Snow (25 page)

“… and, of course, Sunday tea was always different; I’m sure it was at your house as well. Sometimes we would get lemon curd, sometimes marmalade—I especially liked the marmalade, even if it wasn’t freshly made—and spread it on scones….”

She appreciated his attempts but kept thinking back on the people she left, and especially the dark, sad eyes of the one named Raven.

Well, I’m heir to quite a fortune
, she thought upon her first view of Kenigh. She wondered if that was an appropriate thing to think, feeling somehow it was not. The duke and duchess greeted her first. Her father admitted to being initially angry at her running away, but now joyfully welcomed home his long-lost daughter. Jessica nodded mutely and accepted his embraces, not wanting to disappoint the kind-seeming man. Her stepmother wept and apologized over and over again for things Jessica did not remember. A fat old cook named Dolly had come back just for the occasion, but although her tarts were good, she made little impact on Jessica’s memory, except for vague impressions of comfort. Jessica was shown her old things, her old friends. Jessica nodded her head and smiled—sure, sure, she was sure it was all right.

The duke—
my father
—employed the finest doctor to feel her head and look into her mind. The doctor suggested that perhaps the girl had a fit, an overheat of the brain. He foresaw no long-term effects, and suggested that time and familiarity alone would bring her back.

The blond man who brought her home was welcomed as warmly as Jessica and was invited to stay. Everyone was kind to him and Henry.
Almost pandering. I’ll bet the handsome nobleman gets that kind of
attention quite a bit Especially from people with a bizarre runaway daughter they would like to marry off as soon as it is convenient
.

And while it wasn’t obvious how things at a place like Kenigh Hall could get so bad that she would run away from it, she was confident there had to be a good reason. Jessica could not remember much, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t stupid.

T
he blond duke was as good as his word, and when Snow was delivered to Kenigh the old duke rewarded the Lonely Ones handsomely. They bought a proper house: The Mouser finally had his leather chair, shelves of books, and evening sherry. Chauncey had a master bedroom and a nice pipe. Sparrow had a kitchen, a pantry, and all the toys he couldn’t have before. Cat had a beautiful woman’s suite, with a vanity like the duchess’s—though she didn’t know it—and a pretty little chair, money for dresses if she decided to dress, and tiny silver daggers if she didn’t.

Raven let the Mouser outfit him in new clothes but otherwise would not touch the money.

All they did was sit around their fancy new living room in their fancy new clothes and look at the bag of gold they still had left over, more than they ever had before—and rightfully earned—and kicked their legs.

“What’s for dinner, Sparrow?” the Mouser asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Broiled salmon and pea soup for starters, then pheasant with artichokes, and stewed pears with raspberry tartlets for dessert.” He looked like he was about to cry.

“Oh,” the Mouser said. “Not, just, ah, stew?”

Then Sparrow
did
cry.

Chauncey sighed and tapped his pipe.

Cat lay on her back on the floor, tossing a ball of yarn into the air. “Ssshe wanted to teach me how to knit. I sssaid no, it wasss sstupid. When she getsss back she can teach me, though. I’ll let her. I will.”

Alan came stumbling in; he played much longer hours at the tavern than he used to and practiced ceaselessly when he came home.

“Where’s Raven?” he asked.

“Still on the roof,” Sparrow said, sniffling. “He hasn’t come down in two days now.”

Alan turned to go find him.

“Ah, Alan,” Chauncey cleared his throat uncomfortably and indicated the bag of gold. “You still haven’t taken your share.”

“What, this?” With a violence unnatural to him, Alan viciously kicked the bag, scattering the coins all over the floor. “I cannae make songs out of this rubbish!” he said as he stormed upstairs.

T
he evening felt strangely familiar as Jessica peeked through her curtains at the carriages that rolled up under the full moon. She watched for a while and then went back to looking at herself in the mirror. Her stepmother had come in earlier and exclaimed over her beauty. She
was
beautiful, no doubt about that. Her face was fashionably pale with excited rosy cheeks, her eyes and hair black, black, black. Her lashes were long, and she batted them at her reflection.

It was pleasing to look at her hips and breasts and waist under the pink gown and bustle, which had taken forever and four maids to get on. She just wished the gown was red. And bustle-free.

Her legs were pretty too, and well muscled: she stretched one forth and admired it. No one would ever see them besides her, of course, except for her future husband or a close maid. While her memories of social custom and ingrained habits were far more intact than her personal memories, she still had a hard time seeing the sense of exposing most of her chest while hiding the lower half of her body.

Her parents latest attempts to fix their parental mistakes included throwing a masked ball in the
Venetian style. That way Jessica could be reintroduced to society, reintroduced to people she had known—the masks conveniently explaining away why she couldn’t recognize them. Everyone would know what had happened to her but would play along, for politeness’ sake. That’s what being a duchess meant.

She appreciated the thought and looked forward to the party. She had sat with her kind-seeming, if somewhat overeager, stepmother as they talked with tailors and artisans, shopped for masks, and chose the dress. Jessica wound up choosing not an animal or traditional
bauta
, but a simple white one, decorated with feathers and tiny silver six-pointed stars, held up by a slender wand and decorated with ribbons that flowed down like a drift of snow.

It would take more than a party to set her at ease, though. Whenever her stepmother wasn’t looking, Jessica would watch her, looking for some sign of the murderess she might have been. The duke of Edgington and Henry found excuses to stay close by, but she wanted to know the truth for herself.

She slept on a bed she did not remember, on pillows with the impressions of their owner bleached, washed, and pressed out. When not formally dressed she wore resting gowns, pretty things, airy and with trailing ribbons. She preferred looking at them than wearing them, but somehow sensed that being caught asleep naked would have been frowned upon in this world she didn’t remember well.

She found an urge to sit
next to
or
under
the bed, with crumbs in her hand, as if to feed pigeons or mice, but none came.
It’s been years since I was last here; if I trained them they probably all forgot
. She found she could, if she desired, move so quickly and stealthily in darkened halls that no one, not even the butler, saw her.
Maybe I used to meet an illicit lover
. Jessica would ponder her skills while stealing cheese out of the pantry, where she was most comfortable—but not when people were there. She took the little gifts people gave her, jewelry and combs and things, and hid them under her bed for reasons she couldn’t understand or explain.

“I’m a blank slate,” she told herself cheerfully in the mirror. “I can be anyone I want.”

But even this wasn’t true.

It was expected that the duke would propose to her that night, like something right out of a fairy tale. And if that did not happen, well, she was going to be reintroduced to a number of suitable suitors. She was nineteen, for heaven’s sake. She would be married in a year or two.

As if on cue, her stepmother knocked rapidly and came in. Jessica hated that. There was a lock on her door, but reversed so that she could be locked
in
. It was the first thing she had noticed about the room.

“Come dear, why don’t you take off that locket and wear a real necklace tonight,” the duchess suggested. She had an array of trinkety things in her hand, each probably worth a fortune.

Jessica shook her head and touched the locket she always wore. It was slightly beaten and scratched and held the miniature of a mother she remembered no more than the woman before her. But still she refused to take it off.

Frustrated, the duchess put on one of her fake smiles. “Well, its up to you, but it just looks a little … common. I’ll leave these here in case you change your mind.”

She left the baubles on the bureau. Jessica might take one, for later, just in case—in case of what, she didn’t know.

She descended the staircase in a grand entrance, the way she was expected. Her father took her by the fingertips and led her down to the floor, introducing her as he went. He held a mask but didn’t wear it; his moustache was waxed until it shone.

Jessica had no idea of what kind of girl she was before her memory failed, but she thought that she might be wiser now. Perhaps her desperation to fill the void in her mind allowed Jessica to pick up quiet words and tense emotions that might otherwise be missed by those around her. A blank slate allowed Jessica to meet people she had known all her life as if for the first time.

With suspicion.

This man, for instance. The man who was her father was passably handsome, emotionless, boring, and, well, stiff as a prig. His wife, the duchess, was artificial and obviously scared of Jessica; probably
because she was the only heir and was taking away everyone’s attention. The duchess was obviously a very vain person.
It might be worth it to get married just to get away from those two
, she thought wryly.

The hall and ballroom were lit with hundreds of candles in little silver candleholders, the mirrors shining with their reflected light. Guests filled every nook and hall of the house. Ladies swished broad, elegant skirts trimmed with layers of silk and lace that cascaded in tiers, trains just skimming the floor. Long gloves covered bare arms; dark silk ribbons encircled bare necks and trailed down their blocks like streams of blood.

The young men were slim and elegant and serious; the old men were handsome and jolly. All wore similar black suits with white shirts, as if to better show off their peacock women, and all offered to kiss Jessicas hand.

The servants were beside themselves, also elegantly dressed and passing trays of goodies and drinks. She had overheard that this was the first party since her own fourteenth birthday—another mysterious occasion from her past about which she had yet to learn the whole truth. Waves of perfume hit her, musky and floral, light and overwhelming, and the sounds of laughter and music filled her head. It was all very, very beautiful—and she had the urge to grab a tray of food, a glass of champagne, and hide under the stairwell.

She had a little card to write down people’s names
for different dances; the blond duke had the first one. He bowed elegantly to her and offered her his hand; she took it.

Everyone watched as he led her slowly across the floor. Somehow her feet knew how to dance, and he covered for her when she didn’t. His hair shone gold in the candlelight, his blue eyes were—
Well, all right, he’s handsome. And obviously a decent sort for helping me out and bringing me home. But who is he?

And, while were at it, who were those other people who he took me from? What happened to them?

The blond duke leaned in and brushed his lips to her ear. “How has the duchess been treating you?” he whispered.

“I don t trust her,” she whispered back.

Everyone admired the apparently flirting couple—or gossiped about Jessica behind their gold and crimson papier-mâché masks, looking away quickly when she glanced in their direction. She found herself scanning the crowd, thinking she might recognize someone. Ridiculous, she knew. One mask caught her eye; a black grotesque in the form of a raven. For some reason it gave her a warm feeling.

She kept her eye on the person wearing it through three dances, trying to work her way over to him. She thought she lost him at the fourth, a waltz, but he tapped her on the shoulder from behind her.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, ignoring her dance card.

“Of course.” She picked up her skirt and took his hand, unable to keep her eyes off his ebon mask.

“This dance is mine,” another young man interrupted, face flush.

“Oh, Sir,” a beautiful young woman in a cat mask approached the intruder, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, “My throat is parched. Would you kindly get me another glass?” She lowered her lids and looked up through her lashes at him.

“Of course,” the man said, instantly smitten. He bowed and excused himself, leaving Jessica and the raven-man alone.

She dropped her fan and picked up her train as he took her in his arms.

“I’m sorry—I am sure you have heard about my … accident,” she apologized, for the seventeenth time that evening. “I do not recall you—you were announced—the Earl of Sussex, I believe?”

“You do not remember me at all?” the man in the raven mask whispered.
“Snow?”

Why does that name sound familiar?
She lifted up his mask, and there were the familiar brown eyes and glossy black hair. The man from the group of thieves in London.

“I returned to the Clockwork Man—I have a cure for your memory,” he whispered.

He spoke so intently. No one at Kenigh looked at her like that.

“A spell? What are you talking about? It was a fit, an overheating of the brain….” But something wasn’t
right. The room spun. “The other room, the parlor,” she whispered, “Get me out of here. Let us pretend we are trysting,”

They danced off the floor and she laughed, loud and ringingly. He led her into the small study.

“I have the components here,” Raven reached into his pocket. Jessica studied his face intently less concerned for her memory at the moment. There was something about him that felt more like home than home. “The duchess put a spell on you, we think, so if you ever woke up you wouldn’t remember who she was or what she did to you. The Clockwork Man said it probably wasn’t that strong a charm, like on Alan’s—you don’t remember that, of course. You were aleep.” He pulled out a nail with what looked like sheep’s wool wrapped around the top, and an old black feather. “I’m afraid I have to cut your palm with this….”