by Caroline Lee
The lake! Snow had to stop herself from smiling, knowing it would arouse Lucinda’s suspicions.
Her tree stood near her favorite cove of Lake Enchantment. She’d been looking for an excuse to slip away, and here it was.
She forced herself to take a deep breath, clasping her hands in front of her, in front of the pocket which held her lace. “Very well, Stepmother,” she said meekly, knowing that’s what Lucinda wanted. “But it will take me some time to get there and back.”
Lucinda never made the trip to the lake herself, even though their little cottage didn’t sit too far from it—just on the other side of town. Snow had managed to convince the older woman the trip was arduous, and took several hours. This gave Snow more time to relax alone in her favorite spot.
The older woman scowled, peering at Snow as if she could see through the lies. But then she nodded sharply. “Very well. But you’d best be home to label these bottles this evening. Thank goodness dear Reginald can’t see his beloved wife working her fingers to the bone,” she finished with a sigh, turning back to her potion. “He’d likely have a conniption.”
He’d likely have another drink.
That’s what Snow remembered of the man who’d fathered her, the man who’d forced himself on his slave woman, then raised their daughter beside his own legitimate daughter. After the war, he’d dragged his harpy of a wife, his sweet Rose Red, and Snow herself—Mama was gone by that time—out to the middle of Wyoming, where he’d been intent on becoming a rancher, something he knew nothing about.
Maybe it was a blessing the man had keeled over dead so soon after arriving in Everland. His daughters then only had one miserable parent to contend with.
Why are you dragging up the past? she berated herself.
The sun might not be shining, but it was only a few days until Christmas, and now she had hours to spend decorating her tree and singing and enjoying her favorite spot in the whole world.
So she nodded to Lucinda, in case the woman was paying attention, then whirled for the front foyer. She wanted to collect a few more scraps of material before she began to layer her winter clothes on, but that would be easy—
“Don’t forget your lotion, girl!”
Lucinda didn’t even look up when she snapped her reminder, but Snow paused, her hand on the door, to frown over her shoulder.
“My lotion?”
“The lightening lotion, you fool!” Her stepmother looked up long enough to scowl in Snow’s direction. “The only way we’re going to cure you of that horrible color is with these!” She shook a half-filled jar at Snow. “Don’t you realize I’m doing this all for you? I invented the Skin As White As Snow lotion for you, you wretched thing!”
Horrible color?
Snow frowned down at the back of her hand. Mama had been a slave, the daughter of an African woman. Reginald White had been as pale as pale could be—with shockingly pale hair as well—and Snow White was a combination of both.
Her skin wasn’t horrible, it just wasn’t the translucently white skin of her father. Or her father’s wife. Lucinda had been rubbing herself with lotions, some real and some quackery, for as long as Snow could recall. Now she was making them, and could force them on Snow whenever she wanted.
But she couldn’t force Snow to use them.
Upstairs on her dressing table sat a small crock, with a beautifully designed label proclaiming it Coven Cosmetic’s Skin As White As Snow Lotion. And each day, Snow faithfully poured out a little to make it look as though it were being used.
But she wouldn’t be using that, or anything else her stepmother forced on her. Even if they did work, even if they did lighten skin, she wouldn’t use them.
Especially if they lightened skin.
Lucinda White had named her Snow for her hair, not for her skin. And despite being forced to keep her hair covered, Snow liked who she was. Mama had given her this lovely skin color, and she wasn’t going to hide it or try to change it.
But it certainly was easier if Lucinda didn’t know that.
So Snow bowed her head slightly, already thinking about her escape to her Christmas tree, and pushed the door open.
“Yes, Stepmother,” she murmured, before she made her escape.
Chapter 2
Reverend Hunter Woods stepped off the train in Everland, Wyoming, and turned up the collar of his coat against the cold. The sky was overcast, and it looked as if snow was threatening. It was hard to see how the air and waters here could possibly help him, but he was willing to try anything.
Besides, he was breathing better already, just being out of that stuffy train.
He peered up and down the street, pleased by the story-book Alpine look to the buildings, and the distant mountains. Things didn’t look so bad after all.
“This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice!” It was a quiet reminder, but a needed one.
He’d agreed to stay in this little town for a year, or until a more permanent replacement could be found for their recently deceased clergyman. The least he could do was go into the assignment with an open mind and heart.
An hour later, he found himself struggling to maintain his earlier resolution.
He’d been to the church, and had discovered it was a cheerful little building, which had already been decorated for Christmas by the ladies of the town, but he’d been disturbed to realize there was no rectory. The one hotel in town was staffed by a man who kept falling asleep, but who had managed to tell Hunter there were no available rooms at the Van Winkle Inn during a break between his naps.
I feel a bit like the Holy Family. No rooms at the inn, no rooms anywhere.
He was standing in front of a shop on Andersen Avenue, some kind of dry goods store, and bemoaning his bad luck. Here he was, new in town, only a few days before he was due to give the Christmas sermon, and he had no place to stay? Perhaps he should go inside and ask where the old preacher had lived.
“Yoohoo! You look lost, dearie!”
The cheerful call had him turning in place, almost tripping over the bags he’d dropped at his feet. He caught himself at the last moment and managed to tip his hat politely at the two women waddling toward him.
Well, one was waddling. The other—a regal woman with spectacles and gray hair—wasn’t particularly tall, but she sure carried herself as if she were. She also wasn’t smiling as broadly as her plump companion was, but she was peering curiously at Hunter.
The plumper of the two reached him first and grabbed his gloved hand in one of hers, shaking it vigorously. “So happy to meet you, dearie! You’re the new reverend, aren’t you? Oh, I do say you are! Somnolena will be so disappointed to find out her tea leaves were wrong again.”
A little bemused, Hunter managed to extricate his hand from her grip. Tea leaves? That sounded a bit occult to him, but he couldn’t deny the woman was right.
“I’m Hunter, ma’am. I mean, Reverend Woods.” It had been several years since he’d been ordained, but it still felt odd to announce himself that way, not when he should be just plain old Hunter. “And I’m pleased to meet you. Are you a parishioner?”
The lady chortled so loud, the outrageous feather on her hat wobbled, but it was hard to be offended by that beaming face.
“Dear me, no. Well, yes, I suppose I am, in that everyone in these parts is a parishioner. Only one church, don’tchaknow!”
Her companion sniffed. “What Helga is trying to say, is that we have no objection to organized religion, as long as it’s done well. We might not always attend church, because we believe the majesty of the Lord can be found elsewhere as well, Reverend Woods.”
She was glaring at him in challenge, but he’d been raised by glaring old women and knew how to handle them. He grinned charmingly and tipped his hat again, pleased when she flushed just slightly.
“Please call me Hunter, ma’am. And I agree completely.” He spread his hands, encompassing the mountains and the pretty stand of trees he could see just outside of town. “For w
here is the Lord, if not here among us? His work is the best place to worship him…although it can get a bit chilly in the winter.”
The plump one giggled happily at his joke, and the other one seemed to thaw a bit. She nodded and held out her hand.
“You can call me Doc. Welcome to Everland.”
A female doctor? Fascinating! There were a few back in Pennsylvania—there was an entire college for them in Philadelphia, as he recalled—but it was interesting to run into one way out here. “A doctor? What was your area of study?”
To his surprise, the woman scowled and shoved her spectacles further up on her nose. “Why does everyone ask me that? Does it matter? Does it honestly matter if my specialty was neurology or orthopedic surgery?”
Her friend nudged her. “You’re going to have to come clean eventually.”
“Shut it, Helga,” Doc growled. Then she took a deep breath and turned back to Hunter. “Listen, do you want a room or not?”
He blinked. How had they known…? “As it happens, I am in the need of lodging. It seems there’s no room at the inn.”
“For the new reverend?” Doc snorted and shook her head. “Narrative causality, I’ll bet.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Dorcas sent us out here to fetch you. She’s cleaning one of the guest rooms for you, although I suspect she really expects Suzy to budge up with me.”
She said it as if she was expecting a response, but Hunter had no idea what she was talking about. “Yes?” he said politely, hoping it would move things along.
It did, but not in the way he was expecting.
Doc, being a full head shorter than him, and old enough to be his mother, nodded firmly and reached for his bags. She straightened and slung them over her shoulder without so much as a grunt.
He lunged forward, intent on helping her, but she shot him a glare, which had him halting in his tracks. “We’re at number thirteen Perrault Street. The big ugly house you probably didn’t notice.”
Helga frowned. “It’s not ugly. It has character.”
“It’s garish, and you know it,” Doc snapped.
Her friend shrugged. “It’s quaint. Our own little cottage.” She smiled up at Hunter. “And ever so many comforts. You’ll adore it, Reverend Woods. Such a nice place to spend Christmas!”
There was little he could say then, except, “Thank you.” He needed a place to stay, and although these ladies were eccentric, they were the first who’d offered.
Helga beamed up at him, and Doc went to step off the sidewalk. “Please, ladies, let me carry my own luggage.” He might have trouble breathing sometimes, but he wasn’t by any means weak.
But Helga waved him away. “Oh no, dear, you’re needed elsewhere.”
Before he could ask what she meant, Doc muttered something under her breath which might’ve been a curse, then rounded on him once more. The way she was glaring at him told him she hadn’t completely forgiven him his earlier question about her specialty. Why did that matter?
“You’re asthmatic, right?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “The waters of Lake Enchantment are really quite healing, and if nothing else, a nice walk in the woods—eh, Reverend Woods?—would do you good.”
How’d she know about his breathing troubles? Had he been wheezing?
No, since getting off the train, he’d been breathing fine. He was beginning to suspect that what he’d heard about Everland’s air and water being so fresh and refined just might be true.
Still, he was a gentleman, first and foremost. “I look forward to a walk in the woods, and especially seeing your lovely lake. But that can wait until after I carry my own luggage to my new lodgings,” he said firmly.
Doc merely cocked her head, her gaze becoming distant as she seemed to stare at something inside her own head. “No,” she muttered. “No, I don’t think it can.”
Before he could ask what she meant, her companion jumped in. “You see, dearie, it’s vitally important you head to the lake right now. That way.”
She pointed with one hand toward the distant forest, and Hunter turned to glance in that direction. When he turned back, he was just in time to get a face full of whatever tiny glittery particles Helga had just thrown at him.
Sputtering, he stumbled back and waved his arms, but to his surprise, nothing had actually landed on him. Were they snow crystals then, to have disappeared before they actually hit him? How odd. It was almost as if they were…
Magic?
Helga was beaming not-at-all-apologetically. “Dear me, oh dear, dear, dear. So clumsy. Well, necessary, don’tchaknow.”
“Necessary?” Hunter repeated politely, still waving his hands a bit, looking for the glittery particles.
Both women were nodding firmly, but Doc answered. “For your walk in the woods. To ensure you have the right reaction to anyone you might meet.”
Before he could ask what she meant, Helga was waving him on, pointing toward the trees and the lake.
“Go on, dearie. I’ll help Doc here, I’m strong as an ox, everyone knows.” She thumped herself in the chest and winked cheerfully. “We’ll get your things settled, then you come find us after you meet—I mean, after you’ve seen the lake. Cheerio!”
The last was called as Doc all-but-dragged her away. He thought he heard her hiss, “Strong as an ox? More like dumb as an ox, Helga. You almost told him!” But then they were too far away for him to hear more. They disappeared down a side street—was that Perrault?—and he found himself hoping he hadn’t just been robbed by two strange old women.
Still, now he was free to explore those trees over there, which is what he’d wanted to do since he arrived. He’d been cooped up in the train for days and had been longing to stretch his legs and appreciate nature.
So, taking a deep breath—and not coughing, not even a bit—he pulled his hat down lower on his ears and headed for the lake, his strides long and eager.
But as soon as he stepped into the shadow of the trees, he slowed. His breathing deepened, and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and tilted his head up to stare at the tall trees. How in the word had such trees managed to grow here, when the rest of the vegetation he’d seen on his ride out here was mostly scrub pines? These were tall and stately, the snow under them a mere dusting, even this far into the winter season, because of their sheltering branches.
Here on the path, the snow had been trod down the center, as though the lake was still receiving a few visitors, even at this time of year.
Those ladies were right; he did need this. Here, among the nature the Lord created for his subjects to cherish, Hunter felt at home.
Nana had always joked it was no coincidence his last name was Woods, since that’s where he preferred to spend his time.
He was barely meandering now, his attention upward and outward, rather than where he was putting his feet. But when a small path branched off to his left, he stopped.
It wouldn’t have been noticeable, especially in the winter with the branches heavy with snow, except for the fact someone had broken a path in that direction. A someone in a skirt, judging from the marks made in the snow.
He ducked a little to peer under the branches and found a faint animal trail leading in that direction, and this female someone had left the formal path and had taken the more obscure one.
The main path headed straight, but the most recent tracks definitely went this way.
Hunter shrugged and ducked under the branches.
A lifetime in the woods had taught him how to read signs, and whoever had come this way, hadn’t returned by this path.
Maybe she needed help. Or maybe she just knew the prettiest path.
Hunter had to admit, despite having to hold his hat on to prevent the overhead branches knocking it off, this area really was lovely.
And then he stepped out of the woods into an opening.
It was a natural little grove, the lake’s shore just beyond, ringed entirely by large pines, with the snow stam
ped down all around the inside.
And there, in the very center of the grove, stood a perfect little fir tree, its branches cleared of all but a faint dusting of snow, and no taller than he himself was.
It was decorated for Christmas, and as he watched, surprised, an opening in the clouds above allowed a sunbeam to pierce the gray and shine on the pretty little tree, making it sparkle and gleam.
Hunter held his breath as he approached, wondering if this was some sort of sign.
No. The miracle of life is being able to see the Divine all around.
This was the work of a human hand, with the sun making a rare, serendipitous appearance. But still, he could appreciate the effect.
Someone had wrapped the tree in the most beautiful and delicate lace. It was all colors—though mostly whites and creams, but he saw some pinks and blues and yellows and greens mixed in as well.
Hunter hesitated before the tree, then stripped off one of his gloves, ignoring the cold, and touched a strand of lace.
Exquisite.
It was real, and it was lovely. The strands varied in length and age, some looking as if they’d been used for years, and others appeared to be brand-new. There were also bright red bows tied on many of the branches, and a large red-and-white bow sat on the very top.
Or rather, almost the very top.
Still more than a little stunned at this unexpected glimpse of the Divine, Hunter tugged his glove back on and reached for the bow. It was lopsided, as if someone a little shorter had tried to tie it on.
He’d just finished re-tying the bow to the topmost branch, when he heard it.
“Glo-oooo-oooooor-ria! In excelsis Deo!”
The singing was far away, but as she—it was definitely a she—hit the last note, a gentle breeze blew up. Hunter turned his face toward the breeze, toward the lake, toward the song, and opened his heart.
“Gloooor-ooooor-orrrrr-ia!”
She’d never be called a beautiful singer, but Hunter adored her enthusiasm, her abandon. She sang as if she was singing to the heavens themselves, and he loved it.
