Snow (18 page)

“I must go,” the duchess breathed, her hand on her head and reaching for her smelling salts. “As soon as I can without arousing suspicion …”

I
must go before she does
. His thoughts raced. He had to find a way to escape the charm on his necklace.
True love will break a spell but my love for Snow was
only enough to weaken it, not destroy it completely
. He sighed.

I dinna love
anything
with
that
sort of passion
. And then he had an idea….

S
now was falling.

She peeked through the window at her namesake, the white flakes that drifted down. Sparrow told her it snowed less in the city than in the countryside, on account of the pollution, factories, and warm bodies of tens of thousands of people. He had thrown a snowball at the Mouser on their way out that evening, upsetting the young man’s dignity. Cat got him back in a flash, and they had all set out giggling and horsing around into the night.

Snow smiled to herself. It would be her first Christmas with her new family in just a few weeks, and she had been working on some surprises for them. First was a plum pudding she had made and set aside a month ago to age properly. Dolly used to add a spoonful from the one the year before—“Just like the Queen’s cook does”—so in every Christmas would be a little remembrance of Christmases twenty, thirty years past.

She was also gathering presents. For Sparrow she had knit a striped scarf in red and yellow, his favorite colors. For Cat she had saved her wages and bought a pretty little comb for her hair that almost matched the mirror. For Raven, a book of poetry by Edgar
Allan Poe. She had yet to decide about Chauncey and the Mouser.
A pipe, maybe, for Chauncey—a real meerschaum one …

She was distracted from her musings by a knock at the door.

A regular knock. No code.

Snow continued sweeping.
Odd … most people don’t even know this place is here
. Since she had joined the Lonely Ones, almost no one had called on them during the day. A brush salesman, once. Chauncey had let him in and the Mouser actually bought a boot brush, but they sternly told Snow to never do that herself.

Another knock.

Very resolute
. Sometimes she saw little girls selling matches from house to house, or flowers … and it
was
Christmas … but she had made a promise to Chauncey, and besides, it was also for her own safety.

“Donations for the orphanage,” called out a weak, feminine voice.

Snow felt her heart tremble. Ever since Raven and Cat had brought her to see the poorhouse she had set aside a portion of her wages for charity. Winter was coming, which meant the need for firewood …
and Christmas is coming….

“Please,” the old woman called, “There’s the consumption and fever we’d like to keep the wee ones from …”

Snow leaned on her broom and waited, heart beating. Eventually she heard the quiet crunching of
footsteps walking away through the snow. She made a decision, throwing her broom down and putting her cloak on. She waited a few seconds so the old woman had a head start, then went out into the night.

After tiptoeing out of the alley, she spied an old woman dressed in dark clothes like a nun or a nurse padding up the street, heading toward the next likely house.
That must be her
. She waited until the woman turned a few more streets before catching up.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.” Snow pulled the cloak tightly around her; she hadn’t worn her mittens.

The old woman turned, a friendly smile on her face. “Yes, child?”

“Here.” Snow pressed a few farthings into her hand. “For the children.”

“Oh, bless you!” The woman counted them and put them into the wooden box she carried. They thumped against the bottom—apparently it was almost empty.
Poor things,
Snow thought. “The Kenigh Orphanage thanks you too.”

Snow’s heart stopped. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“That’s our name, Miss. Founded by the generosity of Her Lady Duchess of Kenigh.”

She felt faint. Silver stars appeared at the edge of her vision, mingling with the snow.
It can’t be …
“Not from Wales,” she said slowly. “Not the Welsh Kenigh. Surely someone else …”

“No, that’s the one. If you know her, you must have heard the story.” The old woman looked at her curiously.

“I … fear I have not.”

“Sad it is, really.” The old woman clucked her tongue. “Apparently the good duchess was mad—even went so far as to try to kill her own stepdaughter. Runs in her family’s blood, they say. They got her treatment, though, at a sanitarium in France or some such place. She’s better now, but weak in heart. The orphanage is just one of the many good deeds she has done to try to make up for what she did during her darker days. Are you all right, Miss? You look a trifle pale.”

Hardly surprising.

Could it be true? Does everyone know the story of what she tried to do to me?
And then:
Is she really better? This orphanage she founded, the sanitarium—could she be healthy now, and normal?

“What happened to the stepdaughter?” she finally asked.

The old woman shrugged. “That’s another sad part, dearie. No one knows. She must have fled for her life.”

“What a … remarkable story.” Snow cleared her throat. “Where is the duchess now, pray tell? Back in Wales?”

“No, she has an apartment here in the city, on Letheridge Street, until she finishes up with the administrative affairs of the orphanage and a few other things.” The old woman leaned in closer and whispered.
“It’s rumored she is looking to adopt…. Her stepdaughter was her husband’s only child, and she is far past childbearing years.
If you ask me, though, it’s another sign of madness—trying to adopt a
commoner, and at her age!”

“It does seem a wonder,” Snow agreed.
Letheridge Street
.

“How do you know of the duchess?” the old woman suddenly asked, sharply, Snow thought.

“My husband is from Wales,” she answered promptly. “From near the Brecons. He’s told me stories.”
Every lie should hold a hint of truth
.

“Ah. Well.” The old woman seemed satisfied. “Thank you again, kind miss. God bless thee,” she said and tottered off down the street.

Snow watched her until she was a small, dark ball on a white and gray background, then disappeared completely into the snow and night.

She could not have said why, but Snow decided not to tell the Lonely Ones. Perhaps she was afraid they would worry, or lock her in—or simply make comments or accusations she wasn’t sure she could defend against. She would see the woman herself, first, and verify what the charity beggar had said.
Then
she would tell them about her discovery.

It made sense, sort of.

The first thing she did when she had a moment alone was to write a note to the duchess:

My Lady,

I have heard that things are different with you now. If people speak truly, I would be glad to make your reacquaintance.
Meet me at Trafalgar Square, midday on the morrow so that I may see for myself.

I remain,

Jessica

She sealed it and paid a local child to deliver it.

And after I see her? And if she has not changed?
What if the duchess tried to kill her again?

Snow panicked for a moment at what she had begun, images of the tall and frightening duchess looming over her with knives and candy-sweet smiles.

She shook her head.

I shall stay in crowded, public places with her, and if she should try anything—I am a Lonely One. I shall run or fight and be gone before she or anyone can follow.

But what if she really were better?

That was harder to think about. She could go back. To her father, and Alan, and Dolly … and maybe, just maybe, Anne and she would get along this time. She could go
home
.

And leave the Lonely Ones?

She looked around at the tiny but snug basement, the cheerful blue-and-white tablecloth that now covered the old stained table. The pile of books she had been reading to Sparrow, Chauncey, and Raven … the place where she had been hiding the comb for Cat. The Mouser’s waistcoat, due for a pressing, hung by her iron.

She would be Jessica Kenigh again, a little
duchess, heir to Kenigh Hall, with a fleet of servants, horses, hunting dogs, land and jewelry. And her old room.

She shook her head.

None of it bore thinking about until after she had met the duchess.
Then
she would decide.

H
e waited until the duchess had been gone a week.

It was obvious that even with all her skills and talents she had not been able to figure out precisely where Snow hid. Constant surveying of the reflection in the pocket mirror finally indicated a city—London—deduced from the smog and the buildings in the background.

“I shall move there for a while,” she had announced, “and take all of this equipment with me. I shall say it is for … charity work. To … make up for my sins of being a bad mother. If I had been better, she never would have run away.”

She smiled as she tried out this lie, but Alan found himself agreeing with her last sentiment wholeheartedly.

“Well, and who knows. I even have an idea—a gift, in return for forgiveness.” She toyed with a piece of equipment Alan hadn’t seen before, a golden ball. Then she shrugged. “She will still be useful.”

She moved very close to Alan, gazing into his eyes so her order would have its full effect. “And Alan, no word of this to the duke. Or anyone else.
And stay here until I return
. I may have need of you.”

He nodded. “Yes, My Lady.”

* * * *

The moment he felt it was safe, Alan cornered Gwen.

“Gwen—I have to go, for a while.”

“Oooh, the Lady’s not going to like that.” She smiled down at Alan, taller than he by just an inch or two, and looked like she was barely resisting the urge to kiss him on the forehead. “What’s the trouble, then?”

“Ah, a girl, Gwen. It’s a long story. A lass from the pub the next town over.”

The charm apparently made no effort to keep him from lying to
other
people.

Gwen grinned wickedly. “I
knew
it, Alan McDonald! I knew it! Your innocent face … but I knew you had something about you!”

“Aye.” He grinned what he hoped was a wicked grin, then sobered. “I’m going to be staying with a friend o’ a friend of mine, who owns a tavern in London; here’s the address.” He handed her a piece of paper, and she looked at it carefully, nodding, like it meant something to her. “Now this is very important, what I’m about to tell you. If Jess … ah, Snow, ever comes back, you tell her that’s where I am, all right? And if anyone ever comes looking for me … anyone …
strange
looking, not like you or me, I mean, or is looking for her … or me … you tell them to find me there, all right?”

She looked puzzled.

“‘Strange,’ Alan?”

“If it ever comes up, Gwen. You’ll know if they
come.” He thought about the cat-girl’s eyes and fangs and figured it would be pretty obvious. “Promise me, Gwen. Promise!”

“I promise.” She said it slowly, but Alan could tell from her face that she was serious. Then she brightened. “Good-bye, then, Alan. You’re a good sort. And good luck with that girl of yours!”

Thanks. I’ll need it—even if it’s not the girl you think.

The small town and estate of Kenigh never forgot the day Alan left, pack on his back, bow and violin in hand. He strolled over the hill and down the road, fiddling madly as he went.

N
one of the Lonely Ones noticed Snows extra attention to her dress, the hours of ironing and fluffing; nor did they see her fix her hair using the bottom of a pan as a mirror.
And hopefully they will never have to see the note I left them
. It was hidden under the lantern, just a corner sticking out.

Friends,

Fate has served up what could he a most strange and wonderful reunion. It seems there is a good chance my stepmother has completely reformed, emotionally and mentally. If this proves not to be the case, however, please know that I am to meet her in Trafalgar Square, midday, in public. If I do not return by five o’clock this evening then there has been trouble. The duchess Anne has an apartment on Letheridge Street.

With any luck, this will prove all worries foundless!

Your sister,

Snow

Her plan was to return no later than four o’clock and steal the note back before any of them woke up,
which was usually around seven or eight.

They’ll never know
. It was just in case.

She checked her outfit one last time before leaving, and made sure everyone was asleep. Maybe she would make them something special tonight, to make up for this little deception.

But it isn’t
really
a lie, is it?

It was a long walk to Trafalgar square, but she kept an even, ladylike pace, holding her head high and lifting her skirts to step up. She had never been to the famous plaza before, but she had read about all of the pigeons that inhabited it and the old women who sold bags of seed to teed them. Snow left early so she could do it herself, jamming a few crusts of bread into her clean dress pocket right before she left.

When she finally came to the square it was exactly as she had imagined it—just much, much bigger—with gleaming white pavement and a truly gigantic fountain in the middle. What she thought was a darkly paved area at second glance turned out to be thousands of pigeons. She felt elated, but small. Snow was just a medium-sized girl, a maid, standing timidly in a corner of this magnificent monument, whom no one would notice when they walked by.

Then Snow giggled. The expensively dressed pairs of men and groups of large-bustled ladies strolling across the square looked, in fact, exactly like pigeons. Men puffed out their chests as they spoke to pretty women, and fat women rocked and pecked, gossiping in the shade.