West of the Moon by Margi Preus

for lack of soil or livestock; it was Aunt, who squandered anything extra on fine things for her daughters. “Their dowries,” she claimed, and filled their chests with linen tablecloths, pewter candlesticks, butter presses, ale bowls, lace curtains, and crisp, white aprons while our little family went hungry.

    I creep down the hill and crouch behind a barrel in the shade of the cow barn, keeping my eyes peeled for Svaalberd. A lift of the lid and a dunk of a finger is all it takes to discover the barrel’s contents: beer. There are two barrelsful, which is something to wonder over. Another thing to wonder over is where everyone is. The farm seems strangely quiet, but perhaps they are all out in the fields, engaged in some chore.
    Shh! There goes the goatman, creeping from chicken house to hay shed. As soon as he’s inside, I race across the yard and dart into the house.
    No one is home, but what is this? The table is laid with a new lace tablecloth. On top of that sits the largest tub of sour-cream porridge I’ve ever seen. Surrounding it are
    â€”platters heaped high with flatbread and rounds of crisp
knäkkebrød
;
    â€”thinly sliced cured ham, smoked mutton, and spiced sausages;
    â€”an enormous plate of scrambled eggs flecked with bright specks of green chives;
    â€”a vat of pea soup;
    â€”tiny new carrots and peas, steamed and glossy with freshly churned butter;
    â€”and cakes of all kinds: almond, marzipan, and one slathered with whipped cream and dotted all over with cherries and plums (now one plum less)
    and everything as pretty as can be.
    I can’t stop staring at it all. But there’s movement out the window, and I duck down by the table. A glance tells me that Svaalberd is hobbling across the farmyard. He stops and swings his head from side to side, whether from puzzlement or pain, I cannot say. While I wait for him to decide where he’s headed, I slice into the marzipan cake and take a piece. It is so soft and sweet, something I have only heard of, never tasted, and I wonder how this abundance has come to pass.
    In the story of the girl and the bear, when the girl left the bear’s castle to go home to visit her family, she found them living in splendor. They had everything they wished for: food and fine things and so much joy that there was no end to it.
    I stare again at the table laden with food. At the freshwhite tablecloth. The pretty lace curtains. The piece of cake in my hand. Is it enchanted, this cake? And all of this? Magic that will turn into vapor at any moment?
    Just in case, I stuff the rest of the piece in my mouth.
    With a start, I see that Svaalberd is stomping in my direction. I climb out the opposite window, alighting on the grass on the far side of the house.
    Now, here’s an odd thing: All of my cousins’ everyday dresses are spread out in the grass as if the girls had been napping there and suddenly disappeared, leaving their dresses behind. Here their white stockings are lying like puddles of dirty snow. And here their everyday aprons. There’s a sour taste in my mouth now, like you might get if the cake you just ate was baked from deviltry.
    Then I notice the buckets and the soap and the cloths for drying, and realize they must have been washing here and left their clothes to dry in the sun. There is a lump of soap right there, probably the very soap I helped make out of ashes and tallow but never was allowed to use. Well. As I’ve now become a thief, I don’t see the harm in taking one more thing, especially something I made myself. Into the sack it goes.
    Peeking around the corner, I watch as Svaalberd exits the house and crosses the yard. That is when I notice something that explains everything: several long tables lined up end to end in the middle of the yard, all covered neatly in crisp whitetablecloths, the edges fluttering in the breeze.
    And then I know where everyone is.
    Past the tables, down the hillside,