Troll Mill. Katherine Langrish

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      Troll

      Mill

      KATHERINE LANGRISH

      

       For David, Alice and Isobelwith love

       Warm thanks to: Liz, for everything, and especially uprooting the elder trees

       Catherine, Michele, Jackie and Carol for being the best agents anyone could have

       Phil Scott of Regia Anglorum for first-hand advice on how to sail a faering

       And once again to Alan Stoyel and Critchell Britten for your help on water mills.

       My apologies to you all for any remaining mistakes

       Last but not least, thanks to Gillie, Sally and Robin, my wonderful and understanding editors; to Becky for the exciting cover designs; and to everyone else at HarperCollins

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Map

       CHAPTER 6 Exploring the Mill

       CHAPTER 7 A Family Argument

       CHAPTER 8 Voices at the Millpond

       CHAPTER 9 The Nis Behaves Badly

       CHAPTER 10 The Nis in Disgrace

       CHAPTER 11 Success at the Mill

       CHAPTER 12 Rumours

       CHAPTER 13 Sightings

       CHAPTER 14 Gruesome Grindings

       CHAPTER 15 The Lubbers at Large

       CHAPTER 16 Under Troll Fell

       CHAPTER 17 The Nis Confesses

       CHAPTER 18 The Troll Baby at the Farm

       CHAPTER 19 Granny Greenteeth’s Lair

       CHAPTER 20 The Miller of Troll Fell

       CHAPTER 21 Kersten

       CHAPTER 22 New Beginnings

       Also By Katherine Langrish

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER 1 What Happened on the Shore

      The boat danced ungracefully in from the fishing grounds, dipping and rolling over lively waves at the mouth of the fjord. Her crew, a man and a boy, reached steadily forward and back, tugging their two pairs of oars through the choppy water.

      The boy, rowing in the bows, looked up over his companion’s bent back. Out west beyond the islands, the wind tore a long yellow rift in the clouds, and the setting sun blinked through in stormy brilliance, splashing the water with fiery oils.

      Dazzled, the boy missed his next stroke, slicing the oars through air instead of water. Braced to pull, he flew backwards off his seat into a tangle of nets and creels and a slither of fat, bright fish. He lay breathless as the boat heaved under his spine, hurling him skywards, then sinking away underneath as though falling through space.

      “Resting?” teased his friend Bjørn. “Had enough rowing for one day?”

      Peer laughed back from the bottom of the boat, long arms and legs sprawling. “Yes, I’m tired. I think I’ll just stay here. Ouch!” Salt water slapped his face as the prow cut through a wave, and he scrambled up hastily with dripping hair, snatching at the loose oars.

      “Ship them,” said Bjørn over his shoulder. “I’ll take us in.” He leaned unhurriedly on his own pair of oars, and Peer knelt, clutching the slender bows, looking forwards at the land. The water under the boat lit up a cloudy green; over on the shore the pebbles glittered, and the sea-grass on the dunes glowed gold. The late sunlight

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