him. He tried not to think of such fanciful things, but concentrated on retracing his steps to the colonel’s room without getting lost.
There were so many rooms down so many different corridors, but he’d noted the steel armor mounted like a metal man on a stand just along from the colonel’s door. Finally he saw it, and hurried forward, his slippered feet silent on the rugs. He took a moment to check that it was indeed the right armor, then, going to the door, he opened it, peeked in, then slipped inside.
The colonel spent his nights in the memsahib’s bedroom. He was never in his room until close to dawn. So Sangay was free to search.
It was still hours before dawn when he reached into the top drawer of a high chest and his fingers closed around polished wood and brass.
Almost reverently, he drew the holder out. One glance was enough to confirm it was the one the evil sahib sought.
Closing the drawer, Sangay slid the holder up the sleeves of his tunic and the coat he’d donned over it, then, quiet as a mouse, he slipped out of the room and shut the door.
He was downstairs in mere minutes. He paused in the corridor leading to the back door and closed his coat up tight. It would be cold out there-freezing. He hadn’t yet had a chance to look for the big church, but the evil sahib had said he had to go back down the carriage drive, and he knew where that was. He would go now and be well away from the house before the other servants stirred. When daylight came, he would be able to see the church tower.
He wondered how long it would take him to reach it. Even going around by the roads, in this country it wouldn’t be that far. A few hours, perhaps?
Telling himself to keep his spirits up-he was nearly free of the evil sahib’s demands-he reached for the bolts closing the back door, eased them back with barely a sound. Carefully, he lifted the latch, opened the door.
And looked out at a wall of white.
He stared. He could only just see over the top of the white blockage. Hesitantly, he put out a hand. White sand, but cold, and it melted where he touched.
The white stuff slithered, started to slide like sand in through the door. Quickly, he swung the door closed, pushed hard and managed to shut it.
Snow! The white stuff was snow. He’d had no idea it could come like this.
That it could trap him in the house with the scroll-holder.
Stunned, he reclosed the bolts, then looked for a window, saw one over the iron trough in the next room. He hurried over, had to clamber up and balance on the trough to see through. The snow had piled up across the bottom of the window. He couldn’t push it open. Looking out, he saw to his amazement that there was plenty of light to see, even though it was still hours until dawn.
A soft, pearly-gray glow bathed the scene, moonlight and starlight reflecting off the snow. Sangay had never imagined the world might look like this-untouched, and so cold. As if there were no people, no animals anywhere. Only the naked trees and the buildings…and in the far distance, off to the east, the huge tower of a church spearing up through the white-gray, its stone a solid, deeper gray than the sky behind it.
Three hours at most, Sangay thought, but he couldn’t walk through snow that deep.
He looked at the white dunes filling the kitchen yard. Perhaps it might be less on the other sides of the house?
He spent the next hour frantically going from room to room, window to window, but the snow lay everywhere, apparently equally thick. There was no window he could open, no door he could slip through. Everywhere he looked, the snow hemmed him in.
Then he heard the first maids stirring.
Sternly he told himself he couldn’t sniffle and cry, that his maataa’s life depended on him getting the holder to the evil sahib.
He looked down at the wooden holder, peeking past the edge of his sleeve. He couldn’t afford to be found with it, but if he put it back in the colonel’s room, he might not be able to fetch it later.
On impulse, he hurried back to the kitchen, slipped into the corridor to the back door, then turned off it into a big storeroom. It was close to the back door, and he’d seen bins there. He found one behind some bags; it was half-filled with wheat. He buried the scroll-holder deep, then, feeling a vise ease from about his chest, drew an easier breath. He went back into the kitchen and curled up in a corner near the fire.
He didn’t have long to wait. Three of the kitchen girls came down the servants’ stairs. Yawning, laughing, they saw him, smiled and called a good morning, and started taking down pots and plates.
Sangay returned their greetings, then got to his feet. He went to the table, smiled as best he could. “There’s lots of snow outside.”
The girls exchanged glances, then set down what they held and rushed down the corridor to the window over the iron trough.
Sangay followed them.
“Ooh! Look, Maisie. It’s ever so pretty.”
“Looks to be dry, too-it won’t be thawing today.”
“Ah-how long will it last?” Sangay asked.
The girls looked at him, then out at the snow. They pulled measuring faces, then the one called Maisie said, “No one’ll be moving for a couple o’ days, at least.” She flashed Sangay a grin. “Assuming no more comes down, that is.”
Sangay felt his eyes grow wide. “Will more come down before this lot goes?”
Maisie shrugged. “Who’s to say? In the lap of the gods, that is.”
Sangay managed a weak smile. Turning, he left the room. He slipped through the kitchen and went quickly up the stairs. Reaching his room, he quietly shut the door, then climbed into his bed and pulled the blanket over his head.
He tried not to shiver. He wasn’t cold. But he didn’t know what to do. Desperation clutched his chest, his heart.
What would happen to his maataa?
He believed in the gods. They had sent the snow. They didn’t want him to take the holder to the evil sahib, at least not yet.
But was that so? Was there some other route he was meant to take to the big church?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know this country, and with the snow on the ground, it had only become more alien.
Curling up in the bed, he shivered harder.
Del woke to see a strange, subdued light slanting through a gap in the curtains drawn across the window in Deliah’s room.
It took a moment for him to recall what such a light portended.
Deliah slumbered, warm and soft against his side. He glanced at her, then, carefully easing from under the covers, leaving her sleeping, he padded quickly across the room, pushed the curtain aside-and looked out on a scene that embodied the essence of “home” to him.
He looked out on a world covered in white. The thick blanket stretched as far as he could see, the bare branches of trees weighted with an inches-thick coating of soft white. The air was curiously clear. The wind had died during the night, leaving the smothering snow undisturbed, unmarred.
He hadn’t seen such a sight for decades.
A soft footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, Deliah was there, as naked as he, but she’d brought the coun terpane with her; she tossed one end over his bare shoulders as she came to lean against his side.
Her face was alight. “I haven’t seen snow for more than seven years!”
The excitement in her voice, innocent and sincere, found an echo inside him. Tugging the counterpane around him, he put his arms around her, held her close. For long moments, they stood snuggling together, looking out on the pristine scene.
“We might even have a white Christmas,” she said.
“Much as I, personally, would appreciate that, I hope this will thaw, and soon.” When she looked up at him,
