Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 Read Online Free PDF Page B

Oranje-Nassau family of Holland had a monarch who was as hardworking as any salaried official. Security agents in street clothes discreetly patrolled the periphery of the room, their restless eyes scanning the crowd. It was an international, festive group. There was a woman in a head scarf, her tiered dress a bright flare of color, and another in a kimono, several men in colorful dashikis, as well as the Westerners in their tailored suits and evening gowns. For these few moments Sophie felt vibrant and alive, letting herself forget what was happening with her family. In their crisp, starched school uniforms, smiles displaying the gaps of lost teeth, a children’s choir performed with contagious joy, their bright voices filling the cavernous Gothic hall. The music was a mix of cultural offerings—traditional songs for Epiphany, such as “Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant” and “Ça Bergers,” as well as native dance songs and the throaty humming of a ceremonial chant.
    The choir launched into “Impuka Nekati,” an action chant dramatizing the chase of a cat and mouse. They were still able to sing, these orphans of war. Sophie wished she could take every single one home with her. She recognized some of them from earlier in the week when a group of them had come to deliver flowers to the prosecution team.
    Her fight to stop transnational crimes against children took all her time and attention, and the ones who paid the price for that were her own kids. How many of Max and Daisy’s recitals and performances had she missed because of work? Had her son and daughter ever sung with their faces filled with joy, or had they scanned the audience, their eyes dimming when they failed to spot their mom? Dear Lord, how she wished they could be here to see the results of their sacrifice. Maybe then, they would understand. Maybe they’d forgive her.
    There was a girl, all knobby legs and big white teeth, who sang as though singing was the same as breathing for her—necessary to sustain life. When the song ended, Sophie sought out the show-stealing girl. “Your singing is beautiful,” she said.
    Oh, that smile. “Thank you, madame, ” said the girl. She bashfully added, “My name is Fatou. I come from the village of Kuumba.”
    She didn’t have to explain further. The militia’s attack on that village had rivaled the worst of wartime atrocities. Remembering the reports of Kuumba, Sophie felt a new surge of rage at the men who committed their inhuman acts upon children like Fatou.
    Imagining what those velvety brown eyes had seen, what this child had endured, made Sophie wonder how Fatou was still standing, how she could face the world. How she could open her mouth and sing.
    â€œI’m so happy you’re here now,” Sophie said, “and that you’re safe.”
    â€œYes, madame. Thank you, madame. ” She smiled again.
    And that smile reflected all the reasons Sophie did what she did, living far from her family and working more hours than a day actually had, or so it seemed, sometimes.
    Just then, a murmur rippled through the crowd. The girl looked apprehensive, but Sophie overheard someone whispering. There was a rumor of snow.
    â€œCome,” Sophie said, taking Fatou by the hand. “Look out the window.” She led the way to a tall Gothic window and pushed aside the velvet drapes. “Look,” she said again.
    Fatou cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned forward. The snow was coming down in thick flakes now, turning the palace gardens into a winter wonderland, bathed in a glow from the sodium vapor lights. “I have never seen such a thing before. It is magic, madame, ” Fatou said.
    Outside, on a small cobble-paved driveway, shadows flickered across the fast-whitening ground. Sophie leaned in for a closer look, noting that the courtyard was deserted and peaceful. She wished Max and Daisy could see this, the splendor and