Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,56

cracks here and there—spiderweb traceries of damage, chips and dings in the glass. I run a fingertip over the broken parts, gazing out into the darkness. From this vantage, that’s all I can see, not even a glimmer from town. I might well be alone in the world.

If Bitterburn was frozen when the curse began, that must have happened decades after his transformation. I peer at a sampler and recognize the brown-red splotch of blood.

There are supplies still in cupboards and baskets, gilt thread meant for decorative work, and silver needles that would fetch a pretty penny in the great city. In Bitterburn town, nobody adorns their dresses anymore, assuming they can afford to replace them. It’s all stolid wool and thick stockings and boots heavy as my heart is now.

I don’t understand the dread permeating my whole body, but it’s a chill I can’t shake off. That warning gnaws at my mind like a worm that can devour my happy thoughts. When I inhale, I breathe in attar of roses, thick and cloying. The perfume fills my lungs, and suddenly, it feels as if she’s watching me, like I’m not the only one who can skim through the years. Shuddering, I run from the tower, taking the stairs at a breakneck pace and it’s only when I stumble and nearly dash my brains out on the stone stairs that I slow, breath heaving in the darkness and silence of Bitterburn.

Hunched over, hands on my knees, I drink down great gulps of air. Here, it’s fresh and clean, none of that awful floral essence. The keep nudges me, trying to show me more of the old wards, more of the tangled webs. I can’t concentrate on this while doing anything else, but what’s more important than this?

Closing my eyes, I let the connections unspool in my head, and I see tendrils extending outward, draining the life from the land surrounding it. Though I was only guessing at the time, I was right. Powerful spells don’t sustain themselves, and the surrounding area is paying the cost. Winter will only get worse, until everyone starves and there’s no life left here at all.

What happens then? Will the spell expire from lack of energy? Or will it just keep draining the world, as winter expands its territory? Right now, nobody in Kerkhof cares about our predicament, but when the snow stops melting farther south, they’ll likely march, and they might bring down the walls with cannons and mortar. The wards react with what feels like emotional distress, filling my head with colors in response to the idea of an army outside these walls.

Njål said he can’t die, but I’m sure he can be hurt. Can any creature survive having his head separated from his neck? I’d rather not find out.

This is my problem to solve, but it’s so weighty. I’m inexperienced. Untrained. It seems likely that I might even make matters worse with my unskilled fumbling. Despair perches on my shoulder like a spider.

As I sit in the drafty hallway, my brain bloated with too much information, I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep the promises I’ve made.

21.

It takes me a full week to recover from laying the wards.

While my spirit is willing, my body is weak. Apparently magic takes a great deal out of you, just like Bitterburn is slowly sapping the life from the countryside. I try not to think of that—of the low harvests and the long winter, how my family might be starving.

They didn’t even want you, that awful voice whispers. You could make them pay.

That’s the right approach, and it takes me longer to silence the enticement than usual. I wish that Da and Catherine would suffer, but if I let this creature dig into my own wounds, they’ll not only fester, my soul will rot from the inside. Shuddering, I roll over in bed and slam the door between us.

I must not weaken. I must not let it in.

To encourage me to rest, Njål does half the cooking, despite being endearingly terrible at it. During that time, I don’t dream-travel, though I do have nightmares that I don’t recall upon waking. And he stays with me in my room, five nights out of seven.

I can’t recall anyone caring for me this way. My mother must have, but I was so small then and our roles reversed when I was young, so that I nursed her as she lay dying. Owen was too busy working in