How odd to think that that stain of tallow had been both my undoing and my deliverance.
Rose
STANDING THERE ON the dock wondering if I should follow or let him go, I had been flooded with memories. A young sailor with a straggly mustache carrying an enormous spool of rope nearly knocked me over, but I hardly noticed as he recovered himself and continued on, hurling some colorful curses back at me.
The first journey on the white bear's back; "Are you afraid?"; the apologetic way he towered over me; the sigh through the doorway when he saw me in the moon dress; the way he covered his ears the first time I played the flauto; the relief in his eyes when I returned from visiting my family; his hand curled on the sheets; the polite, bored look on his face when we danced; and—I could barely let my mind think of it—the dazed look of wonder on his face when I held up the steaming, stain-free white shirt.
I would find him. I had to. And when I did, I would tell him all that was in my heart. We were no longer under an enchantment; there was nothing to keep us from speaking except our own ridiculous pride. If, after I had said what I had to say, he still wished to travel alone, then so be it. I would not shatter, nor would he.
I knew where he was going and I would follow.
White Bear
I STOOD IN FRONT OF the mountain for a long time. Surely, the castle inside was gone or, if not, was inaccessible to someone with no arts. The sheer rock face showed no sign of an entrance, but then it never had. I thought back to the many times I had gone in and out of that mountain. All I had had to do then was just picture the door opening and it did. Perhaps if I tried that now...
There was a grinding sound and to my amazement the rock face opened, revealing the interior of the castle. I rubbed my eyes, unbelieving. It was very dark inside, but the sun of the afternoon shed some faint light into the front hallway.
I entered.
There were no lamps burning, and therefore it was pitch-black. I kindled a flame in a lamp in the front hall with a striker I had with me. Carrying the lamp I began to explore the castle. It was very cool—the fires had not been lit for a long time—and there was an uncanny stillness about the place. I periodically lit lamps along the way, leaving a trail of light behind me.
Entering the music room, I gazed around at the familiar and well-loved instruments. That had been one of the worst parts of being imprisoned in a white bear's body; with no fingers or lips, I had been unable to play music.
I crossed to the flauto, the one I had preferred over all others, and picked it up. It had always been so familiar to me. I wondered if the Troll Queen had taken it from my previous life, or just re-created it for me. But why? Had she wanted to make me feel at home, or to torture me?
I put the instrument to my lips.
Rose
VAETTUR MADE GOOD TIME. I did not think I could be very far behind the white bear—that is, if I was right about his destination.
I must have caused quite a few people to stare as I rode Vaettur through the countryside of Fransk. I could tell that the reindeer was not comfortable in the warmer climate, but the early spring weather was still cool enough that he was not miserable.
The forest "hanté" was even denser than I remembered, and the empty farm just as eerie, but soon we had arrived at the base of the mountain. I found the open door right away and knew then that I had guessed correctly. I peered in the entrance, surprised to see that the castle was still there and that the white bear had managed to enter.
Vaettur followed me into the cool entrance hall but stayed there to munch on some oats I had brought for him in a small bag.
I followed the trail of lamps through the dim, echoing hallways, feeling surrounded by ghosts, whispering, sighing in my ears. I thought of Tuki; the pain of his loss was still a fresh wound. Seeing the place where we had first met and played our silly language game was like a blade twisting into me.
The lamps led me to the music room, but when I looked inside, it was empty. Then I heard it—the sound of a flauto. The music was far away, and I turned to follow it. As I made my way back through the hallways, listening closely, I recognized the song as the one he had been playing back in the ice palace when I had hurried toward the banquet hall. And the one I had long ago tried so pathetically to play. "Estivale."
As I moved closer I realized the music was coming from the room with the red couch. I approached the doorway, almost afraid to enter.
But I did.
And there he was, sitting on the red couch, playing his flauto. There was a large book of music open on the couch beside him.
He saw me and stopped playing. Our eyes met and he stood.
I crossed the room to him. "I love you," I said in a rush, afraid I would change my mind.
"Charles," he replied.
I stared at him.
"My name," he said with a smile that lit his face. Setting down his flauto, he leaned over and picked up the book beside him on the couch. Opening it to one of the blank pages at the beginning, he pointed to some words written in a flowing, cursive hand:
Charles Pierre Philippe, Dauphin
"I wrote this," he said. "My name. I am Charles Pierre Philippe." He set down the book.
And then he took both my hands tightly in his.
Father
MY DAUGHTER NYAMH ...my daughter Rose married Charles in a small ceremony in the front parlor of our house in Trondheim. Her sister Sara's wedding to Harald Soren had taken place several weeks before and was a much grander affair. But Rose and Charles both insisted on a simple celebration, and the joy in Rose's face shone no less than Sara's; in fact, it was that much brighter for being so hard won.
When Charles slipped the silver ring on Rose's thumb, I thought he had gotten confused—or that it was a custom peculiar to Fransk—but Rose seemed well pleased with her thumb-ring, and anyway, my attentions were diverted by the tears streaming down Eugenia's face. She had forgotten her handkerchief—or rather, I learned later, she had deliberately not carried one because of some superstition that if the mother of the bride brings a handkerchief to her daughter's wedding, a horrible tragedy will occur within the first year of the marriage. Or some such nonsense. So I had to lend her mine.
Neddy
CHARLES PIERRE PHILIPPE was the fifth child of Charles VI, king of Fransk. My friend Havamal, the custodian of Master Eckstrom's library of books, helped me track down information about Charles's origins. It turned out that Valois, the word inscribed on the ring he gave Rose when they married, was the title of the line of royalty from which he was descended. Charles's younger brother was the dauphin whom the maid Jeanne d'Arc helped to put on the throne. But that is another tale.
All it says in the written history was that Charles, beloved son of Charles VI and Isabeau, was born around the time of a peace parley of Amiens and died at age nine. From what we have learned of his parents—his father was hopelessly mad and his mother greedy and traitorous—it is possible he was better off as a white bear. I do not know whether he would agree with that or not.