A Wreath of Snow Read Online Free Page A

trying to find the last bit of heat in the metal foot warmer, stocked earlier with coals from the locomotive’s firebox. Soon enough she would be safe and warm in her Thistle Street house with her fireplace glowing and a teakettle whistling on the stove.
    On her walk home from the Princes Street station, candles would be burning in nearly every window, and rich, crisp shortbread would be baking in countless ovens. She’d not left much in her larder, thinking to be gone for a full week. But she had enough butter, sugar, and flour for one circle of shortbread notched around the edges like yule cakes of old.
    At the moment, however, the weather was foremost in her mind. Hours into the storm, the snow had turned into a sharp, fine dust, like ground glass, whipping past the windows of the train. A sense of foreboding washed over her. What if the signal posts became frozen and two trains were inadvertently directed onto the same track? It had happened before, on the Great Northern Railway. Or what if the ashpan became caked withsnow, and the engine stopped, leaving them stranded in the countryside without heat?
    Go home
. Her heartbeat quickened at the strong and unexpected urging.
    Home to Edinburgh? Or home to Albert Place?
    She eyed the carriage door. A handful of people were still milling about the platform. Might the same porter reclaim her trunk? Arrange for it to be delivered to her parents’ house and her with it? Meg knew the answer. Not in this weather, not for any amount of silver. Nor was she prepared to face her brother and hear yet again all the ways she’d disappointed him.
    To Edinburgh, then.
    As if at her bidding, the train whistle blew loud and long. Then the engine jolted forward with a great burst of steam. Though two hours behind schedule, the three twenty-six was finally under way.
    Relieved, Meg glanced back at the woman traveling with her child, thinking to exchange smiles with her. But the toddler, apparently frightened by all the noise, was whimpering against his mother’s shoulder. Or perhaps he was hungry. Meg remembered Alan, as a boy, making such noises whenever mealtime drew near.
    She pulled the apple out of her pocket. Was the child old enough to eat it? Might she offend the mother by offering it? Meg stood and made her way back through the carriage as itjostled her to and fro. When she reached the twosome, she held out her gift, such as it was—free of bruises anyway and a good size for a red pippin.
    “Oh!” The mother’s eyes widened. “Look what the kind lady has brought you.” When she took the apple with a nod of thanks, the toddler wiped his nose with his sleeve, his misery forgotten. She beamed at him. “Mum will take a bite, then share it with you, aye?”
    Meg watched them, touched by the way the mother carefully bit into the fruit, peeled away the skin, then fed her son. He was none too patient with the process until his mother made a game of hiding each bite and then producing it with a look of astonishment.
    “You were brave to stay aboard the train with your son,” Meg said, surveying all the empty seats.
    The woman kissed her son’s head, then looked up. “My husband works in Edinburgh and cannot come home for Christmas. So we thought we’d surprise him. We’ll be there in less than an hour, aye?” She smiled at her boy chewing on another bit of apple. “Thanks to you, miss, our son won’t arrive hungry.”
    “I’m so glad.” With a lighter heart Meg returned to her seat, reminding herself it was a simple gesture. Nothing to be proud of. But she
was
, a little.
    Meanwhile, the other passenger was buried in his newspaperagain, though he never moved his head or turned the page. Meg sympathized with the gentleman. Hadn’t she also tried reading, to no avail? He looked to be a few years older than she was. Slender yet muscular, he was no doubt a sportsman. And a bit untidy. His bag was unbuckled, with papers sticking out at all angles. Newspapers, mostly.
    Beyond