Page 45 of A Snowfall of Silver

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t sort you anything better,” Sophie fusses. “I had no idea anyone would need feeding tonight. You must have been so put out not to have a proper room waiting for you.”

“This is wonderful,” Alma says, her eyes briefly closing. The rest of us murmur in agreement.

The spell that has been cast over us all seems to hold. Even Viola is happily attacking her food with gusto.

We talk and laugh, and a heavy, drugging warmth creeps through my bones.

Kit and I tell the others about what we found on our exploration through the theatre.

“I can’t get over that place,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s so special. No wonder Mr Cantwell wanted to come.”

“I heard he staged his first production here,” Dan says, taking a swig of his drink.

“How romantic that he’d want to come back,” Alma sighs. “All these years later when he’s a big success.”

“It’s just a shame that no one will get to see it,” says Russ.

After eating and drinking our fill, we decide to head back to the theatre. Nora offers to stay behind and help Sophie clear up.

Everyone is in good spirits, and we sing – a little rowdy – as we make our way back down the quiet, snow-softened road.

“Let’s raid Mr Pennington’s supplies,” Alma suggests when we get back to the theatre. “I’m not ready for bed yet.”

“We can have our midnight feast!” I exclaim.

“Finally, the boarding school experience I’ve always longed for,” Dan drawls, delighted.

We return to our dressing rooms and gather our quilts and pillows, arranging them in a circle on the empty stage like a nest. Viola lights some of the candles, and Russ opens a bottle of elderflower wine with a pop that makes us cheer.

We stay up late, telling ghost stories that become increasingly bloodthirsty and outlandish, until I’m shaking with a curious mixture of fear and laughter.

I think Viola will be the best at telling ghost stories, but it’s actually Alma, her eyes lit with ghoulish glee as she has us all screeching.

There’s something so nice about the whole evening, from the beans on toast to the midnight feast. It feels like we are all naughty schoolchildren up past our bedtime. An uncomplicated sense of happiness settles around us.

Eventually, yawning, we make for the dressing rooms. At the door, Kit stops. “Wait here,” he says, and ducks into the room. He returns and hands me a sheaf of papers, neatly bundled together. “My play,” he says, his grey eyes serious and no hint of his dimples on display. “If you’d really like to read it?”

“Of course I would.” I take the bundle and hug it to my chest. “I’m going to start it right now.”

“It’s late,” Kit laughs.

“I’m not tired,” I say. And, suddenly, I’m not.

“Well … then I await your verdict. Goodnight, Freya.”

“Goodnight, Kit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The next morning, I wake to the sound of the others moving around. I have fallen asleep with Kit’s play underneath my pillow, and as I stretch and open my eyes, I hear the crackle of the pages near my ear. I stayed up reading it, burrowing under the covers with my torch so as not to disturb the others.

“What time is it?” I manage, blinking owlishly.

“Only just gone nine,” Nora groans from her bed. “Why aren’t you all still asleep? Young people today are far too up and at ’em for my taste.”

Alma plonks herself down on the foot of my bed. She’s wearing slacks and a jumper, and her cheeks are flushed with excitement. “I looked outside. It’s stopped snowing!”

“Do you think we’ll be able to leave?” I try to keep the disappointment from my voice. I don’t want to leave this magical place, so cut off from the outside world. I want to sleep another night in my camp bed and drink elderflower wine and wander through this beautiful old theatre.