Free The Gates of Sleep by Mercedes Lackey

detests London; she’ll be staying with us up
until Christmas.”
    “That’s
wonderful!”
Marina could
not contain herself any more; she leapt to her feet, catching the book of
Shakespeare at the last moment before it tumbled to the floor out of her lap. “When
is she coming?”
    “By the train on Wednesday, and I’ll need your
help in getting the guest room ready for her—”
    But Marina was running as soon as she realized the guest
would arrive the next day. She was already halfway up the stairs, her aunt’s
laughter following her, by the time Margherita had reached the words “guest
room.”
    Once, all the rooms in this old farm house had led one into
the other, like the ones on the first floor. But at some point, perhaps around
the time that Jane Austen was writing
Emma,
the walls had been knocked
down in the second story and replaced with an arrangement of a hall with
smaller bedrooms along it. And about when Victoria first took the throne, one
of the smallest bedrooms had been made into a bathroom. True, hot water still
had to be carted laboriously up the stairs for a bath, but at least they weren’t
bathing in hip baths in front of the fire, and there was a water-closet. So
their guest wouldn’t be totally horrified by the amenities, or lack of
them.
    It would be horrible if she left after a week because
she couldn’t have a decent wash-up.
    She opened the linen-closet at the end of the hall and took
a deep breath of the lavender-scented air before taking out sheets for the bed
in the warmest of the guest rooms. This was the one directly across from her
own, and like hers, right over the kitchen. The view wasn’t as fine, but
in winter there wasn’t a great deal of view anyway, and the cozy warmth
coming up from the kitchen, faintly scented with whatever Margherita was
baking, made up for the lack of view. Where her room was a Pre-Raphaelite
fantasy, this room was altogether conventional, with rose-vine wallpaper, chintz
curtains and cushions, and a brass-framed bed. The rest of the furniture,
however, was made by Thomas, and looked just a little odd within the confines
of such a conventional room. Woolen blankets woven by Margherita in times when
she hadn’t any grand commissions to fulfill were in an asymmetrical chest
at the foot of the bed, and the visitor would probably need them.
    She left the folded sheets on the bed and flung the single
window open just long enough to air the room out. It didn’t take long,
since Margherita never really let the guest rooms get stale and stuffy. It also
didn’t take long for the room to get nasty and cold, so she closed it
again pretty quickly.
    Fire. I need a fire.
There was no point in trying
to kindle one herself the way that Uncle Sebastian did. She was eager, almost
embarrassingly eager, for their visitor to feel welcome. When Elizabeth
Hastings arrived, it should be to find a room warmed and waiting, as if this
house was her home.
    Marina solved the problem of the fire with a shovelful of
coals from her own little fire, laid onto the waiting kindling in the fireplace
of the guest room. She might not be able to kindle a fire, but she was rather
proud of her ability to lay one. Once the fire was going and the chill was off
the air, she made the bed up with the lavender-scented sheets and warm
blankets, dusted everything thoroughly, and set out towels and everything else
a guest might want. She made sure that the lamp on the bedside table was full
of oil and the wick trimmed, and that there was a box of lucifer matches there
as well.
    She looked around the room, and sighed. No flowers. It was
just too late for them—and too late to gather a few branches with fiery
autumn leaves on them. The bouquet of dried straw flowers and fragrant herbs on
the mantel would just have to do.
    She heard footsteps in the hall outside, and wasn’t
surprised when her Aunt pushed the door open. “You haven’t left me
anything to do,” Margherita observed, with an approving