The Path Through the Trees. Peggy Dymond Leavey

the holidays together,” Ginny had crowed.

      When Ginny discovered that her late husband’s aunt was still living in Ontario, she came up with the idea of inviting her too. It didn’t matter that the old lady was no relation to Uncle Richard, Auntie Gwen or the cousins.

      Then, at the last minute, still surrounded by packing crates in their new apartment, Ginny had been called back out west. Some urgent problem the person who was taking over was having, and only Ginny could fix it. Now what? Christmas was only a week away.

      “It’s really no problem, sweetie,” Ginny promised. “I’ll just call Aunt Caroline and see if you can go on up there ahead of me. And I’ll join you the minute I get back.”

      “I’ll go with you, Mom,” Norah decided. “I know I could stay at Ashley’s.”

      “No, it’ll be much quicker if I just do what has to be done and fly right back.”

      “Let me stay here then,” Norah pleaded. “I could have all the unpacking done by the time you get back.”

      Ginny shook her head. “I don’t know a soul in this city I could ask to stay with you, darling. No, this way is best. I’ll get you a ticket for the train. And here’s an idea! Why don’t we call Richard and see if the kids can go on ahead too? You three could be all together for a while.”

      “I bet Andrew and Becca are looking forward to this holiday about as much as I am,” grumbled Norah.

      When she’d called her brother in Guelph, Ginny had learned that school for the cousins was not yet out for the Christmas break. The only reason Norah was already on holiday was that she would be starting Grade Eight in a new school after the New Year.

      “I guess you’ll just have to go on ahead by yourself,” Ginny announced, setting the phone back down on the floor beside the couch where she and Norah were unwrapping dishes. She picked up another package, smiling brightly. “But that’s okay. I’m sure your Great-aunt Caroline will spoil you rotten.”

      By this time, the taxi had turned off the highway between two stone pillars and into a lane overhung with dripping trees. A large house of grey stone loomed ahead in the cold rain. The cab pulled up at the front of the house and stopped.

      This place was not what Norah had imagined when her mother had promised Christmas in the country. She had pictured a rambling house of white clapboard, a wide, welcoming verandah, coloured lights strung from gingerbread trim, a wreath in every lighted window. And snow, of course.

      “Well, this is it,” the cabbie announced, opening the back door of the car.

      Norah emerged from the taxi an inch at a time, looking up at the gloomy house, its chimneys wrapped in fog.

      There was no verandah, no front porch of any kind, and no lights beckoned from the unfriendly windows. In fact, the place looked deserted. In the trees to the left, Norah spotted a detached garage with old-fashioned, wooden doors.

      After depositing the suitcase on the stone step, the driver got back into the cab and splashed away again down the lane, without even waiting to see if anyone answered the door.

      Norah had just about decided that no one was home and was half-hoping that they weren’t, when the big front door swung suddenly inward.

      “Come inside,” an icy voice commanded. “Don’t just stand there. You’re letting in the rain.”

      Two

      At first, Norah thought the woman who answered the door of the dreary, stone house was very tall. Later, she realized that was due to the straightness of her posture. She wore a long, black skirt, polished shoes of the same colour and a grey blouse with a high throat, buttoned to the top. Her white hair was pulled back in a severe style behind her head. A pair of rimless spectacles perched halfway down a long, narrow nose.

      Norah wiped her hand on her jeans and extended it towards the woman. “I’m Norah,” she announced with a smile. The door closed behind her.

      “Of course you are.” The woman stepped back and took a long look at Norah’s wet shoes. “You may hang your things there,” she said, indicating a hallstand, the kind with a seat that opened and a place for umbrellas.

      Norah dropped her hand. “Is my Aunt Caroline home?” she asked.

      “I am Caroline Stoppard,” declared the woman, unsmiling.

      “Oh, I’m sorry,” Norah exclaimed. “It’s just, you know, with a house as big as this, I thought you might be...”

      “The maid?” Cold, blue eyes peered at Norah over the spectacles. “Perfectly understandable. How could you be expected to know me, when we have never met?”

      Feeling it was better to say nothing at all, Norah hung her jacket over one of the hooks on the hallstand and stepped out of her shoes.

      Once that was properly done, Caroline Stoppard walked briskly across the hall to the foot of the stairs. “Come along now,” she said. “There are no servants in this house. I will show you to your room.”

      Lugging the suitcase, Norah followed the erect figure up the stairs, sneaking a look at her surroundings as she climbed. The stairs were painted black, uncarpeted, and they swept in a wide arc to a landing, halfway to the second floor. A circular window of red and blue glass spilled a watery stain onto the hardwood at their feet. There were no paintings, no family portraits on the grey walls as Norah might have expected. The house appeared as cold and unadorned as its owner.

      “Your mother is coming when, exactly?” Aunt Caroline asked, waiting for Norah to catch up.

      “The day after tomorrow,” Norah puffed. “She was called away on business.”

      “Well, I suppose that can’t be helped,” was the comment.

      At the top of the stairs, they turned into a dark hallway. Aunt Caroline opened a door to a room at the front of the house and stepped aside to allow Norah to enter first. It was cold as a tomb inside.

      “This will be your room,” the woman announced. “I’ve put some towels in here for you to use. The bathroom is down the hall, on the left. You may put your clothes in the bureau over there.”

      Wheeling the suitcase to a spot inside the door, Norah scanned the room. There was one, curtainless window in the opposite wall. A massive oak dresser that Aunt Caroline had called a bureau occupied most of the wall on the left. The floor of the room was bare except for a rectangle of beige carpet next to the bed. That bit of carpet, the mirror over the dresser and a small lamp on top of the bookcase were the room’s only decorative touches.

      Hands clasped primly at her waist, Aunt Caroline watched as Norah’s eyes swept the room. “I am not used to children,” the woman said. “So we’ll just try to get along the best we can, shall we?”

      “I’m not exactly a child,” Norah pointed out. She was trying to be polite, although her great-aunt’s words had stung. “I was thirteen on my last birthday.”

      A smile flickered briefly over the colourless lips. “Supper is at six.” And with that she was gone, leaving Norah with only the sound of her sensible shoes descending the stairs.

      Norah crossed the room to the window. She looked out at the muddy lane she had just travelled and an overgrown lawn, matted with soggy, brown leaves. She had not expected to be relegated to her room so soon. Shouldn’t there be a few little welcoming gestures first? Make yourself at home; have some milk and cookies? This was the person her mother thought would spoil her?

      The big bed in the middle of the room was so high that Norah had to hop up to sit on it. From there she could reach the lamp on the bookcase. Norah switched it on. The yellow light it shed seemed to soften some of the sharp angles of the room.

      She checked out the shelves of the bookcase and found them crammed with old books, their cloth spines faded to one monotonous shade of rust. Nothing interesting there.

      Sliding