Page 24 of If The Fates Allow
Evil.
Spiteful.
Hateful in a way no one outside their family would ever truly be able to comprehend.
But Margaret was also cunning to a fault. Her intellect was the single gift she had bestowed upon Willa. Grace had received her beauty, and Lucy had gained her ability to easily manage social situations, but when it came to herself, Willa knew her keenness for knowledge came solely from their mother.
“This is your one and only warning,” Margaret said. “Do you understand, Wilhelmina?”
“Yes, mother.”
Chapter 8
The afternoon rain arrived earlier than normal. It was the proper three o’clock downpour, only today, it swept in an hour early. So, when the allotted time for Noah’s arrival came and went, Willa assumed the weather had kept him away, and she decided to do what she did best.
Hide in the conservatory.
With a book in her lap and a few cats curled atop her as she snuggled under her favorite blanket, Willa spent an hour reading before deciding to stop and tackle Dickens. Christmas would be here before they realized and she needed to be prepared.
Not that she hadn’t read the novel at least two dozen times.
Flipping through the pages, she searched for a good place to start, never caring for the beginning of the novel. Why Mr. Dickens insisted on starting so many of his tales in such a depressing way was beyond her. There was enough of that nonsense in the real world.
No, she much more enjoyed something spectacular. If there were to be elements of gloom and despair in her stories, then she wanted tales with a proper monster to root for or even a villain who was so intriguing that it left her debating on who shouldwin in the end.
“What’s this?” she murmured when a neatly folded piece of paper dropped into her lap. Setting the book aside, she opened it and grinned at her own messy handwriting.
A Christmas Promise
by: Wilhelmina Fairweather (age 10)
Instead of using her usual library copy ofA Christmas Carol, Willa had chosen to be lazy and simply grabbed the old edition she kept here in the conservatory. The poor thing obviously hadn’t been opened in quite a few years, and as she read the poem, the memory of writing it had her smile growing even wider.
On Christmas Eve night
three little children lay in bed
whispering to the fourth
who should be dead
I will always love you
said the oldest and most fair
She was lovely and kind
without a worry to spare
And I will always be your friend
said the youngest and most brave
for there was never a moment
where her courage might cave
The one who should be dead
