Once Upon a Winter's Night Read Free

board.
    “What does it say?” asked Aigrette, the mother moving opposite.
    “It is sealed, Maman,” replied Camille, showing her mother the fix of green wax holding the scroll closed, wax impressed with an ornate signet depicting a wide-branching tree—an oak, perhaps.
    “Well, open it, for surely it was meant for us, else the Bear would not have brought it here.”
    Camille nodded and broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The message it bore was written in a very fine hand.
    “Read it to us,” urged Lisette, now stepping to Camille’s side.
    “Oh, do,” cried Colette, she and Felise rushing forward as well, the others crowding ’round the table after, including the father and Giles, the lad’s coughing finally come to a stop.
    They all craned their necks to look at the writing, which none could read but Camille, for, unlike them, she had been taught by Fra Galanni to read and write. Her mother had bound Camille over to the elderly monk as a servant girl at the age of eight, and she had attended him for nearly four years, until he had died of the ague.
    Tilting the letter toward the firelight, the better to see the script, Camille quickly scanned down the scroll and sharply drew in a breath. She looked up at her father.
    “Come, come, daughter, what does it say?” he asked.
    Camille looked again at the letter and, her voice slightly quavering, read, “To the parents of the girl who sings in the field ...”
    To the parents of the girl who sings in the field: Greetings.
    Fear not the Bear, for he would do you no more harm than would I. Think of him as my ambassador, and offer him your hospitality ere reading on.
    Camille looked up from the page. “Papa, let the Bear in.”
    “Bu-but, what if—”
    “The Prince of the Summerwood has so ordered,” said Camille, gesturing at the letter.
    “Prince?” gasped Aigrette, her eyes flying wide, a gleam of expectation within. “Henri,” she barked, “do as Camille says.”
    Sucking in air through gritted teeth, Henri loosed his hold on Giles and stepped to the door and lifted the latch and opened it wide, the wild wind and snow howling about to set the strings of beans and turnips and other such to madly sway, the pots and pans to clang, and the fire and wrapped ’round blankets to whip and flutter in the blow. “Enter, Monsieur Bear,” Henri called, his voice trembling, and then quickly stepped wide of the way. The great Bear ambled inward, the girls scrambling together and in a body retreating, Camille and Giles standing firm on the side of the table nearest the Bear, the mother cringing but remaining opposite.
    Taking up most of the free space, with a “ Whuff!” the Bear sat down and grunted as if in satisfaction.
    Shutting out the storm, the father closed and latched the door, though momentarily he peered out into the fury beyond, as if perhaps seeking more bears or mayhap thinking of bolting.
    With pale eyes, the Bear looked at Camille and the opened scroll and cocked his head.
    “He wants you to go on,” Aigrette whispered across the board.
    Camille nodded and peered at the scroll again and started at the beginning once more:
    To the parents of the girl who sings in the field: Greetings.
    Fear not the Bear, for he would do you no more harm than would I. Think of him as my ambassador, and offer him your hospitality ere reading on.
    That done . . . I am smitten by your golden-haired daughter, and I seek your permission to marry her —
    “Not fair!” cried Lisette, outrage honing her words as she glared with dark blue eyes at Camille. “I am the eldest, and I should be first to marry. And to a prince at that.”
    “And I next!” called out Colette indignantly, her own blue eyes ablaze. “And a prince for me as well.”
    The Bear swung his great head toward the pair and a growl rumbled deep in his chest, and with small yips the two fell silent.
    “A prince,” hissed Aigrette to Henri, her eyes narrowing in calculation. “A prince wishes