Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,7
through the kitchen, which connects to a long corridor dotted with doorways, leading to dim rooms with narrow bunks and wooden partitions; the servants must have been quartered here. Sconces line the walls at regular intervals, but I don’t light them. Wide doors open to the great hall. Here, the floor is tiled in white, black, and red, creating a pattern that disturbs me. I don’t want to step on the red part of the mosaic, so like a child I exaggerate my strides as I cross the floor. It’s probably my imagination. I spend too much time alone, sensing danger when there is none.
I pass through the great hall into the gallery, a vast space full of exquisite paintings in gilt frames. Some are landscapes while others are portraits, elegant people with serious faces dressed in clothing that went out of style hundreds of years ago. Neck ruffs and velvet coats, tight pantaloons and tiny lap dogs. One by one I study their faces, seeking some reflection of Njål, but what do I know of him, really? Mostly the sound of his voice, but I admit my secret interest is gaining traction.
There’s a tale in the storybooks about a woman whose work was always undone in the night by angry pixies, so each morning, she had to start fresh while knowing she’d never finish. It’s a sort of morality play, I think, emphasizing the value of hard work, but even as a little girl, I wondered why the woman didn’t simply apologize to the pixies and see if that made any difference.
Ceasing my ruminations, I explore onward. From the gallery, more hallways lead to multiple towers, each housing a different sort of room—one for gaming, another for embroidery, and the other two appear to have been used for more . . . intimate purposes. There are state rooms as well, appointed in old-fashioned style. The heavy, sumptuous fabrics would sell for a hefty price, even now. Precious gems spill out of jewel boxes, cast aside like mere baubles.
I find no trace of the mysterious Njål.
Keeping to the pattern, he visits me once a day, offering a few words, and then he vanishes, maybe into the forbidden portion of the citadel. I don’t want to be curious because of how the story goes about the cat, but the longer I live here in relative peace, the more I wonder about Njål’s secrets. I still haven’t gotten a single glimpse of him, but I force myself to seal away that interest. Surely it’s not good for me to care too much.
The long silences give me far too much time to fret about my family, however. I wonder if Tillie and Millie are eating enough, if my stepmother is warmer to them without me there to witness it. She’s a strange woman, my stepmother, frosty and pragmatic to a fault. I always thought sheer loneliness must have driven my father to her, and perhaps that’s something else I can blame myself for, because if I had been better or brighter or more somehow, maybe—
No. There’s no point to any of this. The past lies beyond an unbreakable glass wall, so we can see what we’ve done but not change it. Sometimes I think it would be easier to live without memory, so that each day feels brand new and each discovery comes for the first time. I suppose it would be difficult as well, as you would have to learn everything from the beginning, and there’s a limit to what one can master in a single day. Yes, I ought not to wish for that and just carry my memories—of my family and Owen—like a weary old woman hauling water from the well.
I’ve sorted all the usable scraps of broken furniture, turning the refuse into firewood and kindling for the winter that never ends. The rest of the keep is frigid to the point that I shiver when I leave the kitchen fire, but returning to my domain there always fills me with a sense of relief. Not quite homecoming, not yet, but I like how the copper-bottomed pots shine, all hung in orderly precision, and I’ve organized the herbs to my own specifications, so it’s a good feeling to find even a small trace of my presence lasting here, in such an inhospitable place. Sighing, I wish we had a goat because I could do so much more with milk. Right now, my meals are sparse, created from the supplies that