Snow (11 page)

“I have everything.
Everything!”
The duchess knocked aside a pile of books in a rare fit of rage. Ancient grimoires of curses and spells fell down among scientific treatises. None was dusty; the duchess was neat and careful through and through.

“The lock of a maiden, the blood of a mother, gold and electrum, and a spectral screen of mica …”

Alan said nothing.

The duchess’s normally immaculate appearance had come undone. Her golden hair was out in wisps. She threw her head down on the table and began to sob.

“My Lady …” Alan began quietly.

Her head popped up. There was a wild look in her eyes Alan did not like, a feral gleam unlike her usual ferocity.

“Of course,” she said slowly, “How could I be so stupid?

“A
heart
. It needs a human heart.”

T
wo years.

Two years and fifty-five days Snow had been a prisoner in her own home. Several generations of mice had come and gone; Andy, Colin, and Nigel had formed clans, houses, and lineages of their own, but still found time to play with her. They now ran up and down her arms, looking for treats.

She missed being outside. She imagined shoving her fingers into the dirt, during the rain maybe, shoving her fingers and hands in as deep as she could.

“Jess!”

She looked up, surprised, Alan was the only one who called her that anymore—and there he was, perched outside on her windowsill.

“Alan,” She carefully put the mice on her shoulder and padded delicately over to the windowpane. “Whatever is wrong?”

His normally rosy face was beet red and sweating; veins popped out on his head as evidence of an inner struggle. His hand twisted at the fiddle charm he wore around his neck.

“Listen to me. You have to go. She’s going to—you’re going to be—she will—she hired—a
murderer—” His face went white with the effort of whatever he was trying to say, and he almost fell.

“Alan!” She grabbed his hand to steady him. Andy Campbell squeaked with dismay as her shoulder jerked.

“You’re going to be killed if you stay here” Alan said finally, after he had rested a moment. His eyes were closed and his breath came in gasps.

“What are you talking about?”

“Please, just listen to me. You have to go. I … can’t …
help
you…. She’ll ask…. I cannot lie…. Meet me at your mother’s crypt as soon as you can. Take very little with you so no one will suspect anything! Hurry! Wait for me there!”

And he was gone. Just like that, her world had changed.

Murder
her?
Who? The duchess? Why? Was she pregnant at last? Was Snow some sort of a threat?

Her next thought was for the mice. She carefully set them down and took all of the food out of her special hiding place and put it under the bed for them.

“That will last you awhile.” She would ask Alan to look after them after she was gone.
How long will I be gone?
Snow quickly went through a list of her dearest possessions. She was already wearing her locket. She found a little bag and put papers and a pen and pencils in it, so she could write letters from wherever she went. She folded up one of her nicer—but not nicest—dresses and put that in as well.
Money
. She
almost forgot, not having been out or allowed to buy anything since she had been first confined. She gathered up all the money she had and some jewelry to sell: a couple of necklaces and bracelets, and a pretty little ornamented pocket mirror the duchess had given her their first Christmas together. She put in a scarf and a muff, unsure of the weather, wherever she would be going. Then she hid the bag as close to her body as she could and donned the black cloak she was famous for wearing down to the old church. Snow inspected herself in the mirror. There was barely a bulge where she wore the bag. Then she quietly slipped through the shadowed halls of the great estate.

“Mistress Talbot,” she said quietly and deferentially to the old tutor, who was reading in the library. “I would go see my mother’s grave.”

The woman frowned at her over small wire glasses. “I think you grow excessively morbid, child, but do as you will. Be back before supper.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Where would she go? Where
could
she go? She had no other family, no friends…. Davey, perhaps? No, he lived too close. Dolly? Was Swansea also too near? Alan would think of something. He would take care of her.

But wait, didn’t he say he
couldn’t help?
What did that mean?

People saw her, but no one really took notice as
she walked quietly down the gravel-strewn path under the beeches to the old church. It occurred to her that she hadn’t even thought of her father—then again, she saw him so rarely. She wondered if he would miss her.

The wooden door was hard to push, the air cold and damp as she entered. Alan was nowhere to be seen yet, so she sat by her mother’s grave, to say goodbye and to wait.

The Lonely Ones

S
now was sure she would never be warm again.

It was not just the rain or the evening air, but a sinister mix of the two that became fog here, patches of freezing darkness there, and icy rivulets going down the back of her dress everywhere. She tried to put thoughts of fever out of her mind; she was a healthy girl and in no danger yet.

The wagon and driver Snow had found eventually got her to Cardiff, with a change to a real coach at an inn along the way. No one would think to look for a young duchess on such a “measly” means of conveyance. In Cardiff she took a coach-class seat on the train. It was her first trip on a locomotive, but she was too scared and exhausted to enjoy it. She fell asleep, awoke, bought a cheese sandwich and a watery tea, and fell asleep again.

When she arrived at Paddington Station, Snow stood stock-still, staring at the crowds. She had never seen so many people in her life. Families, women, children, policemen—but mainly men, all hurrying in and out as if there were very important places waiting for them. The building itself was larger than any she had ever beheld and could barely have imagined; three Kenigh Halls could have fit below its
curved archways and domed ceiling. She craned her neck and stared, wondering at the tiny country life she had lived.

It was probably while she stood entranced that her purse was stolen.

She did not notice it until much later, when she had finally tired of wandering around and exhaustion had caught up with her, numbing her ability to take in more wonders. It was evening and she figured she had better find a place to stay, so her first thought was for a bite to eat and something hot to uplift her spirits. There were bakeries just outside the train station, bustling places as busy as the platforms themselves, and if it hadn’t been for her look of hunger the proprietor might have forever ignored her standing meekly there.

“Dundee cake, please,” she asked, thinking of Alan, A hard, heavy bundle was slapped into her hand.

“That’ll be tuppence.”

The fat woman had greasy, floury arms and reminded her a little of Dolly, except for the pock-marked face and impatience. Snow dug quickly through her skirts as a line formed behind her, and she suddenly realized the little purse was gone. All that was left was its ribbon handle with knife-cut ends. She fumbled some more in her larger bag for loose change, trying not to panic. A handful of coins slipped coldly into her palm, and she nearly burst with relief.

“Thank ’ee,” said the fat woman who was not Dolly, but before Snow could give her a proper “You’re welcome” she was already taking money from another customer, forgetting the girl before her.

Snow wandered away nibbling her cake, shocked that something so dreadful had occurred so quickly. She was under no illusion about her ignorance of the city and its people; she
had
figured, however, that she would be granted a little time to find her footing …. She clutched her bag to her and counted coins through the cloth.
Four shillings and tuppence
. Not enough for a night at an inn, much less renting a room, even if she knew where to go.

She tried to keep a “stiff upper lip” like the men in her Scottish novels, but finally she sank down on a bench and cried. Pigeons swept up around her and people rushed by like shadows.

When there were no more tears, she sat for a little longer, wishing for someone to help her, for guidance, for at least some idea of what to do.

When there were no more wishes, she rose and went out into the streets.

The city was enrapturing even through her sadness. Shiny cobblestones and golden reflections of gas lanterns glittered on the ground. Hundreds of people hurried wetly on errands or on their way home; the streets were far from deserted even at this late hour. Snow was easily coaxed into a dream state, already hungry again and still worn out from her escape. She
fell into sleepwalk step with the other pedestrians.

She passed under the windows of middle-class houses, having left the station district. In each home families were gathered, fires were stoked, and modest meals were prepared.
Surely happy and good people would willingly spare a scrap….

Snow thought vaguely about begging—
It’s not like my position doesn’t warrant it
—but she could not for the life of her think of what to say.
Tomorrow,
she promised herself,
if I fail to find employment
.

She was still stuck with the problem of the night and the cold, and sleep. Something, from a book or a story or a song, prompted her to begin looking down alleys. She had visions of hidden gardens or at least rubbish bins, maybe a dry stairwell to sleep on. Snow worked to convince herself not to fear strange people and city rats. This was easier than expected, as she was both exhausted and familiar with neither.

“I should like to see a nice, honest rat,” she chatted to herself while picking her way through the tiny spaces and crawlways between buildings away from the streets and their lights. It was as black as a moonless night in the country; she often had to feel along the cold, wet brick and stone with her hands. “It would give me someone to talk to. I would share my bread with it—if I had any.”

Her steps echoed far too loudly against the hard walls and pavement, making her feel even lonelier. She was just on the point of giving in and crying
when she saw something so strange and fantastic she stopped still, certain she was hallucinating.

Down one of the twisty little turns she had almost missed, a first-floor walkway connected two adjacent houses, creating a little bricked arch and a snug, dry corner beneath. Under this was the scene that caused her to blink. Someone had spread an old, flowered tapestry on the ground and arranged odds and ends of furniture on it like a room accidentally outdoors. A small, broken-legged cabinet with a cracked washbasin stood next to a stool with a threadbare cloth-of-gold pillow, and in the center sat the best thing of all: a worn red velvet couch with carved and faded gilt trim. Everything was reasonably clean and decorated with all manner of cozy, soft trinkets, such as tiny cushions, torn silk throws, and old painted dolls.

“Doesn’t look like the owner is around,” Snow murmured as she approached the fairy tableau, “I’m sure whoever saved all this has to be poor—but regal, A lady of the streets, perhaps.”

Such speculation did not really matter; Snow was dead tired, and nothing was going to convince her not to lie down on the velvet couch, short of an ax to her head. She carefully pulled the covers back, removed her shoes, and snuggled down.

Before her third breath she was fast asleep.

“SSSssssst!”

Snow awoke with a start. It was the middle of
the night; the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared, but moonless, it was even darker than before.

A pair of slit yellow eyes glared at her from the other end of the couch. Snow sighed in relief

“You want a place to sleep too, puss?” She moved aside some covers and patted the couch to encourage it.