She may not have her parents anymore, but she had her sister, and that was enough. Enough to make her wish Elsa wasn’t leaving her behind. She would be leaving her…unless Anna could prove her worth. Unless she could prove she was more than just the silly little girl who had talked to the portraits in the gallery and said yes to an offer of marriage to the evil (and thankfully now exiled) Prince Hans after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him. Anna knew Elsa valued her despite those things, but she still felt lingering insecurity.
Anna glanced at the stone statue of the horse that stood in the corner of the library as if it would have the answers they needed. But all it had were delicate stone seashells and starfish carved into its mane, and an angry expression on its face. It was an old statue, and Anna had been afraid of its bared teeth, its two front hooves furiously out in the air, and its blank eyes. Once, when she was four, she’d used up all of her mother’s cosmetics trying to make the horse look happier before her mother had discovered her and carried her out of the room, warning her not to touch the statue again. Young Anna was always being told not to touch things, like guitar strings, and oil paintings, and her father’s swords, and…
“Wow, what happened in here?”
Anna startled at the sound of the voice. Dragging her eyes away from the statue, she looked up to see the round shape of Olaf standing in the doorway.
As children, Elsa and Anna had made up stories about a snowman named Olaf with branches for arms and a carrot for a nose. Years later, on the day of Elsa’s coronation, Elsa had accidentally lost control of her ice powers and brought Olaf to life. Since then, he’d become the castle’s resident snowman and a member of the sisters’ family. He used to have a snow flurry hovering over his head that prevented him from melting, but since Elsa’s powers had grown and changed, she was able to do away with it and instead enchant him with a permafrost that served the same purpose. Now, Olaf’s eyes widened as he took in the library. Or rather, the mess in the library.
“It’s easier for me if I sort things into piles,” Anna explained, following his gaze to the towers of books scattered across the floor. She hadn’t realized how…enthusiastic she’d been when she’d pulled titles. There might actually have been more books on the floor than there were left on the shelves. It certainly wasn’t Elsa’s neat and methodical system, judging by the volumes Elsa had left standing in perfect stacks in the window alcove.
Olaf nodded. “That makes sense. When you build a snowman, you always have to start with piles. Unless you’re Elsa, of course.” He pointed. “Which ones are those?”
“Books about sicknesses,” Anna said. “The pile next to that is about animal anatomy, and the one next to that is about sleep.” Each title was bursting with possibilities.
Olaf moved to the last pile, his twiggy hair just visible over the stack. “And this massive one?”
“That’s my ‘to be read’ pile.”
“Oooh, it’s so much bigger than all the rest,” he observed.
Anna shrugged. She had set aside these books as not currently useful but interesting enough that she wanted to check them out later. Poems were great because of their beautiful imagery and brevity, but she also loved the thick tomes of artists through the ages. And, of course, there were novels where people found true love, or undertook a dangerous quest, or were reunited with loved ones lost.
Anna rubbed her eyes and adjusted the skirt of her dress, which had begun to bunch around her uncomfortably. “Where have you been?” she asked.
Olaf wandered from pile to pile. “The village library, listening to a lecture on Dante’s Inferno—the hotter the tale, the better.”
Anna smiled. After her first birthday party following Elsa’s eternal winter, Anna had taught Olaf how to read, and ever since, the snowman had become obsessed. He liked books of all sizes, but his favorites were the thick tomes on philosophy—and beach reads, which he so often insisted were just as important as the classics. Anna didn’t disagree.
“So, why are you rearranging the library, anyway?” Olaf asked.
Taking a deep breath, Anna quickly explained about SoYun and her cattle and how Elsa was out now, checking on the Westens’ goats.
“It seems that you could use some help,” Olaf said, straightening a coal button. “And in the wise words of many a philosopher, four eyeballs are better than three.”
“Is that what they say?” Anna asked, resting her head on her palm.
Olaf whipped out his favorite pair of ice spectacles, specially made for him by Elsa. “Indeed,” he said. “They also say to ‘start at the beginning.’ So, we’ll start with the letter B, for beginning.” He pointed, and Anna followed his scraggly finger to the middle shelf of the nearest bookshelf behind the horse statue.
“Sure,” Anna said. “You look at that while I finish this one.”
Olaf clambered onto a table beneath a portrait of King Agnarr’s coronation, then jumped onto the stone horse’s back. Carefully, he shimmied onto one of the rearing legs and pulled himself up, wobbling precariously from side to side. “Almost…” he said, reaching out.
Anna could see he was struggling, so she leapt up and hurried over to him.
“Just a little bit further—whoops!” There was a click followed by a great grinding, like the sound of gears turning on each other, as the horse’s rearing leg that Olaf stood on sank down like a lever. Dust swirled into the air, and Anna squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head away to avoid swallowing any more of the grime. And then…everything was still.
Everything was silent.
“Wow,” Olaf breathed. “Now that’s something you don’t see every day.”
Anna’s eyes flew open, and she gasped.
The bookcase behind the statue had swung inward like a door. No, not like a door. It was an actual door, opening to reveal an arched entryway and, beyond it, darkness. And maybe—just maybe—something that would hold answers and help Elsa figure out how to cure the Blight.
Squealing, Anna plunged into the secret room—and immediately crashed her shins against something. She winced. Whatever she’d hit was definitely going to leave a bruise. Why hadn’t she thought to grab a candle? Turning to head back, she saw Olaf waddling toward her, a candle in his hand. He stopped in front of her, the flame casting a creamy orange glow across his concerned face.
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t see in the dark.”
“I can’t,” Anna said. “Do you mind sharing the light?”
“Nope!” Olaf handed it to her. “You’ll need it to see that person standing right behind you.”
ANNA WHIRLED AROUND, stifling a shout.
But as she held up the candle, she realized it wasn’t a person at all, but a metal helmet expertly forged to create the illusion of a fearsome grimace and sharp teeth. It had thrown her off at first, out of sheer surprise and because it was different from the helmets that Arendellian soldiers wore. In fact, the more she looked at it, the more Anna was certain that this helmet came from the same era as Aren of Arendelle, from that long-ago age of heroes that was now more legend than history.