Miracle in the Mist Read Online Free PDF

with hunger. She could almost taste the bacon and feel the warm coffee slipping down her dry throat.
    How frustrating that she automatically remembered inconsequential things like the smell of bacon and the taste of coffee, while important details of her life remained tantalizingly just beyond the edges of her memory.
    She sighed, rolled onto her back, and stared unseeingly at the peaked, open-beamed ceiling. She had no idea what would happen to her here, but if it helped her to finally grasp more than just the fringes of her memory, as Irma, Steve, and Meghan had promised, then she would be patient.
    Throwing back the heavy comforter, she slid from the abnormally high bed and dropped to the floor, surprised that the room was comfortably warm. Her bare feet hit the pine boards before she saw a small set of steps that had been provided to get down from the bed. On a chair near the door lay her clothes—freshly laundered, meticulously ironed, and neatly folded. The bright red splotches of blood were gone from her white blouse, as well as all traces of the dirty smudges that had covered her brown skirt last night.
    Dressed and barefooted, Carrie made her way noiselessly down the ladder from the loft.
    "Good morning, my dear."
    Carrie swung around and found Clara with her back to her. True to her designation within the village, Clara was deeply engrossed in working her loom and producing a long swath of dark green cloth.
    "Morning," she said shyly, remaining at the foot of the ladder, unsure of what she should do next.
    Clara continued to guide the shuttle to and fro on the loom. The clickity clack of the loom working its magic as it produced yard after yard of material broke the heavy silence in the room. Totally in awe of her surroundings, Carrie took the opportunity to look around her.
    From the hand-hewn ceiling beams to the wide pine flooring, this entire place could have fallen out of a travel brochure for Williamsburg, Virginia. The keeping room, as she had known instantly it was referred to, like the loft and the woman who lived here, smacked strongly of a bygone era.
    An unfinished, wrought-iron crane held a large, blackened teakettle over the blazing fire. Steam spewed from its spout. Next to the fieldstone hearth, a pile of logs half-hid a crudely made straw broom leaning against the stone fireplace. On the other side of the hearth, a black iron frying pan sat waiting to be used on the only close-to-modern thing in the room—a woodstove. A polished, well-used trestle-style table took up much of one end of the room and the loom filled the other. The highly polished pine floor was partially hidden beneath a rainbow-colored, handmade braided rug. Candles were placed strategically to spread a warm glow around the room, which was void of any sign of electricity. Like her bedroom, large hand-hewn beams crisscrossed the ceiling and held up the floor above. Muslin curtains framed the open, mullioned windows and fluttered in the soft, warm breeze. Outside the windows, flower boxes dripped with a blanket of pink petunias.
    The smell of pine tickled Carrie's nose. She suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Eve, and like the Gateway Cabin, the cottage abounded with holiday decorations. Garlands stretched their greenery across the doorway and hearth and filled the air with their intoxicating scent. Candles nestled in beds of fresh pine dotted with pinecones. A much smaller tree than Steve and Meghan had in the cabin stood beside the window. Instead of the bright lights and shiny ornaments, Clara's tree held small, white candles at the tip of each branch, popcorn and cranberry strings, and sugar cookies. On top was a wooden star.
    "Best eat before it gets cold," Clara said without turning around.
    Carrie started and turned her gaze back to the trestle table. On it a plate of crisp, brown bacon; perfectly fried eggs; and golden, buttery toast awaited her. Beside it sat a mug of steaming coffee.
    For a moment, Carrie could only