The Forgotten Sisters

  “I’m sorry, Felissa,” said Miri. “I wish I didn’t feel things so loudly.”

  Felissa laughed. “It’s not your fault. Since you named it—linder-wisdom—I’ve become more aware of it. Or I listen more closely maybe. In that house, everyone’s feelings are loud to me.”

  They sat on an only slightly damp patch of marsh grass. The sun rose over the swamp; the breeze was cool and briny. Dragonflies in shiny blue and green zipped, hovered, and dived.

  “Ma used to call us the dragonfly sisters,” said Felissa, her eyes following the dance of the insects. “She said we needed a second name, since we had no father name. She said we’re like dragonflies—cunning and quick and sparkling like jewels in the swamp. She said it as though she was proud of us.”

  Felissa was still smiling when she started to cry.

  Silent, she went back to the house. Astrid watched her go.

  “When Ma died,” said Astrid, “Felissa cried for days. She didn’t eat, she barely drank. Felissa doesn’t feel things halfway.”

  Sus was listening, head cocked to their conversation, and Miri suspected she’d been too young to remember those times well.

  “In a way, it made Ma’s death a little easier on me,” said Astrid. “I was so busy trying to keep Felissa alive that I couldn’t stop and feel—” Astrid took a breath. “I guess I still feel it, though.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Miri, “even if you don’t show it like she does.”

  “Felissa feels something and it comes out of her,” said Astrid. “At least she feels laughter more than sorrow.”

  “And more than gas,” Miri said, hoping to make Astrid laugh. She was rewarded with a smile at least.

  Astrid took up one end of her net, twisting new fibers into the holes. “In the village, families hunt together, eat together, on rainy nights sleep cozied up inside the same reed huts. What could Ma or our father or grandparents have done that was so shameful that the rest of our family wanted us far away where they never had to see us?”

  “I don’t know,” Miri whispered.

  Astrid shrugged and looked away, as if she had not really been interested in the answer.

  The silence stretched, ticking with the buzz and click of insects, the swish of breeze and water, the loneliness of the sky. Miri filled it with a story.

  She told of a bird born with its wings pinned to the ground. Each morning it struggled, trying to get free. By the afternoon, exhausted, it laid its head on the ground and watched the other birds soar.

  One morning after a vivid dream, it felt more certain than ever that it should fly. It struggled and struggled, and when noon came, the bird did not stop. The evening sun lowered, and still it grappled with the ground. When the first star pricked the night sky, a single pin loosened. With new hope, the bird pushed with more strength than it knew was possible, and at once the rest of the pins came out. The bird rose so quickly and so fiercely, it flew straight up into the black sky, where it became a star, never touching the ground again.

  “Did you make up that story?” Astrid asked.

  “No, but I can show you where it came from,” said Miri.

  Sus and Astrid followed Miri to the house, where Felissa had battled through her sadness to bring back her smile. Miri brought out her three books.

  “This book of tales is like the one that taught me to read,” she said.

  “And the others?” asked Astrid.

  “A history of Danland and a history of Stora, a kingdom to the northwest.”

  Miri fumbled with the books, feeling transparent, but no one asked why she’d made the effort to bring along a book about Stora.

  Sus sat down and immediately started reading the book of tales, and for the next few days she was never without it. While they sat mending, fishing, or cooking, Sus would read to them, stopping often to ask Miri a question like, “What’s a street?” or “What’s a pigeon?” or “What’s a mattress?” Miri would answer, and Sus would nod and keep reading.

  “How did she learn to read so fast?” Astrid whispered.

  “I think she might be really smart,” Miri whispered back.

  “You are noisy whisperers,” said Sus. “It’s just like, once you learn what call a wren makes, you can always pick it out of the swamp noises? Once you know what sounds letters make, you can tell the word, and once you know the word, there it is, making sense.”

  Astrid scowled. “I want to read too.”

  And so at last the princess academy began in earnest.

  Miri devoted much of each morning to reading. Besides being a useful skill, reading tales introduced the sisters to hundreds of words unknown in a swamp but likely to come up in Aslandian conversation.

  After lunch and a rest, they tackled subjects like History and Arithmetic while doing chores or fishing.

  In the evening she worked on Poise and Etiquette.

  “Can I please go read now?” Sus asked, walking back and forth while balancing Miri’s boot on her head.

  “Not yet,” said Miri. “Watch your toes. In a long skirt you’d trip stomping like that. Your body should make a straight line from your feet through your hips and up your neck.”

  “Who says that’s the right way of being?” asked Astrid. She swatted her dark, matted hair over her shoulder. “What if I like how I am, what if I don’t want to be Asland’s idea of a lady?”

  “The point of education is to learn other ways too. Don’t just assume that all you know is right. Learn more and then choose.”

  Felissa seemed to float as she strolled around the room the way that Miri had taught. “I like how this feels.”

  Astrid blew air out of her lips.

  “On my first day studying at the Queen’s Castle, my tutor Master Filippus told us the story of Lord Aksel who listened,” said Miri.

  “Oh good, another story,” Astrid muttered.

  Miri pretended not to hear. “Lord Aksel’s tutors and parents taught him Scholarship, Etiquette, and Lordship. But he also listened to the cook, weaver, farmer, carpenter, and all the workers around his estate. Other nobles mocked him as he sat knitting or planting seeds. But when he was called to lead his province to war, he didn’t just know how to stab and shoot. He designed clever war machines for breaking down walls, knit traps, kept his army fed in a harsh winter. Lord Aksel became the greatest military leader in Danland’s history because he studied much more than how to use weapons.”

  “You want us to believe that if you teach us this silly stuff, someday it may come in handy,” said Astrid. “Mincing properly in slippers will help me sneak up on a duck, perhaps?”

  “I’m saying you never know,” said Miri. “Think of learning as storing up supplies you may need for a harsh winter.”

  “That’s logical.” Sus spoke the new word as if she loved its taste on her tongue.

  Miri opened to the genealogy charts in The History of Danland.

  “Those are your ancestors. Look, here’s a Queen Astrid! And a Queen Felissa. Ooh, there’s Queen Katarina.”

  Miri told them another story—though this time Astrid did not complain.

  “Long ago a queen of Danland birthed twins. Prince Klas was the firstborn and so was heir to the throne. But before his coronation as king, his twin sister, Princess Katarina, forced the old palace physician to declare that she was actually born first. Half of Danland supported Katarina’s claim to the crown, and a vicious civil war erupted. Neighbor butchered neighbor, brother fought brother, till Asland’s streets ran with blood. Katarina was so enraged when her supporters lost that she tried to murder her brother on his throne. In sorrow, Klas’s first act as king was to condemn his twin sister to death.”

  Miri abbreviated the story, because the account in the history book took its time, lingering over every detail, begging its readers to never forget the horrors of a civil war. One country fighting itself, like a man slashing at his own limbs. No borders to hide behind, no places to retreat. Just death and more death.

  All du
e to one princess.

  The girls were quiet, letting in the sounds of crickets and toads.

  Then Felissa said, “Glad I wasn’t named after her.”

  “They were right to cut off her head,” said Astrid.

  “I used to agree,” said Miri. “Then at the Queen’s Castle, Master Filippus taught us, ‘History is written by the victors.’”

  Sus brightened. “I see! We’re learning the story from Klas’s point of view, the way he and his supporters saw it happen.”

  “Imagine if Katarina had won the war and her children had inherited the throne,” said Miri. “What might the history books say then?”

  Astrid gestured dramatically. “After years of threatened silence, the brave physician came forward to reveal the truth—Katarina was the firstborn! But the evil Prince Klas wouldn’t have it and started a bloody war in an attempt to murder his sister.”

  Sus shook her head. “How can we ever know exactly what happened?”

  “Historians read books, letters, and journals to try to unravel the mysteries of the past, but they can’t be absolutely certain they’ve found the truth,” said Miri. “For one thing, people change. What would you three have written about me the first day you met me?”

  The sisters looked at one another and laughed.

  “And now?” Miri asked hopefully.

  Felissa put her arm around Miri’s shoulder. “Now the story we told would be very different.”

  Something touched Miri’s leg. A ladybug. She brushed it off as casual as anything, almost as if she had not been afraid for a moment that it was a snake. Almost as if she belonged in the swamp.

  Written Winter Week Three

  Never received

  My dear sister Miri,

  I have not written you for weeks because I had nothing to report. But today something amazing happened. A young man walked into the village. Yes, walked! He was alone and as dirty as a bandit. He is a large boy, broad with thick arms, but looked half-frozen and exhausted. When he spoke, all he said was “Frid?”

  Doter went to the quarry and returned with Frid. When she saw the boy, her whole face kind of widened in shock that way it does. She called him Sweyn and asked what in all creation he was doing here. Sweyn just stared at her. Beside him, I thought our Frid looked almost average size.

  Frid’s brothers gathered, wanting to know what was happening. Frid told them that Sweyn had been one of her friends at the palace forge but she had no idea what brought him to Mount Eksel.

  Sweyn walked over to Frid. He said her name again. And then he put his arms around her. Right there for the whole village to see! I would not tell anyone but you that I noticed how his hands splayed against her back, how he rested his face in her neck.

  Of course her six brothers pounced on Sweyn like a pack of wolves on a hare and yanked him away. Sweyn started shouting, “I love you! I love you, Frid,” over and over again. And Frid’s brothers got madder and madder and started hauling him off. I nudged Frid and pointed out that that they were dragging Sweyn toward the Great Crevasse. That seemed to wake Frid out of her shock. She ran after and ordered them to let Sweyn go.

  And then everybody just stood there, staring at one another.

  Frid said she had to get back to the quarry. She started to walk away, and my heart seemed to stop beating. But then Frid looked over her shoulder and asked Sweyn if he was coming too. His smile nearly broke his face.

  For the rest of the day, he worked beside her. They never spoke. But one time after she got a drink from the water bucket, she filled the ladle again and offered it to Sweyn. She held the ladle herself for him to drink, and you know what that means. You can bet Frid’s brothers saw it too. They never took their eyes off Sweyn the rest of the day. I am sure Sweyn did not notice the brothers. He was too busy looking at Frid.

  I am writing by moonlight as I do not dare use up our candles. But I am too amazed to sleep yet. A lowlander boy on Mount Eskel! And I think Frid means for him to stay. After all, she gave him drink from the ladle.

  Your sister,

  Marda

  Written Winter Week Four

  Never received

  Dear Peder,

  Letter writing is like quarry-shouting without linder. It leaves me but seems to go nowhere. I exhale wind, not words. I smile in pitch-dark.

  I am failing. I would not dare confess that to Britta or Katar or Marda or anyone I write letters to, though they do not answer me either. I feel a tug from home, a hope that I might do some good and return to them their own mountain. And I feel a tug of expectation from Asland, that I can somehow turn these girls into princesses.

  I am here, so I will keep trying to fulfill my duty.

  I miss you. I miss being able to turn to you when I have a thought to share, and you laugh or smile or add a thought in return, and I know that someone in this great big world understands me.

  Your Miri

  Written Winter Week Four

  Never received

  Dear Britta,

  You may tell Katar and the chief delegate and whoever you please: at last I have a princess academy. It took a few months, a skinned swamp rat, three books, a great deal of cajoling and bartering, and one bandit attack—but do not worry about that part. I’ll explain when I see you again.

  I have sent letters to you with every trader group, but we were being robbed by an unscrupulous tavern owner and the traders in his pay. He is banished, so you should get this one at last. Please send supplies. We are quite poor. And perhaps a couple of trusted guards? The sisters were completely alone. There is no immediate threat, but with Stora across the border in Eris sharpening their swords, I cannot feel safe.

  Even though much has changed here, I find I have very little faith in the mail. Maybe you won’t get this letter any more than the others. So nothing I say matters, as I am probably just talking to myself. Ho hum, the moon is a plum.

  Miri

  Chapter Twelve

  Ho hum, the moon is a plum

  The sun is an iron kettle

  The stars on their spits drip juicy bits

  To sizzle on black sky metal

  Felissa was leaning against the windowsill, and the breeze from outside rustled her honey-brown hair. Since beginning the lessons on Poise, Miri had noticed a change in Felissa’s posture, a lengthening of her neck and a confident set of her shoulders. She did not seem to fit in the swamp anymore.

  “‘… and when he clambered over the first hill, he saw it,’” Sus said, reading from the book of tales. “ ‘The house where no one wanted to live, bathed with silver moonlight. He ached with fear, yet—’”

  “Traders,” Felissa said, looking toward the village.

  “Traders!” Miri leaped to her feet. “We’ll have to finish that story later, Sus. Excellent reading.”

  Miri grabbed the letters she’d written and ran into the village. She kept slipping as she walked, eventually realizing it was from trying to skip. She traced her feet’s inclination to skip back to a buoyancy in her belly, a raging hope in her chest, and up to the giddy idea in her brain that now that Jeffers was gone, she might get letters again!

  The traders were laying out their goods in front of what had been Jeffers’s house. Fat Hofer had informed Miri that Dogface ruled that roost now, but he tended to stay indoors during the heat of the day.

  The trading party was a small one from Greater Alva, not Gunnar and his crew, who sailed in once a month from Asland. Even these traders had hired guards now. One kept whistling. Not a tune really, more as if he were practicing a bird call. The sound pricked goose bumps on Miri’s arms.

  No Jeffers, standing over the trading like the lord of the manor. Just Fat Hofer, sitting. Lesser Alvans asked him to barter on their behalf and then gave him a handful of this or that in exchange.

  Fat Hofer was no longer slouching under his hat. Fat Hofer was smiling.

  Miri gave her letters to the trader with the leather knapsack with promises again that if sent on a ship to
Asland and delivered to the royal palace, they could be traded for coins.

  “And here is a letter for you, Miri,” said the trader.

  Miri’s feet bounced under her. She had not received a personal letter since her first trade day months ago! She gave him a small coin as payment for delivery. The folded paper envelope looked weathered. If there had been a seal, it was long gone.

  Miri tucked the letter inside her shirt, keeping it silent against her beating heart.

  She waited until she was alone—after supper was set to cook and the girls had left to go buy more peat for the fire. At last she tore open the letter and looked at the bottom, hungry for Peder’s name, or Britta’s, or Marda’s.

  But it was from the chief delegate. Any inclination to skip drained out of her. She scanned the letter.

  “… Delegate Katar reports she has received only two epistles from you, and Princess Britta, none. I hope the reason you have not reported back on your progress is that you are simply too busy schooling and polishing the royal cousins to perfection. When they meet King Fader, the princesses must shine …”

  The princesses. Could he call them that when they were not?

  The king and queen both had relations who lived in Asland and other provinces. Surely there were royal relatives of a suitable age who had already been educated. For the first time, Miri asked herself, why the Lesser Alvan cousins?

  Perhaps because those other relatives would be known, their genealogy traceable. And royal cousins were not enticing enough to offer a king of Stora. Only a princess would do. So if there were no actual princesses, well, that conniving lot in the palace saw fit to dig up some obscure cousins and pretend they were princesses.

  Miri sat on the stone floor, feeling too heavy to stand. If none of the sisters chose to marry a foreign king, Miri would fail Mount Eskel—and Danland too. But if Astrid, perhaps, agreed to leave home and marry Fader out of duty, then Miri would fail her and her sisters.