CurseBreaker Page 5

  Back home a dress like this would be saved for a holiday celebration or a special occasion. I didn’t even wear a dress like this when we celebrated at Uppsala. Who am I kidding? I don’t even own a dress like this back home.

  Gerda’s frown deepens as she pulls me out of the tub and dries my skin roughly with a stiff sheet before rubbing a creamy lotion all over my body. Retrieving my clothing for the day from the bed Gerda throws the shift over my head and roughly pulls my arms through the sleeves. The slip dusts the floor as Gerda gathers the fabric of the dress and shoves that over my head as well. I feel like some sort of bird or butterfly as Gerda wordlessly jerks my arms up and out so she can work the laces on either side of the bodice with her deft fingers.

  Now fully dressed Gerda beckons me to the vanity and starts brushing my hair, insensitive to any snarls she comes across in my curls. Gerda works my hair into a series of braids before stepping back to admire her handiwork.

  Wiping her hands on her pinafore as if I am disgusting to her she mutters, “Breakfast is set on the table in the great hall. I don’t wait on you.”

  “Thank you, Gerda,” I smile as wide as I can to project friendly vibes but Gerda glares at me and excuses herself from the room.

  It’s only after she’s left that I remember I don’t know what part of the castle I’m in or how many floors down the main floor is. Gathering my skirts and sighing I glide out of the room and into the hallway.

  It seems that my guess is right, my room is somewhere on the second floor. Memorizing how my door looks so I’ll be able to find my room again, I see Freya’s familiar icon staring back at me from the thick alder wood door.

  “So this is your doing, is it?” I whisper. Her lips seem to tilt up into a grin before my eyes.

  Each door on this end of the hall is engraved with the image one of the gods or goddesses so it should be easy to pick mine out again. I grip the banister on the grand staircase and slowly descend so as to not trip over the hem of my dress.

  Gustav is exiting the great hall as I cross the receiving room to reach it. When he spots me he bows jokingly and greets me with a, “Milady,” before straightening and disappearing into mist.

  Shaking my head in puzzlement I enter the great hall and find a breakfast feast spread out on the table. At the far end of the table, the polar bear sits on the floor looking at some papers spread out on the table in front of him.

  I clear my throat to announce my arrival as I pull out the seat I sat at the night before.

  “Good morning, Hel,” the polar bear greets me without looking up from his papers. “I trust you slept well.”

  “Very well,” I tell him as I help myself to some eggs and slices of bread fresh from the oven. A steaming black liquid fills my goblet and after taking a small testing sip I pucker my lips at its bitterness.

  “That’s good to hear,” the polar bear replies to my comment. Standing up on his two back legs, he continues, “I’m just finishing up here. I hope you enjoy your breakfast. Feel free to explore the palace and familiarize yourself with your surroundings once you’re finished eating.”

  “I think I will,” I murmur.

  The polar bear appraises me for a moment before saying, “you look very nice this morning.”

  Stunned, I remain silent as the polar bear turns to leave without a backward glance.

  Once I’ve eaten and drank about as much as I can I gather my plate and my goblet and head for the doorway to search out the kitchen so I might wash up my dishes.

  The other female attendant I met upon my arrival at the palace bumps into me on my way out and hurriedly backs up looking flustered.

  “I’m so sorry, Milady,” the maid apologizes, her voice coming out like short squeaks.

  “It’s perfectly alright, I should have been watching where I was going,” I laugh off my misstep. “And please, call me Hel. I’m not nearly important enough to be called ‘milady.’”

  “Oh but you are mil– I mean Hel,” the maid assures me.

  “Trust me, I’m as common as they come,” I smile sincerely. “And your name is?”

  “It’s Rana, miss,” the maid replies as she curtsies.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Rana,” I say. “I was just about to search out the kitchen so I could wash my breakfast dishes.

  “Oh, no miss,” Rana shakes her head ferociously, “please allow me.”

  “I don’t mind,” I tell her but she looks up and down the hall so nervously that I finally relent and hand over my plate and goblet.

  Rana looks relieved as she passes me to enter the great hall, “enjoy your day miss.”

  “Thank you, Rana,” I murmur as I step into the hall and wonder what I should do with myself now. At home my days consist of pitching in with the house and yard work but it looks like I won’t be doing a lot of that here. Perhaps if I explore the palace like the polar bear suggested I’ll find some occupation for my days.

  I cross the receiving room and pass the grand staircase toward a wide corridor that leads to the east wing.

  The first room I poke my head into is a small dark room. No light comes from the stone hearth where cobwebs spill out of a cast iron cauldron. In the center of the room stands a table laden with large tomes. In the center of the table, one particularly large book sits open to a page filled with unfamiliar words and symbols. Sunlight streams through one small window with colored glass a foot above my head. Overhead bundles of herbs hang drying. It reminds me of a room in the seer’s cottage in my village. He uses it to make medicines and potions; maybe that’s what someone in the palace uses it for too.

  Next I wander into a room that’s nearly empty except for a stone altar and a grate the size of a large dinner plate fitted into the stone floor. I look through the grate and see nothing but darkness. My imagination sparks and I imagine this room might be used for sacrifices to the gods and the grate is to drain the blood. My breakfast churns in my stomach as I hurry back into the hall.

  I hold my breath as I open the door to a room across the corridor from the room I’ve just left. As I push the door open fully I uncover the palace library. I stumble inside in a daze twirling in a circle as I tip my head back and stare at the impossibly tall bookshelves that seem to stretch three stories high. A glass dome serves as a ceiling for the massive library, filtering sunlight into the entire room. A fire burns in the grand stone hearth on one wall as if someone had just vacated the room and massive chairs covered in warm furs are scattered throughout the room but the most interesting discovery is a long table topped with books of maps. Beneath the books, one giant map with notes scribbled onto every spare inch encompasses the center of the table. I’ve never traveled beyond my small village except for the years we traveled to Uppsala; can the world truly be this large? Moving away from the table I marvel at the millions of volumes jammed into every nook and cranny of the room and wonder who these books belong to, and more importantly who could read all of these books in a single lifetime? Will I be able to read any of them, or are they all written in foreign languages like the books Father brings home for me? Brought home for me, I quickly correct myself. I make a note of where the library is located within the palace so I can revisit it later before stroking the cover of a book abandoned on the floor beside one of the massive chairs and slipping out of the room. The door to the library clicks closed behind me.

  As I pass through the receiving hall again I catch sight of a door partially hidden behind the grand staircase. I check to make sure the coast is clear before darting across the room and grasping the doorknob. It feels heavy and slightly warm in my palm. I twist it slightly and the door creaks open slowly.

  Inside I find a small circular room with partial light coming in through the curtained windows. The light reflects orange and yellow patterns on the wall, searching for the source I look up and see a nest of twisted glass dangling from the ceiling as a chandelier. My heart races in excitement. Someone in the palace has created a glass blowing studio!

 
Several years ago when I was nothing but a slip of a girl, Father allowed me to travel with him to a village down the coast. He needed to see a friend for supplies for his weapon making and among the various blades and rods I stumbled across my first blowpipe. When Father’s friend caught me looking he showed me how the hollow metal tub was used to pull molten glass from a massive oven and roll onto a table for shaping. My eyes were the size of saucers as I watched the man blow into the hollow pipe, and then stick his thumb over the end until the glass turned into a bubble at the other end. Over and over he did this, yet his patience never wavered as he molded, shaped, and cooled the glass. When finished, the sculpture was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The man let me see it before storing it in the cooling oven overnight and the next day when we started out for home Father’s friend gave me a couple rods and some glass so I could work on my own sculptures.

  When we came home from that trip I spent all my free time in Father’s workshop practicing, making small lopsided goblets and trinkets for my sisters. Eventually I ran out of supplies and we could not afford to buy more so my hobby was lost over time.

  Whoever sculpted the glass chandelier is an artist. The piece is intricate and completely flawless. As my eyes scan the room for the familiar rods and materials my hands itch to start a project of my own.

  A noise behind me stills me instantly. Wide-eyed I spin around and come face to face with the polar bear.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the polar bear says apologetically.

  I lower my hand from its’ grip around my throat and say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just saw the door and wanted to see what was inside, and then I just got lost in a memory.”

  The polar bear’s gaze darts around the room before landing on me again, “have you blown glass before?”

  I nod, “yes, a long time ago.”

  “It’s a soothing occupation,” the polar bear says then quickly clears his throat, “at least that’s what I hear.”

  “Yes, it is,” I confirm. I hesitate a beat then ask, “Do you know who this studio belongs to? The chandelier sculpture is beautiful.”

  “Nobody uses this room anymore,” the polar bear replies quietly as the fur on his cheeks turns slightly pink. “It belonged to… a friend of mine that went away, but nobody has entered this room in years. I only came in when I saw the door open.”

  “It’s a shame that these materials sit collecting dust,” I murmur as I run my hand over the copper tabletop.

  “If you ever feel like reacquainting yourself with glass blowing, I welcome you to use whatever you need,” the polar bear gestures around the room with one meaty paw.

  “Do you really mean that?” I ask excitedly.

  “Of course,” the polar bear grins, “after all, like you said the room is just sitting here collecting dust. Help yourself to whatever you like, nobody will mind.”

  “Thank you,” I lace my fingers together and bounce on the balls of my feet to stop myself from touching the polar bear. I’m not sure how he’d feel about me hugging him to show him my gratitude.

  “So do you think you’ll be happy here?” The polar bear asks cautiously.

  I grin, “With an endless supply of books and materials to do glass blowing again? I’m sure I can get used to it.”

  “I see you’ve discovered the library already,” the polar bear comments as his lips quirk up into a teasing smile.

  “It’s amazing,” I breathe.

  “I’m pleased you like it,” the polar bear ducks his head shyly. “Well, I will leave you to your exploring.”

  “Will I see you at dinner?” I ask as I rub my dusty palms on the skirt of my dress.

  “Perhaps,” the polar bear answers; seemingly pleased by my question.

  Back in the study in his chambers, Dyre sinks into the massive alder wood chair waiting behind his desk. As he plays around with the papers sprawled across the desk’s surface he smiles. She found his glass blowing studio. He hadn’t entered the room since his curse stole away his days and his hands and trapped him in the body of a beast, but seeing Hel in his space admiring his materials lost in her own head touched a part of himself he thought was lost forever. He’d watched her as she explored the main floor and felt her wonder at the apothecary Gerda used to try and find a remedy to his curse and the fear Hel felt as she darted out of the sacrificial room his grandfather had used to pay homage to the gods. Dyre had hidden in the shadows as Hel’s eyes had greedily taken in the library and lovingly touched the books he’d forgotten to put away last night as he read and waited for her to find her bedchamber.

  "What are you doing?" Gustav had asked, appearing at Dyre's side behind a hidden panel in the library.

  "Shh," Dyre hushed him. Though the panel was invisible from within the library, Dyre didn't want Hel to know he's been watching her.

  "Back to this creepy watching thing again, I see," Gustav commented, lowering his voice slightly.

  "I'm not being creepy," Dyre protested, "I'm getting to know her."

  "Actually talking to her might be easier," Gustav pointed out. Dyre snorted despite his better judgement.

  "It's just an idea," Gustav had added before disappearing in the annoying manner all the palace servants do.

  How he wished he could stand beside her in the studio, watching her eyes light up and showing her new ways to bend and sculpt glass but fear gnawed at him. Why would a beautiful girl like Hel want to spend her time with a man who was only a man after the darkness of night ate up everything in sight? A man who couldn’t even tell her he was a man and not a beast because of a stupid curse.

  Dyre sighs and tries to shore in his anger. For now he’ll have to settle for admiring her from afar and stealing moments beside her as she lies sleeping and oblivious. It will have to be enough.

  Chapter Six

  Days turn into weeks then into months. Winter melts away into spring and the sun reaches out and grasps for summer. With the changing of the seasons comes the changing of my hair as it fades from glorious, vibrant red to sparkling, golden blonde.

  The polar bear, who I’ve grown gradually closer to as the days have gone by, notices the changing of my hair one day when he finds me in the library. “Your hair is changing," he says as he sits upright in the chair across from the one I occupy. Sometimes it’s hard to remember he’s an animal and not a man, he acts just like a human would. He’s done so many things for me and with me. During the winter months, he took me ice skating on the frozen pond behind the palace, his appraising eyes never leaving me. Other times he would bring me things from his trips to the market in the nearest village; bolts of cloth for clothing, sweet treats brought from faraway lands, and even once he presented me with a bouquet of flowers that bloomed in the early spring.

  "Yes, it does every year at this time," I explain as I wrap a thick strand around my finger before throwing it over my shoulder.

  “Why?” the polar bear asks, sounding genuinely curious. His eyes, as I’ve noticed increasingly over the past few months, never stray too far from my face. The attention makes me blush, but not uncomfortably.

  I shrug, “I have no idea, it just does.”

  “Then you must have some magic in you," he replies thoughtfully.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask as I set aside the book I’m reading.

  The polar bear looks at the floor, his eyes darting back and forth as he thinks, “I believe everyone has some magic in them, some magic is big while others can be as simple as a healing touch or a spark of fire ignited within. I also believe that such magic is easily identified by a mark that sets a person apart from others.”

  “And you think my hair changing is that defining mark?” I ask.

  The polar bear nods slowly, “perhaps.”

  “What do you think my hair says about this magic you believe I possess?” I ask teasingly.

  The polar bear smirks, “I don’t know yet, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  Re
alizing I’m not going to get any further explanation from my companion who chooses to keep so many things to himself, I change the subject. “There are so many books, where did they all come from?”

  The polar bear’s left shoulder jerks upward in a humanlike shrug, “here and there. This castle has stood for nearly two hundred years, I’m sure over that time traveling and raids have gathered many books as well as jeweled riches.”

  “I’m surprised there are so many books in our language,” I comment as I run my hand over the spine of the book I’ve set down beside me. “All of the stories my mother and father told us as children all in one book, plus so many more I haven’t heard before.”

  “When I was young there was a palace scribe, whose job it was to record all the stories of our history,” the polar bear replies with a wistful smile on his face. As the smile fades he adds, “That’s why there are so many books on the gods. Did you know that far across the land, on a sea called the Mediterranean, there is a country called Greece? They worship gods like we do, but theirs have different names and histories.”

  “Really?” I ask as I lean forward in interest.

  “Really,” the polar bear nods. “In their beliefs, the world started from Chaos and from there goddesses and gods were created. There were the Titans, the Olympians, and the head of the Olympians was named Zeus, a god who commands lightning.”

  “Like Odin?” I ask.

  “In some ways yes,” the polar bear confirms, “but Odin is a much kinder god than Zeus is depicted as.”

  I nod, then something occurs to me, “you can read the language of Greece then?”

  “What?” the polar bear sounds confused by my question.