Taking the silver gown over to the bed, I carefully began folding it. The gowns were not small, with their large floor-length skirts. I would need something much bigger than my little knapsack from home to carry the dresses in. But a curious thing happened while I folded. The gossamer fabric compacted, even seemed to shrink in on itself, and with each fold it got smaller and smaller. I kept folding, amazed by the strange properties of the fabric, until I was left with a small square that fit into the palm of my hand. I stared at the small silver packet, unbelieving. And yet there it was.
I became suddenly worried that something had happened to the dress, that it had been crushed and compacted beyond wearing, so I unfolded it. And the reverse occurred. When I was done the dress shook out beautifully, unwrinkled and intact. So I folded it all over again, and did the same with the golden gown. It, too, folded neatly into a small square. As did the moon dress.
I looked at the three small packets lying on the bed, wondering if they would fit into the leather wallet I had brought with me. Neddy had made it, and because I had no money, it held a small sewing kit with needles, pins, and several kinds of thread.
I retrieved the wallet from my bag and, taking out the sewing kit, slipped the folded dresses into it. They fit perfectly, as if the wallet had been designed for storing them. I stowed the full wallet in my bag, which I placed back in the cupboard.
The gray dress was quickly finished, although working on it was quite boring in contrast to creating the three gowns. Then, in quick succession, I produced thick woolen stockings, woolen mittens, and a hat and scarf, all out of the same gray wool. Making those sturdy garments was like returning to a diet of hard bread and water after overindulging in the likes of champagne and cream-filled cakes. Bland and dull that "diet" may have been, but it steadied me and I was pleased with the fruits of my labor.
One night as I lay in bed, I noticed that my visitor was shivering more than usual. I almost spoke, thinking to offer an extra blanket, but bit the words back. And in that moment I lit on what my next project on the loom would be.
I would make a soft flannel nightshirt for my visitor, for the furless white bear, as I had come to think of him. And I would use his own fur to make the flannel even warmer. Whenever I had come across a tuft of white fur in the castle, fur the white bear had shed, I would collect it. It had been sheer instinct, a throwback to the lean days when I had saved every bit of sheep's wool I found on bushes, fences, and the like. And the bear fur was so luxuriant, so soft, I hadn't been able to curb my thriftiness and so had accumulated a large basketful.
I had never spun bear fur into thread, but with the marvelous spinning wheels in the castle, I thought I'd be able to manage it. I mingled the bear's fur with some soft (and very white) sheep's wool I had found in a bin, and soon I had spun enough yarn for my purpose. I cast the silky thread onto the loom and began to weave.
The white bear was absent during much of this time. It was nearly spring, according to my crude fabric-calendar, though I could not tell if the tree branch I saw through my window had any buds on it.
It was while working on the nightshirt that I set myself the project of learning more of the Fransk language. Mother had claimed I had a talent for learning languages but had wasted it because I would not sit still long enough to be taught. The only reason I let her teach me Fransk at all was because I was certain I would be traveling the entire world on the back of my imaginary white bear and would need to know as many languages as possible. Fransk was the only language my mother knew with any fluency, but she also had taught me what she knew of the Tysk and Grönländer dialects. And I was always eager to pick up any foreign words from strangers who passed through our part of the world.
I was close to finishing the nightshirt when I was hit by a terrible feeling of homesickness. It was the first time since those early weeks of living in the castle that I had felt it so strongly. It may have been the thought of spring, or maybe just that I had been in the castle for so long, but whatever the reason, the feeling was overwhelming. I tried to ignore it and concentrated on the soft white cloth.
I was fashioning it into a long, generously sized shirt. I decided against buttons or ties, thinking that if I was correct, paws would not do well with them. I made it so it could be pulled on over the head. If I was wrong, and my night visitor was not a bear but a person, then a small brooch could be used for fastening at the neck. In fact, I found such a brooch in the music room. It was fashioned in the shape of a silver flauto, very similar to the one that held the position of honor in the box with the blue-velvet cloth.
On the night I finished the shirt, I laid it carefully on the far side of the bed and placed the brooch beside it. I was intensely curious about what my visitor would do. Would it alter at all its nightly routine? Would it put on the shirt? Finally speak to me? Or would it not even notice the white shirt in the complete blackness of the room?
I lay waiting, tense with anticipation. Then there came the barely perceptible sighing sound of the door opening and shutting. No light ever spilled into the room, for at this time of night the hallway was pitchblack as well. There was the usual silence as my visitor crossed the room. Typically then I would feel the give in the mattress, followed by the adjustment of the covers. But this time the silence lasted longer. I strained my ears, all my senses. What was he doing?...Was he...? And then, yes, I felt sure the nightshirt was being lifted off the bed. A sound of rustling fabric, as though it was being slipped over a head, arms pushing through the sleeves. There came a very faint clicking sound, of metal against metal, as of a brooch being fastened.
Soon there was the familiar give in the mattress, the covers pulled up, and then, nothing. I had not expected words, a conventional thank-you, so was not disappointed in the silence.
In the morning the nightshirt was neatly folded at the foot of the bed, the visitor's side, with the brooch attached at the neck. This pleased me very much. It was a sign the shirt had been worn and appreciated. And I had noticed no shivering at all during the night.
While. I was dressing I kept looking at the folded bundle at the foot of the bed. Finally I could contain myself no longer and crossed to it, unfolding and pressing the nightshirt to my face. I breathed in.
I'm not sure what I was seeking, possibly the smell of the white bear. There was a trace of that smell, but it could easily have been because of the bear fur I'd used in weaving the shirt. But there was another very faint smell that I could not identify, nor put words to—a good smell.
Then I folded the shirt up again and placed it on the bed.
Each night I laid the shirt out on the side of the bed and every morning it would be folded at the foot. And my visitor never again showed any signs of shivering.
Every seven days I washed the shirt, along with my own clothing. It was one chore that from the beginning I had insisted on doing myself. In those first weeks I had set up a room especially for washing. It was one of the plainer rooms in the castle and had a generous hearth fire for heating water and the stones I used for ironing. The white woman and man caught on right away and made sure the fire was always lit on washing day. The nightshirt never got dirty or smelled any different from the first time I had put it to my nose, but I wanted to keep it fresh.
One washing day I had just given a final rinse to the nightshirt and was holding it up over the hot water. With steam rolling off its surface, I was thinking how the whiteness of the fabric had a ghostly sort of glow. Then I heard a sound. It was that sighing sound I had heard before, when I was trying on the moon dress and saw the bear through the doorway. And there he was again, standing in the doorway watching me, his eyes avid, almost hungry. Startled, I dropped the nightshirt back into the bucket and hot water splashed up on me, I let out a little cry and the white bear took a few steps toward me. Unhurt, I brushed at the water on my clothing, but my eyes locked with those of the white bear. He gave a low growl, like he was in pain, then he swung his head around and padded quickly away, down the hall.