Heaving a world-weary sigh, the butler trudged to the front door; upon opening it, he was greeted by nothing except his shadow scattered across the few sparkling patches of snow blessed by the golden light emanating from the warmth within the fine home. However, as he was turning away, a delicate piece of paper floated to the front porch. Its landing, reminiscent of the first snowflake of winter, instilled both excitement and terror. Inscribed in silver ink, the icy script of an unknown author read, “Expect my arrival upon the hour.” Puzzled, the butler resignedly returned to the mistress in the dining room.
Although the extravagant dishes in front of her were costly, they were renowned for the bitterness (not unlike herself). The house she had underhandedly inherited, however, fit her personality like clothes one might receive from a distant relative: badly. Where it was open and bright, she was closed and dark. You see, unlike the other gentry, the mistress was not born into her position. She had clawed, lied, and cheated her way up the rungs until she grown too old to fight further. Personal morals had been thrown out the window, and several naively optimistic hearts had been trampled in pursuit of her goal. She had been unbelievably generous in her younger years living on the streets, but that had soon changed when she entered the privileged life of the nobility.
Her rounded and childish features were now as sharp as her lashing tongue. Once dark brown hair had faded into a vicious silvery cascade as straight and bland as her temperament. She adorned herself with no end of jewels and fabrics, but they could not hide beast within her. With justifiable caution, the butler recounted the odd happenings to the wolf in sheeps’ clothing. A dark look crossed her already shadow covered mask of a visage. She pivoted toward the clock in alarm, only to hear it tauntingly begin to toll.
Suddenly, a gust of wind howled down the chimney extinguishing the once roaring fire. Now only the moonbeams lazily drifting in from the window provided light. The sound of frost slowly crackling  into existence accompanied the horrible sight of an icy fog ghosting its way out of the chimney, through cracks in the walls, and under the now frosted French doors. Creeping its way toward the opposite end of the table, the two occupants of the room jumped in alarm when, at the final chime of the clock, the fog instantly solidified into a man made completely of ice.
He seemed to be comically small, and yet they dared not to laugh. Although he appeared translucent, he was also seemed to be selectively reflective; the silverware, gold-leafed plates, and shimmering crystal glasses mirrored all over his body gave the illusion that he was literally made of wealth. Giving a frosty grin, the man began to speak.
“What a lonely assemblage. When you were younger, there was no end to the guests flooding in and out of your home; and, it was never exclusively the nobility. You didn’t shy away from a person in need; there was always a place at your table. My, how you have changed,” he cooly commented.
“You have changed yourself. You weren’t so cold when I saw you last,” she icily responded. His smile seemed to grow larger, but in a more sinister way. The old wood of the house groaned in protest as he carefully got up and steadily made his way toward her. She leaned back in her chair in a valiant effort to appear cooly aloof and yet, she was simply terrified. As her terror grew, the man seemed less translucent and reflective; now, he appeared to be filled with grainy black shadows whirling from one limb to another. Stopping by her side, he leaned up and whispered,
“I told you last time that I am a reflection of your heart. God gave you wealth and power beyond imagination on the condition that your heart remained caring. Unfortunately, it looks like you failed.” As horror filled realisation dawned on her face, the sound of groaning splintering ice once again filled the room in a steadily increasing crescendo. The man gave another grin frosted with ill intent, this time directed toward the butler attempting to inch his way out of the room, before he exploded in an icy torrent of blackened ice shards; a miniscule piece managed to thrust its way into the butler’s heart.
Not long after the ordeal, the mistress was admitted into the asphyxiating clutches of an asylum. The butler, on the other hand, inherited the estate. Lavish parties were thrown every night; with no guest list, every pauper off the street was welcomed with open arms….at least, they were for a week.