Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(11)

And in this way, he already feels a connection.





KLEINWALD, GERMANY.


SUMMER 1939

The girls were barely off their bicycles before Hanna was shimmying up the ladder to the Bridegroom’s Oak. Down below, Sophie crossed her fingers as Hanna shoved her hand into the tree’s knothole and extracted a stack of letters, which she rifled through, one by one.

“Anything?” Sophie called.

In answer, Hanna held up a long plain envelope. “It’s here.”

Hanna skipped the ladder’s last two rungs and landed with a thud. She ripped at one end of the envelope.

“Hanna, gently!” Sophie chided.

“You’re not marrying the envelope, Sophie,” Hanna groused.

They sat beneath the sheltering limbs of the oak, Hanna’s chin resting atop Sophie’s shoulder as she read aloud.

Dear Sophie and Hanna, Thank you for your most recent letter. We were especially moved by your promise of rewarding us with your scorching kisses …

That had been Hanna’s contribution.

Our lips burn to cover yours. We long to take you for walks about our lands while we are serenaded by the gentle lowing of our many dairy cows. We yearn to gaze into the fires of your eyes, aflame with the ancient knowledge of the Norn priestesses, as you described. We promise to woo you with all the chivalry of the knights of old, for we, too, are believers in love, romance, and magic. Please write to us again and tell us more about your sweet lips, your scorching kisses, and any other secrets you would care to share with us, your fervent admirers, your besotted servants.

With great affection, Tomas and Hans von der Trottel Sophie fell back in a swoon, the letter clutched to her chest. “Imagine the luck! Two wealthy farmers. Brothers, no less!”

“What if it’s just some dirty old man with a pen?” Hanna said.

“I refuse to give in to cynicism,” Sophie said, using a word she’d read recently in a novel. Since July, the girls had been writing to the matchmaking tree in hopes of a summer romance. It had only been within the last few weeks that their letters had been answered by two noble brothers from a neighboring town.

“You know Klara makes fun of us for writing to the tree.”

“Klara makes fun of everyone,” Sophie said, braiding the ends of wildflowers together to make a crown.

“Yes. But she gossips, Sophie,” Hanna said. “We don’t want everyone knowing about this.”

“Well, speaking of gossip, I heard Klara was making eyes at Werner again. If she’s got her sights set on Werner, I hope she likes the taste of horseradish. He eats enough of it,” Sophie said. Hanna didn’t even crack a smile. Since turning fifteen she’d become moody. “Hanna, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing ever happens in Kleinwald. People marry, settle down, hatch a house full of brats, and go to Rügen on holiday.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Sophie asked. She didn’t want to say that that was the sort of life she imagined having.

“It’s dull! I refuse to have a boring life. I’m going to live in Berlin or Paris and be an actress like Marlene Dietrich. Men will bring me real silk stockings. And chocolates! And champagne! At least one of my lovers will throw himself in the river when I spurn him.”

“You want your lover to drown?”

“Oh, he’ll survive in the end. It’s the gesture that counts.”

“I guess that is tragically romantic.” Sophie read a lot of star-crossed love stories and was quite taken with the idea of sad love. She dragged the tip of a scraggly branch across the damp forest floor. “I suppose I’m dull. I just want one true love.”

“Well, you’re not going to find it in Kleinwald,” Hanna said, hopping up rabbit-quick. She could never sit still for long. “They’ll find us one day, petrified in this forest, still virgins. Honestly, can you think of a boy you’d want to kiss, much less marry?”

There was a boy but Sophie didn’t want to say.

“Nothing here is … what was that word you taught me, the one that means lush?”

“Verdant,” Sophie said. “From the Latin virēre, meaning green. And lush.”

“Well, there’s nothing verdant happening in Kleinwald,” Hanna said.

Sophie could smell the mustiness of new life growing in rich earth. She loved this forest more than anything or anyone except for Hanna. She plopped the finished flower crown on Hanna’s golden head.

“Don’t,” Hanna said, removing it and smoothing down her hair.

“But these are our priestess crowns,” Sophie protested meekly. When Hanna didn’t answer, she picked up her pencil. “What should I say this time? We’ve already used ‘scorching kisses.’”

“Tell them you’ve made mad, passionate love to half the boys in town and one priest,” Hanna said as she lifted one long, sun-browned leg, then the other. Lately, she’d taken to drawing a pretend seam down the backs of them with an eyebrow pencil she’d stolen from her oldest sister to mimic silk stockings.

“Hanna!”

“You asked. You write it. You’re the storyteller, not me.”

“But how can we write about passion and love when we haven’t ever kissed anyone?” Sophie protested.