
Here, nobody rebukes me. No one is disappointed. I have my own private, cozy space, and for the time being, there’s plenty of food. That won’t always be true, of course, with no more supplies coming from town, but neither of us eats that much and we have years of staples to work through. And I have Agatha now. Slowly, the keep is coming to feel like home, and maybe I’m foolish, but I don’t fear this place the way Njål seems to. I don’t feel uneasy or threatened, though the keep is admittedly strange, much like Njål.
Who has been silent for so long that I imagine he means to creep off quietly without responding. But he finally says, “I’ve no idea why, as there’s nothing here that anyone would want. But I’m glad.”
“You’re here.” Oh, gods, why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?
Judging by the sharp intake of breath, I’ve stunned him. “Are you . . . you can’t be saying what I think you are.”
“That I want you?”
Do I? I’m not even sure in what sense, but yes. I’d miss his visits if he stopped coming. I’d hate eating alone and having no contact to liven up my daily chores.
“Amarrah, don’t game with me. You’ve no idea how desperate and wild you’re making me feel.”
“I’m sorry for that. I’m not provoking you intentionally. I wasn’t saying I want your company in the night yet, but I do like having you in the kitchen.”
“Ah,” he says.
And I have the sense that I’ve hurt him, raised his hopes and dashed them nearly in the same breath. It’s too soon, though. Owen’s death haunts me and I know little of Njål, only the sound of his voice, really. And by all the bright gods, I never loved Owen fully, not in the physical sense, because we were waiting for the right time, for him to finish his apprenticeship and for us to build a little cottage where it would be just the two of us.
I ought to have gone to his room and showed him my adoration, even if it was awkward, because then at least I’d have the memory to keep me warm. Life is a series of imperfect occasions, messy and convoluted and full of doubts. Waiting for perfection simply means waiting forever and never experiencing anything at all.
“Amarrah. You said ‘yet.’”
I smile as I pick up the cloth I threw. “I did. There may come a time when my bed feels empty and I’ll ask you to join me there. I can’t promise that I will, however, because feelings are often uncertain, unpredictable as butterflies. Will you wait?”
He surprises me with a soft chuckle. “I can do little damn else. If patience is a virtue, then I’m a saint and need only to be recognized by the church.”