"No." Her voice was implacable. "She is Ebba Rose, for the compass rose, because she is my last," Eugenia said firmly, her eyes intent on mine. "Promise me, Arne. You will never tell another living soul."

I hesitated. Finally I said, "I promise," because I could not bear the unhappiness behind those eyes.

She smiled then and bent her face over the baby again, murmuring her love.

Later I took the baby from her so Eugenia could rest awhile before we began our walk back to the farmhold. I lightly ran my finger over the tips of the standing-up chestnut hair of my daughter. The hair was damp and cool, and as I looked into her wrinkled little face, a thought came, unbidden, unexpected. Nyamh, born of the rainbow. Had I heard it in a poem long ago? One of Neddy's poems? Whatever the case, from then on, though I honored my agreement to Eugenia, in my heart I called my daughter Nyamh.

When I wrote in the family birth book of the beginning day of my eighth child, I wrote Ebba Rose. And when I drew the wind rose, as I had for each of my eight children, hers was the most intricate and would easily have been the most beautiful had it not been for the lie. A strange thing came over me, however, as I drew, and almost without meaning to, the drawing I did also told the truth. But it was only there for one who wanted to see it.

It was a secret, and so it remained until that catastrophic night when the white bear came to our door.

Troll Queen

IT BEGAN DURING MY FIRST journey to the green lands. The joy that seemed to steal my breath forever. And the knowing-I-must-have or I would perish.

He was a boy then. Playing a game with other children. A round red ball they threw back and forth. Laughing. He and the other children left, then he came back to find the ball, alone. Sweet, fortuitous miracle. I could have willed it so, with my arts, but was too dazzled, unthinking.

His eyesight must have been better than most softskins', for he saw me. Or perhaps that was because of my arts, used even without my knowing. I wanted him to see me.

He ran up to me. His face was so strange, with its curling-up mouth showing white teeth, and his bright green-blue eyes. He held out the ball and said, "Would you like to play?"

That is when it began, the strange breath-losing feeling. The wanting.

And so I took him. Not then, that day. But later.

My father's rage was immense. He said I had broken all the laws of our people, the most ancient, the most binding of laws.

I tried to explain to him the way I had done it, so that none of his people knew I had taken him. It was very clever, ingenious. But it was not enough, and my father set up an enchantment. Binding. And with conditions.

I hated it but could not change it. My father was still more powerful than me then. It could not be undone. Even now it cannot.

The conditions were intended as punishment, for breaking the ancient laws, but my father also wove in the opportunity for me to have that which I desired. And once the conditions were met, then the softskin boy would be mine. Forever.

White Bear

Throwing a red, red ball.

A voice like gravel.

Lost.

Then...

Huge, lumbering body.

Four legs, not two. Wide silent feet.

Smells, overwhelming.

Hunger, all the time.

And hot. Prickling, stuffed-in heat.

Need to move, always move.

Find the cold lands.

Snow and ice

White, endless.

Alone.

Lost.

A red ball. Lost.

Lost.

Neddy

ROSE WAS DIFFERENT FROM the rest of us.

Her eyes were not blue like ours but a striking purple that looks black in some lights. She was small and stocky, with gleaming hair the color of chestnuts. My hair was brown as well, but the rest of our family had fair hair, and we were all long-limbed and tall—all except for Rose. Yet despite her short legs, she managed to move faster than any of us.

She was different in other ways, too. She was noisier, more independent.

"Rose knows her own mind," Father would say. He said she was a throwback to Mother's great-grandfather, the explorer. But Mother would disagree, saying Rose was just a bit wild starting out and would settle into her true east nature as she grew up. She always pointed to Rose's love of sewing and weaving as proof of her theory. "The interests of an east-born, if I've ever seen them," she'd say confidently. "She'll settle down. You'll see." I wasn't so sure.

It was because of Rose and her short, fast-moving legs that I first learned how quickly and how easily you can lose that which you love the most. The second poem I wrote was about losing Rose. It was a clumsy effort, heavily influenced by a legendary poet's version of Freya's lament when Odur was lost to her; I relied heavily on the phrase cruel waters. Rose was two years old at the time and I was only six.

Mother was baking and the rest of us were scattered about, doing chores around the farm. Rose was taking her morning nap, or at least that was what Mother thought. When she went to check on her, Mother discovered that Rose's small bed was empty. Calling Rose's name, she began searching the house. Not finding her, she went outside and her shouts grew louder and more frantic. Soon we were all caught up in the search.

We spread out, each heading away from the farmhouse in a different direction. Being the youngest, I was sent northeast, as it seemed the least likely direction she would go; there was an old stone wall there that no two-year-old could climb.

Or so we thought.

There was some snow on the ground, though the day was not bitter cold. When I reached the stone wall, I climbed up (with some difficulty) and sat atop it, peering around. Despite my parents' certainty that she would never have gone this way, I wasn't so sure. I knew my baby sister well enough to know that she always did what my parents least expected. The stone wall bordered a small meadow that gradually turned into a hill. Just beyond this hill lay a much bigger, rockier crag, and on the other side of that was a steep drop into a gorge with a pool of water at the bottom.

I saw no sign of Rose in the small meadow, nor on the hill. But suddenly uneasy, I, ran across both, and then climbed the rocky crag. When I got to the top, I looked down. Standing beside the pool was a large white bear. Rose dangled limp from its mouth, and they were both dripping with water.

The creature swung its head to face me, then began moving up the rocks toward me. I stood still, frozen by fear. I could see that the white bear was carrying Rose by her clothing—a bunched-up wad at the back of her neck—like a mother cat carrying a kitten. The animal stopped a stone's throw from me and gently laid Rose down. Just before it turned to move away, I caught a glimpse of the bear's eyes. The expression there was like none I'd ever encountered in an animal before. It was a look of immense sadness.

I quickly knelt beside Rose. I listened to her chest and found she was breathing steadily, but she was pale and still, and there were vivid red scrapes on her cheek and knees. Then her eyes opened and she smiled. "Neddy," she said happily, putting her arms around my neck.

I picked her up and carried her home. I told my parents where I had found her but not about the bear. I don't know why not. Perhaps I thought that none of my family would believe me, that they'd think it was a story I'd made up. But that wasn't the reason. There was something about the bear that frightened me, something beyond its bigness and fierceness, and I didn't want to think about it, let alone talk about it.