Suddenly I thought of the candle and flint Mother had given me. What had she said? That the candle would stay lit even in a stiff wind and that the flint would spark a light every time. I wondered uneasily if the candle and flint could possibly light the unlightable darkness. Dare I try?

All the next day I wrestled with the question. The white bear did reappear briefly for our afternoon reading, but I was distracted and he was remote, restless, more animal than human. I tried to play "Estivale," but my fingers felt leaden and my breath short. When I finished we just sat there, still and unhappy, a strained silence between us. Suddenly the white bear got up and exited the room, giving me an unreadable look over his shoulder as he went.

I wandered the castle restlessly, my thoughts jumbled and my head aching. Again I had no will for weaving. Nor did I have any appetite for my evening meal, and leaving the food on the table barely touched, I sat for a time on the red couch, gazing into the fire. I was still undecided. I told myself the candle wouldn't work, then countered by saying that it was still worth trying. I told myself what a horrible mistake I would be making, how trying to light the darkness might upset the balance, possibly even bring harm. But then I reasoned it was a simple enough thing, lighting a candle. No one would even know; I could light the candle, have a quick peek, and that would be that, no one the wiser.

I went to bed as usual, and soon after, the lights were extinguished. I still did not know what I was going to do. I had not actually gotten out the candle and flint but had left them at the top of my pack so I could get at them easily.

I was wide awake when my visitor climbed into bed next to me. I listened closely to the rhythm of his breathing, and after what felt like hours, it seemed to be regular and deep and I was sure he was asleep.

Quietly I slipped out of bed and crossed to the cupboard. I had left the door partway open because it had a slight squeak to it and I didn't want to risk making noise. My hand shaking slightly, I felt in my pack for the candle and flint. They were where I had left them. I took them in hand and slowly crossed to the bed.

I felt my way carefully to the other side of the bed and stood there for several long moments, trembling, listening to him breathe.

I fought against feelings of panic that shuddered through me. I should not do this. But I had to know.

I turned my back to the bed. Then, taking a firm grip on the candle in my left hand, I squeezed hard on the mechanism of the flint. A bright spark flared, but I had misjudged the placing of the candlewick in the dark. Moving the wick closer, I tried again. This time it worked. The candle lit and slowly, silently, I turned toward the bed, holding the candle aloft.

Troll Queen

FOR ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY softskin years (a period of time in Huldre called an alkakausi), my softskin boy was to be a white bear. And at the end of those hundred and fifty years, if the conditions were not met, he would be mine.

The conditions were meant to punish me but also to challenge me. It was the sort of intricate, elaborate contest my father enjoyed setting in motion and then watching unfold.

It was unfortunate my father died before seeing this particular challenge wind down to its conclusion.

But I have watched. And waited, patiently I think.

There were a few halfhearted attempts along the way. It was always tricky for him, balancing the bear and the man inside him. Mostly the bear won.

As the hundred and fifty years draw to a close, this last one, this softskin girl with the sturdy body and violet eyes, has come very close. She has nearly fulfilled one of the conditions.

But not the most difficult. I always knew her curiosity would be her undoing.

Rose

IT WAS NOT A MONSTER that lay sleeping on the white sheets. Nor a faceless horror. Nor even the white bear.

It was a man.

His hair was golden, glowing bright as a bonfire in the light of the candle. And his features were fair, I suppose, but he was a stranger and that somehow was the greatest shock of all—that I had been lying all these months beside a complete stranger. I had to hold the candle steady against the violent shudder that shook my body. Then I noticed the stranger was wearing the white nightshirt, the one I had woven. It fit him well, not too wide nor too narrow across the shoulders; the sleeves falling to his wrists, neither too long nor too short. I thought how lucky I had been in estimating the size, with only the feeling of his weight on the mattress to go by, then realized how absurd I was to be standing there thinking about how well the nightshirt fit.

He lay on his side. I stared down at his hand, which curled gently on the white sheet in front of him. There was a silver ring on his smallest finger. I could see sparse golden hairs on the back of his hand, and the curved fingers seemed vulnerable to me. I suddenly felt ashamed, staring down at this sleeping stranger in a pool of candlelight. I felt myself blush, my skin hot and uncomfortable. I raised the candle, thinking to blow it out at once but hesitating briefly for a last look at his face.

And then his eyes opened.

I let out a cry, my breath going short. They were his eyes, the white bear's eyes. My body jerked with the shock of seeing familiar, even well-loved, eyes inside a stranger's face.

In that moment the candle tipped and hot wax spilled onto the stranger, onto the shoulder of the white nightshirt.

He let out a cry of his own, and the sound of it shall remain seared in my heart forever, so horrible was it to my ears. It had nothing to do with the pain of hot wax burning the skin but instead held an enormous aching grief; it was a keening of loss and death and betrayal.

"What have you done?" were the words wrung out of him. It was a stranger's voice yet held dim echoes of the white bear.

But even worse than that cry, and what pierced me even deeper, was the look in his eyes. The utter hopelessness.

"No!" I cried out, and I became aware that something was happening around me. There was an immense roaring in my ears that obliterated all sound. Shards of light and color exploded against my eyes so that I had to close them, and my feet were standing on nothing. I had a sensation of falling yet not moving at all. Flinging my arms out, I reached for the stranger with the golden hair, but my fingers touched nothing. And there was nothing, except sound and color and a terrifying spinning sensation.

Suddenly I felt cold air on my skin, and my feet were on solid ground. Opening my eyes I saw that I was no longer in my room in the castle. There was no castle. I was outside in the night, standing beside the mountain, which loomed above me in the darkness of night.

The stranger with the hopeless eyes was standing in front of me. He was tall and I had to tilt my head back to look up at him. Just behind his head was the moon, gibbous and bright, with a cloud floating past it.

"What have you done?" he said again, this time in a whisper.

"I'm sorry," I answered, my own voice breaking, the words pathetic and flimsy in my ears. I wanted to avert my eyes from his, from the pain, but I could not.

"If you had only held on one last cycle of the moon..." He trailed off, though his eyes remained on mine.

"What..." I began urgently, not wanting to know but needing to, "what would have happened then?"

"I would have been freed. After so long..." He hesitated. "I do not know anymore how long. It feels like several lifetimes..."

"You were under a spell?"

"Yes. White bear by day; boy ... then man ... by night. I could not speak of it. The only way I could be released was for a maiden to live with me, of her own free will, for one year. And during that time she was not to gaze upon my human face."