Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales Book 1)

by Ann Aguirre

  The night is long, and I don’t sleep much. In the morning, I change my pattern and cook what I can find for my family, including fritters and vegetable soup. The last of the potatoes are withered and the carrots are wrinkly, but they soften up in the salted water. I find a handful of walnuts and add them to the broth as well. This is what my family has, and I’ve no idea if they can acquire more. The miller probably won’t extend credit for more flour; he didn’t seem pleased with Da letting me go like that.

  Tillie is well enough to climb down on her own to eat, and she’s so delighted to sample my cooking again that I feel guilty because I’m already mentally packing my bags. I can’t wait to go home. Can’t wait to stop feeling guilty and miserable within walls that are no longer—no, never were—my own.

  Da and Catherine eat in morose silence, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but there seems to be a tension present here that wasn’t before.

  Exactly what’s going on?

  24.

  Da and Catherine exchange a look, and I sense them talking silently. Then Da says, “It’s good to have you back.”

  Is it because he’s honestly happy, or because I made soup and corn fritters and Catherine’s food doesn’t taste as good? The girls devour their portion as if it’s been ages since they had anything this delicious. Tillie eats while sitting on my lap. We’re all gathered around the low table in the living area with the fire crackling.

  Since the cottage is small and my sister is in my lap, it’s warmer than usual, at least physically. A scene like this should feel cozy, but it never did before. And it still doesn’t because a secret hangs heavy in the air, tangible enough that only the girls don’t notice.

  “Thank you for coming,” Catherine says finally.

  It seems difficult for her to get the words out. I can’t recall if she’s ever thanked me for anything before. Both she and Da always took for granted that I would work, as if I were born for the role.

  That peculiar tension persists even after the meal. I play with the girls for a while, but Tillie tires swiftly so I help her back to the loft. Our parents head out to the brewing shed out back, not that there’s any point in working there anymore.

  Up in the loft, I tuck Tillie in, pulling the quilt up to her chin. I hear Millie acting out a scene with her dolls downstairs and wonder why my sisters are so different in resilience despite being twins. I’ve been ignoring the soft taps on the wards I laid at Bitterburn, not heeding signals of what’s going on there. But for the first time, I realize that I can sense threads here too, as if something has awakened since I went away and returned.

  A little shiver runs through me, and I recognize the feeling. That terrible voice tried to claim that I got my power from Bitterburn, but it’s still here with me, electrifying my skin and lifting the hair on the back of my neck, like the ability wants me to use it. On impulse, I close my eyes and extend my senses toward my sleeping sister. Inside her, I find a tangle of inky threads, like the ones that tie Bitterburn to the land. Something is drawing the vitality straight out of Tillie, and with this new internal sight, I can tell she won’t last the winter. The next fever will take her.

  I don’t have a book of charms, no formal chant to power this spell, but I can’t look away. I can’t leave without attempting to save Tillie. Calming myself, I reach and try, knowing it will hurt her if I sever all these tendrils that are woven through her like a web. I must search for loose ends and pull gently, like I’m unraveling a badly knit scarf.

  I focus all my attention on searching, until I can’t even feel my body. The world recedes until I can only see the whorls of darkness, homing in until I see the starting point. I’m intuiting how to do this, but it feels right and natural, slowly drawing it out. Even dark energy must go somewhere, so I feed it into a dying tree in the back garden. Something must be draining her life with purpose, but whoever is using Tillie in this way, they will only kill the tree, and then there will be no more life to take. The tree’s already dying, riddled with rot, so I’m not doing anything dire. At least I hope I’m not. Maybe this is how one becomes a wicked witch, choosing who to save.

  But I’ve already done this once, when I nursed Tillie and neglected Owen. If I don’t save Tillie now, it will be like he died for nothing. At last I excise the final thread, and as I open my eyes, Tillie relaxes in her sleep, her little hands uncurling.

  Quickly I check the tree to make sure the parasitic strands aren’t sinking into the surrounding land, using the roots to feed, but the tendrils are tangled up in the roots that have rotted and are no longer pulling nutrients from the soil. Good, I’ve created a trap for whatever this is, instead of starting a blight.

  But this energy is so familiar. It reminds me of the curse, what I feel inside Bitterburn. There must be a connection, but I’m missing something. I’m the primary link between those two places. But I . . . couldn’t have put a hex on Tillie without realizing it, could I? Like I wished for goats, perhaps before I realized that I have power, I angrily wished that she would disappear? I have no idea if magic works that way outside of the keep, and there’s no one I can ask.

  Or . . . maybe there is.

  Silently I slip out of the loft and head for the brewing shed. Millie grabs my skirt as I pass by. “Are you going?”

  “Just to talk to Da,” I say.

  She smiles so brightly as she lets go that I feel guilty because I’m not staying. The truth is that I am going, but I can nurse Tillie for a day or two longer to make sure that my spiritual and physical treatments took, and that Tillie will thrive even after I’m gone. It’s ironic that she was impacted, because she always loved me most, like anyone who cares for me will inevitably suffer harm.

  Maybe I’m just not thinking straight. Truth is, I’m exhausted and hungry, as I haven’t eaten more than two bites since I’ve been here. I can’t eat comfortably in this house, as Da and Catherine always made me feel like I’m stealing food directly from the girls’ mouths. And they still do, though now their gazes are layered with . . . I don’t know what. Expectation? But what more can they possibly want from me? I curl my hands into fists.

  The brewing shed is a ramshackle wooden hut with a scrap of rawhide where the door ought to be. A strong wind could topple this place, and there would be no funds to restore it. I can’t see Da and Catherine, but I hear them talking, as there’s nothing to block the sound in such a rickety outbuilding. I’m sure they don’t expect me to bother them, as I never have. Before, I looked after the girls without hesitation or complaint, but things have changed since I left.

  As I approach, Catherine says in a low voice, “It’s for the best. Just give her the medicine, and when she wakes up, she’ll belong to Bascom. It’s a miracle he wants—”

  “What are you talking about?” I shove past the door flap and storm into the brew shed, folding my arms with barely restrained fury. “What medicine?” They can’t possibly mean what I think they do. Bascom is the baker, and he’s older than my father.

  Catherine has the grace to look ashamed, her eyes cutting away from mine. She won’t explain, so it falls to Da.

  “It won’t hurt you,” he says gruffly. “Just a little something to make you sleep. It’s past time you started living like a normal woman, and Bascom asked for you.”

  “Promised us twenty pounds of flour for your hand,” Catherine adds, like that makes it better, not worse.

  “I’m not yours to sell!” I snarl. The power comes, tingling in my fingertips. “I never was, but especially not now.”

  “It’s nothing other women don’t do,” Catherine snaps. “You just need to lay back and think of something else.”

  “Bascom is three times my age and he’s already got a wife!” That’s not even the worst part of this. I can’t get my head around it; that’s how awful and looming it is.

  “She’s dying,” Da says in a toneless voice. “And he needs a helpmeet in his twilight years, someone to help with the bakery and warm his bed. You’ll do.
I married your mother when she was younger than you! It’s time for you to contribute—”

  “I’ve done nothing but contribute since I was small! And the fact that you married my mother when she was practically a child is nothing to brag about, you deviant.”

  “How dare you. I loved that woman with my whole heart and—”

  Slamming a palm against the wall, Catherine cuts off Da’s declaration, glaring at both of us. “You loved her, aye, her and her witchy ways. She ensorcelled you, she did, or you’d have been mine to start with.”

  “Go inside,” Da tells Catherine firmly.

  And she listens, albeit not without directing another hard look at me. Once she’s gone, I close my eyes, willing myself to be patient. But my resolve snaps when Da says, “I fed you. Clothed you. You owe—”

  “Nothing,” I cut in. “I cooked. I cleaned. I assisted in the brewing shed and looked after my sisters. There shouldn’t be debt between parents and children, but if there is, then mine is paid in full. We will not discuss this again. I won’t eat anything you give me while I’m here, so don’t even try. I’m sorry Bascom’s wife is dying, but I won’t replace her.”

  I take a step, planning to exit on that line, but then I realize I’ve been diverted from my purpose. I meant to ask about my mother, the one Catherine called “witchy.”

  “Before I go, answer one thing.”

  “What?” he snaps.

  “Why did Catherine say my mother had witchy ways?” Did I inherit this from her?

  He shrugs, eyes going distant. “She always claimed she was descended from the old baron, from an unofficial line. And your ma was beautiful, but . . . strange. Other-like. You remember how birds would come to her when she sang? Voice of an angel . . . squirrels would eat out of her hand. Nonsense like that had people talking, and it got bad before she died. They were talking about calling the witch finders because somebody’s milk went off. But why’re you suddenly asking about your ma? You know it’s hard for me.”

  I sigh. Everything is always about him. He’s never once cared what might be best for me. I refuse to apologize. Not after what they planned to do to me. I say nothing, but he’s not done complaining.

  “All the light left when she did,” he mutters. “I haven’t slept well any night since.”

  “Yes. You’ve told me.”

  So many times.

  But it sounds as if my mother might be descended from one of the baron’s bodies? Some party long ago, where people drank and tumbled, a maidservant who left the keep with a seed planted? I’m only guessing, of course, but maybe it explains my connection to the keep and this power that awakened unexpectedly.

  I’m numb.

  I must be, because it doesn’t even hurt, staring at this man and knowing he planned to give me a sleeping draught and turn me over to Bascom, who would’ve done gods know what to my unconscious body with his wife dying in the other room. No wonder witches become evil—I feel myself slipping, wanting to punish Da for treating me this way.

  “We would’ve had enough to eat for the whole winter,” Da says quietly. “If you were willing to help.”

  “Why not boil me down to bones and gobble me up instead?” My voice breaks, and I hate that weakness. “You might as well consume me directly.”

  “Such a sick mind.” Da takes a step back, like my diseased brain might be contagious.

  “You’re the one who tried to barter me. I won’t stay the night.”

  “It’s on your conscience if we can’t last the winter.”

  “Why?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “I’m your daughter too. Why must I always be the sacrifice? You wouldn’t ask this of Millie or Tillie.”

  “They’re just children!” His fury has weight, but I don’t step back.

  I take in the broken veins in his nose, his unshaven jaw, and the silver threading his hair. Townsfolk would say I shouldn’t speak to my father like this; they would only call me disrespectful, unfilial, and strange—percolating with outrageous ideas, likely learned from books I ought not to have been reading when there was real work to be done.

  “So was I, Da. Though you never let me be. Do you know I have a scar, here?” I bare the mark on my forearm. “From cooking when I was too small to properly lift the pan. I scrubbed until my knuckles bled and you only ever expected more. Why do they get to be little girls but not me?”

  He has no answer for that, but I didn’t expect one either. Perhaps a small part of me hoped he would offer some explanation, maybe even an apology, because surely he knows—he sees—how differently he treats me from the twins. The silence is colder than the longest winter night.

  I turn and leave the brewing shed then. It reeks in here, the bitter scent of hops and the sweet-sour stink of fermenting mash.

  Gods, but I want to go home.

  25.

  I’m so tired.

  I haven’t dared eat anything since I overheard Da and Catherine plotting to sell me to Bascom, so I’ve only had water that I draw personally from the well. Now, my sisters are asleep, and Da is tucked up in bed with Catherine in the niche on the other side of the kitchen. The cottage is mainly one open room with alcoves here and there for the illusion of privacy. Only a curtain separates the parents from the children, and my heart pounds like a team of runaway horses as I creep out of the loft.

  After I climb down the ladder, I pause, avoiding the squeaky floorboard that will give me away. I’ve said my goodbyes. When I got in the miller’s cart the first time, I didn’t plan on coming back. I’m not sorry I returned for Tillie, but I’m finished with this place.

  I’ve done enough, and the fact that I’m connected to these people by blood doesn’t mean they can demand mine. If they deserve to live freely, so do I.

  Slowly, I sneak out of the cottage, careful not to bump anything. My bag is light and I’m quiet as a mouse in leaving this house for what I hope will be the last time. I bear no ill will toward the girls, but I’ve had my fill of being used.

  I deserve better.

  The snow is still falling, pristine and untouched by carts and wagons at this hour. Everything is blanketed in white, the tree branches glazed in ice, and it’s pretty in a stark, desolate way. As I trudge down the road that leads out of town, Bascom steps out of his house, situated right next to the bakery. It makes sense that he would be awake to make the day’s bread, assuming he has any supplies left to do so. Or maybe he just needs a break from watching his dying wife.

  He’s an old man, stooped and thin, with a shock of salt and pepper hair. Bakers ought to be round and jolly, but this one isn’t, all pinched features and a permanent scowl. “Leaving already,” he says. “You must really like it up at the keep.”

  There are so many things I could say.

  “And you must not love your wife very much if you’re already lining up her replacement before she’s even gone.”

  “I’ll make you sorry, you little—”

  The spark flickers from me without my volition and suddenly his overcoat is smoldering. Bascom drops to the snow and he’s rolling to extinguish the tiny flame as I stride away into the darkness. I’d rather be a witch than a helpless damsel any day. This whole town can go to hell.

  Soon, I regret that waste of energy as my defiance fades, leaving me vulnerable to cold and hunger as I climb. The path didn’t seem this steep or winding when I rode most of the way in the miller’s cart, but now that I’m dragging my tired body up the mountain under my own power, it might as well be five hundred miles, all the way to the great city of Kerkhof. I’ve always wanted to go, but now I’ll be lucky to make it back to Bitterburn.

  I stumble in the snow, pitching forward onto my knees. The pillowy coldness cushions my fall, but it’s hard to get up again. My hands and feet are numb; so is my face. Whirling snow makes it hard to see as well, though I stick to the path as best I can. Hopefully I’m almost there, as I don’t know how much longer I can walk. Perhaps I should have waited until daylight; at least it would be w
armer then.

  It feels like I’ve been climbing forever, but I’ve no idea how far I’ve come.

  To my amazement, a familiar figure comes trotting toward me. Agatha bleats expectantly, trots forward a few steps, then waits, as if expecting me to follow. I stagger forward and hold on to her neck, letting her support and guide me.

  The storm lessens as we push upward, which seems odd, but maybe the wards I laid are helping? I only tried to impact the weather in the kitchen garden, but it’s better here than it was in the village. It should get colder as we climb—and it did before—but now, the air hurts my lungs less the closer we get to Bitterburn.

  I made the place mine. Naturally it’s more hospitable to my needs.

  That’s my own inner voice, not the scary one.

  At last, the keep comes into sight, looming and forbidding as always, but somehow it feels more welcoming than the cottage I left, likely because Njål is waiting for me inside.

  The portcullis is partly raised. How the hell did Agatha manage that? Or did Njål ask her to go look for me? The fact that the gate is open worries me though, and with my last burst of energy, I dash inside, through the courtyard and into the kitchen, where the fire has gone out.

  “Njål!” I call.

  Everything is still and quiet, like it was when I first arrived, though my traces remain. The way I organized the pantry, the order of the copper pots, and the bundles of dried herbs—that’s all the same.

  But Njål doesn’t answer.

  I search everywhere I’m allowed to go, and he still doesn’t come.