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Back The Ever After Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. TheEVERAFTER
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
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  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
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  33. 31
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  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
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  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. 79
  82. 80
  83. 81
  84. 82
  85. 83
  86. 84
  87. 85
  88. 86
  89. Epilogue
  90. GLOSSARY
  91. TheEVERAFTER
  92. By Amanda Hocking

“I missed you too.” He kissed my forehead and finally we separated. “Not that I’m complaining, but why are you here?”

I filled him in on my brief visit to Doldastam and how Bryn wanted to confirm the truth through our blood. Then I finished it up by telling him about the song that had been stuck in my head since the lysa.

“‘Ennlindanna fjeur seern densolla / den orn av gullat svoavva ennung,’” Pan said, doing a poor imitation of the extreme vocalization style of the song.

“Wait. You’ve been hearing it too?” I asked. “Like now? In Merellä?”

“Yeah. I mean, not right now. Only in my dreams,” he clarified, and stepped back toward his desk. “As soon as I woke this morning, I wrote it down.” He grabbed a wrinkled notebook page and handed it to me. “And when I came in this morning, I started looking up anything I could, and I actually found something.”

Pan’s sloppy handwriting was a little hard to read, but it looked like the same lyrics I’d had running through my head.

“I thought I’d have to wait until Monday, when Calder’s working, because the archives are locked up over the weekend,” Pan explained. “But the office is full of books from all over—even some snuck up from the archives, don’t tell Calder. And then, as I’m coming in, walking in past a desk, my hip bumps this book hanging over and lo and behold—”

He picked up the book, mindful to keep his finger between the pages to hold his place, and he flipped over the cover so I could read it. Folktales of the Arctic Peoples by Belle Davies.

“Is this a human book?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is,” he said. “Published in 1911 in London. It didn’t have anything in the original language, but they have an abridged English version.” He opened it to the right page, then handed it to me. “That’s it, right?”

A flower of green and a bird of gold

fell in love under the summer sun.

Together they sang a song of old,

Until, in the meadow, they would be one.

Then the long night came and the flower did cry.

She shriveled and ne’r again did rise.

Without her, the bird knew he’d surely die.

He wept until blood sprung from his eyes.

The summer bird and morning flower did fall in love

and they both drowned in sorrow.

With one in the meadow and the other above

where they went, no one could follow.

“So, after each of the folk songs, the author explains what they think the folk song is about,” Pan said when I finished reading it. “This one is about the long, dark winters and short, bright summers. Which sure, obvious take.