And though rain drummed on her windowpane, her dreams were all of snow.
• • •
She didn’t wake until the tray clacked onto her desk and the smell of fresh sweet buns filled the room. From the glare behind the curtains, she could tell that it was late.
“I thought no school today,” her mother said. She was standing at the window, peering out. “You seemed so tired yesterday, and I didn’t want you to catch a cold.”
Lin sat up, frowning at the sweet buns and the large cup of tea. She had been wrong. They had worried, and quite a lot, too. Not sure if she was in trouble, she said, “What’s going on outside?”
“Come see.”
Lin slipped out of bed, pulled aside the curtains, and found Oldtown quite transformed. Snow rested lightly on the steep roofs and crooked windowsills, tucking in the tired cobblestones and covering the gutters, and the river bridge was decked out for a winter ball with white cones on its red pillars.
Harald Rosenquist had slept in, too, it seemed. He stood in the middle of the street, wearing Anne’s dressing gown over his pajamas and slippers, facing the gray, woolly sky. Spiraling snowflakes landed on his glasses.
Lin laughed. “I bet he’ll be poring over his meteorological books all day.”
“I bet you’re right,” her mother said, laughing, too. “Well, come downstairs when you’re done. I thought we might call the Summerhills and ask if Niklas wants to visit.”
Lin stared at her. That was the most wonderful thing she had heard in a long time, at least in this world. Her mother put the plate and cup on the nightstand, gathered up the tray, and made to leave.
“Mom?”
Anne Rosenquist turned on the threshold. “Yes?”
“Thanks. For the sweet buns. They’re my favorite.”
“You’re welcome.” Her mother smiled as she closed the door. It was a little moment before she started down the stairs.
Lin opened the window, letting in the crisp air. The rosebush slept under a snowy veil, and the whittled cross was dressed in frost, and she thought they seemed peaceful. Taking a bite out of the still-warm sweet bun, she picked her cardigan off the bedpost and pulled it on. If her father could greet the first snow in his pajamas, then so could she.
Out of old, sweet habit, Lin stuck her hand in her left pocket, and that’s when she found it.
“Oh, very clever,” she whispered. “One point to Rufus of Rosenquist.”
In her palm, she held her cardigan drawstring, still damp from the snow, still tied into a twice-bound knot. The troll-hunter signal for “I am here.”
Lin tucked it back into her pocket, smiling to herself. Whatever happened she would not be alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks are owed:
To my sister, Line Almhjell, for whom I glued the very first version of The Twistrose Key into a scrapbook, one page a day. You truly are the hero of this song, søsterfnugg.
To my brother, Eivind Almhjell, who wrote the music for “The Margrave’s Song,” and who frowned at and whooped over draft upon draft upon draft.
To my husband and love, Peter Brown, who kept me flying beyond reason and without coin, all the way to the second star.
To my agent, Jane Putch, for the incredible things you have done for me, and for taking a chance on someone on the other side of the world.
To Lauri Hornik and everyone at Dial who helped make The Twistrose Key real and so very beautiful. I am truly honored to work with you.
To my editor, Jennifer Hunt, for teaching me how to make my story shine.
To Ian Schoenherr for the exquisite maps and illustrations.
To Laini Taylor, for everything. The pockets are yours, forever.
To Thomas Ingebrigtsen, who somehow sensed this book’s potential and with usual impatience and flair pushed me headlong out into the world.
To Kristian Johnsen, André Wallin Sagvolden, Jonny Berg, Kjeld Helland-Hansen, Shanti Gylseth, and Jim DiBartolo, for all your enthusiasm, inspiration, and help. And to Michael Benskin, for always expecting the good.
To Heidi Reinholdt and Ina Vassbotten Steinman, for invaluable linguistic and moral support.
To my mother, Unni, for the ocean. To my late father, Harald, for the mountains and the elm tree. And to both, for the love.
To my sweet kids, Magnus and Martine, for the sticky kisses, and for being.
To all regulars and visitors at Moonglen Manor over the years, for the cheese stews and stories.
And last, but with so much love: To Maika, Mario, Lass, Claus, Josef, Gwen, Pillerill, Puskas, Pims, Balthasar, and all my other little ones. I will see you in the Square.
The Twistrose Key Page 25