In a town where the roofs stood near enough for sparrows to hop from one to another, Gerda and Kay lived in little rooms under the eaves. Between their windows stood wooden boxes filled with earth, and in that earth grew roses. In summer, the roses leaned together across the narrow gap, and so did the children. They sat by the blossoms, shared their stories, and knew each other’s footsteps on the stairs.
One evening, Kay’s grandmother set her knitting aside and told them of a troll who had once made a strange mirror. In that glass, all that was kind looked small and crooked, while every fault grew large. The troll laughed at the sight and carried the mirror high, wishing to hold it up to the sky itself. But the mirror slipped from his hands. It broke into countless fragments, fine as frost and sharp as a hard thought, and the wind scattered them throughout the world.
The next day, snowflakes turned outside the windows, though the roses still held a little color. Gerda was showing Kay a picture book when he suddenly pressed his hand to his eye. "Something flew into it," he said. A moment later, he put his hand against his chest and frowned, as if a small, cold thing had settled there too. Gerda came near to look, but she could see nothing at all. Kay pushed the book away. "That rose is eaten at the edge," he snapped. "And this picture is foolish."
6 chapters
