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“She’s Circe’s cold cousin, always turning men into other beasts. Not pigs, though. She likes bears and seals and wolves and all the creatures of ice.”
“White as white,” said Gerta’s grandmother. “She wears the furs of white foxes and her sleigh is cut from birch trees.” She took a sip of her cider. “The snow follows her wherever she goes. When she’s in a temper, she brings down ice storms and the trees fall down like matchsticks.” “Why would she do that?” asked Gerta. Her grandmother shrugged. “She’s the Snow Queen. It’s what she does.”
“Do you have a name?” asked Gerta. “I do,” said the raven. Gerta waited. The raven fluffed its beard. “I am the Sound of Mouse Bones Crunching Under the Hooves of God.” Gerta blinked a few times. “That’s…quite a name.” “I made it myself,” said the raven, preening. “I stole the very shiniest words and hoarded them all up until they made something worth having. Sound and God were particularly well-guarded. Crunching I found in a squirrel nest, though.”
“No magic,” said Mousebones. “When it’s that strong, being unmagical is a thing itself. Like being a white raven. White ravens aren’t really white, they’re just an absence of black. But they’re very good at it.”
“Aur-k,” said Mousebones. “Compared to her, I’m a raven. And ravens do not bow to gods or men or giants.”
“You can hardly do anything worthwhile in a story unless you’re a princess, you know.”
“You got tired of waiting around for a worthy husband to present himself,” continued Gran Aischa, “so you went out, with your trusted raven, to find the prince wise enough to speak to you without fear.” She brought her hands together. “And you are still looking, but one day, I’m sure, you’ll find him.”
“And he will be as handsome as the dawn and wear red and he will keep ravens of his own. And your beautiful bird will meet his mate as well, and the two of them will be kept as official court ravens and fed all the best bits from the kitchen.”
“And you and your wise prince will talk long into the night, every night, and live to a ripe old age. And the children in this town will grow up telling the story of how they saw the Raven Princess, before she found her prince.”
If there was magic here, it was nothing Gerta recognized. The Snow Queen’s magic was cold and clean and pure. The witch’s had been drowsy and sweet. This was mud and hide and horror.
“My heart is smaller,” she whispered. “Of course,” said the woman. “Reindeer have greater hearts than humans. They have to, to give us as much as they do.”
“Words are like fish and you catch them and you get to keep them forever.”
Mousebones flew up out of the tunnel and landed well out of reach of the otters, who were instantly fascinated. “A raven!” “We speak Raven!” “Ark! Ark! Ark!” “That is not speaking Raven,” said Mousebones severely. “That is saying ‘Ark’ and you are saying it badly.”
“Do you have a name?” “Ravens always have the best names.” “They’re so long and they take them so seriously.” Mousebones looked offended. “I have an excellent name and I don’t think I will tell you what it is if you’re going to act like that.” “Oh, don’t be like that.” “We’ll tell you our names.” “We will.” They sat up, one after another, with their tails wrapped over their feet like cats. “Glint.” “Glitter.” “Ur.” “Frost-eyes.” “Misting.” “Fish-eater.” The raven looked unimpressed. “Typical. And short.” “We have to take them off sometimes.” “Sometimes we trade them with each other.” “It’s
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