A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,91

as the sun rose higher, shimmering on the ice around them, forcing them to squint through the crisp air. They reached a few small rocks within the hour, and sat for a few moments to rest. Then they moved on, and with surprising suddenness seemed to be upon the main mass.

Observing a sharp shadow, Longfellow led them around to the south, until they could see sunlight penetrating a thin cleft.

Charlotte realized this must be the place Lem had told her about, which he must have described to Richard Longfellow. She watched as her neighbor strode into unknown territory, with a strong curiosity that took him well ahead of the rest.

Longfellow looked about to see bare vines, and a mixture of trees that seemed to hang above him. Through the cleft was the small meadow he sought. On one side, snow had fallen heavily; on the other a projecting cliff offered protection, so that brown fronds of wood ferns still poked through the new layer of white. Over all, climbing bittersweet with orange berries had drawn several sorts of birds, all chattering busily, ignoring the new arrivals.

They came to a stone building. It was square, with a sloping roof; some of it was newly repaired and mortared haphazardly. A new door, too, had been attached to the old rusted hinges. It was partially open.

Of whatever had once been inside, little remained. Someone had come before them, probably on the day of the old woman's death, for there were no tracks in the snow beyond distinctive hoof marks.

Longfellow imagined a few men had hurried over after hearing of Alex Godwin's death, to clear away all trace of their illegal activity. They found a hearth, but no bellows; a bench built into a wall, but no chair, nor implements to tell how someone might have created the shillings. However, a few candle stubs were still melted onto shelves of flat rock projecting from the wallstones. These were recent; mice had only begun to gnaw them.

“If you ladies are chilled, we might find some fallen wood and make a small fire. No? Fine. It will be a warm walk up to the house. And since there's little here to see, we might as well go.”

Leaving the meadow as they'd come, they again took to the ice, and walked further to the east. They eventually reached the wooden landing. Today, only its upright columns were visible, for the rest was covered by several inches of glittering snow. Finding the path to the house, they started to climb.

At the top, though the air was still, they heard little beyond their own labored breathing. Then an insistent crow cawed as it flew far below, over the sunny marsh.

“I see nothing ghostly,” Longfellow said aloud, causing Charlotte to wonder what, then, had brought the idea into his mind. “An old manor, sorely in need of attention. We'll give it our own for an hour or so. Shall we go in?”

He opened one of the great doors and stood back to allow Magdalene to enter first, though she hardly seemed anxious to do so. Facing her home of many years, she appeared less than pleased with it.

“You don't have to go in,” Charlotte assured her. “If you like, I'll bring out whatever you ask for. But you might want to choose, yourself, what you'd like to take back to the village. To Mr. Longfellow's house. Or to mine.”

Magdalene looked to her lawyer, who nodded his approval. Then she disappeared through the pointed portal.

Surprised at the amount of courage she, too, had to summon, Charlotte went next. Nothing had changed. Yet today the house seemed even less inviting than it had been before. She realized it had become a dead thing, a relic with no meaning. No person remained to give it a glow of warmth, a pulse of daily activity. Yet perhaps she did feel something here, after all.

“By all that's holy!” Longfellow exclaimed. He'd looked first across strips of dark carpet on the broad stone floor, up the walls to where weapons shone dully. The tapestries beyond had made such an impression that he stood staring, his mouth open. Finally thinking to close it, he turned to regard the others. “I imagined,” he said, “that there were furnishings here, of a primitive sort. But this!”

“Are they very old?”

“Undoubtedly. Such skills no longer exist. The classical scenes are a delight—but I wonder how he got them here? Wrapped around a mast, possibly. I suspect our lieutenant governor would give