“Somehow I doubt it’ll be easy to get a cleric up here.”
“And if one came, he’d likely be added to the ice garden,” he says somberly.
It’s still baffling that I wasn’t. “True enough.”
“You’re worth waiting for, if there’s a chance that you’ll develop any fondness for one such as me.”
Njål has too many secrets and I have none. He knows that my family doesn’t want me and my lover perished. Such a sorrowful litany of truths, but they make me who I am.
This conversation carries too much weight. I’m not ready to make any declarations, especially not when it’s likely our hearts are swayed by sadness. He’s spoken with nobody else in countless years, so there’s no way he’s smitten with me personally. He might think Agatha is a fetching lass as well, given his lack of other options.
“I promised to check on our guest,” I say then. “You’re welcome to accompany me.”
He hesitates, at least, before refusing. “Best not.”
“What do you do with your time?” I ask, surprising myself.
“Mostly, I read. The keep has an extensive library, and I’ve read every book in it multiple times. Some I’ve reread so often that I can quote long passages, not that there was anyone to listen before.”
Wonder trickles through me. I’ve never known anyone who owned multiple books, apart from the old woman who ran the lending library when I was little. Visiting her was the bright spot of my week, and I was often punished for shirking chores to hole up with a storybook. When she passed away, her books were sold off to passing peddlers. Numbers took precedence in my father’s house, long hours devoted to balancing his ledgers and trying to find a few extra coppers if we cut back on candles or—
No, I won’t think about my old life.
“Is the library in the east wing?” I ask.
“It’s not. Why do you ask?”
I press my lips together, scared to make this request, because if he denies it, I’ll be angry and resentful. It’s difficult to ask for the things you want most.
“Because I would like to see it . . . and borrow books.” I rush onward. “I’ve never cared for a goat, you see, so perhaps I can find a book on animal husbandry, and—”
“Amarrah.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve little enough to give that might make you happy. Read every book in the library if you wish. Carry a whole pile of them to your room. Everything in the main keep is yours for the taking.”
I notice he still qualifies his bequest, but my heart trembles a little anyway, even though I understand that it means he doesn’t trust me completely. Perhaps I’ll invite him to my bed when he does.
In another life, I might have flirted with him. Said that currently he’s in the main keep, does that mean he belongs to me too? But whatever’s growing between Njål and me is too tender and tentative to tolerate such coquetry. He will take too much pleasure in my casual words, and I’ll regret that I can’t immediately deliver my whole heart on a platter. But it’s been diced so neatly that it will take time for me to reassemble the pieces, if that’s even possible. Perhaps I can only ever give him a pile of mince where my dearest love ought to be, and sadly, I reckon Njål might accept it because it’s more than he’s had in ages.
But we both deserve more. Perhaps time can grant it to us, just as it takes love away, like a sword that cuts both ways.
“I don’t know where it is. The place is huge, and I’d rather not risk a wrong turn.”
In response he gives precise directions that I memorize and repeat silently until I’m confident I can find the library without breaching his faith. Brimming with anticipation, I explode into motion, cleaning the kitchen with a fervor I’ve seldom felt. Imagine, a whole room full of books. I can’t even envision what they’d all be about. Stories or histories or dry accounts of the best way to grow turnips?
“You’re alight,” he says with a gruff sort of wonder.
At some point during my tidying spree, he slips away, leaving me to finish and wash my hands. I shouldn’t touch the precious books with grubby fingers. That done, I rush through the keep, taking the turns he specified, until I come to a pair of imposing double doors. They open silently, revealing a room that steals my breath. I’d imagined something like a gentleman’s study, but this? It’s a cathedral full of books with high arched windows covered in stained glass, roses grown wild on a wall, thorns and blooms entwined in equal measure. The shelves go all the way to the vaulted ceilings and there are multiple ladders with wheels on the bottom. I could spend two full weeks in here and not even skim all the titles. My heart flutters like a caged songbird.
Njål gave me this without hesitation. He said I could cart away books by the pile, hoard them in my room like a miser with a stack of gold. Exultation swells until I feel like shouting, and then I realize I don’t need to hold it in.
Who’s going to tell me I can’t scream with excitement? I do, joyous shrieks as I run from wall to wall, perusing the titles until I’m dizzy with the exhilaration. Drawing in a deep breath, I savor the smell of old parchment and fine leather, the touch of ink. A writing desk nestles into the corner, an antique pen discarded on an expensive looking notebook, along with pristine pages of expensive vellum. I’m tempted to poke through those notes, but he didn’t give permission for that. Maybe he’s forgotten they’re here?
I hesitate. He said anything in the main keep is mine. Is this a test?
In the end, I decide not to read what might be a private journal. If he’s checking to see if I can be trusted, I won’t take advantage of his kindness on a technicality. Besides, there are so many other things for me to read.
I lose track of time choosing one volume after another, and when I leave, I have poetry, a book of fairytales, a hefty tome on animal husbandry, and a thin little book called The Night Watchman. By now, the light has gone, just a faint glow to burnish the stained glass. I light a candle and carry everything back to the kitchen. I wish Njål was here to discuss my reading choices, but we can talk tomorrow.
Belatedly, I recall that I promised to call on Agatha. It’s true that she’s a goat with no sense of time, but promises are important. If I make excuses for my failures and rationalize the reasons why I don’t need to follow through, soon my word will mean nothing at all.
On impulse, I take The Night Watchman with me, along with the candle in its holder. Agatha is curled up in the straw when I arrive, and she blinks long-lashed eyes at me. Apparently, my absence alarmed her not at all.
On a whim, I ask, “Shall I read a chapter of this?”
She bleats. Somehow I doubt my animal husbandry book will insist that goats require bedtime stories, but I’m taking it as permission, so I settle onto a stool and open the book to the first page.
“‘The hours between midnight and dawn are the longest part of the night, the time when ghosts are most likely to wander . . .’” A soft sound outside makes me falter, and then I know, not because I can hear anything or smell his soap and pine scent, but because he’s familiar to me, like the shape of my own hands. Njål is here, standing outside listening to the story, desperate for contact and comfort but afraid to step out of the shadows. I wish he dared. I wished I was brave enough to open the door and invite him in, but I’m not. I let him lurk and keep reading as if I suspect nothing.