Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,35

a little. You . . . did I take advantage?”

“Freely given,” I assure him. “I’m glad I could please you.”

I’m used to having my eyes closed when he’s near, and I wonder if he’ll blindfold me when we become lovers. In my head, it’s when, not if. I think I’ll be all right with that.

He sighs. “Normally I have more self-control. I had no intention of pressing for that.”

“You didn’t, precisely. Don’t worry, if I hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t have. And no matter how the keep was whispering to you, I trust that you’d respect my wishes.”

“I would. I swear.” Njål is built like a mountain, I can tell that from touching him, but he would never use that strength to hurt me.

Not ever.

13.

I am a witch.

Two weeks after I cast those charms in the kitchen garden, green shoots push out of the earth. Out here, it’s tangibly warmer too. I can’t do anything about the wan sunlight, but it seems like it’s enough for plants to grow. It’s too soon for me to know what’s emerged, but I planted strawberries, yellow gourds, beans, potatoes, and onions. The rest of the crop will be a surprise, and it will take months—

Or maybe not.

If I’m a witch, then my blood will make the vegetables grow faster. I wonder what else I can do with that book of charms. The warding spell seemed complicated but if it means I could properly take ownership of Bitterburn, perhaps I ought to try. I might even find the key to unlocking Njål’s curse if the keep becomes more receptive to my will.

Bart and Agatha have taken to following me everywhere, and I let them. Because I noticed yesterday, with two goats running about outside, there should be dung in the stables, poop in the courtyard, and I’ve been too preoccupied with other matters to clean up after the goats. Yet there is none. Not anywhere. This strange fecal phenomenon must be related to the reset I noticed in the pantry, in the stables, and in the ice statue garden when I burned the rubbish. After a certain point, changes to Bitterburn are discarded and it returns to its original state.

So far it hasn’t happened in the kitchen. All my updates remain there, as they do in my cozy little room. It can’t be related to me being a witch, or the fire I started would have caused permanent scarring on the ground. I think. Obsessing over these matters makes my head ache. Never have I devoted so much of my mental energy to esoteric issues.

Bart bumps his horns against the door. I’m not deranged; I won’t be letting Agatha and Bart gobble up my delicate seedlings.

“Settle down,” I call. “I’ll be in presently.”

I pace the perimeter of the garden, my gaze lingering on the empty skeps. Wax and honey would be so useful. “Wish the bees would return,” I murmur, then I clap a hand across my mouth.

But it’s too late. I’ve made another wish. Curse that word anyway. Silently scolding myself, I head inside. The goats might well wreck up the kitchen if I leave them too long. Njål has apparently shooed them out because I find him waiting, but not Agatha and Bart.

“Our Lady Doe looks a bit plump,” he observes.

“Yes, they wasted no time in starting a family. In a few more months, I’ll be a doting auntie, provided I can manage as a midwife.”

“Does that make me a doting uncle?”

“Only if you mean to marry me.” The teasing remark pops out before I can stop it, and it falls like a stone into a still pond, silence rippling outward in rings where there was amiable conversation.

“Would that I could,” he says quietly.

He can, though. It wouldn’t be a formal service with rites pronounced by a cleric, but he could claim me as his wife if he wanted to. The townsfolk, especially those who can’t afford the fees and the festivities, have long since quietly plighted their troth and lived together, raised families together, a kind of common magic. This might not be a rejection. Maybe Njål doesn’t know about that custom, as he was a nobility before, and he’s been trapped here for a long time, so how would he learn?

I lack the courage to inform him because that would seem like I’m trying to coax a declaration out of him. When he asks what I’ve been reading, I answer cheerfully enough. I finished that history book and I’m learning