The Cold Is in Her Bones

by Peternelle van Arsdale

  Milla said to her mother, “Mamma, please. May I go meet them?”

  “We’ll go together,” Gitta said. She untied her apron and hung it from a hook, then smoothed her own hair. Milla waited, even though she wanted to take off at a run and not miss even a moment of Iris’s arrival.

  Milla thought her mother walked slower than usual on purpose, just to teach her daughter a lesson about patience. Everything in Milla’s life, it seemed, was a lesson. Milla had asked Niklas that morning if he’d stay home that day so as to be there when Iris arrived. Pappa had answered for him. “Work doesn’t wait just because we have a visitor,” he said. A visitor. That was an odd way of putting it, Milla thought. As if Iris’s stay were temporary. As if, maybe, it wouldn’t work out. Then it occurred to her that maybe Iris’s life would also be full of lessons now, and if Milla wanted her to stay, she’d have to help her learn them very well.

  When they reached Stig and Trude’s small, neat cottage, Stig was unloading baskets from the wagon, but there was no sight of Trude or Iris.

  “Hallo,” Stig said, when he caught sight of them. “Trude’s showing our granddaughter about the cottage. You wouldn’t think that would take very long, but our Trude’s a bit excited. I think she’s presently giving her a tour of the kitchen table.” He walked toward the house. “Trude. Gitta and Milla are here to meet Iris. Hurry along.”

  Iris emerged from the cottage, and the girl-shaped creature in front of Milla was at once strange and beautiful and familiar and ordinary. She was about the same height and width as Milla. Her hair was long about her shoulders the way Milla’s was. Those were all the ordinary parts. Everything else was extraordinary.

  Her face was heart shaped, starting with a V at the center of her forehead and ending at the soft point of her chin. Her cheekbones were high, and she had wide, sweeping eyebrows the color of rust, matching her hair the color of rust—if rust were also shiny and liquid. The color of her skin wasn’t like Gitta’s, which was milky with touches of rose on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Nor was it like Milla’s, which was more yellow, like butter. Iris’s skin was more brown, like harvest wheat. And her eyes were at once bright and dark, like syrup. Milla hadn’t known that eyes came in that color. She took in all this newness with thirsty eyes.

  Then the most unusual thing happened. Iris rushed toward Milla and threw her arms around her. “Milla! I’ve heard so much about you. We’re going to be better than friends. We’re going to be sisters.”

  Milla startled and shook and then something broke inside her. Or opened. Or collapsed. Some structure that had existed inside Milla, which had given form to her world and defined what was possible, shattered and scattered and blew away. And in its place was Iris.

  Milla felt Iris’s arms across her back and Iris’s hair in her face and it was as real and unreal as a dream. Real because it felt so natural, and unreal because it shouldn’t feel so.

  Stig continued unloading the wagon, completely unaware of the world-shifting event that was presently occurring inside Milla. Gitta, for her part, seemed less interested in Iris, and more interested in being alone with Trude.

  “Milla, walk Iris over to our place so she knows how to find us. And show her the chickens while you’re at it. And the garden. Show her everything.”

  Her mother never gave Milla such freedom, and the idea that she should be the one to show a stranger around their home was as odd as suggesting that Wolf should do it. Milla saw how Gitta had already tilted herself toward Trude’s kitchen, urging Trude along with her. She felt that tickle of suspicion again, the same one she’d felt with Niklas. The sense that she was being distracted away from some truth she wasn’t allowed to know.

  Iris linked arms with Milla and said, “Lead on.” Then she smiled.

  Of all the things that were most extraordinary about Iris, from her syrup eyes to her liquid-rust hair, what mesmerized Milla most about her was the way that Iris made her feel. Iris didn’t make Milla feel upside down—rather she made Milla feel as if she’d finally turned the world right side up. And oh, this was how it was supposed to be. And no wonder Milla had felt so off-kilter before.

  Another thing: Iris smiled even more than Niklas, which Milla hadn’t thought possible. This opened up a world of other possibilities for Milla, who just yesterday had known only five people. Now that she knew six, and this sixth person was so very different from the other five . . . well, it stood to reason that the seventh—if ever she should meet a seventh—would be as well.

  She couldn’t imagine that the seventh, or eighth, or one hundredth person that she met would ever be as interesting to her as Iris was, though. Milla found herself arrested by the way Iris used her hands when she spoke, tracing lines in the air that seemed to make what she said all the more interesting and original. Iris looked at the same tree that had stood outside Milla’s window her whole life, and she said, “What a funny tree! It looks like an old man scratching his head.” And Milla looked at it and realized that why, yes, it did look very much like an old man scratching his head and why had she never noticed that before? Maybe it was because she’d seen so little—she had nothing to compare it to. Iris seemed full of memories, and everything reminded her of something else. Buckets and buckets of recollections spilled out of her when she noticed something. Milla showed her Gitta’s jars of preserves, and that led Iris to a story about berry picking, and that led her to a story about her favorite berry, and why it was her favorite, and then she asked Milla if she could only ever eat one berry for the rest of her life, what would it be?

  Milla paused to ponder while Iris waited expectantly for her answer, her syrup-eyes bright with interest. “Well,” Milla said. “I haven’t ever thought about that.” Iris looked disappointed for a moment, and Milla felt dull and stupid. So she rushed to say more. “What I mean is that I haven’t thought about it that way. Because I haven’t been anywhere or done anything the way you have, so I’m always thinking about what more I could see or do. I don’t want to think about doing even less.”

  It was an unusually long rush of words for Milla, not because she didn’t like to talk, but because there was no one to talk to. Even Niklas only half listened when she talked to him these days, so she lost interest in making the effort, and kept her thoughts to herself. She worried Iris would find her very odd.

  “Oh, Milla, of course!” Iris said. “That makes complete sense. It was a silly question anyway. Who would want to only eat one berry? Especially when you have so many berries here. We don’t have nearly so many in the village.” She ran a finger over one of Gitta’s jars.

  “Really?” Milla said. She hadn’t ever thought of there being less of anything in the village. “Will you miss it there?” Milla wondered if she would miss the farm if she were sent away to live somewhere else. But she could only imagine excitement at the prospect.

  Iris’s face had turned thoughtful. “I’ll miss Mamma and Pappa. But maybe I’ll visit.” She brightened then. “And you can come with me!”

  For a moment Milla thought she might rise off the floor with happiness, but then she remembered. “I’m not allowed.”

  “Oh, Milla. Of course not. I knew that. I’m so sorry. I keep saying all the wrong things.” Iris went blank again.

  Milla didn’t think anyone had ever said sorry to her before. She was always the one saying it. And she felt such a rush of wanting to reassure Iris the way she’d always wanted to be reassured herself, that she reached for Iris’s hand. “Oh no, not at all! You’re so kind to offer. And . . . maybe things will change? Maybe someday they’ll let me.”

  Iris smiled. “We’ll make them.”

  Milla laughed. “You haven’t met my father.”

  Iris said, “Oh, but I have! He’s not so bad. And anyway, we’ll just leave when their backs are turned. And maybe we won’t go to the village at all. Maybe we’ll go somewhere else.”

  Milla’s mind took a leap. She’d been so desperate, and for so long, to go to the village that she
hadn’t thought about there being other places to go. “Where?”

  Iris tugged gently on one of Milla’s long, dark curls. “Anywhere.”

  4

  THAT FIRST EVENING, THEY ATE dinner together, all seven of them. This only ever happened on holidays, and it felt festive, like a party. Even Jakob smiled at one point, and warmed up to tell a story about how he got the best price for a cow. It wasn’t a very good story—there was barely a beginning, not much of a middle, and no real end. But Iris listened to it attentively and nodded at all the right places. Milla remembered her father’s word—visitor—and she was glad for how well Iris seemed to be doing at pleasing him. Gitta was harder to read, but Iris’s manners were so pretty that Milla couldn’t imagine Gitta not liking what she saw. And Iris was just right with Niklas, too. Friendly, but not too friendly. She knew exactly how much attention to pay to him—just enough that a beloved boy like him would feel was his due, but not so much that he’d weary of it. Milla didn’t think she could ever grow tired of watching Iris.

  After dinner, Jakob and Stig pulled out their pipes and smoked by the fire, and Niklas carved a new wooden spoon for Mamma. “Such a good boy,” Trude said, and smiled at Iris. Milla held her breath for a moment. Mamma might not like this special attention paid to Niklas on Iris’s behalf—Gitta had always had Niklas for her own, and maybe she would feel . . . jealous. The thought of that made Milla feel odd inside, and she wondered where this suspicion had even come from. What a strange thing to think—that her mother would be jealous of a girl. But there it was. Milla watched her mother and saw a flicker of annoyance in Gitta’s otherwise still, locked face.

  “It is a very beautiful spoon,” Iris said. “And I noticed your others, ma’am. They’re so much nicer than my mother’s. And I saw that there’s only one that’s stained purple. Is that the spoon you use when you make preserves? That’s so clever. All of my mamma’s spoons are stained purple. It didn’t even occur to us to keep just one aside for making preserves.”

  Milla watched her mother’s face, and the wariness that Milla always saw there when Gitta looked at her didn’t give way for Iris. It was still there. But nonetheless Mamma said, “In the summer, Iris, you’ll help us with the preserving.”

  In the summer. That was months away. That was a kind of promise, wasn’t it? Gitta was saying that Iris would still be there in the summer. Milla looked at Iris then.

  Iris winked at her.

  The next day, Iris was at their door directly after breakfast and just as Jakob and Niklas were headed to the fields. Milla was to teach Iris the rules.

  Gitta observed closely while Milla showed Iris the right way to pour salt in a line—no breaks, but no waste, either. Once Gitta was certain Milla hadn’t been careless, she left the girls to themselves and went off to see Trude again. Gitta rarely had so much to say to Trude, so this aroused another flicker of curiosity in Milla, but she was too relieved to see her go, and too happy to be alone with Iris, to wonder about it for long.

  Once Gitta was out of earshot, Milla said, “I’m sorry. This must be so boring for you. I don’t know why Mamma is having me teach you rules you must already know. We’ll just do the hearth now, and then we’re done. Do you want to do it?”

  Iris shrugged. “That’s all right. You can do it. I don’t see much point.”

  “Oh,” Milla said. She felt ashamed, and she wasn’t sure why.

  “It’s just that if a demon wants you, a demon will get you. I don’t think a little line of salt is going to keep it away.”

  “No?”

  Iris shook her head. “No.”

  Iris seemed so certain, which made Milla think once again how much more Iris must know about the world than she did. “How do you know?”

  Iris’s face went blank for a moment. This had happened before with Iris, and it was the kind of blank that Milla was used to in other faces—in Pappa’s and Mamma’s especially. And more recently in Niklas’s, too. But she could tell that Iris’s face didn’t want to be blank. It wasn’t a normal state for Iris’s face to be so empty of emotion. So shut up tight.

  Once again, Milla had that feeling. That feeling that something was being held back from her. “You’re not telling me something.”

  Iris looked at Milla, and now her face wasn’t blank, it was pleading. “I can’t, Milla. Please don’t make me. If you make me, they’ll send me back. And I want to stay here.” Then she took one of Milla’s hands in her own. “I would tell you if I could.”

  “But I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Milla said. “And it’s not fair. Why is everyone keeping secrets from me? Why do you get to know, but I don’t? Is it something about the village? Is that why I’m not allowed to go there?”

  They both heard the clatter of the chicken coop opening and closing. Gitta was back.

  “Milla, listen to me,” Iris said. “If I ever told you, they’d know. They’d find out and they wouldn’t let me stay here anymore.”

  Milla wanted to protest, but Gitta came inside, and she told Iris that Trude was asking for her.

  Then Milla was alone.

  Every day since Iris arrived, Milla had rushed through her chores so she could spend as much time as possible with her. Milla couldn’t remember ever being so happy in all her life—at least not since she was eleven, before Niklas was taken away from her.

  Milla was so happy that she hadn’t pestered Iris with any more questions. She decided not to worry about such things for a while. Maybe, she told herself, in this one area she could be a truly good girl. To simply do as she was told and not to ask for more than she should. Maybe in time she could learn to be as in command of herself as Iris was. Iris seemed to know how to be right with everyone. She knew how to be sweet with Stig and Trude, amiable with Niklas, and well-behaved with Mamma and Pappa.

  With Milla, Iris seemed to let all that go. For Milla’s part, being with Iris reminded her of those days in the forest with Niklas when they were children, fighting off trolls. Milla felt wild again during her afternoons with Iris—but without the consequences. She knew how to return home with a clean apron and an innocent face and her hair still long down her back.

  When she was little, and Milla and Niklas went off for their walks in the forest, Milla had been the one making up stories. But Iris was far better at stories than Milla had ever been. Milla could conjure a witch with teeth dripping blood, but Iris would make that witch do and say such horrible things that Milla marveled at how Iris could ever have thought of them. Milla was used to Trude’s simple stories about trolls and princesses and princes that turned into frogs and back again, but Iris’s stories were different. Milla’s favorite was the one about the snake tree.

  One day, a pretty girl named Anna was walking through the woods picking berries. This girl was so pretty and so good that her parents let her walk in the woods all by herself without fear that she would ever do anything wrong, or that anything wrong would ever befall her.

  As Anna reached for a particularly juicy strawberry, a gnarled hand closed over her own and Anna gasped in surprise. The gnarled hand belonged to a gnarled and ugly old woman with a wart on her nose. The wart had its own wart growing on top of it, and from that wart grew one long black hair.

  The ugly old woman was dressed in rags and bent over like a question mark. She leaned on a walking stick and seemed very frail, so Anna’s fear flew away and she asked the ugly old woman if she needed help reaching home, and if Anna might carry her basket for her.

  The ugly old woman said, well, aren’t you a dear, and you are such a dear that you deserve a reward for being so good.

  Anna liked being told how good she was, and it made sense to her that she deserved a reward. Because she was terribly good, wasn’t she?

  So Anna thanked the ugly old woman, and asked her what the reward was.

  The ugly old woman said that Anna’s reward was buried in a clearing in the forest that was too far to reach for such an old woman. It was a treasure, you see, an enormous treasure.
And all the ugly old woman required was that Anna go and dig it up. And then Anna could keep half, and the other half she would return to the ugly old woman. Did they have a deal?

  Why certainly, Anna said. Most certainly they had a deal.

  Anna made her way back to the clearing in the forest. A pretty place. A very pretty place, and just as the ugly old woman had described. Anna used the little trowel her mamma had given her for foraging, and she dug up that treasure. And the moment Anna caught sight of it, her heart embraced that treasure as if it were all her own. After all, shouldn’t it be? Wasn’t she a pretty, good young girl? And how very old the ugly old woman was. And how very ugly the ugly old woman was, too. Too old and too ugly to need a treasure. What would she do with it, anyway?

  So Anna took all the treasure. She packed it up in her basket and she went home and hid it under her bed. She didn’t tell her mamma and pappa, because she wasn’t sure how to explain to them how she’d dug up and stolen a treasure from an ugly old woman in the forest. That was the second time when Anna felt a little bit afraid.

  Anna shook off that fear and she continued on with her life, and for a while she didn’t go back to the forest. Eventually, though, her fear was so long gone that she forgot about it entirely and she went back. And just as she was reaching for the blackest, ripest blackberry she had ever seen, a gnarled hand closed over her own.