Free The Snow Queen by Eileen Kernaghan

throat.”
    Tears of pain and injured dignity oozed down Gerda’s cheeks. She had long since lost her pocket handkerchief; these days she did as others did, and wiped her face on a filthy sleeve.
    â€œThat’s not how it was,” she said. “The missionaries were God-fearing men who built schools and churches to teach the gospel.”
    â€œAnd dragged the Saami people into those schools and churches by force, and made bonfires out of their drums,” said Ritva. “One thing my mother taught me, is to hold my tongue when I don’t know what I’m talking about.” Gerda felt a rough hand grasping the wooden crucifix that still hung on its frayed ribbon at her throat. There was a sharp, angry tug, and the ribbon broke.
    â€œThis is what I think of your God,” said Ritva. And beside her in the blackness, Gerda heard the brittle snap, snap of wood.
    When Ritva was asleep, Gerda fumbled in the dark for the broken pieces of her crucifix. Weeping with helpless rage, she hid them in the damp straw beneath her bed, where she prayed that Ritva would not find them. They were the only talismans left to her now, and the only reminders of her other life.

C HAPTER F IFTEEN
    W ater dripped from the eaves, and on the frozen river ice creaked and groaned. The birch trees budded and the days lengthened; the sun hung like a yellow flower in the midnight sky. On the first warm morning Ritva pulled the covers off Gerda’s bed, seized her by both hands and dragged her to her feet.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” yawned Gerda, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.
    â€œWinter’s over, and both of us stink, and I’m going down to the river to wash. You’re coming with me.”
    Gerda jerked her hands out of Ritva’s grasp and crept back into her pile of skins.
    Ritva stood over her, scowling. “What’s the matter with you? Are you afraid of water?”
    Gerda shook her head. “The men . . . the men will see us.”
    â€œNot today. They’ve all gone off hunting, and they won’t be back till nightfall. Make haste, lazy one, the morning is half gone.”
    All Ritva had put on that morning was a long woollen shirt, gathered at the waist with a strip of leather. Bare-legged, she leaped and strutted down the slope to the riverbank, with Gerda trailing dolefully behind. The feel of the warm grass under her bare feet filled Ritva with excitement. At the river’s edge she pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it to one side. Naked, she gave a whoop of joy and leaped into the stream. The icy water cut like knives into her skin. “Come on,” she shouted to Gerda, splashing water onto the bank.
    Slowly Gerda peeled off her grimy layers of skirts and petticoats, until she stood shivering in the grey, bedraggled remnants of her shift.
    Ritva stopped splashing. Covered with gooseflesh, she stood knee-deep in the frigid stream and stared at Gerda. How could she have failed to notice? Through the winter, all Gerda’s childish plumpness had vanished. Her face, once round and flushed with health, was wan, her eyes dark-circled. Her limbs were white and thin as birch-saplings, her skin taut-stretched over flaring ribs and jutting hip-bones.
    Ritva’s belly tightened with dread. She knew all too well that when you lost flesh like that, sooner or later you died. She had seen it happen often enough with pigeons and rabbits. No matter how she coaxed them with crumbs or leaves they would turn their heads away, and before long she would find them lying cold and stiff in the straw.
    Ritva clambered up onto the bank. “It’s too cold,” Gerda whispered through chattering teeth. Her arms were wrapped around her narrow chest.
    â€œYou’re cold because you’ve no fat on your bones.” Fear sharpened Ritva’s tongue. “Go on, put your clothes on. Why are you so skinny? We feed you, don’t we?”
    â€œI suppose.” Gerda’s