Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow

Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow

Jessica Day George

Language: English

Pages: 352

ISBN: 1619631849

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

When a great white bear promises untold riches to her family, the Lass (as she's known) agrees to go away with him. But the bear is not what he seems, nor is his castle. To unravel the mystery, the Lass sets out on a windswept journey beyond the edge of the world. Based on the Nordic legend East of the Sun, West of the Moon, with romantic echoes of Beauty and the Beast, this re-imagined story will leave fans of fantasy and fairytale enchanted.

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didn’t think it mattered. She had just begun to dream about Hans Peter sitting atop a mountain of isbjørn pelts and weeping when a noise startled her awake. It was the sound of the bedchamber door opening. “Hello? Erasmus?” No one answered her. She reached for the candle by her bedside but couldn’t find it. She fumbled in the drawer of the bedside table, which she could have sworn held both matches and candles, but it was empty. Soft footsteps approached the bed. The lass pulled the covers

a small table by the fire and sat on his haunches. With a long black claw he pointed to a slim book that lay on the table. The lass went over and picked up the book. She could see faint dents in the leather cover where the isbjørn’s teeth had marked it as he carried it in his mouth. Otherwise it was very plain, bound in brown leather with nothing printed on the cover. She opened it, and it was blank inside as well. There were only ten pages or so. “A diary?” She thought it sweet of him, but

fantastical palace of ice. She described books she had read in the palace library. She said she was trying to teach herself a new language, but when he asked what it was, she hastily said, “Fransk.” She didn’t want him to know that she was learning troll. She sent Einar to the nearest bookstore to buy a stack of popular novels, and she and Tordis took turns reading to Jarl. They left his side only when the nurse changed his bandages or bathed him, and even then it was a wrench for the lass to be

she’s . . . dead . . . or something.” A fresh flow of tears ran down her cheeks. “I think . . . it must have been Hans Peter’s Tova.” Rollo sniffed the clothes. He shook his head over the bunad; it was too new to smell like anything other than wool and maybe the lingering scent of the hands that had made it. He snuffled the everyday clothes more thoroughly. “She was human,” he reported. “And clean, very clean. She liked strawberries and books. And Hans Peter. And she didn’t die in these

sky as they passed, and now he was home to stay. This vexed Frida greatly, because she had been very pleased to send her eldest son into the world. There had been one less mouth to feed and the promise of wages sent home. But now Hans Peter sat all day in their cottage, carving strange figures on the firewood before dropping it into the hearth. Hans Peter’s injury must have been healed before he returned home, or perhaps, Jarl told the others, it had not been an injury of the body. Whatever it

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