Chapter Eight

Lizzie

Three weeks later…

Life as a princess had prepared Lizzie for many things, but surviving alone on a frigid, snow-covered island was not one of them.

She rubbed her stiff, chapped fingers together over the few pitiful flames she had managed to light in the hearth. They were barely enough to take the edge off the numbness that seemed to take up permanent residence in her fingertips since her arrival in Norditch two days earlier. The winter coat she had brought with her from home was enough to keep the chill away while she was traveling, but she had unfortunately forgotten gloves in her haste to leave—an oversight that she had lamented more and more with every mile north.

I don't have gloves, but I also don't have a wedding ring on my finger, which seems a fair trade.

The decision to run away had been made rather rashly—spurred on as it was by emotions so strong that they actually managed to breach the surface of her curse—but she could not bring herself to regret it. Though she had known for years that her future would be determined by the country with the deepest pockets or most compelling influence, being thrown into the arms of a beggar in one of her father's fits of rage was not a scenario she either expected or appreciated.

Hence her flight.

But now that she had arrived at her destination, Lizzie was faced with the troubling reality that she had no idea how to live on her own. The tiny, ramshackle hut that she currently called her home had taken nearly all of her remaining coins to obtain, and the few that were left would not last long. She knew enough about economics and trade to understand that once the pieces of copper were gone, she had nothing of marketable value to trade for the food and firewood that would be necessary for survival.

It was rather ironic, now that she could look at the whole situation without emotion clouding her judgment, that she found herself in the same economic state as she would have been had she married the minstrel.

Though without being tied to life to someone who would likely just try to use me for my connections and influence.

A knock on the weathered wooden door drew her attention from the pathetic fire. Through the wide cracks between the splintered planks Lizzie could see two short silhouettes. She crossed the entirety of her living space in three steps and pulled the door open.

Two pairs of bright, inquisitive eyes looked up at her from kindly faces. Both women were bundled against the cold, wearing knit caps and scarves of red and blue with matching mittens peeking out from the ends of their long woolen coat sleeves. She recognized the younger of the two—a motherly sort who reminded her a little of Queen Clarice, but without the sharp edges that came with a crown—as the woman who had sold her the shack. She guessed the other woman to be older, though there were not enough wrinkles on her face to match with the white hair that peeked out from under the edges of her cap.

"Mrs. Finnlapp, how can I help you?" Lizzie didn't bother putting on her court smile.

After all, she wasn't at court anymore.

"Good morning, Eliza. We were just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and see how you were getting along."

Lizzie raised an eyebrow at that. Part of the reason she had chosen the rundown shack was that it was located on the very edge of Schnebel, closer to the sea than it was to any of the other buildings in town.

"You say, as if checking on the little chick weren't the entire reason we were in the area in the first place." The older woman clucked her tongue. "Remember Norva, ‘A truth that travels by wandering paths arrives as a lie.'"

"Remind yourself of that the next time I ask where all my scones have gone," Mrs. Finnlapp retorted before giving Lizzie her full attention once again. "How are you, dear? Staying warm?"

"Warm enough." Lizzie's fingers protested her answer, but she ignored them.

"She's lying." The old woman pointed to the dying fire that was just barely visible behind Lizzie. "Those flames are hardly fit to be called candles. I'd bet my wooden teeth that it's just as cold in there as it is out here."

"You don't have any wooden teeth, Mormor."

"But if I did, I'd bet them."

Mrs. Finnlapp sighed, looking at Lizzie as if she expected commiseration. Lizzie blinked stoically. "What she does with her teeth is none of my concern."

Mormor cackled. "I knew I would like you. Now, the topic that Norva is tiptoeing around is that we're concerned about you staying out here all alone, and with no way of looking out for yourself."

"I can look after myself."

Mormor clucked her tongue again. "‘The empty money sack scratches hardest on soft hands.'"

Lizzie raised an eyebrow. "And by that you mean…?"

"Just that you're probably not used to the climate," Mrs. Finnlapp jumped in. "The weather here is much harsher than wherever you come from."

Mormor huffed. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. The girl looks like she hasn't done a day of hard labor in her life. Whoever let her wander all the way out here without even a pair of proper gloves has a lot of answering to do."

"Yes, well, what I said was more—"

Lizzie cleared her throat to interrupt, putting on her best court smile as she dismissed them. "I appreciate that you took the time to stop by." She stepped back to close the door.

"Oh, none of that, missy." Mormor waved her finger at Lizzie's face. "You might be new here, but in Schnebel, we take care of our own. You're coming with us."

She crossed her arms. "Why?"

"Because my old bones are tired of standing in the cold, for one. And because you'll need to start doing something to learn a trade if you expect to survive for long here. As I always say, ‘A tern who refuses to build his nest will soon take a turn for the worst.'"

Lizzie considered for a moment.

She's correct. I need a way to learn a marketable skill, and the only way I can do that is if someone teaches me.

"Alright." She stepped through the door and closed it behind her. There was no lock, but since the only thing of value she owned was the pouch with a few coppers in her skirt pocket, it was unnecessary.

The two women exchanged a glance, clearly unprepared for her ready acceptance. Mrs. Finnlapp cleared her throat and clapped her mittened hands together cheerfully. "Alright then, dear. Right this way."

Warmth enveloped her as soon as Lizzie stepped into Mrs. Finnlapp's home. The sod-roofed building was warm and cozy inside, with patchwork cushions on the chairs, quilted blankets hanging on a rack by the crackling fireplace, and a large fur rug on the wooden floor. Something savory bubbled on the stove, and Mormor shuffled over and put a teakettle on as soon as her coat and scarf were hung by the door.

"Make yourself at home," Mrs. Finnlapp directed, gesturing to the pair of rocking chairs set near the fire. "Sit down and thaw a bit while we get everything ready."

Lizzie pulled off her coat, adding it to the flock of others on the rack that looked like it might topple from the weight at any moment. She wandered over the chairs, sinking slowly onto the seat closest to the fire. Her fingers began to tingle with pins and needles as the feeling returned, replacing the numbness with a dull ache. She looked around the room with a clinical eye, noting the tiny, carved wooden statues and painted vases that were tucked away into every available nook and cranny, and the bundles of herbs and flowers that hung from the low ceiling.

Mrs. Finnlapp ducked back outside and returned a few moments later with a large basket of straw-like material that she dropped unceremoniously onto the floor in front of Lizzie. "What do you know about willow baskets?"

"In general, I know they are commonly regarded as useful household tools." Lizzie folded her hands in her lap. "But if you're speaking to the manufacturing of them, I admit that I know nothing, Mrs. Finnlapp."

Mormor joined them, settling into the chair across from Lizzie with a grunt. "Well, you're honest; that's at least a promising start."

Mrs. Finnlapp dragged a chair over from a small table in the corner of the front room. "It's nothing too complicated. If a couple of old goats like us can handle it, your young fingers will catch on before too long. And you can call me Norva, dear. She," she hooked a thumb at Mormor, "is Svedie, but everyone around here calls her ‘Mormor.'"

Memories of hours spent with Hadrian in Freddy's library flashed through her mind, shuffling like the vocabulary cards she would help him memorize. "It means grandmother, doesn't it?"

Mormor looked at her with a pleased expression. "So it does. You're familiar with our language?"

"Only a few words. An acquaintance of mine is a scholar of languages, and I absorbed a few things while helping him study."

"Ooooh, a male acquaintance?" Norva's voice reminded Lizzie of the girls at court when they would gather together and gossip about the young men at a ball. "Is he handsome?" She reached into the basket and began pulling out strands of willow.

Lizzie tilted her head. "I suppose some might think so."

"But not you?"

"I'm not interested in marriage."

"That's not the question I asked." Norva wiggled her eyebrows up and down. "Do you think he's handsome?"

Lizzie considered her answer. She knew Hadrian's dark hair and eyes were generally pleasing to look upon, though before her curse she had always felt a strong preference for Freddy's blonde hair and blue eyes. Hadrian was serious, capable, and honest to a fault. Freddy was bright and funny, the type of person who lit up a room as soon as he walked in.

Once again, regret whispered in the back of her mind.

She froze it out.

"He's nice to look at," she finally answered, noting that the eyes of both women were trained on her, waiting for her response. "He's very smart and takes his job seriously. He doesn't smile much."

"Oh no, that won't do." Mormor shook her head. "A sense of humor is very important. As I always say, ‘A man without laughter is like an ocean without fish."

Norva handed her a bundle of willow shoots and demonstrated how to prepare the base of the basket. Lizzie's fingers fumbled in their attempts to recreate the deft movements of the older women, and by the time she was ready to begin the actual weaving process, she had already stopped and restarted her project a dozen times.

"This is my favorite part. Now we get to watch the basket come to life." Norva held out her own basket, showing Lizzie how to weave the shoots over and under the base spokes.

Lizzie narrowed her eyes in concentration as she worked. Her fingertips were soon sore from pulling on the willow shoots, and no matter how hard she tried, her attempts at weaving remained uneven and misshapen. It became even more pronounced once Mormor tried to explain to her how to stake the sides and form the walls of the basket.

She sat in silence, content to let the women talk over her. Though her hands and fingers ached, there was something methodical and soothing about the repetitive task. Her mind wandered, and she found herself wondering if Freddy had heard the news yet.

Would her father bother to tell him?

Surely if he didn't, someone else who was there that night would spread the news. It wasn't every day that a king gave his daughter away to a beggar.

It makes no difference whether Freddy knows or not. I don't love him; I made sure of that.

"You're rather quiet over there, Eliza." Mormor leaned forward and poked Lizzie's knee with a willow shoot. "As I always say, ‘The silence of heavy thought speaks louder than the ramblings of an old woman.'"

Norva snorted. "Do you always say that? It feels oddly specific to this situation."

"I will say it from now on. I might even embroider it in a pillow for you, so you can look at it every time you start rambling on about your rhubarb."

"I do not ramble about my rhubarb."

"You do, but that's beside the point." Mormor cleared her throat and went back to her basket, which was already nearly finished. Her fingers flew almost as fast as her mouth. "Tell me, Eliza, what brings you to Schnebel? It's been a few decades since we had a runaway."

Lizzie blinked. "I never said that I ran away."

"Oh, please. You're obviously not a Norditch girl—you've got the right coloring, but your build is all wrong. We Norditch women are made strong and sturdy to survive the ice and cold; you're like a delicate little snowflake that could blow away at any moment. And then there's the accent, of course. You come from one of the southern countries, if I had to make a guess."

"Ha," Norva cackled. "That's not a very impressive deduction. All of Eukarya is south of us."

Mormor continued as if she hadn't heard. "Your coat is far too thin. Anyone from Cabriole, or even Brisia would have known that you need more than a light wool jacket to survive up here. You come from money—that much is obvious by your dress and the state of your hands—but you didn't come with more than the clothes on your back, which means it was likely an unsanctioned trip, and not a very well-planned one at that. So what is it? Did you fight with your mother? Did your lover reject you for another? Did you feel stifled by the expectations of high society?"

"Mormor!" Norva hissed, looking back and forth between the old woman and Lizzie with wide eyes. "Don't be rude. I'm sure Eliza has a perfectly good reason for coming here."

Mormor scoffed. "They never do. I've lived more than a century, and I can tell you that every poor child who has run all the way to Norditch discovered that everything could have been solved by a healthy bit of communication or soul-searching, and often both. As I always say, "Miscommunication is the poison oak of relationships; both lead to rash reactions.'"

Norva's basket lay abandoned on her lap, and she nervously twisted a willow shoot in her fingers, obviously nervous about Lizzie's reaction.

She had no reason to be. As always, Lizzie's emotions were like a calm, waveless ocean. She absorbed Mormor's words as indifferently as she might the recitation of a pie recipe.

Honesty is obviously the best policy here, if I want to retain their good graces. Mormor is trying to appear abrasive, but she seems to deliver her words from a place of care.

Lizzie looked up from her lopsided basket to meet Mormor's eyes. "I'm from Nedra."

"That's quite a long distance. What made you decide to come all this way? I'm certain it wasn't the weather, not when you could have traveled down to Kysta much more easily."

Lizzie picked up another willow shoot and attempted to add it to her basket the way that Norva had shown her. "I wanted to see a reindeer."

Mormor scoffed. "Surely that's not all."

"My father lost his temper and decided to give me in marriage to the next man who came to the door."