The room smells of fragrant herbs. Not the heavy, stale breath of the cell. I smell lavender, sage, and the sweet scent of woodruff. It is wonderful, not sweat and rot, but light and warm and alive. And yet… strange.
The floor is smooth and shining stone. Nowhere do I find straw or rushes, no uneven spot to stub a toe.
And it is silent. I hear no hooves, no shouting, no hammering at the smithy, no crackle of firewood. No shrieking or laughing women at the well. No door groaning on its hinges. No children, no barking dogs, no mewling cats. Why is it so still?
Perhaps because Marit is a fine lady and I am in a fine house. Perhaps it is quieter here than in our village.
I sit on a stool with a carved wooden back, its lines and vines like those I remember from church pews. I hardly dare lean against it. They call such a thing a chair, my father once told me. I saw one as a child, in the council chamber, when the bailiff sat upon it as my father was called to account.
My father was a quiet man, no drinker, no brawler. Yet one day they summoned him to the council hall. They accused him of cutting wood where he was not permitted. I remember it clearly: Father standing before the bailiff, cap in hand, eyes down. Mother was ill, we had nothing for heat. The bailiff let him stand long before speaking the sentence: a fine. But his voice softened when Father said, I did it to save my wife’s life. The council showed mercy. Yet Father was forbidden ever again to enter the village wood. And he never once cut another branch that was not his own.
For people like me, such a seat is not meant. It is too fine, too upright, too powerful. Yet I savor this forbidden moment. The cloth beneath me is soft, like moss after a summer rain. Still, I dare not lean back.
There is another sound. Behind me, in another chamber. Like a single raindrop falling again and again into the village well. Tik… tik… tik… unending.
The voices of Marit and Katja drift like mist through the air. I catch fragments: murder, witness, confusion. What do they mean? Yet truth be told, I care more for this chamber of wonders. Or are they demons, waiting to leap at me? I cannot tell.
To my right, set back against the wall, stands a great white chest. Inside it, winter is trapped. Marit opened it as if it were nothing, as though she did not know how dangerous cold can be. I dared not look, only felt the shiver race my spine. When she closed it, the cold was gone. She placed a vessel on the table and called it milk. Milk without a cow, captured from winter. Fascinating.
To my left stands a pedestal, or is it a cupboard? A cooking cupboard! Marit had set a pot of water upon it, and when she touched it, soon it steamed and boiled. No fire, no smoke, no coals, heat from nothing.
At first I was terrified. But then I remembered Matthes: You need not understand everything at once, Sina. The moon does not explain itself, and yet it shines.
I resolved not to fear. There is so much to discover. And Matthes was right: I do not have to understand everything. Perhaps it is better so.
Light falls in golden strips through a great clear hole in the wall. It is no horn, no cloth, no frame of wood. When I first saw it, I thought it was ice. But it is neither cold nor melting. Marit calls it glass. A window.
I know windows. Before Alina was born, Matthes built us two, from wood and pig’s bladders. I will not let the cold wind claim you, not you and not our small miracle, he told me. The wind has work enough outside. Here inside only warmth shall live. No child of mine will come into the world in a draft, I swear it.
I see it all before me, clear as through this strange glass. And tears rise in me. I always trusted him. And he had promised to be with me in my last moments. But where was he? Matthes, where are you?
I see again the council hall with its leaded panes, and the colored windows of St. Mary’s church. This glass is different, like clear water, yet hard as stone.
I saw Marit open it, and the warm June air streaming in. Carefully my fingers touch the glass again. It feels cool. Perhaps because winter is trapped in the white chest, longing to escape. It is not the time for winter now.
I saw how easily Marit opened the chest. I will try as well. Perhaps if I free winter, the world will be set right and I will go home. I pull at the handle. Yes! Cold rushes out against me. I leave the door wide open. Now winter may leave, and summer come in.
I sit again, hands folded in my lap. No movement. Only wait and see what happens.
“Now show yourselves,” I whisper. “Winter, summer, which of you will prevail?”
I close my eyes.
Oh yes, I feel the warmth of summer before me and the cool of winter behind.