Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow - Jessica Day George [61]
Of course, it didn’t explain why her breath didn’t cloud the air the way the lass’s and Rollo’s did. But the lass didn’t think it polite to remark on that.
After she’d peeled and cored three apples, she helped the old woman carry the basket of peeled fruit over to a big black pot that hung over a fire behind the hut. The pot was half-full of boiling water, and they spilled in the apples. The old woman produced bags of spices from her apron and poured them into the pot, replacing the lid with a sigh.
“By tomorrow morning that will be the sweetest apple jelly you ever did taste,” the old woman said, smacking her lips. She did have all her teeth, which seemed odd in one so decrepit.
“That’s kind of you, moster,” the lass said. “But we must be going. We have a long road ahead of us.”
“And where is it you’re going?” Bright blue eyes peered at the lass from the web of wrinkles. “There’s naught but snow and trees and trolls from here till doomsday, the direction you’re headed.”
“That’s rather the point,” said the lass, twisting her fingers in the fur edging the white parka. “I’m looking for the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon, you see. Do you know where it is?”
Sucking in a breath, the crone stared at the lass. “At it again, is she? So you’re the lassie that should have had the prince she’s stolen?”
“Is he a prince?”
“Oh, yes. Always has to have the royals, she does. I heard one time that she made an exception, for a boy of especial beauty, but he got away from her.”
“I think that was my brother, Hans Peter,” the lass said, feeling her skin tighten with gooseflesh.
“Aye, that was the name the last little girl said to me,” the crone said, nodding.
“Tova? Did Tova come this way?”
“That was the other name she said, yes,” the old woman agreed.
“Then where did she go? Am I going in the right direction? Do you know where the palace is? Did Tova make it there?”
The old woman shook her head to stop the lass’s questions. “You’ll reach the castle, late or never, I suppose. If you are determined to see it. For myself, I never dared to face her. Not even when she took my Lars.” Tears fogged the old eyes. “Trolls live a long time, but human husbands do not.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, moster.” The lass put her arms around the old woman and hugged her. The crone felt as light and fleshless as a straw doll.
“No sense crying, no sense now,” said the crone, wiping her face with a ragged sleeve.
“Who’s out here blubbering, when there’s wool needs carding?” Out of the hut popped another old woman with a face like a walnut and bright blue eyes.
If the lass had thought the first moster to be the oldest woman alive, she was mistaken. The crone standing on the doorstep of the hut, smiling with remarkably white and even teeth, was even more withered of form and thin of hair than her friend. Her white hair was so fine that her pink scalp showed through, and she was bundled up in even more layers of worn clothing. In her gnarled hands she held a basket of snarled wool and a pair of carding combs.
“God dag, moster,” the lass said.
“This is the lassie that should have had the newest prince,” the first moster said in the loud, clear voice you used around the hard of hearing.
The second old woman had a laugh like a creaking gate. “No wonder her was in such a taking when she flew by t’other day,” she said. “It’s another lassie, and another husband, and another fine mess, it is.”
“Yes,” the lass agreed loudly. “Do you know the way?”
“Oh, saints be praised no, child! I only ever made it this far after my sweet Finnish prince was whisked away. Lovely dark eyes he had,” she sighed.
“He’s dead now,” the first moster announced. “Hand me the wool.”
“Yes, yes,” the second said, irritated. She handed the wool to her friend, and gave the lass the carding combs. “It’s too late now to be