West

by Edith Pattou

  “Rose,” Charles said, “I have a confession to make.”

  I turned to look at him.

  “It is true that I had come to care about you as Nyamh. But when you told me that you had cut off your finger to make a key to get into the blackhouse, well, it crossed my mind . . . I mean, I wondered, because who but a mother would do such a thing? A mother for her child. You had said you had a husband who was lost—”

  “Which was the truth,” I said.

  “I know. But still I wondered.”

  A swath of dazzling purple pulsed across the sky.

  “Why do you think you finally remembered?” I asked. “Why did it happen then, putting the ring on my finger? Why not when the pale queen died?”

  “I have wondered that myself,” he replied. “And I cannot tell you the why of it, only the how. How for the longest time, there was this hole, a blank space, where the memory of a wife should be. I desperately wanted to fill it, see a face, which I believed wasn’t yours. But then I came to a point when I didn’t want to remember, because of the feelings I was beginning to have for you, for Nyamh. But when we were standing there, with the rings, in front of all the people we love, it came flooding back. Like a blazing sun bursting through pitch-dark clouds. The blank spot was gone. The one I loved then was the one I loved now. Or is it the other way around?” He smiled broadly.

  I laughed. “And it was just in the nick of time, according to Mother. Apparently your remembering me at that crucial moment removed all the bad luck of a second marriage,” I said. Giving a mock shudder, I added. “Think of the doom we narrowly averted.”

  “A close call indeed,” he said, grinning.

  I took a sip of apple juice, dreamily watching the vivid plumes of green and purple and blue billow across the sky.

  “There’s something else I’ve been thinking,” Charles said.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “About Winn, about our son,” he said. “His name.”

  I came alert, for I had been thinking of that as well. “What about his name?”

  “That it should be Tuki. It was our first thought, when he was born. And . . .”

  I nodded. “Urda,” I said. “It is because of her he is alive.”

  “Yes,” said Charles.

  “It would please her,” I said.

  “We can go on calling him Winn,” Charles said. “It does suit him.”

  “But not because Mother says he is west-born,” I said vehemently.

  “No, not because of that,” Charles said, smiling.

  We heard the distant strains of musical notes, no doubt from the winter solstice celebration over on Munkholmen. I recognized the instrument being played as a harpeleik, a handheld stringed instrument like a zither that was a favorite of Charles’s. The haunting melody wafted around us like one of Sib’s winds.

  Charles got to his feet. “Rose?” he said, holding out his hand.

  I stood, taking his hand, and under the solstice moon, bundled up in our furs and scarves and mittens, we danced. Slowly at first, then whirling and spinning, until finally, out of breath, laughing, we collapsed onto the snowy ground.

  And I knew then as I had known from the beginning. It didn’t matter whether or not we lived happily ever after. We were where we truly belonged. My white bear and I. Together.

  White Bear

  WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY? I had once asked the strange, beautiful girl with a voice like rocks.

  I looked back over all those years. And realized once and for all that those words had been both my undoing and my salvation.

  I had lost a kingdom, but gained a life.

  A life with Rose.

  Estelle

  ROSE AND CHARLES DECIDED to officially give Winn the name Tuki. Because of Urda, which seemed right. They said I could go on calling him Winn, and I thought I probably would, especially when he scrunched his face up and howled like the vent de l’ouest. They also said that when Winn got old enough, he could decide himself what name he wanted to be called.

  Rose made me a beautiful cloak using the wind rose design that Grand-père Arne drew for me, and she gave it to me as a Yule gift, along with the most adorable puppy in the whole wide world. I named him Pip. Gudrun was very envious.

  Rose and Charles also decided that we would all stay in Trondheim, make our home here, which made me very happy. I liked it in Njord, where there were cloudberries and kjottboller, aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins.

  And there were also far fewer snakes.

  Glossary

  Alpes—Alps mountain range

  Anglia—England

  Arktisk—the Arctic

  Armagnac—a province in France

  echecs—chess (in Fransk)

  Europa—Europe

  Fransk—France, also French

  Gresk—Greece, also Greek

  Gronland—Greenland

  Hollande—Holland

  Huldre—the troll kingdom (also its people)

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

  kentta murha—killing fields in Niflheim

  Kina—China

  leidarstein—lodestone

  Leodhas—Isle of Lewis, Scotland

  Niflheim—frozen land of the dead

  Njord—Norway

  Njordsjoen—North Sea

  Nokken—a shape-shifting water monster that often takes the form of a white horse

  Portugali—Portugal

  Pyrennes—the Pyrenees mountains

  skac—chess (in Huldre)

  skjebne-soke—fortuneteller

  Skottland—Scotland

  Spania—Spain

  Sveitsland—Switzerland

  Sverige—Sweden

  Under Huldre—a race of trolls that lives underground

  Acknowledgments

  When I finished East all those years ago, I never dreamed I would set out on another journey with Rose and her white bear. But my indefatigable homegirl tugged and tugged on my sleeve, telling me her adventuring wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

  And I was lucky to have an equally indefatigable assortment of comrades on my journey who provided much-needed navigation, support, wisdom, and tactical advice.

  Thank you:

  To Rubin Pfeffer, who is rock-steady, creative, and shrewd, the best agent a girl could ever have.

  To Nicole Sclama, my remarkable editor. Even though you officially took the reins mid-journey, I quickly realized you’d been there all along, loving Rose and her white bear. Thank you for your tireless heart and talent.

  To Jeannette Larson, with whom I only got to travel for a short spell but whose insight and grace were invaluable. And Elizabeth Bewley, who was along for an even shorter stretch, but who was an enthusiastic caretaker.

  To the team at HMH, who shepherded this new journey with creativity and care, especially copyeditor Ana Deboo, who had a laser eye for all my modern slang, French malapropisms, and historical inaccuracies. And someday I promise I’ll finally figure out the difference between further and farther.

  To Michael Stearns, my editor and spirit guide on East, who still makes me laugh.

  To all librarians/Havamals, and especially Mark, Erin, Megan, and Bev at UAPL for tracking down answers to all my unusual, sometimes preposterous, questions.

  To David Diaz, who motivated me to finally come up with a birth direction chart and whose resulting wind rose inspired me during the last leg of the journey.

  To Jody Casella and Natalie Richards, my early readers, who keep me grounded and helped me find that artist within. And to Cecil Castellucci, who met me once at a panel in LA and over Thai food agreed to read a first draft.

  To the rest of OHYA—Erin McCahan (who gets the very first ARC!), Lisa Klein, Margaret Peterson Haddix, Julia DeVillers, Linda Gerber (welcome back!), Rae Carson (we still miss you!)—because the truth is I never really had a tribe until I found you.

  To Allyn Johnston, just because you believed in me from the very begin
ning and were willing to take a chance on me when others weren’t so sure.

  To my TROLs—Beth, Claudia, Carol, Edie G., Lori, Kristen, Sandy, Sally, Arlene, and Susan—who are not in fact trolls, but instead the most excellent group of children’s lit champions in the universe.

  To my mom, for your enduring support and love, and for teaching me early on to love books.

  To Vita, my rock-star philosopher daughter, who stepped up at a crucial moment to be my first reader. Love you to the moon and back and then some.

  To Charles, as always, who makes what I do possible. You are patient and wise and good, and I would gladly suffer altitude sickness for you. And in fact, I have.

  And lastly a special thank-you to all the young women who grew up with East, and who still write me amazing letters that make me cry. You are all Rose, each in your own way, and you are all wonderful.

  www.hmhteen.com

  About the Author

  Author photo by Michelle Daniel

  EDITH PATTOU is the author of East, an ALA Notable Book; Fire Arrow, a Booklist Top Ten Fantasy Novel of the Year; and the New York Times best-selling picture book Mrs. Spitzer’s Garden. She lives in Columbus, Ohio.

  Visit her online at www.edithpattou.com

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Follow us for book news, reviews, author updates, exclusive content, giveaways, and more.