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.

At any rate, Rose and Charles built a small home for themselves in Fransk, not very far from that castle in the mountain. In fact, they took several wagonfuls of furnishings and other assorted items—mostly musical instruments and weaving paraphernalia, as far as I could make out—from the castle, and then they closed the entrance behind them for good. The spot on which they chose to build their house was close by Rose's friend Sofi and her young daughter, Estelle. At first we were all disappointed that they did not make their home in Njord, but the port of La Rochelle was not too distant, and we managed to visit back and forth at least once a year.

Charles dedicated himself to music and, in fact, invented a new design for flautos in which the mouthpiece cap contained a sponge to absorb the moisture from the player's breath. It was quite a success, and Charles became both a sought-after musician and an inventor. However, he never cared much for traveling, preferring to stay at home with his wife and children. They had four—one for each of the cardinal points of the compass, Mother said, although Rose vehemently denied it. They named their firstborn Tuki.

Rose could not give up her wandering ways entirely, though she was blissfully happy at home with her "white bear"—as she still sometimes called him. She occasionally got Charles to go on journeys with her, but her second-born child, Nena, was a north-born, so we all knew it wouldn't be long before Rose was kept busy running after her. Which seemed only right.

And Mother never gave up her superstitious ways. She liked to point out that the skjebne-soke had been right all along about north-born Rose being buried in a deluge of ice and snow. The fact that Rose did not perish, Mother claims, was a minor detail, and probably due to the mitigating factor of being in proximity to a talking white bear. Or some such nonsense, as Father would say.

Neither Rose nor Charles liked to talk much of their adventures with the trolls, but some of the so-called "softskins" whom they had brought out of Niflheim, as well as the crew of the ship Soren had hired to go north to find Rose, must have spread the story, because for many years afterward, there were tales told of a race of trolls living at the top of the world.

Only Rose and her white bear know the whole truth of it.

Glossary

Anglia—England

Arktisk—the Arctic

Danemark—Denmark

Finnland—Finland

Fransk—France (also French)

Gronland—Greenland

Huldre—the troll kingdom (also its people)

Inuit—a people who live in the far north of Greenland and Canada

isbjorn —ice bear

Iseland—Iceland

leidarstein —lodestone

Niflheim—frozen land of the dead

Njord—Norway Njordsjoen—North Sea

Saami—a people who live in the far north of Norway

skjebne-soke —fortune-teller

Tyskland—Germany

Acknowledgments

This book has been a journey of many years, and I, like Rose, had a great deal of help along the way from many people who were generous with their support and wisdom. Above all I would like to thank the "Havamals"—librarians who patiently and wisely led me through the byways of researching Norway, compasses, the Arctic, and white bears.

Many thanks also to Jean Emery and David Wilhelm, who led me to the fjords and were patient and forgiving when lost manuscripts needed to be retrieved (twice!); Sarah McPhee and Lennart Ericsson, who showed me the archipelago; Robin Cruise, who ferreted out all those spinning heads and "of courses," making my writing spotless; and my editor, Michael Stearns, who is Thor, Malmo, Sofi, and Neddy all wrapped into one—and who makes me laugh.

I also want to thank Vita, whose wanderlust and strength of character rival that of Rose, and the real Charles, who has been my north, south, east, and west from the beginning.

Chatting with Edith Pattou

How long have you leen writing?

I've been writing since I was a child. The first story I wrote, at age seven or eight, was called The Adventures of Lipid Shortsock and followed the exploits of a swashbuckling squirrel. At age eleven, inspired by the book Harriet the Spy, my best friend and I started spy notebooks, and I believe I've kept a notebook/journal ever since.