Free The Mist in the Mirror by Susan Hill

snow whirled furiously. Lady Quincebridge settled back, took out a pair of spectacles and a book, and I returned to my paperand for the rest of the journey we read in companionable silence. But I felt a warmth and pleasure within me as a result of her invitation. I had made a friend, the first since my arrival in England, and I welcomed it. Her odd warnings and forebodings I preferred to set quietly aside.
    When the train slowed again and then pulled into the riverside station at which I was to alight, she extended her hand.
    ‘I continue a little further down the line,’ she said, peering at me in a wholly cheerful and friendly manner over the top of her glasses. ‘Now I shall expect to hear from you.’
    I bade her goodbye and turned to set my bag down on the platform. It was only as I slammed the heavy train door that she called out something else, but over the noise of the engine and the clang of a porter’s trolley I could not make it out, I only saw her expression which was again one of alarm and anxiety – the sight of her distraught face was to return often to my mind in the weeks to come.
    For the moment, though, I was occupied in finding my way out of the station and taking directions for the school, which I was told lay about a mile ahead. In spite of the weather, I rejected a cab and, carrying my own bag, walked out into the snow-covered street and turned right, to cross the bridge that spanned the river.
    Here, the Thames curved slightly towards me, wide and fast-flowing, and I stood and looked over into the water. The snow had almost stopped falling now and there was a crack in the clouds through which a little moonlight shone. The air was cold and a slight breeze blew from downriver. I turned. Ahead of me stretched a long, narrow high street, with the roofs of small houses and shops clustered together on either side, low-lying and sloping at different angles, and all covered with thick, freshly fallen snow. Here and there, lights shone out onto the pavement, but the roadway was white and untrammelled. The air smelled wonderfully of the snow and my spirits were high, I felt excitement, as ifsomething miraculous were about to happen, and a complete absence of any sense of strangeness or apprehension. The dark warnings of Lady Quincebridge on the train now only seemed amusing.
    An old man, muffled in heavy scarves and a long, shabby tweed coat, came shambling towards me, and I bade him a cheerful good evening. He nodded, peering at me out of rheumy eyes, but after that the bridge and the street ahead were empty again.
    I walked on, treading carefully through the snow, for I had no boots or overshoes, and kept close to the shop fronts and houses, where it lay more thinly. Inside the bakers’ and grocers’, cobblers’ and outfitters’ and alehouses, lights glowed warmly behind steamed-up windows, and I saw the shadows of those moving about within, but out here I was entirely alone, making my way towards where I began to see the ancient building of the school, the tower, the chapel, the old walls rising up, dark and imposing. Apart from the gas lamps, all was dark, and silent, save for the soft press and creak of my own footsteps upon the snow. The moon had gone behind the clouds again. I stopped and set down my bag and my breath plumed out like silver smoke in front of my face.
    To my right stood a wooden door with a square grille and a brass bell handle set into the wall beside it. I went over, pulled it and listened to the clang and, as I waited then, the snow began to fall lightly again, the huge flakes settling gently like goose-down on my shoulder and sleeve. I found it beautiful beyond all expressing, and the cold and snow and the silent darkness were home to me, familiar, fitting; I remembered and responded to them, and realised that, when I was a child, they must have formed part of the background to my life. There was some secret, just out of reach, the answer to a mystery, and, if I had been able