A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,10
house had fallen.
As Charlotte stood, she saw a new flash in the old mirror. Her heart pounding, she remained stock-still; further perplexed, she listened to faint notes of music. Meanwhile, colors continued to swirl relentlessly in the glass, almost as if revolving skirts surrounded them.
She tore her gaze away, and found the somber room the same, except that its fire had waned. Her hands trembling, she set down her china cup and retreated.
A few minutes later she returned, glad to be dressed in her own simple garments.
“I must thank you for your help… for the fire, the cake and tea,” she told her hostess, while she carefully kept her eyes from the hearth.
“Magdalene,” Mrs. Knowles said, “her voice tells me she still shivers. Give her one of your cloaks to wear over her own.”
Magdalene went quietly.
“Is there something I might send back with the cloak?” Charlotte asked politely. “Something from my dairy, or the village shop?”
“The goods Emily Bowers has to offer,” Catherine retorted, “are homespun or pinchbeck, as she is! You are a woman of more character. But I find your dead husband's name a fitting one. Even in my finery, I am afraid, you were a plain little willet, rather than a nobler swan.”
With a grateful smile, Charlotte took the cloak Magdalene offered. “It will soon be returned,” she murmured, ignoring the foregoing comment.
“But perhaps you know that swans are not the most reliable of birds,” Mrs. Knowles insisted. “As a child I watched one attack and drown a small dog, of which I was foolishly fond. But we mustn't keep you from your journey. May it be uneventful, for I would enjoy seeing you another time.”
“Thank you, again,” said Charlotte. “And good day.”
“You do possess a sense of what is amusing, Mrs. Willett! Good day to you, madam. Come back whenever you're passing. We will be here. Though what goodness will be found in our remaining days it is difficult to imagine. Now be off!”
Dropping a curtsy for them both, Charlotte took up the lynx muff from a walnut chair, and went to the door through which she'd first entered the strange room. She turned to look back at the long portrait; it seemed to watch from across the room. She could still admire its strong-willed subject—beautifully dressed, carefully protected, with little say in the life that lay ahead.
Charlotte traversed the entry hall alone, and let herself out. Enjoying the crisp air, she started down the path, watching the ruby remains of the winter sun. At the bank, she retrieved one of the skates slipped earlier under the landing; she pulled a clammy leather strap through its buckle, and reached for the other. Unfortunately, the action caused a splinter to enter her bare finger. She dropped the skate abruptly. It skittered, and came to rest beneath the boards. When she bent to retrieve it, she saw something else glimmer faintly, beside the blade. She retrieved this as well. And then she stopped to stare at the object she held.
What was a spoon doing here? And it was no ordinary pewter spoon, but one of silver, perfectly cast. It also had a flower, quite possibly a tulip, chased into its bowl. Stranger still, it was untarnished. Someone must have dropped it recently, she decided. Yet why here, in the dead of winter? Surely no one had come this way looking for a place to picnic! Although perhaps poor Magdalene?…
Charlotte smiled uncomfortably, recalling her earlier embarrassment for both women, and her pain at the treatment of the younger. She'd pitied Mrs. Knowles, hearing of her youthful difficulties. But then she'd seen her lead a merry dance at the expense of a silent partner.
The thought of dancing caused her skin to prickle, for it reminded her of the uncanny mirror, with its strange lights and colors.
Just then, she heard a rustling behind several fallen rocks only a few yards away. It sounded as if something large moved there. A deer? Or one of the boars, like the painted sign that hung over the door of the village tavern? That colorful representation included a pair of gruesome tusks, curling about a face whose intentions seemed plainly evil.
Even if she hurried, she would barely be home before twilight turned to darkness. Nothing would be wrong with bringing the spoon back some other time, with the borrowed cloak. Perhaps with Lem, too, and a pair of good, long sticks. Had she not been encouraged to return? Charlotte placed the spoon in the bottom