A Mischief in the Snow Read Online Free

as she walked under several hanging wheels of iron, all devoid of candles.
    They passed into a dark room decorated with varnished portraits, and what Charlotte guessed were scenes of Teutonic woods and peaks. In the shadows stood seats constructed largely from the intertwined horns of animals. The room had no fire, but through a low arch that led into the next, Charlotte saw a hearth blazing. A few rays of sunlight lay ahead, venturing through curtains not completely shut against the cold. Into this pocket of relative warmth she followed her silent guide.
    In what might once have been a ballroom, massive old settles and sofas stood against the long walls. Before a distant ceremonial hearth, an old woman appeared to doze in one of a half-dozen walnut chairs, beautifully upholstered, their delicately curved arms and legs carved with shells. These seemed to make up most of the furniture in use; one supported a stack of books topped withunfinished needlework, another held a plate with the remains of a candied orange. On a third, Charlotte saw to her joy, a tray bore cups and saucers, and a painted teapot.
    But the obvious pride of the room hung all the way across its impressive expanse. This was a tall painting of a figure larger than life. The subject was a young woman, her face and tresses fair, who stood before a mountainous terrain, adorned in nearly regal fashion. In a dark gown and furs she seemed elegantly serene. Charlotte also supposed her smile was a little haughty. Perhaps she had reason to feel far above her audience. Youthful and confident, she must have assumed she held the future in her gloved palm.
    Today, however, Catherine Knowles sat below her own image in a dirty woolen blanket of an uncertain color, draped about her like a cocoon. All that remained to suggest wealth and fashion was a cap of moss velvet edged with lace, drawn over hair now resembling foam on a stormy sea. Her back was bent, and Charlotte quickly supposed Mrs. Knowles suffered acutely from swollen joints, possibly due to long years spent in damp surroundings.
    “What?” the old woman cried. She tilted her head, listening to the approaching footsteps. “It's not the boy? A woman, then! Come closer, whoever you are. With the web over both my eyes, I see very little. It's a rather simple woman, I think, by the sound of her—at least, she's not seen fit to affront me with her voice. What's this, Magdalene? Found a little friend at last, to come and drink my tea?” The old woman leaned forward with a cackle, but a fit of coughing forced her to sink back into her chair.
    “Mrs. Knowles, I'm so sorry to intrude—” Charlotte began. She was stopped by a gesture of displeasure. Herhostess tapped at the knobbed arm of her chair and then extended a wreathed limb, its exposed finger not unlike a parrot's claw.
    “Sorry? So you should be, young woman, so you should! You have the advantage of me,
as you were not invited.
But what's this? Do I hear you drip, madam? Do I smell the bog?”
    “If you'll allow me to approach your hearth, I'll do my best to dry.”
    “Approach, then. It's been years since anyone melted before me.” Another cackle forced itself from the stooped chest, only to be allayed by a new thought. The old woman strained forward, nearly upsetting herself from her rococo perch. “But I know you after all, do I not? Charlotte Howard—or Willett, now. What other female would have the courage to come here alone? Or even in company, for that matter! You see, your sullied reputation precedes you—and I think I can guess what you've been up to…”
    While the old woman's eyes, nearly white, continued to gleam in the firelight, Charlotte was surprised to observe the beginnings of a smile. Catherine Knowles went on without waiting for an explanation.
    “I recall a little girl—nearly twenty years ago. It was on one of my visits to Bracebridge, and beyond, when I still made such excruciating journeys. You were walking down the road