Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,48
the sense that Bitterburn shouldn’t be held accountable for the terrible things that have happened here, and that there might be something else. I was right—and that something is whispering to me. Njål needs to know, but I’ve upset him, and I shouldn’t intrude to inform him, so I water the garden in morose solitude.
Afterward, I head for the library. There, I note all my interactions with the voice, everything I can remember that’s been said and the circumstances in which it took place. Then I collect my laundry, currently scattered all over the great hall. Some pieces are still damp; they’ll dry faster in my room, closer to the fire. The rest I can work on transforming, fashioning more modern dresses out of the fabrics from smocks and kirtles. I spend the rest of the day on that task with pitifully little progress to show for as well, since I’m not a skilled seamstress, and just to be difficult, I refuse to go back into the kitchen. I’m too upset to be hungry, and it’s not like this is the first meal I’ve missed.
Yet as I settle into bed, glummer than I’ve been since my arrival, Njål comes into the kitchen and he pauses as if bolstering his nerve. Then he taps on my door, so softly that it seems as if he’s afraid of my answer.
“Are you sleeping?” he whispers.
I hesitate, but I do wish to reconcile with him. “Not yet.”
“May I come in?”
He won’t even enter my room without permission. Suddenly, my earlier fear seems absurd. If he wanted to harm me, there’s no need to make a game of it. I suppose it’s possible that such sport offers the only entertainment he’s had in forever, but in my heart, I know that’s wrong. I’m not an amusement to him, and he doesn’t wish to hurt me either. I just don’t understand the secrecy around the east wing, and that uncertainty infuriates me.
“Go ahead.”
Njål steps across the threshold, and he’s larger than life, taking up most of the space and air. My heart races, though not because I’m scared. We’ve done things right here in my bed, and though I know he hasn’t come for that, I do remember wearing that blindfold and his mouth—
The heat in my cheeks feels like a severe sunburn.
“I’ve thought about what you said, and I understand it. I do. But . . . I’m afraid that allowing you in the east wing will change everything. Do you mind waiting? Until . . . until I’m sure. Of you.”
I consider all the implications. Whatever he’s hiding, it must look bad for him or he wouldn’t be concerned about my reaction to it. But would a true villain care how I viewed him? Likely not. In fact, sometimes awful people do terrible things proudly while arguing that they’re good. Still . . .
“That’s not reassuring,” I mutter. “But you’re saying that if I trust you, you’ll eventually tell me everything.”
His tone is soft, spoken with the surety of stone. “I will. I promise.”
18.
“Then I’ll wait. For now. But do understand that unlike yours, my patience is finite.” The words come out colder than I intend.
I don’t soften that statement, however, because while I’m not putting a time limit on this warning, it is an ultimatum. I know myself, and there will come a time when I lose my temper and search for my own answers. For a long moment, Njål doesn’t respond.
If he runs again tonight, so help me, he won’t eat any bread for a week.
Then he steps closer, shoulders slumped in an unquestionably contrite posture. “I’m sorry I left before. It was . . . surprisingly painful to learn that you could fear me.”
A touch of regret shimmers through me because we have only each other. Quietly I extend a hand, waiting in silence for him to clasp it. And eventually, he does.
“Do you want to stay tonight?”
He regards me steadily with those quicksilver eyes. “I’m unclear on the particulars of your invitation.”
“Just offering to let you sleep here.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “I did think it would be odd for you to suggest other pastimes, considering how the day went.”
“Do you want to stay then?”
Njål pulls back the covers, surveying the slice of mattress available. “I do. Your room is cozy and warm, but it’s a pity the bed is so small.”
“Is yours bigger?” I ask, moving over so he can climb in.