Snow Page 9

  As she picked through the onions and potatoes looking for good ones, she imagined Dolly looking on, approving or shaking her head.

  And she thought about Jessica.

  She had never spent any more time on her looks than the duchess made her, and she had never cared before what people thought of her. She didn’t expect to be treated like royalty in her new position, but being a maid was harder than she thought, and it wasn’t the work.

  Still, she consoled herself, there was a whole world they didn’t know about, where mice walked upright on their back legs, cats were snitty and girlish, and rats spoke like Irishmen.

  She took out a stub of a pencil and the little piece of paper Chauncey had ripped out of his accounting book. She carefully wrote down what she had bought and for how much, and also where, just in case Chauncey wanted to know. She looked longingly at the buckets of flowers and tiny bouquets but decided against it. Maybe later. After I have earned their trust.

  Once when she was debating the true value of a particular beet with a shrewish farmwife she caught a glimpse of black out the corner of her eye that was deeper than those of the suits around her—and was that a flash of tail?

  She knew she would never really catch them, but at least she knew she was being followed. How long will they do that, I wonder? When will they trust me?

  The company was a little friendlier at the public well; unlike the frowning, snapping city folk at the market, the women filling their buckets were laughing and gossiping like any servants back home.

  Their language was almost indecipherable, however.

  “Ooow, d’ye see th’ getup on Lady Farthington, then?” A fat, dimple-faced woman was speaking; her words went up and down like a screaming cat in heat.

  “With the boat on her head, you mean?” another one replied.

  “Aun’ Katy works in th’ kitchens there. She said ’twas the Baron Kingsley gave it her”

  “Oooh! Ey!”

  There were whistles and exclamations all around.

  This is like a book I have not read, Snow thought as she took her turn setting the bucket that was free of vegetables under the pump and filling it with water. But then again, I suppose most of life is like that.

  She listened to stories of boyfriends and manfriends, of husbands and laundry, of the habits of masters and mistresses. She heard suggestions for making gravy thicker, and unlikely gossip—tales of liquor and debauchery among the highest classes. She paid careful attention to the stranger, chilling stories about witches disguised as street-corner beggars, ghosts that inhabited the attics of several well-known mansions, thieves and creatures who lived in the sewers, and the mysteriously named denizens of midnight London: the dead inhabitants of Number 50 Berkeley Square, Spring-Heeled Jack, the Clockwork Man.

  No mention of people with the ears and tails of animals, however.

  “Here now, they have you doing the shopping and the water?”

  Snow looked up, surprised at being directly addressed. A girl close to her own age had her hands on her hips in indignation, but smiled. “You’d best have them get it delivered. I wouldn’t work no household had me do both.”

  Snow smiled wanly and shrugged.

  If only she knew that my “household” was run by a rat.

  Again, on the way home, she felt someone was watching her, and again she ignored it. As she had predicted, her shoulders hurt from where the yoke hung, and as the morning became early afternoon she grew sleepy. It was far warmer than she had expected for spring; besides the lack of ice and snow the temperature was far above freezing, and she had overdressed. It was only a few blocks before Snow entered the tiny alley with the hidden entrance to her new home, but Snow was sweaty and exhausted when she arrived.

  She almost didn’t find the door, a tiny thing concealed by garbage and vines. She wondered if the people who owned the building knew what lived in the basement. Snow smiled at the thought of the real landlord hiring a ratter, an exterminator, to get rid of the Lonely Ones,

  Once inside she carefully put away the produce and arranged the water buckets in the corner, resolving to take a sponge bath as soon as they had all left for the evening.

  The Mouser came staggering dramatically out of his bedroom, stretching and yawning.

  Snow raised an eyebrow. “Oh … just getting up?”

  He wouldn’t meet her eye.

  “You’re a terrible actor, Mouser.”

  At first he looked surprised, then he grinned sheepishly. No, wolfishly. No—mousily?

  “You could at least play along. Make me look good in front of Chauncey.”

  “How long did you follow me for?”

  “Long enough to see you drool over the latest fashions.”

  She blushed.

  His look softened. “Don’t be embarrassed, pet.” He reached out and ruffled her hair. “You were from a very good house, weren’t you?”

  “It’s not important anymore,” she mumbled, staring at the ground.

  “Your stepmother—she wanted her own heir, didn’t she?”

  Snow nodded, very slightly.

  He seemed to care so much, and was gentle away from the others—like a brother? No, maybe an uncle. He was too handsome to think about as a brother.

  “Well, I think you’re holding up extremely well. I’ll talk to Chaunce about getting you an allowance—your wages, I mean!” He grinned.

  A change had begun in that moment. Snow was never able to say exactly what it was, but it felt like a weight had lifted or a dam had broken. It had nothing to do with the possibility of receiving money, and everything to do with the Mouser’s recognition of her feelings.

  “Anyone up for a game of whist?” Chauncey asked the next morning, having finished with his pipe early. He slid a chair around and sat on it backward, shuffling the cards.

  “I’ll play all-fours,” Sparrow volunteered, licking his fingers from the pudding Snow had made that evening. She had given him an extra-large portion, and his brown eyes, shy for once, flicked up to meet hers in surprise. She had smiled back. Maybe he just thought that I didn’t like him.

  “Oh, pish.” The Mouser dismissed Sparrows suggestion with an aristocratic wave. “Anyone up for a refined game?”

  Raven joined them, quietly as ever. Cat was busy running a comb and claws through her long hair. She had been doing that more often, Snow noticed.

  “I can play,” Snow volunteered quietly.

  “Excellent! You’ll be my partner” The Mouser clapped his hands.

  She pulled up to the table, the first time she had sat there with them as an equal, and took her cards as Chauncey dealt them. Some minutes into the game the Mouser cleared his throat and said casually, “So, Chaunce, are we betting?”

  “Absolutely Mouser.”

  “What can our pretty little maid wager, then?”

  Chauncey thought about it. “I guess we can spare her a portion of the weeks take.”

  “Nothing too much.” The Mouser dismissed imaginary fortunes with a wave of his hand. “Of course, its nowhere near what she used to have as a lady, but whatever we can spare I am sure will please her.”

  Snow blushed and stared at her cards.

  “Oh, yes.” Chauncey raised an eyebrow. “Our little gentlewoman. What’s it really like, then, all bowing to you and gold forks?”

  She smiled slightly. “Not out in the country.”

  When she was brave enough to look up from her cards, she saw that all the Lonely Ones had their full attention on her, eager to hear about a life they had never lived.

  “What were you, then? A rich merchant’s daughter? A lady? A baroness?” Chauncey tried to sound casual and stared at his hand, rearranging his cards, but the interest in his voice was unmistakable.

  “A duchess, actually.”

  She tried not to grin when his jaw dropped.

  She told them about the maids, the fireplaces, the clocks, and the real beeswax candles. She told them about the rare parties, how they were held
during a full moon so that country gentry could find their way in their carriages, chaises and troikas. She told Sparrow especially about the food, the puddings, roasts, jellied consommés, platters of fish, punch, sherry, and toffee.

  She told them more, about her clothes, her childhood, the things she liked, and the punishment the duchess gave her. She told them about her confinement, how she kept from going mad, and how she fed the mice.

  “She fed the mice!” Chauncey slapped the Mouser on the back, laughing hysterically. “And now she feeds you!”

  “I heard her, Chaunce,” the Mouser said through gritted teeth.

  “Where was this place that you grew up?” Sparrow asked.

  “Kenigh Hall, near the Brecons, in Wales.”

  Chauncey and the Mouser exchanged looks, Raven sat up straighter, and Cat choked.

  “But that’s near where we’re from!” Sparrow blurted out.

  “Really?” Snow didn’t know what to say; For starters, why did they have such strange accents? All right, and while were at it animal features …

  “We’re from … the forest of the Brecons,” Chauncey said quietly. “About ten miles south of you”

  “Oh—what an incredible coincidence,” was all she could think to say

  “Then we’re meant to be together” Raven spoke up unexpectedly, his dark eyes burning. “We were meant to find each other.”

  Chauncey nodded slowly. “I think that could be agreed on.” He fiddled with his cards as Snow did everything she could to remain polite and not question them about their origins.

  “I’ll bet you’re just itching to know about where we’re really from, aren’t you?” he finally asked.

  “It’s your own business—”

  Chauncey laughed. “Oh, yes. But it doesn’t matter. We really don’t know anything about our lineage or our mothers or fathers—or if we even had any.”

  Mouser jumped in as the role of storyteller quickly, eagerly, and dramatically “We were left on the doorstep of an old widow who lived in the middle of the forest, in a basket, just like in a story. Ah, but unlike fairy-tale orphans, we came with gold.” He rubbed his fingers together as if to make a guinea appear, but it didn’t. “Tied up in our bundles. To provide for us. Chauncey and I were the first. After me and Chaunce came Raven. Then Cat, and finally Sparrow. There was another, when we were tiny, but she ran away.

  “Anwyn was as loving a mother as any and treated us like her own children. She had no one; her husband had died years ago, and her son earlier on. She had her own garden and kept to herself. People probably thought she was a witch.” Mouser sighed.

  “She protected us and told us we were handsome, beautiful, and precious, and that we shouldn’t trust other people who looked like her because they might not feel the same way. She taught us numbers….”

  “What happened to her?” Snow asked, knowing tragedy was near.

  “We were out playing in the woods one day,” Raven said quietly. “We came back and thought she was asleep in her chair. She was dead. Died in her sleep, I guess.”

  Sparrow’s eyes were large and glistening.

  “You’re really too young to remember,” the Mouser said irritably.

  “I remember!” Sparrow said indignantly. “I remember being warm, and sunlight, and arms holding me.”

  The Mouser rolled his eyes.

  “That was five years ago, more or less,” Chauncey finished. “I suppose we should have stayed in the woods with the other animals, but we wanted to see the world, like normal young men. And girl,” he added for Cat’s benefit, “I suppose we thought we would find others like Mother Anwyn. We didn’t,” he added dryly;

  They were quiet for a few minutes. Snow’s mind buzzed with questions. Finally she picked one: “Where did she think you were from?”

  The Mouser laughed, “She told us that we were sent by the fairies, that we were cousins of the fair folk, children of forest spirits—none of which I believe, by the way. We none of us can turn invisible, or make gold out of dust, or know how to get to kingdoms hidden under hills. We bleed and have to work like everyone else. Nor have we met a fellow forest dweller, that I know of—no nymphs or satyrs ever came round for tea when we were little.”

  “I should like to meet a beautiful young nymph, myself,” Chauncey snorted, “Get one of them pretty young fairy things and”—he looked at Sparrow, Raven, and Cat and changed what he was about to say—“uh, marry her,”

  “Have you ever seen anyone else like, ah, yourselves?”

  “Not once. Though to be honest, we haven’t really tried. London is enough right now—the work is too hard and the nights are too fun!” The Mouser grinned.

  “That fellow from the circus thought he had seen people like us before. Of course, he also thought you were a demon,” Chauncey pointed out.

  “No, no—you’re thinking of that horrible priest with the dogs. The circus fellow—lion tamer, I believe—thought we were each the perfect, final version of our race, top of the evolutionary ladder, you might say. He was very taken with Darwin.”

  “This is from someone who thought we were overgrown monsters from the sewers.” Chauncey indicated a scar on his left ear. “His bullet stung.”

  “Dreadful incident. I’m glad we got his purse and his whiskey.”

  They were being funny, Snow realized, tossing it off, but the Mouser was gripping his cards too tightly, and Chauncey was tapping his tooth. Cat’s claws were out around her comb, and Sparrow stared at the floor.

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

  Chapter Sixteen

  MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE CASTLE …

  The 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 d
oubt 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?”