Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales Book 1)

by Ann Aguirre

  I’m sad for Agatha, who follows me about as if I can produce a living kid for her to nurse. In the end, I consult my animal husbandry book and struggle to milk her. Agatha does not make it easy, but after about five failures, I figure it out. Apparently, it needs to be done twice a day from here on out. I got my wish, as she’s producing milk, but I can’t feel good about it. As Njål predicted, there were painful consequences.

  My mood is grim as I thumb through another tome, learning how to turn this into the cheese I desperately wanted when I first arrived. I didn’t expect that there would be a bereaved goat wandering the kitchen while I did it. It seems that I can use vinegar and salt to create a simple, soft white cheese. I haven’t seen any vinegar since I’ve been here, but I know enough about fermentation to understand that very old wine sometimes turns into vinegar on its own, so I should check the cellar.

  The wine cellar has been depleted over the years, and even more by Njål’s recent rampage, but there are a few dusty bottles left. I choose one at random and take it upstairs to pop the cork. Judging by the smell, it’s more vinegar than wine at this point. I suppose I’ll find out if this works. Following the recipe, I heat the goat milk to a simmer, keeping the fire low, then I remove the pot, add some of the white wine vinegar, stir, and wait.

  Sure enough, curds eventually form and I use thin cambric to separate the curds from the whey. The book tells me to salt and shape the curds, then chill the finished product. The courtyard is the coldest place I can think of, so I carry the pan outside and place it high enough that Agatha and Bart can’t get to it.

  To be fair, both goats are following me like frightened puppies. They lost their baby, and I can’t seem to make them understand. My chest hurts.

  Would they be a happy goat family if I hadn’t made that wish? Or would they have starved on the mountain during the long winter?

  “What are you doing? You’ll freeze! You’re not even wearing your cloak.” Still scolding me, Njål guides me back inside, but as we reach the kitchen, he registers my expression and draws me in for a hug. “What happened?”

  With the goats shadowing us and bumping the backs of my legs, I tell him. He lets go of me and crouches to study Agatha. “Are you well, Lady Doe?”

  She rubs her head against his chest, and Njål hugs her too. It should be a ridiculous sight, but he melts my heart with that tenderness. He hasn’t had anyone to love in forever, and his heart is overflowing. Most likely Agatha ought to be resting, but I’ve no ability to force the little mother to do anything against her will. Goats are pure chaos—not even a witch can manage that.

  I sigh softly. “Do you think it’s my fault?”

  He doesn’t respond right away, and when he does at last, the answer isn’t what I’d wished to hear, so it must represent his true thoughts. “I don’t know. But even if it is, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “You warned me, though. About this place, and how there’s always a price. It’s my fault I didn’t listen. I got what I wanted while Agatha is suffering.”

  He earns even more of my devotion by not saying that she’s just an animal, so her pain doesn’t matter. “We’ll comfort her as best we can,” he says quietly.

  “I won’t wish for anything more.”

  Not even for Njål’s freedom. I’m glad I never framed it that way or the keep might decide to swap his imprisonment for mine, or it could even kill him outright. I still think there are multiple forces in play here, but I can’t sort out the threads—and it’s not for lack of trying. I need more knowledge, slow going in a library of that size.

  “Will you entertain them?” I ask.

  “I’ll do my best. Where are you going?”

  “To the library, and they probably shouldn’t be in there. I’m afraid Agatha will take her feelings out on the books.”

  “To me, goats! We’re having an adventure.”

  From the sounds of his continued conversation with them, Njål plans to run around with Lord Buck and Lady Doe in the gallery, which is hilarious. But even that prospect doesn’t lift my mood. The weight remains as I head to the library. This won’t help my research, but I indulge myself with another entry in Njål’s journal. I’ve been skimming them here and there as a reward for completing my chores, but I’m nearing the end of what’s written, and in some small corner of my heart, I fear what I’ll find within these pages.

  I turn the page, only four more to go, until the final, unfinished entry. The whispered translation begins, even as the unfamiliar words swim on the page.

  I’m betrothed.

  The baron and baroness chose her for me. They tell me that my family is dead and this is my home now. I’m supposed to marry Gilda. The baron asked me if I think she’s pretty.

  I suppose she is. We walked in the garden together today, and she kissed me.

  It was my first kiss, but I couldn’t tell her that because she’s clearly good at it. That means she’s been kissing someone else, and she knows more than me. Her mouth tasted of tea and toast, but I don’t think I ought to have been considering what she’s been eating. I’ll marry Gilda, won’t I? I wonder if I’ll ever be happy.

  We’re both too young, but my foster parents, no, I don’t care what they say, I will never call them that. The baron and baroness want the issue of inheritance settled. There’s nobody I can tell—Eloise is probably a ghost—but the word ‘inheritance’ frightens me. I don’t want to inherit Bitterburn. Bad things happen here.

  At night, I hear muffled screaming, but it’s almost worse when it stops.

  I wish someone would save me, but no one’s coming. No one ever will.

  That’s all. This entry breaks my heart. I wish that I could do more for him, but my dream-walking can’t change the past. For some reason I’m only able to interact with Njål. The rest of the world treats me like I’m invisible. Why is that, anyway?

  Putting that question—and the journal—aside for the moment, I pull all the books I can find on magic. Most of them are fanciful, meant for entertainment, not instruction. I lose myself paging through them anyway, hoping for some spark of inspiration. In the end, I’ve wasted my time, and I need to check the cheese.

  It’s firmed up nicely in the cold, a rich white round in the ramekin I used as a mold. Shivering, I hurry back to the fire, ready to sample the delicacy that carried such a high price. I smear some on a batch of fry bread that I whip up, and it’s delicious. Not worth our Lady Doe’s suffering, but if I don’t eat it, that seems worse somehow.

  Njål joins me on his own soon after. “Success?”

  “It’s good, have some.” I hand him a simple tartine—fry bread topped with goat cheese and lentils.

  He takes a cautious bite, and then he beams at me, eyes crinkling in delight. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  Save you.

  Though I don’t speak the words, I fear they’re true. We eat quietly, devouring most of the cheese in one sitting. I tidy up with a huge shadow on my heart. For all my promises, he’s still trapped, and I don’t seem to be making any progress. Before, I was happy staying here with him, but I can’t go gray and die knowing that Njål will be left alone again. I restrain the urge to thump my fist on the worktable in frustration.

  “Where are the cloven ones?” I ask, mostly as a distraction.

  “Settled in the stable. Bart is heroically trying to console Agatha.”

  I nod, poking up the fire. Njål comes up behind me and settles at my back, drawing me into a full-body embrace. It’s so easy to lean on him. He kisses along my neck and finds the sensitive spot behind my ear. If I let him keep going, we’ll end up in bed. For the first time, I wonder if it’s possible for Njål to get me pregnant. If that happens, will our baby die like what happened with Agatha?

  Shuddering, I step away. I would rather stay like this all night, but that won’t accomplish anything.

  “I want to search the sewing room. Will you come with me?”

  I’ve lost track of whe
ther I’ve actually been there or only in my dreams. Njål went around collecting clothes that had been left, but I was unconscious at the time. I think I saw the room myself, but I’m not positive. My memory is oddly blurred and I constantly expend energy to keep that crawling voice out of my skull.

  “Of course. But why?” he asks as we set off.

  I shrug. I can’t provide a detailed answer, but instinct assures me that I won’t find anything that mattered to the baroness in public areas. She might’ve been a witch herself, or maybe the baron was a warlock. Njål didn’t tell me who performed the ritual that went wrong. It’s also possible that they’re not human—that they never were—rather, evil spirits that prey on others to work their wickedness in the world.

  “Call it curiosity.”

  As we climb, I become certain. I came here after I dream-walked, wanting to verify what I saw. Why didn’t I remember? I ran out of this room in abject terror, after smelling a strong rose perfume. Outside the sewing room, I close my eyes, reaching out with other senses. I’m getting better at this; there’s a faint glow, the residue from an incredibly old enchantment. I snap the remaining lines with two precise bursts of energy, and immediately, the air feels lighter, easier to breathe, even outside the chamber. When I step in, I’m not assailed by the sense that I’m trespassing.

  Njål regards me with an unreadable expression. “What did you do?”

  “Removed an old avoidance spell. The baroness must not have wanted people in here without her permission.” That tells me there might be something worth finding.

  The room is just as I left it, including the blood-stained sampler. I bend to pick it up and Njål stops me with a palm on my shoulder. I can feel the tremor in his hand.

  “Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” he whispers.

  “Why, is it poisoned?” That’s meant as a joke, but as soon as I make it, I grasp that he’s serious. “I suppose that’s one way to remove your rivals.”

  His shoulders are set and stiff, his hands locked before him in a posture of profound discomfort. “I remember…the lady who dropped that piece died a few days after her arrival, frothing at the mouth. It was certainly poison. The court whispered that she’d offended the baroness in some fashion.”

  “Your memories are terrifying,” I whisper. “I understand why you avoid them. Do you remember any happiness, any joy at all?”

  Njål considers, then he says, “My mother loved me. She gave me an earring before I left home, said I could sell it for pocket money. Instead, I’ve kept it with me all this time.”

  I kiss him on the check. “I’m glad.”

  “What are you looking for?” he asks, seeming to want to change the subject.

  I let him. With a jolt of pure determination, I toe the wretched sampler aside and open the nearest cupboard. “I’ll know when I find it.”

  28.

  We search for hours.

  Piece by piece, I pull everything out of the cupboards and scrutinize each half-completed sewing project. Then I inspect the tools and the furniture, moving chairs, and settees with Njål’s help. There are no loose floorboards, no secret panels in the wall. The window bench does open, but I only find piles of sumptuous fabric, silks, and velvets perfectly preserved and fit for a queen. Of course, there’s white and silver cloth, same as the baron and baroness wore the night they named Njål their heir.

  “This is maddening,” I mutter.

  I’m exhausted and ready to give up when it occurs to me that I haven’t looked inside the pillows and bolsters. I study them all, checking for something hidden, and when I come to the chair that the baroness was using in my dream, I find odd edges within the upholstered cushion. Without hesitation, I cut into the fabric and uncover a book. It’s a vile thing that radiates malevolence, leather the exact hue of dried blood, with arcane symbols burned into the cover; the tome also carries a faint stench, like charred flesh and sulfur.

  The moment this thing sees daylight, the voice stirs in my head, full of spite. Human skin, touch and see, human skin, so soft and supple. There’s no fear from it as I slam the door between us, no worry that I’ve located a weakness. I hope they continue underestimating me, as everyone always has.

  Njål doesn’t need to caution me. If it wasn’t safe to touch the sampler, I certainly shouldn’t pick this up with my bare hands either. It was important enough to hide, so it must be critical. I find a pair of old gloves tucked into a sewing basket, waiting for centuries to have the dangling lace mended, and pull them on, protecting myself from this artifact.

  Even before I grasp the thing, it fills me with revulsion, trying to force me away with an echo of the deterrent spell. I fight through the urge to flee, and crack open the spine. Gods, why does it sound so gruesome? Even the pages being flipped remind me of the scratching of old, dry bones. With growing horror, I read the notes—experiments run and spells attempted. This appears to be a working grimoire, though not of anyone who was ever human. I’m reading accounts of infernal magic, much different from the benign power I’ve been using.

  All the alchemical notes aside, it’s an account of how the baron and baroness perfected the art of stealing bodies and devouring souls, and they did it for centuries before Njål came. These wretches are unfathomably old, and . . . they never left.

  I remember the explicable wounds on Njål’s body, his cryptic words, and I’m suddenly sure. This is what he’s hiding in the east wing. He’s protecting me from them. He can’t leave, and he can’t kill them, because they’re preserved by the curse, just as he is. They’re the cause of the grim web drawing energy from the land even now, destroying the natural balance of the seasons to prolong their lives. The baron and baroness are still here, and they’ve created this endless, encroaching winter.

  They must have some power over him, even now. Njål said something about “the call,” and maybe he hears the voice I mentioned. It must be one of them, crawling into my head, trying to get me to do their bidding. That will never, ever happen.

  But I can’t tell him that I know. He might try to stop me, either out of fear for my safety, or because he’s unable to resist some unnatural compulsion as part of the curse. No, I must finish this quickly and quietly. I can’t let on that I finally understand what’s happening here. Or what’s waiting in the east wing.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  Does he really not know?

  I turn, trying to keep my expression neutral. “It’s a spellbook. I think it belonged to the baroness. I suspect that destroying it might weaken your curse, however. It appears to retain some power even now, long after she’s gone.”

  His gaze flickers away. Yes, I’m right. Njål is a terrible liar. And she’s not gone at all. He managed to contain them somehow, but none of them can leave. Or die. Until I came, they were at an impasse.

  “Do you think so?” he asks, a hopeful note lilting the question.

  “It can’t hurt to try.”

  We head out of the sewing room and return to the kitchen, where I attempt the promised destruction. The damned book has protections on it, layers and layers. I can’t cut it with a knife and when I throw it in the fire, it doesn’t burn. Cursing, I pull it out with metal tongs and try another tactic.

  Closing my eyes, I assess the magical binding that keeps the book safe from harm. This looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before, red and seething, as if malice has become an arcane shield. I can’t find any loose threads, only smooth edges, no weakness I could use to break this apart or dismantle it.

  Before I go, I shift my attention to the east wing. The keep is riddled with tendrils, but now that I know what to look for, I follow two particularly leprous threads and find the slow, faint pulse of life—or un-life, perhaps—as these two fiends ought to have been long dead. One of them lashes out with a burst of psychic force, noticing my attention, and my head is throbbing when I pull back.

  “Don’t fall ill again,” Njål says, touching my cheek with a worried expression. “Give
yourself time to study the problem.”

  I understand that he’s not afraid. He’s cohabitated with these monsters for ages, but I no longer feel safe. What prevents the real beasts from leaving the east wing? That question haunts me, but I don’t dare trespass until I’m sure confrontation will end in victory, so I’ll bide my time.

  Glaring at the book, I leave it be for now and go tend to Agatha. Certain chores won’t wait, and she must be milked regularly. I make more cheese and save the rest of the milk for us to drink with supper. Njål notices my distraction after the second time I fail to respond; I need to do better at prevarication, or he’ll work out what I know.

  To cover, I change the subject. “I’ve been reading your journal, the one you left in the library. You said that I could. The last entry was about your betrothal to a girl named Gilda. What happened to her?”

  It was all so long ago that it’s impossible for me to be jealous. As he said, everything must feel like it happened to someone else. I can only imagine what it’s like to live so long; at some point, it must feel like torture, a road that stretches on forever with no end in sight and no destination either.

  “She died,” he says quietly.

  “In the ritual that went wrong?”

  His head snaps up, and he stares at me, hard, across the worktable. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Did I let on that I understand more than I’m supposed to?

  “How did you know?”

  I pride myself on cleverness, and between what I’ve seen and heard while dream-walking and what I read in that infernal tome, I feel like I’ve got a grasp on what Njål suffered, if not on what happened thereafter. But I must be careful how much I reveal.

  “She’s not here with you. If she changed as well, wouldn’t she be trapped instead of gone? It’s a reasonable assumption.”

  “You . . . you haven’t gone back to that night? To see precisely what happened.”