enjoy your visits,” I say then. “I wish you came to the kitchen more often.”
“Do you?” He sounds astonished, as if it has never occurred to him that I would want his company.
I nod, then realize I’m not sure if he can see me. “Yes, it’s nice to chat while I work. Is there anything you wish I would cook? Bearing in mind our limited supplies.”
“Fry bread, if you have the ingredients. It’s been ages since I had any sort of bread.” His voice carries a wistful tone. “I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn that first day. You’ve no idea how much I regretted not tasting the bread you made then. It smelled so good.”
I’m glad he said it, so I’m not tempted to be pert; there’s no gain in provoking him. “I can whip some up, if you’ll wait a bit.” Silently I hope he’ll stay and eat with me, but I have no idea where he is currently. “It will go nicely with the kettle of beans I have on the hob.”
He doesn’t verbally agree, but I hear him settling nearby, just beyond my range of sight. “Did you find everything you needed to make the ale, by the way?”
“Yes, the first batch is fermenting.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“It’s incredible that you need to ask. You’re the beating heart of this dreadful place, so warm and alive that I come every day to make sure I didn’t dream you.”
I’m startled into silence by the admission, as I had no idea that he thought of me as more than a nuisance. Then I try to imagine what it’s been like, living in such isolation for years untold, and I come up blank. But the ice around my heart that formed when Owen died, it shivers and cracks a bit, because it seems as if Njål needs me somewhat, and nobody else does. I’m . . . necessary here. I work hard, but my efforts are appreciated. He hasn’t berated me or asked for the impossible, and he’s grateful for what I can achieve. Conversely, it makes me want to do more for him; I wish that I could.
If he can see my face, he knows I’m smiling as I mix the simple dough and drop a spoon of lard in the cast iron pan, making the fry bread sizzle as it cooks. He draws in an appreciative breath, audible enough to tell me that he’s close, maybe closer than he’s ever been.
Perhaps I should be frightened, but the outside world has hurt me far more. Njål has never injured me, never made me feel unsafe despite his allegedly monstrous nature. I’m not sure I believe those old tales any longer. He’s been cursed, but he’s no evil fiend, and he certainly can’t sweep down on the town to unleash his wrath. He’s a damn prisoner. And the fact that we gave away so much food is our own fault, not his.
Quickly, I put together a meal of beans, salt fish, fry bread, and weak herbal tea, then I set everything at the far end of the worktable. I have smaller portions of everything, and I turn around, settling on a stool near the stove.
“You didn’t dream me,” I respond at last. “You stay because you can’t leave. I stay because I choose to. As I hope you’ll choose to eat supper with me. I won’t move. I won’t turn around. But we can talk and I . . .” Should I say this? “. . . would enjoy that.”
“As would I.”
There’s a scrape, as if he’s entered the kitchen, trusting me to keep my word. Trusting me. I exhale, because I didn’t realize how tight my chest got waiting for his reply.
“What did you want to discuss?” he asks.
“Nothing in particular. It’s nice to have company.”
“It is,” he agrees.
I don’t hear the scrape of cutlery, and I wonder how he’s eating. Maybe he scrapes the beans up with the flat bread? I do the same and find it works wonderfully, efficient and delicious.
“This is so good.”
I’m not expecting praise, so the soft words fall like gentle rain on parched earth. The feeling warms me further, but I keep my head down, trying not to glow too visibly because it’ll make me seem pathetic—that I’m this starved for kindness. Before Owen died, I drank in his approval, but since then . . .
“I’m glad you like the fry bread. We have enough flour that I can make it