To Dream of Snow by Rosalind Laker

looked up, his expression grim as he shook his head to show there was no hope. Sarah uttered a torn cry and flung herself down on her knees beside the dead woman, sobbing desolately.
    â€˜What happened?’ Marguerite asked hoarsely.
    Hendrick rose to his feet. ‘There was the usual struggle to grab the fittest-looking horses, which alarmed one of them, causing it to rear and plunge like a mad thing, and a hoof knocked her flying. She was just waiting to go past to the taproom.’
    The Comtesse, wrapped in a sable cape, was among those who had come outside to see what had happened and she spoke out clearly. ‘This journey shall not continue until that poor woman has been given a Christian burial.’
    Then she turned on her heel and went back indoors. There were those who muttered amongst themselves at this unexpected delay, but after the incident in the forest none wanted to continue without full security.
    Marguerite and Hendrick helped Sarah to her feet and back indoors. Fortunately there were rooms available in the hostelry and Marguerite took Sarah upstairs to one of them.
    â€˜Blanche has been with me for four years,’ Sarah sobbed as she lay down on the bed. ‘She came to me soon after I arrived in France, because my English maid had become violently homesick and I had to send her home again.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, my poor Blanche! She was such a good, kind woman. I must write to her sister. She had nobody else.’
    â€˜Shall I do that for you? You can tell me what to write and then sign it.’
    Sarah clutched Marguerite’s hand gratefully before sinking back into her grief. ‘Thank you most kindly. Everything seems to have become such an effort for me recently and never more than now.’
    Marguerite fetched paper and pen and wrote the letter while Sarah slept. It was the first of many tasks she was to carry out in her new role of unofficial attendant all the way to Riga.
    â€˜How is the Englishwoman today?’ the seamstresses always asked when Marguerite came from Sarah’s coach to ride a little distance with them. Her report was never good.
    â€˜We miss you,’ Isabelle ventured, for Marguerite now shared Sarah’s accommodation, unable to leave her on her own, and ate all meals with her. It had taken Isabelle quite a time to recover from the fright of the raid. It had not helped her when a lone highwayman had attempted to rob the coaches parked by the roadside for the night, only to take flight as disturbed sleepers started firing pistols in his direction.
    â€˜I have suggested that Sarah should see a doctor when we next stop in a town,’ Marguerite said to the others in a hallway one morning as she was waiting for the Englishwoman to be carried downstairs, ‘but she will not hear of it. I believe she is afraid he will tell her to discontinue her journey and rest until another armed convoy comes through. She has already had one delay and will not risk another.’
    â€˜Stubborn and foolish,’ Jeanne commented.
    Sophie laughed unpleasantly, having had sharp words earlier with her sister. ‘You’re only jealous because you don’t love any man as the Englishwoman does!’
    Violette intervened humorously. ‘Hold on! In Russia we shall all find men to love as much as that!’
    General laughter eased the tension.
    It was that same night that they witnessed the curious phenomenon of streamers of light criss-crossing the sky. They had eaten their supper when Jeanne went out to fetch something she had forgotten from the coach, but stopped to gape upwards in nervous astonishment. After calling the others, she went back outside and they joined her.
    â€˜What’s happening to the sky?’ Isabelle asked fearfully.
    Marguerite was able to enlighten them. ‘Sarah guessed why Jeanne looked so bewildered and said it was sure to be the aurora borealis that she had seen. That’s what those