Snow (13 page)

S
now woke up late the next day. No one had bothered to rouse her.

As to where she was, Snow was only confused for a moment. Even before she opened her eyes the smell confirmed what she might have dreamed.
I really
am
living with a gang of half-animal demons. Either that or I have gone completely mad.
But so far she seemed safe, safer than she had apparently been her entire adolescence. She fingered her locket, given back to her before she fell asleep the night before.

No one was in the main room. She waited for what seemed like a long time, and still no one came in. Deciding it was probably safe, she changed into one of the other outfits she had packed, a more roughly spun old dress that was more suitable for chores and for the company she now kept.
I wonder if I could hang a line up to make a private space for myself in the corner?
She smiled, amused at how quickly she seemed to be adapting to her new, alien, situation.

A quick search of the room proved an absence of water basin and pitcher.
How do they wash?
She imagined Cat licking herself all over and decided not to think about it.

The floor was hard-packed earth covered with a layer of grime and filth at least a half-inch thick. Many of the rags on the bottoms of the piles strewn about the room were moldy and would have to be thrown out. There was no broom. She moved a chair to look at the table better; it had many years’ worth of ground-in wax and stains.

“Here now, what’s this?”

A bleary-eyed Chauncey stumbled in from his room, running his fingers quickly through his short brown hair like a—
like a rat
.

“I’ve begun cleaning.” She wasn’t sure whether she should say “Sir.”

“Now?”
Chauncey looked at the bright morning light that shone outside their tiny windows. “In the
day?”

“I thought I would—”

“The first thing you should realize, Princess, is that the Lonely Ones work at night. Unless you thought old Chauncey would get up at the crack of dawn, have his cuppa tea, and stride briskly through the bright morning streets with all the other workday chumps, me ears sticking up and me tail hanging out back?”

She opened her mouth to apologize.

“Wake me when it’s dusk.” Chauncey yawned and stumbled back to his room. “And for the love of Michael, keep it quiet until then!”

It was a very long day. There was very little Snow could do that would not make any noise except sit
quietly. She spent an hour or two sorting out the cloths and rags on the floor—a pile to be thrown out, a pile to keep…. After that there was nothing. Snow was used to long days of nothing, however, from her years of confinement.

She looked at the picture of her mother in the locket for a time. She thought over and over again about the last few days, her stepmother, the last few years…. She cried a little to herself, thinking about how it all went wrong—or perhaps how it had never been right.

How could her father have married someone that crazy? Didn’t it show at all when he was courting her?
How could none of us see how crazy she was in the years that followed?
She thought about Alan and how he seemed unable to speak about what went on in the duchess’s chambers. Surely he would have warned her, if he had known? His words came back to her from a day long ago:
“Ye shouldna mess with magic, Jess. A bad spell turns back on the caster times three, as my grandmum says. And … it does things to people. Or maybe the type of people who do it are of a sort,
touched….”

Why hadn’t he been clearer?
Why didn’t I listen?

She thought about her father and wondered if he had set up a search for her, and whether someone really would post a reward, as Chauncey had seemed to hope. Or would they both just be happy to be rid of her? Maybe the old duchess could have a baby now, or “find” one…. Where was Alan? Was he thinking about her?

She lay down and thought and worried, and half-dozed the day away.

The sun finally set and Chauncey reappeared, much more sprightly and awake than when Snow had seen him earlier. She was waiting for him patiently in a chair.

“Now then,
this
is a reasonable time for a body to be up and about!”

He stretched and grinned. Sparrow slunk into the room more sleepily. Snow wondered if it was hard for him to be awake at night, being part-bird of a type that was used to the day. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and when he flexed his shoulders grumpily Snow noticed with a start tiny wings fluttering off his back. They were like a cherubs, but brown.

She made herself look away. Sparrow didn’t seem to notice her staring.

“Chauncey, I—I will need some supplies to begin keeping house properly.”

Once she had exhausted her supply of memories and worries, she spent the remaining hours of daylight composing in her head a list of things she would need.

“Oh! Demands already! And not a day into the club! And what
exactly
would you be needin’, Princess?”

“Well,
food,
for one, if I am to prepare your dinners,” she responded archly.

Sparrow guffawed. “She’s got you there, Chaunce.”

The rat-man’s eyes widened, but he smiled. “Fair
enough, my sweet! Roasts and pigeons and lark’s tongues for us all!—Sorry, Sparrow”

“No worries,” the boy answered quickly, but looked like—
Oh goodness, it looks like he got his feathers ruffled
.

“Well, I don’t know about lark’s tongue, but I can make a good pie. Also, I shall be needing a broom, and soap, and a bucket—and water”

“Oh, aye, we’ll get ye all that,” Chauncey agreed, but looked a little lost, as if he hadn’t quite realized what he had gotten himself into. Raven came out, barely visible as he slipped through the shadows and stood in a corner, tall, gaunt and crook-necked.

“Will someone get that girl up?” Chauncey yelled, finding something he could get ahold of easily, his own territory again. “She’ll sleep the night through if we let her.”

“Just like a cat,” Snow said before she could stop herself.

She covered her mouth in horror. The others stared at her in shock. Then Raven gave the faintest whisper of a smile.

“Aye” Chauncey said. “
Just
like a cat.”

It was strange the way they seemed to both be perfectly accepting of their …
features,
yet also a little disquieted by them, as if they had been that way their entire lives but were the only ones they knew of like themselves.
The Lonely Ones
. It was more than just a cute name. She would find out about their backgrounds, she promised herself.
One of these days. Just probably not today.

There was a rap on the door.

“That would be ol’ Mouser now!” Chauncey said before disappearing into Cat’s room.

Raven unlatched and opened the door.

Whatever Snow was expecting, it wasn’t the Mouser. She was prepared for a short, fat little man or boy with a round face and kindly, cute features. She thought of the mice at Kenigh Hall.

What Mouser
actually
was: a young man almost as tall as Raven, skinny as a rail, with elegant sharp eyebrows and an equally sharp and elegant nose. His eyes were gray and his cheekbones high; his hands were gloved so it was impossible to see if he had claws.
At least he has a tail,
Snow found herself strangely relieved to note. His ears were a nice mix of human and mouse, barely noticeable.

“Oh my,” he declared, seeing Snow. “What is
that?”

“That’s Snow,” Sparrow answered. “She’s goin’ to be our maid and cook.”

“How splendid!”

With a graceful motion he swooped into the room and clapped his hands together. His clothing was much neater than the others, with real trousers and coat, Snow noticed, and his hair was combed back properly, with perfect sideburns. “We shall finally make a civilized place of this mess. Oh, how
refined.”

“Mouser’s the gentleman,” Sparrow explained needlessly. “’E actually talks to the Others. Keeps up on what’s what.”

Others,
Snow thought.
Normal men and women.

With another gesture too fast to follow, the Mouser had her locket in his hand and flicked it open—yes, there were definitely claws beneath his gloves. He studied the picture for a moment.

“Your mother?” he asked.

She nodded.

“She’s dead” Sparrow again said helpfully.

“My sympathies,” the Mouser said—genuinely, she was sure. He closed the locket carefully and let it fall gently back against her breast.

Not what I expect in a mouse at all,
Snow thought.

Cat slunk out of her room, sleep still in her eyes and hair. Chauncey barred her way back to bed, crossing his arms and glaring at her.

“Well, the news is
most interesting
today, I daresay.” The Mouser clapped his hands together and spun around, collecting the audience with his eyes. “It seems as if our fair section of Covent Garden is finally to get some gas lamps. Also, bustles are getting even larger, if that’s possible. You should see the new line on High Street….”

Sparrow rolled his eyes.

“The Mouser, he’s a great one for talk and gossip,” Chauncey said. “’Specially when he’s the one doing the talking and the gossiping. Come on now, you lot. Off we go. Sparrow, you come with me. We’ll get Princess her stuff and come back to a spic-and-span hideout in the morning! And, speaking of, my chaps, regardless of what you have heard, this is
still
a hideout.” He raised one eyebrow for emphasis. “No more bringing home strays, you hear? We are not a charity house.”

Snow tried not to smile. The others pretended to ignore Chauncey, but even the Mouser, who seemed to be the oldest, looked like he was really listening. It was obvious that their leader cared deeply about them, his gruff and comic exterior belying the deep, almost fatherly affection.

Cat scratched herself luxuriously all over and ran her claws through her hair. Snow wished she could take a good comb to it; it was thicker, blacker, and more beautiful than almost any normal girl’s.
It would be gorgeous up in a bun….

The younger girl caught Snow staring at her and growled.

Snow didn’t have long to wait before Chauncey and Sparrow came back with all manner of things for cleaning and eating, obviously unsure of what was appropriate, obviously never having done any cleaning or cooking themselves. There was a shoulder of pork, some carrots, and a few potatoes. The only seasoning they brought back was salt, but she was surprised and pleased that they even thought of it. Sparrow was laden with two buckets of water, just barely enough to get any job done. The rat-man wished her good luck, and once again she was alone.

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

And she found something miraculous—in the
midst of a cloud of dirt, grime on her knees and hands, scrubbing furiously, Snow was the happiest she had been in years.

She was determined to do the best job she could so they would have no cause to throw her out. More, she wanted to impress them. Never in her life had she had to earn anything, never had she been needed by anyone. It was a good feeling to have to
work
to belong.

And dirt was something Snow could easily cope with and conquer; after all of the duchess’s punishments, cleaning was something she knew without a doubt how to do.

At one point in the afternoon—no, night—someone rapped at the door. She stood still, clutching a rag to her chest.
Have they found me so soon?
The pattern was all wrong; it wasn’t the Lonely Ones’ secret code. There was another knock. She was both glad and terrified that they didn’t have a peephole.

Eventually whoever it was went away, and Snow went back to work, convincing herself that it was Chauncey or the Mouser testing her. Or maybe a salesman.

It took a number of hours to get the main room to a barely passable state; her arms and body tired faster than she expected.
Probably because of the schedule change; my clock hasn’t adjusted to this new life
. It would take a couple of days before she would become fully adapted. The floor sparkled as much as a packed-earth floor could be expected to, lit by two lanterns
and rushlights that Snow constantly had to trim. The sky outside was just beginning to change colors, from black to dark blue, and she supposed she would have to begin making their breakfast—no, supper—soon. But first she spent a few minutes in Cat’s room, straightening her things, fluffing her bed and remaking it as best she could. Interestingly, Cat’s “real” room was far less feminine than the one in the alley, as though she was embarrassed by girlish tendencies.

Snow set to work on cooking when she was done. The only thing she could attempt was a stew, since she was lacking a proper oven. Perhaps she could improvise something later on. They were short a couple of bowls so she ate her own share before they came, directly out of the pot, and put the rest in hollowed-out pieces of bread. She tried to set the table—with no spoons, forks, knives, or napkins. She wondered if she should ask Chauncey about it; physical appearances aside, it was obvious they were from vastly different financial backgrounds.
When does being a maid slip over into a more civilizing role?
she wondered, seeing herself there for years, mothering them.

A knock on the door—
rap rap-rap
. Not the code, but almost. Snow ignored it. Another verson:
rap rap rap
. She sang a little song to herself. Finally:
rap-rap-tap
.

“Who’s there?”

She undid the chain and opened the door a crack.

“Excellent. We’ll have you trained yet.” Chauncey’s beady little eye gleamed. “Now open the
door quick—we’d best not be seen, even coming and going.”

They all trooped in.
No, not “troop.” They make very little noise and spread out immediately, very much like mice investigating a place.

“What smells so good?” Chauncey asked dramatically, nose in the air.

“A clean housed?” Snow said timidly.

“No, it’s supper!” Sparrow skipped over to the pot and peeked in. “We could smell it a mile away.”