Rose
I sat on the fur lined chair in front of the blazing hearth. The room is set with tapestries made from the fabric of the castle. The golden, silver and moon colored cloth and thread in packed into a small box by the hearth and I have packed everything – including the moon dress – from my journey into a separate chest. The loom from the castle is set up in the corner and several of the furs, couches, flautos and musical instruments have been placed in the sitting room. We live in Fransk, near Sophie and Estelle.
Tuki has become very fond of music, just like his father, and Nena is the sweetest little daughter I could ever hope for. Mother refuses to let go of her birth-direction superstition and insists that I will be running after my north-born Nena soon enough. She also insists that I had my four children for each of the cardinal points of the compass. Ah, Mother.
The fire crackles sharply and alerts me to the scent of a delicious soup settled above the fire. Supper seems almost ready. Until it is, though, Tuki will stir the pot for me.
Suddenly my fingers itch to touch thread. As I stand up and my back leaves the warm fur of the chair, a cool breeze scrapes my neck and I feel a burst of energy building inside of me. I make my way over to the loom with a purpose to my steps and pull out a light blue – almost white – thread to start a belt for Nena. She'll need one to hold up the breeches I made her last week. My fingers wrap lovingly against the familiar coils and warp threads. The threads wind and wrap, rapidly alternating their directions, weaving in beads and designs that I've created more than I've breathed. It takes me very little time to finish, but the work makes me more willing to continue writing my story. I wish Neddy and Father could've left their accounts be the records, but Neddy insists I write my story. I am no storyteller.
While writing this account, I cannot help but to imagine how my life would have been, if I had not gone with my white bear. As he plays in the other room with our children, I can feel how happy he is, how liberated. I can't believe I've set him free. We live so contentedly – not at all like Father's farm. We have butter, and silk, and looms – and love. I love him. I love my bear. I love my prince, Charles.
Ah, he's playing his flauto. He loves music. I wish I could play for him, but I'd ruin the songs he holds so dear. Just like I did in the castle. I still remember playing Estivale over and over again trying to decipher the sheet music. Charles must have had so much patience to hear me destroying his music without being able to put the instrument to his lips himself. It must have killed him to not be able to play his flauto.
I must get up again. I rise quickly and cross to the entrance room, dodging a crawling Nena. Sifting through the coats and caps, I find Charles' white fur cloak, the one he wore to Nifleheim and back to Fransk. I'm glad he's put those terrible times behind him and not let the cloak carry bad memories in its fur.
Once again I say that I am no storyteller, with such little patience, but wish my descendants to know that I am content here; so blissfully happy.