Chapter 1
Elissa
Perhaps everyone’s lives are divided into befores and afters. People say, “Oh, that happened before we moved to the North Country.” Or it might be that something happened, “after my son was born.” All I know is that my life feels so divided that the befores seem like dreams compared to what I’m living now--even though now is really the dream. When I was little, that was before Papa made his fortune. Then everything changed and our poor days seemed far and hazy, lit by the glow of our fires instead of the enormous lights that filled our new, rich home. But then the rich, happy years became the before--before Mama died. Once I had to live without her, my memories of her began to feel ghost-like, as if I had only imagined her after all. Another change and the years of being Papa’s only companion became before as well, before I went to live with the Princess. Memories of dresses and dances are now the before, before the Freeze. I’m not sure what everyone else calls it in their minds, but in my mind, now is cold as well as still. I cannot move or see or call out to those I know are still within the room with me. The knowledge of their presence fails to alleviate my solitude just as the frenzy of my thoughts fails to create any sense of warmth or movement in my mind. I simply lie here, on the cold, marble floor, stricken by the spell of the last true witch in our land. And I wonder, over, and over, and over again, if I could go back, what would I change? How could I make this not happen? Did I follow my destiny or did I choose to be where I am? Does everyone wonder this? I wonder what Papa and Simon are doing? How long have I been here, living in my mind? Are they even still alive? Are they old now? If I ever awake from the Freeze, will Simon be so old that our life together will be impossible? Or are they Frozen as well? These thoughts whirl faster and faster through my mind until I force them out by trying to remember the Befores, trying to make them real, even if they are only real in my mind.
If I go back and back, as far as I can remember, I am inside our small shop. My father imported spices and cloth from the East, and my earliest impressions involve the smell of cinnamon and the sheen of the silks I was not allowed to touch in case my small, dirty hands might leave a mark. Papa seemed so huge to me in those days. I would beg him to toss me in the air, but as soon as he did, I begged him to put me back down again. I’m not sure what kept me coming back, day after day, for that toss in the air. Sometimes I cried with the fear of it, but the next day, when I had finished my small chores for Mama, I would run downstairs to the shop, wait until there were no customers around, and then beg Papa to throw me up in the air. Other people sometimes wondered why Papa had married Mama. She came from a family of weavers and didn’t have a proper dowry to bring to their marriage. Her face was not considered beautiful by many people, and her quiet reserve kept most people from seeing her true worth. But Papa and I knew her as a completely different person. When the three of us were at home, she often told such magical stories that I did not often know what was real and what was not. My favorite involved a boy who stopped a dragon using nothing but a bit of brown paper and string. Mama worked hard in those days, for we couldn’t afford a maid, but never, ever did she seem discouraged. Papa used to tell me that she had woven a fantasy of stories that captured him and that she kept him close by her constant cheerfulness.
The poor times lasted until I was four years old. Just long enough for me to remember what things were like in the shop, just long enough for me to be able to recognize the change when it came. But it would be years before I would understand what happened. In my little four year old eyes, it was as if one of Mama’s stories suddenly came to life. In fact, at first, I had a hard time believing that what I was experiencing was real. I had spent so many evenings living inside those stories that I didn’t know how to separate the dream from the reality anymore. One day, we moved out of the rooms above the shop and into a gigantic house. When we first walked in, and Papa announced that this was our new home, I burst into tears. I was so used to having Papa and Mama close by all the time that I couldn’t see how we would ever be together
at all when there was so much space to fill. Mama patiently talked me through my fears, promising me that I would have the bedroom next to theirs and that she would never leave me alone. I had the bedroom next to theirs for many years, but her other promise she couldn’t keep. For months after we were settled in the new house, I trailed along after Mama, refusing to let her out of my sight. Eventually though, I became accustomed to the size of the house and the feeling of emptiness in the rooms whenever she left them. Eventually, I was able to play without her in the room, then without her in the house and finally without her in my life.
I saw Papa much less often once we moved to the big house. Instead of working in a little shop beneath our living rooms, he took a carriage from the house into the town to do his work. He had stopped selling spices, but he still sold cloth. He just sold it by the ship load instead of by the bolt. On a few occasions before this, he had left us for short trips to do business, but those were rare enough that Mama and I turned them into excuses to do all sorts of silly things. We would eat breakfast food for dinner and dinner food for breakfast. We would stay up late and she’d let me sleep in her bed, which was never allowed when Papa was home. Even though we missed him when he traveled, I also looked forward to those special times with Mama. But now, he worked long hours in the town, coming home late at night every day. I started to feel that he hardly knew who I was. Only later did I understand why it had become so important to him to have so much money. Only later did I learn that the disease that killed Mama had started so early, but that doctor after doctor offered Papa hope of a cure, if only...if only she moved away from the river and up onto a hill, if only her house were warmer in winter, if only she had the best food, the best medicine, the best care, if only she didn’t work so hard and could afford servants. If only he had known that all those doctors were frauds, out to earn a quick fee, without any idea of what would save Mama. If only he had spent her last few years with her instead of chasing the impossible sum that would save her.
So, I stopped expecting to be able to run downstairs to have him toss me in the air. I stopped expecting to see him at the table during our mid-day meal. In fact, I adjusted very quickly, accepting, as children do, that whatever is happening is simply the normal way of life. Bit by bit, my new home expanded my world so that instead of spending all my time with Mama and Papa, I now had a governess who came to teach me in the mornings. Mama wanted to teach me herself, but one of the doctors thought she would be better if only she stayed in bed longer each morning, so Papa insisted on the governess. Mama won her way about the afternoons though, and after my book lessons were done, I spent the afternoon with her in the garden or reading stories or learning to sew a seam that wouldn’t shame us both. I followed her into the kitchen to discuss menus with the cook and I tagged along when she met with the housekeeper. I know she wanted to spend as much time with me as she could, but I now see that she was preparing me, letting me see what I would need to do someday when it was time to take charge of the household myself. She knew she would not be by my side then.
There came a time when Mama knew her time was limited. I don’t know when she realized. All I know is that she prepared, not for herself. She was prepared for heaven any time. But she prepared for me. When the time came that she was no longer there to tell her stories to me, I found that she had spent hours writing out all my favorites with beautiful illustrations done by her own hand. There was even one new story...the story of a young girl, beautiful of course, whose mother had died and gone to heaven. But the mother was with the girl, and the girl could feel her in the wind. Day by day, the girl would walk in her garden or in the woods, feeling the breeze caress her face and knowing that her mother was with her. Of course the story was meant as an obvious comfort for me--perhaps too obvious except that when Mama had gone, I was too desperate for comfort to mind the triteness of the story or to even notice that it lacked some of the magic of her other stories. When Papa and I had walked away from Mama’s grave and returned to our house, he handed me a beautifully carved wooden box and walked away. I opened the box to find that story topping the pile of all she had written.
Oh Mama, if you’re really in heaven, don’t let anyone touch my box while I’m frozen here. Please Mama, please God, keep it safe from the thieves. It’s all I have left of her...
And with that, my thoughts spin out of control again. I’m no longer in the distant past. Instead, my brain strains against the limitations of my total blindness, total inability to move. I wonder, once again, if the Princess is still here in the room with me. Since I went into the Freeze with my eyes closed, I see nothing. I wonder if her eyes are open so that she knows I am still with her. In a way, I’m stuck here because of her. This is her curse I’m trapped in--hers and the inept fairy who tried to undo the powerful magic of the most powerful witch in our kingdom. But in another way, this is all my fault, I cursed the Princess, and so I find it in my heart to hope that she knows she’s not alone. It would be a small comfort to her, to be able to see me, but a small comfort is better than no comfort at all. I don’t even know for sure if she’s still in the room with me. I think she is because one of the thieves who came through looting said to the others, “Just look at those beauties.” Maybe he was referring to Aurora and me. But maybe he was just talking about something he wanted to steal. I try hard to remember what was in the room worth stealing, but since I only saw it for a few minutes and it’s in an old, unused part of the castle, I can’t picture anything a thief would want. Surely the thief was talking about us, surely I am not as alone as I feel.
