East

Rose

VAETTUR MADE GOOD TIME. I did not think I could be very far behind the white bear—that is, if I was right about his destination.

I must have caused quite a few people to stare as I rode Vaettur through the countryside of Fransk. I could tell that the reindeer was not comfortable in the warmer climate, but the early spring weather was still cool enough that he was not miserable.

The forest "hanté" was even denser than I remembered, and the empty farm just as eerie, but soon we had arrived at the base of the mountain. I found the open door right away and knew then that I had guessed correctly. I peered in the entrance, surprised to see that the castle was still there and that the white bear had managed to enter.

Vaettur followed me into the cool entrance hall but stayed there to munch on some oats I had brought for him in a small bag.

I followed the trail of lamps through the dim, echoing hallways, feeling surrounded by ghosts, whispering, sighing in my ears. I thought of Tuki; the pain of his loss was still a fresh wound. Seeing the place where we had first met and played our silly language game was like a blade twisting into me.

The lamps led me to the music room, but when I looked inside, it was empty. Then I heard it—the sound of a flauto. The music was far away, and I turned to follow it. As I made my way back through the hallways, listening closely, I recognized the song as the one he had been playing back in the ice palace when I had hurried toward the banquet hall. And the one I had long ago tried so pathetically to play. "Estivale."

As I moved closer I realized the music was coming from the room with the red couch. I approached the doorway, almost afraid to enter.

But I did.

And there he was, sitting on the red couch, playing his flauto. There was a large book of music open on the couch beside him.

He saw me and stopped playing. Our eyes met and he stood.

I crossed the room to him. "I love you," I said in a rush, afraid I would change my mind.

"Charles," he replied.

I stared at him.

"My name," he said with a smile that lit his face. Setting down his flauto, he leaned over and picked up the book beside him on the couch. Opening it to one of the blank pages at the beginning, he pointed to some words written in a flowing, cursive hand:

Charles Pierre Philippe, Dauphin

"I wrote this," he said. "My name. I am Charles Pierre Philippe." He set down the book.

And then he took both my hands tightly in his.