Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,1
I get on with it. If not . . .
I’ll be with you soon, my love.
Briskly, I rap on the back of the cart with chapped knuckles. “Let’s go!”
The silent miller seems glad to be shed of the dramatics my family is enacting. Though most ignore us, a few onlookers have gathered, whispering among themselves, and I’ve no wish to linger. Likely this is madness, and I’ll be murdered by the monster who dwells within the Keep at the End of the World. I don’t know whether I dread that conclusion or anticipate it. Either way, it’s an ending and I’m so tired. Tired of the cold, tired of the hunger, tired of never fitting in the space I’m meant to occupy.
Evil stepmothers are a staple of the stories, but mine wasn’t evil so much as . . . disinterested. I wasn’t hers, and she never forgot it. Neither did I. But life wasn’t better when it was only Da and me because he made me his wife in so many respects. He expected me to cook and clean before I was big enough to wield the knife or hold the broom while he drank and shouted for my mother until I couldn’t stand to hear his voice. It was exhausting to be the only brightness in his world for so long, a smothering sort of attention. I rub the scar on my forearm, a memento of those days.
“Amarrah,” he would bellow. “Come and sing for me, darling!”
And I’d crawl out of the loft in the middle of the night, dance and sing while he drank, and . . . it was such a relief when he married Catherine, when he had two more daughters who could also dance and sing. The limelight slid away and gave me some room to breathe. But things were never the same either, as if I was a relic from a past he preferred to forget. When he looked at me, he remembered my mother, my lovely mother, struggling to breathe with bloody specks on her handkerchief. Owen was the only one who saw me as special, irreplaceable, but he was gone, the last tether keeping me here, and now I’m adrift, the final tribute the town will send to the citadel. Normally, there would be crates of provisions instead, but there’s none to spare, and I’ve persuaded the Burgher that offering me up presents our best option.
The miller speaks at last. “Are you dead certain about this, girl? I can take you elsewhere if that’s your wish.”
“Where would I go?” I ask. “No, I’m set on this course.”
The miller makes a sound in his throat, clearly doubting my faculties, but I don’t respond as we cover the ground between town and keep. As we draw closer, the mules grow recalcitrant, braying and digging in their hooves on the frosty path. Finally, with the imposing walls in sight, they can be whipped or coaxed no closer, and I have no stomach to see the miller brutalize his animals. I clutch my portmanteau in both hands and clamber out of the cart.
“I’ll walk from here,” I say with more assurance than I feel. “Thank you.”
The miller pats my shoulder, but he doesn’t linger. Instead he begins coaxing the team to make a roundabout, and the mules seem eager to get away from this place. I understand their nerves. Though we’ve ascended some, the change in altitude can’t explain the chill that lingers in the air, as if spring never touches this place. A slow exhalation shows my breath as I take stock, noting the ice and snow clinging to fir trees. The air is crisp with pine, but that’s all. I detect nothing else, just the purity of cold and the silence of the grave. The view is breathtaking from up here; I can see the tiny lights of town, the silver-blue strip of the frozen lake, and an ocean of green-white trees.
Steeling my resolve, I turn toward the keep and climb the rest of the way. The portcullis is firmly closed, and I stand on the outside, peering in. Why should this be different than anywhere else? Only as I stand there, the iron gate levers up with the groan of ancient metal, just enough for me to venture in, if I dare. The sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears drowns out everything else when I cross that foreboding threshold. With no idea what awaits me, I press forward anyway because there’s