It was possible, then, to get up from the bed. I poured water from the jug, washed my face, cleaned up as best I could. I knelt down and gathered every fragment of the bird, every last golden cog and wheel, every last tiny glittering feather. She was broken; she would never fly again. I wrapped her pieces in a silken kerchief and held her in my hands. She weighed almost nothing.
When someone dies, there are supposed to be words spoken. I could not think what they might be. “I’m never going to do that again,” I whispered. “I’m never going to let anger get the better of me. I’m not going to scare people into doing what I want. I’m not going to let people scare me into doing what I know is wrong. I’m sorry. You were so beautiful.” After all, there did seem to be more tears. When I had shed them, I tucked the silken kerchief into my secret hiding place, alongside my books and my wax tablet.
Then I had to face it, the wonderful thing, the terrible thing. I could marry Rune. If I went to my mother now and told her the truth, it could still happen. I loved him. Maybe he didn’t love me, not the way he loved Laerke, but he was fond of me. Mother could dispose of Laerke; nobody in the household would even know she had existed. The wedding could go ahead as planned. If I told Rune how scared I was on the glass mountain, if I begged him to take me away, surely he would do it. Hadn’t he said I should make my own life? Wasn’t this the life I had longed for through all those lonely years of waiting? It was within my grasp. If I wanted it, I could have it.
I lay down on the bed with my kitten on one side and my puppy on the other, and told them my plan.
Midsummer, and my sixteenth birthday. The wedding was set for dusk; if the guests thought it odd that the bridegroom did not appear earlier, they made no comment. The folk from the Realm Beneath had been quaffing ale all day and were in high spirits. When the time came to gather, the other guests clustered together at one end of the reception hall. Lamps hung from the walls; in the chamber next door, a long table was set with cups and platters I had never seen in my life before. They looked as if they were made of real gold. “My grandmother’s,” Mother had said. “Not used since I married your father. One day you’ll be bringing them out for your own daughter’s wedding, Hulde. That gives me great pride. Great pride.”
Now here I was, standing beside her in my stiff wedding gown, with my feet squeezed into the too-small shoes and my face covered by the veil, waiting. I was good at waiting; I’d had a lot of practice. But this was different. It was all I could manage not to collapse from sheer terror. My heart was juddering in my chest and my body was all cold sweat. It was just as well nobody could see my face.
There were musicians. Where Mother had got them from I had no idea, but now they struck up a fanfare, and into the hall came Rune, quite alone. He was clad in snowy white, the colour of the beautiful bear he had been, the bear I had loved with all my heart. He walked the length of the hall toward us, and I saw that the man had the same blue eyes as the bear, eyes as lovely as a summer sky. I began to understand why Laerke had broken the rules and looked at him, that night of the spilled wax.
He was very solemn. He looked more like a man attending a burial than his own wedding. At the foot of the raised platform where Mother and I stood, he stopped and bowed. “My ladies.”
Mother dropped into a curtsy. “My lord prince,” she said.
I bobbed my own awkward curtsy, but said nothing, lest my voice come out as a squeak of terror.
“Come up beside us, Prince Rune,” Mother said. “Take my daughter’s hand in yours.”
“Ah,” said Rune.
The crowd stirred. People craned their necks to see.
“There’s something I must tell you,” Rune said, half-turning so everyone could hear him. “I am bound by a solemn vow; a magical vow that I cannot break for fear of my life. I can marry only the woman who can wash this shirt clean.” He brought out the shirt from the pouch at his waist; though rather crumpled, it did not look soiled. “There are three drops of wax here, near the right sleeve. She who can wash them out is my true bride. She and no other.”
Mother was quivering with fury. Still, she managed to keep her voice in check. There was a whole hall full of people watching and listening. “I do not understand, Prince Rune,” she said. “We have an agreement. You have promised to wed my daughter, and here she is, waiting. Would you break your word?”
Rune smiled. “If your daughter can wash the shirt clean, then I will marry her.”
Mother cursed under her breath. She could not defy him. A magical vow had to be respected. “Very well,” she snapped, then waved a hand at the household steward. “Fetch a bowl of warm water, soft soap, a brush. Now!”
The crowd was loving this. They edged closer, not wanting to miss a moment. The hall was abuzz with excited voices, though, knowing my mother, most kept their comments to an undertone.
I stood there like a forgotten statue as the materials for washing were brought in and set on a small table, up on the raised area where folk could see. Rune had not moved; he was at the foot of the steps, grave and silent.
“Now,” Mother said grandly, “let us proceed, though I do find this all rather ridiculous. Daughter, push back your veil or you’ll get it wet.”
I lifted the veil and threw it back over my hair. Took a long look at Rune, with his glossy black hair and his summer-blue eyes and his fine man’s body. Looked back at my mother. Straight into her eyes. “I won’t do it,” I said.
For a moment she stood stunned, unable to believe it. Then she went white. Then an angry red appeared in her cheeks, and her veins stood out, and her eyes looked about to pop from her head. Despite myself, I took a step backward.
“What did you say?” She spoke so quietly most of the crowd would not have heard. Her tone turned my blood to ice.
“I said, I won’t do it. I won’t wash the shirt.” I willed myself not to faint, not to weep, not to lose control of myself in any way at all. “If that means I can’t marry the prince, then so be it.” I held my back straight and my head high, as she had taught me.
She lifted her hand to strike me. I did not flinch, though I knew what damage those long nails could do. Rune took a step forward, began to say something, perhaps, No! And Mother, maybe deciding she did not want her daughter to be married with a set of bleeding scars across her cheek, withdrew her hand. “Give me the shirt!” she snarled.
Rune handed her the garment and she plunged it into the water. She pummelled and wrung and twisted and scrubbed. She scratched at the stain with her nails. She rubbed it against the bowl. She spat on it and cursed it and, in the end, took the sodden garment from the water and held it up. What had been a tiny blemish, a mere three drops, now spread across the entire front of the shirt. The more she had washed it, the worse the stain had become.
“Sorcery!” Mother shouted. “Evil enchantments! Foul trickery! There’s no woman in the world who could get this wretched thing clean!”
Rune glanced sideways; gave the smallest nod of his head.
“I can,” said Laerke, stepping out of the crowd. She was in a gown and apron of plain grey, and her red hair was demurely plaited down her back. Her eyes were all courage. Brave Laerke confronts the Wicked Queen.
“Fetch clean water,” said Rune. “Let us make this quite fair.”
Mother was seething. She was simmering like a pot on the fire. I clutched my hands together, wondering if I would see Laerke torn apart before my eyes, and perhaps Rune too. If Mother killed them it would be my fault.