Snow (16 page)

“Your bid, Snow,” Raven said quietly, getting them back to the game.

T
he duke hired investigators to look for his daughter, who was presumed to have run away. Some were at the estate, looking for clues. Some traveled abroad. Farmers and locals were searching the forests and surrounding land. The kitchen staff was mourning, and gossiping. The duchess was doing her best to look like she was helping.

Alan was practicing Beethoven and thinking very hard.

It’s almost like the spell weakened
. He thought back to how close he came to telling Snow the truth about the duchess. It had hurt him; his head had hummed like a beehive for hours afterward. But despite the cursed charm around his neck he had been able to warn her.
Maybe love does have the power to break spells. Or at least
bend
them
.

The wretched bell rang. He sighed, put his fiddle down, and hurried up to the duchess’s room. She rarely wanted him to play for her anymore these days, except to mask the sounds of things in her laboratory.

As soon as he entered her room, Alan almost had to turn around and leave.

“My Lady,” he said in shock.

The duchess was clad in the lightest of cloths, the filmiest, flimsiest stuff;
probably inspired by one of those Italian paintings she bought,
he thought as he lowered his eyes. She reclined on her sofa, gazing into her mirror, but could only see her head and shoulders—hence the summons, he guessed. “Oh, don’t be such a dullard, boy. Come in and pick up the mirror,” the duchess said rolling her eyes but keeping them fixed on Alan as he came over and lifted the thing. She was still quite beautiful, though she lacked the plump nubility of the oil nymphs she was trying to imitate. Her hair was rougher than theirs as well, though it cascaded nicely down around her shoulders.

Alan kept his head down as he raised her mirror and turned it lengthwise.
A beautiful would-be murderess
.

“Ahhh. Perfect.” She narrowed her eyes and studied herself in it, playing with a tress of her hair. “Margaret Murray Huggins wrote me something of interest about mirrors in her last letter.”

“She is a very fine and noble lady, My Lady.”

“Yes. But rather plain, and boring in person, I am told.”

Alan sighed to himself.

“So.” She changed the subject. “Who is the most beautiful in the land?”

“With young Mistress Jessica gone,” he answered, as carefully and as neutrally as he could, “there is no doubt but that it is you.”

“Mmmmm….” She flicked her lashes and peeped up through them, admiring the effect in the mirror. She ran her hand down to her waist and over her belly. “Still young,” she murmured. “Again,” she added.

The mirror was getting heavy. Alan shifted his weight carefully so he wouldn’t tip the mirror. Her room was unnaturally cold and clammy for such a fine early summer day. Alan thought about apple blossoms and new hay and prayed she would get tired of admiring herself soon.

“I ate the heart of a young human girl,” she announced unexpectedly. “What do you think of that?”

Alan tried to think of some other way of answering, some way of hiding what he knew.

“I think nothing.” He tried to hold his mouth shut, but it finished his thought against his will: “Since you did not.”

She sat up on her couch. “What do you mean? I think I know whether I ate someone’s heart or not.” She watched him very carefully.

“You ate the heart of a pig,” he answered helplessly.

“How do you know this?” Her voice was torn, half anger and half curiosity. “The man I hired …?”

Alan bit his tongue until it bled. Then he bit harder.

“He tricked me! He let her go!” She was furious. She stood up, pulling the cloth around her. “I shall see to him—”

“No!” Alan cried out.

The duchess raised an eyebrow at him. “Why should
you
care? It was your little Jessica I thought to have killed, and the Hunter was willing to commit
murder
for just a little gold”

She did have a point.

“Did you help her escape?” The duchess came nearer, rounding on him. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“I am unable to speak of anything you do not wish me to, My Lady. You know that.”

She narrowed her eyes, displeased by his evasive answer. “Did—you—
help
—her?”

“No, My Lady.”

He thanked his lucky stars and his grandmum for her fairy stories that he was able to answer so quickly and easily. Getting the little duchess to think of hiring a wagon to take herself away had been a difficult game of charades and suggestions, but in the end it had been
her
idea. He had not really “helped” her.

“Hm.” The duchess shrugged, satisfied. “I will attend to the Hunter shortly. As always, you will tell
no one.”
She fixed him with a stare, then retreated to her dressing room.

Alan stood a moment before carefully lowering the mirror back down to its stand on the floor. Her room was silent and cold.

As he thought about these things, the realization struck him:
I shall have to leave soon. She is bound to discover the truth eventually. But when can I leave? And how?
He couldn’t lie to the duchess or leave the estate without her explicit consent.

He ran a hand through his ginger hair, grabbing it to bear the pain of his tongue. Three bright drops of blood fell from his mouth onto the wood floor. He took it as a sign, but did it mean he should leave in three days, three fortnights, or three months?

S
now was scrubbing the dishes and plates; Raven was watching her quietly and building a castle out of cards. It was a warm night. Chauncey and the Mouser had gone out for a walk—
drink,
she knew—and Sparrow was snoring like a hive of bees.

Soon Raven was watching her more than his cards. She caught him once or twice, his eyes flicking back to his fairy building when she turned around.

“You’re very good at that,” he observed quietly after a while.

She laughed, thinking about what Dolly would say to the idea of someone complimenting her on her
cleaning
. “It’s honest work,” she finally said. She immediately wished she hadn’t.

Raven looked at his castle. “You don’t approve of us,” he said quietly. “Chauncey, and the Mouser, and everyone.”

“No! It’s just …” She tried to think of a nice way of saying it.

“… that we steal for a living,” he finished for her. When he looked into her eyes like that, she couldn’t lie. There was sadness there, but also a little bit of humor. He raised one eyebrow slightly, daring her to
make something up. It was very much like what the Mouser would do, but more genuine.

She sighed, “Isn’t there—anything—else you could do?”

“What would you suggest?” He grinned. It was probably the first time she had seen him do it.

“Well, I don’t know, there must be
something….”

“To learn a trade you have to be part of a guild, Snow. Often that means working, living, and sleeping with the same people. It would be hard to hide how we look.”

“Couldn’t you … I don’t know … open up a shop or something?”

“And what would we sell?” Was Raven actually
teasing
her? “Flowers, maybe?”

“I don’t know!” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. If she was still Jessica Kenigh, of Kenigh Hall, duchess and heiress-to-be, she could have done something to give them an alternative to their life of crime. Sell some of her jewelry, if nothing else. Maybe get them positions on the estate … she imagined the Mouser as a butler and smiled to herself. Then she imagined him stealing something, like her mothers silver hairbrush, “It’s just—those poor people you steal from.”

“Those poor people?”
Cat was standing at the door, and from the disdain in her voice it was obvious she had been listening for a while. “We don’t steal from
poor
people, duchess.”

“No—I meant—but what about the people you
do steal from? It’s still their property; they own it. What’s the difference, really, between stealing from the rich or the poor?”

“She’s very quick to defend her own kind,” Cat pointed out nastily.

“There is a
very
big difference between the rich and the poor in London, Snow. I cannot speak for the rest of the world.” Raven shrugged; the smile was gone and he was as gloomy as before.

She tried very hard to imagine the real differences between Dolly and her father. It was true the old cook didn’t get many days off, but her father worked all the time too, running the estate, doing business, or talking politics with the people in town. She seemed less unhappy than he did too. And Craddoc loved his horses and dogs like they were his own children. He seemed happy enough combing them.

“Let’sss sshow her, Raven.” Cat’s eyes lit up. “Let’sss give her a little tour.”

Raven nodded mutely. And so they took her out.

It was strange being out, escorted by them. That hadn’t happened since the first night they brought her back to the hideout. The streets were still dark; Snow looked to the east for the first faint signs of light, but the fog blanketed everything in the same ghostly gray. They passed the new gas lamps the Mouser had spoken of, and Cat snorted. Snow thought it was sort of beautiful, though—a single globe of light in what was otherwise a neighborhood
far too dangerous and far too late at night for her to be walking around.

Cat and Raven moved quickly and silently; Snow was hard pressed to keep up. A couple of times they ran through back alleys and had to leap over piles of garbage. Snow gathered her skirts as best she could but still managed to trip and fall into a pile of wet offal. Raven put his hand out to help her up. Cat held her nose. Once they ran right behind the back of a policeman—a real bobby, nightstick behind his back and tall round hat. He didn’t even turn around.

This is fun,
Snow realized, her breathing ragged.
This beats out being a duchess by far
. Or
a maid
. She imagined herself running alongside her new friends and family, anonymous in the night, unseen by anyone. No rules! No chaperones! She felt perfectly free, and another piece of Jessica slipped away. She pictured her life back home, if she had continued living there with things the way they were before her punishment. Perhaps a season in the city, perhaps a month of balls, escorted by her tutor or some other old bat—escorted
every
where by someone. And then marriage, and confinement to another estate except for trips with her husband, a maid, or some boring female relative.

Snow said a breezy good-bye to mugs of expensive hot chocolate and fabulous jewelry, and wondered how she could become a full-fledged member of the Lonely Ones without a tail, claws, or feathers to recommend her.
Surely there is some way
—

And then she remembered what they did when they were out and about.

A pair of gentlemen walked out of the fog, talking loudly. In the thick, wet air, Snow couldn’t hear a word they were saying clearly, just a lot of “tut-tut” and “I
say.”
They were middle-aged and had thick muttonchop sideburns and moustaches. They swung shiny black canes and wore tall top hats. They were so
loud
! Snow looked around the street. Didn’t they realize they were alone, and in possible danger?

“They just came from Madame Tumenca’s.”
Raven barely mouthed the words, but Snow heard him perfectly. She looked at him questioningly.

“A brothel,”
he answered.
“And an opium den.”

Her eyes grew wide in horror.

Cat was nowhere to be seen until Raven touched Snow’s hand and pointed. A dark claw reached out of the shadows behind one of the gentlemen and ever so gently snicked the catch on his golden fob. An expensive pocket watch fell expertly into Cat’s outstretched hand. When the men vanished down the street—Snow could see they were walking unevenly, as if half asleep—Cat reappeared by her side, grinning and dangling the shiny gold watch.

At least, Snow
assumed
it was shiny. In the thick, stuffy fog nothing gleamed or shone.

“It’s a good thing Officer Barnstable is patrolling,” Raven said wryly. “Otherwise those two will never make it home. There’s far worse than
us
out tonight.”

It began to rain big, warm drops. Snow was grateful for it; she felt the air was clouding her head. The whole scene had occurred so quickly and strangely it seemed like a dream.

Cat beckoned and they followed.

They moved through the streets, getting close to the water at one point. Snow could smell cool saltiness and hear seagulls. The sky finally seemed to brighten a little. The streets grew better and then worse again, cobbled and bricked and then back to dirt and large stones. Their footsteps, even Snow’s, made no noise.

They appeared to be nearing their destination. A gigantic warehouse loomed before them, from which foul smelling smoke drifted.

“What is this place?”

“A poorhouse.”

Cat pointed and they went around the back. Raven found a window some feet up and gave Cat and then Snow a hoist.

Snow had only a vague idea of what a poorhouse was: some place set up by the government to take care of people who couldn’t find work. She looked through the window, wondering what the point of this outing was. What she saw was a nightmare.

It was cold. Breath froze in the air like spirits departing the inhabitants. Old people and young women, all wearing the same rough, colorless uniform, were shivering despite the fabric. A feeble coal fire burned at either end of the enormous room.
Pools of flickering lantern-light illuminated groups huddled over work.

Snow sucked in her breath when she saw what they were doing.

They were grinding bones—piles and piles of all kinds of bones, large and small, blunt and sharp. Ivory, white, and yellow. Some with a little meat still on them. One small group pulled giant round stones like a hellish grain mill; pale-skinned women would carefully guide a bag of bones in on one side, and another pair filled a bag with the fine white powder that was produced. Bone dust settled over everything, and everyone, turning them into ghosts.