Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,75

myself, but I’m not positive. My memory is oddly blurred and I constantly expend energy to keep that crawling voice out of my skull.

“Of course. But why?” he asks as we set off.

I shrug. I can’t provide a detailed answer, but instinct assures me that I won’t find anything that mattered to the baroness in public areas. She might’ve been a witch herself, or maybe the baron was a warlock. Njål didn’t tell me who performed the ritual that went wrong. It’s also possible that they’re not human—that they never were—rather, evil spirits that prey on others to work their wickedness in the world.

“Call it curiosity.”

As we climb, I become certain. I came here after I dream-walked, wanting to verify what I saw. Why didn’t I remember? I ran out of this room in abject terror, after smelling a strong rose perfume. Outside the sewing room, I close my eyes, reaching out with other senses. I’m getting better at this; there’s a faint glow, the residue from an incredibly old enchantment. I snap the remaining lines with two precise bursts of energy, and immediately, the air feels lighter, easier to breathe, even outside the chamber. When I step in, I’m not assailed by the sense that I’m trespassing.

Njål regards me with an unreadable expression. “What did you do?”

“Removed an old avoidance spell. The baroness must not have wanted people in here without her permission.” That tells me there might be something worth finding.

The room is just as I left it, including the blood-stained sampler. I bend to pick it up and Njål stops me with a palm on my shoulder. I can feel the tremor in his hand.

“Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” he whispers.

“Why, is it poisoned?” That’s meant as a joke, but as soon as I make it, I grasp that he’s serious. “I suppose that’s one way to remove your rivals.”

His shoulders are set and stiff, his hands locked before him in a posture of profound discomfort. “I remember…the lady who dropped that piece died a few days after her arrival, frothing at the mouth. It was certainly poison. The court whispered that she’d offended the baroness in some fashion.”

“Your memories are terrifying,” I whisper. “I understand why you avoid them. Do you remember any happiness, any joy at all?”

Njål considers, then he says, “My mother loved me. She gave me an earring before I left home, said I could sell it for pocket money. Instead, I’ve kept it with me all this time.”

I kiss him on the check. “I’m glad.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks, seeming to want to change the subject.

I let him. With a jolt of pure determination, I toe the wretched sampler aside and open the nearest cupboard. “I’ll know when I find it.”

28.

We search for hours.

Piece by piece, I pull everything out of the cupboards and scrutinize each half-completed sewing project. Then I inspect the tools and the furniture, moving chairs, and settees with Njål’s help. There are no loose floorboards, no secret panels in the wall. The window bench does open, but I only find piles of sumptuous fabric, silks, and velvets perfectly preserved and fit for a queen. Of course, there’s white and silver cloth, same as the baron and baroness wore the night they named Njål their heir.

“This is maddening,” I mutter.

I’m exhausted and ready to give up when it occurs to me that I haven’t looked inside the pillows and bolsters. I study them all, checking for something hidden, and when I come to the chair that the baroness was using in my dream, I find odd edges within the upholstered cushion. Without hesitation, I cut into the fabric and uncover a book. It’s a vile thing that radiates malevolence, leather the exact hue of dried blood, with arcane symbols burned into the cover; the tome also carries a faint stench, like charred flesh and sulfur.

The moment this thing sees daylight, the voice stirs in my head, full of spite. Human skin, touch and see, human skin, so soft and supple. There’s no fear from it as I slam the door between us, no worry that I’ve located a weakness. I hope they continue underestimating me, as everyone always has.

Njål doesn’t need to caution me. If it wasn’t safe to touch the sampler, I certainly shouldn’t pick this up with my bare hands either. It was important enough to hide, so it must be critical. I find a pair of old gloves tucked into a sewing