Free A Wreath of Snow by Liz Curtis Higgs Page A

she would not allow him to make a full confession.
    Meg took a forkful of mincemeat tart, which now tasted like dry, flavorless crumbs, so acute was her shame.
Forgive me, Gordon
. It was pure selfishness on her part, not wanting to upset her father or enrage her brother. Mr. Shaw had honored his promise, an admirable trait in a man. But she shouldn’t have forced him to answer to a name that wasn’t his own.
    Thou shalt not bear false witness
. Aye, she knew the commandment and had broken it soundly. Meg burned her tongue on the coffee, desperate to swallow the bit of crust before she choked.
    The moment the last empty cup clinked against its saucer, her father stood, signaling the end of the meal. “I’ll see you to your room, Alan.”
    Gordon rose as well. “Might I be of assistance?”
    Meg heard the earnestness in his voice, the desire to do something, anything, to make amends.
    Alan quashed his offer at once. “We’ve no need of your help.”
    When Gordon resumed his seat, a defeated look on his face, Meg understood. How many times had Alan snapped at her, chopped off her words, ignored her, or made her feel small?
    Father pulled Alan’s chair away from the table, then helped him stand and move forward with halting steps. Though her brother wore a pronounced frown, his expression seemed more practiced than genuine.
    Meg looked down, ashamed of her thoughts. Yet sometimes she wondered if Alan might be more capable than he let on. When she’d lived at home, on two occasions she’d walked past Alan’s ground-floor bedroom and spied him standing by the window. She’d said nothing to Alan or to their parents. How could she without seeming heartless? If her brother had discovered some way to stand for a moment on his own, was that not a blessing?
    By the time Meg lifted her head, Alan and her father were gone from the room.

    Meg sighed into the morning darkness of her cold bedchamber, convinced she could see her breath if the lamp on her bedside table were lit. Even burrowed underneath three woolen blankets, she was shivering. The coals in her fireplace needed to be stirred to life. But her warm slippers were in her trunk. On the train. In a snowdrift.
    Daybreak would not come for two hours or more. Yet in homes scattered across Edinburgh’s New Town, her students would be well awake by now, curled up by the hearth, waiting for the rest of their households to appear so the day’s festivities might commence. Stockings would be emptied into laps and the contents exclaimed over. An orange, round and fragrant. A monkey on a wooden stick. Crayons made of colored wax. A handkerchief printed with a scene from a fairy tale. And deep in the toe of the knitted stocking, a shiny new penny.
    Meg sighed, remembering how she and Alan enjoyed their stockings when they were children. She always made him wait his turn while she slowly pulled out her gifts one at a time, cherishing each trinket and toy from Saint Nicholas. Such happy years, when Mum’s laughter rang through the house, and Father took young Alan sledding at the King’s Knot in the old royal gardens below the castle.
    But those days were gone forever.
    Throwing back her bedcovers, Meg vowed to make the most of her brief time at home. She poked at the coals until they glowed again, then turned up the nearest lamp and began searching through her chest of drawers for something clean to wear. The striped skirt and blouse she’d worn on the train were still drying by the fire, and last night’s blue dress would never do for church.
    Meg pulled out a gray flannel day dress she’d not worn since she was twenty. The narrow sleeves were patently out of fashion, but with a bit of pressing, the dress might serve. She spread the skirt across the bed and was hunting for a pair of silk stockings when Clara announced herself with a light tap on the door.
    “I heard you up and about, Miss Campbell. Here’s your hot water for bathing and a cup of tea.” She placed the