Snow

by Tracy Lynn

  My Lady,

  I have heard that things are different with you now. If people speak truly, I would he 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 smile.

  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….

  Look for these tales from SIMON PULSE

  THE STORYTELLER’S DAUGHTER by Cameron Dokey

  BEAUTY SLEEP by Cameron Dokey

  SNOW by Tracy Lynn

  MIDNIGHT PEARLS by Debbie Viguié (coming soon)

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  First Simon Pulse edition March 2003

  Text copyright © 2003 Elizabeth Braswell

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Designed by Debra Sfetsios

  The text of this book was set in Adobe Jenson.

  Printed in the United States of America

  4 6 8 10 9 7 5

  Library of Congress Control Number 2002115317

  ISBN 0-689-85556-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-4015-9

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-0837-1

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

  Mom, Dad, Scott, and Sabrina; Geoff, for givng me The Book of Three; my sisters-in-writing: Mara, Alexis, and Katherine; the good folks at Ciao for now; and of course, Lisa—thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: Home

  Chapter One Once Upon a Time …

  Chapter Two The Duchess Anne of Mandador

  Interlude

  Chapter Three Alan

  Chapter Four Best Years, a Book of Hours

  Chapter Five Letter from Alan

  Chapter Six The Beginning of Bad Things

  Chapter Seven A Pawse Before the Storm

  Interlude: Mirror, Mirror

  Chapter Eight Thirteen, Fourteen: Princes Come Courting

  Part Two: Snow

  Interlude: Final Reflections

  Chapter Nine Fifteen: Transfiguration

  Chapter Ten A Rag, a Bone, a Hank of Hair

  Chapter Eleven Away

  Part Three: The Lonely Ones

  Chapter Twelve London

  Interlude:

  Chapter Thirteen The Lonely Ones

  Chapter Fourteen Life with the Lonely Ones

  Chapter Fifteen Revelations

  Chapter Sixteen Meanwhile, Back at the Castle…

  Chapter Seventeen Understanding

  Chapter Eighteen The Castle

  Chapter Nineteen Clockwork Changes

  Chapter Twenty The Cattle

  Chapter Twenty-one A Strange Visit

  Chapter Twenty-two Alan

  Chapter Twenty-three Reunion

  Chapter Twenty-four Discovery

  Chapter Twenty-five Return

  Chapter Twenty-six Falling Alseep

  Interlude: A Song Overheard in a London Tavern

  Part Four: Sleeping; Waking Up

  Chapter Twenty-seven Snowdreams

  Chapter Twenty-eight Beyond the Sleep of Reason

  Chapter Twenty-nine Strangers

  Chapter Thirty Conversation Overheard in a Chelsea Tavern

  Chapter Thirty-one The Search

  Chapter Thirty-two The Clockwork Man

  Chapter Thirty-three Revelations and Unwelcome Visitors

  Chapter Thirty-four Snow

  Chapter Thirty-five Awake

  Chapter Thirty-six Awoken

  Chapter Thirty-seven Not Herself

  Chapter Thirty-eight The Lonely Ones

  Chapter Thirty-nine A Ball

  Chapter Forty Endings

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  A lone figure walked down the dark aisle of a church. She was dressed for travel in plain gray with a heavy wool cloak, which fastened around her head like a nun’s habit, hiding her face. The stones beneath her were ancient and cold; her footsteps echoed off every stone column and arch. She pulled the cloak tightly around her as the shadows crept up her skin and chilled her to the bone.

  Light struggled and lost here: It strained through dim stained glass windows, glowed from occasional candles, and glinted off a golden locket at the girl’s neck.

  She walked past the altar to one of the side chapels, where previous dukes and duchesses had been buried over the long centuries. Their bodies were encased in stone coffins, some of which had the likenesses of those within carved in relief on the top. She used to come here often, to run away, to spend time quietly, to look at the strange gargoyles and tombs, to pretend to mourn, to mourn, to think. The dead never bothered her—except that she wondered how they really looked, in life.

  She took out the locket she wore and looked at the miniature within. From everything she was told, her mother did indeed resemble her painting—with a few exceptions. She had longer lashes and fuller eyebrows, and a face bent more toward smiling than serenity. She wore her hair down in a braid, not up in a chaste bun. She had looked very much like her daughter, people told her.

  She willed the colors in the tiny oil painting to flow into the stone, to open the coffin and present her mother again, alive.

  “Good-bye,” the girl said simply, kneeling. “I love you, and will return someday. Please, watch over me in my travels. Keep me safe.” She bent her head in prayer. Tears welled up in black eyes. Motionless she stayed, even at the sound of footsteps padding behind her.

  “It’s time to go, Jessica,” the boy whispered.

  She nodded and wiped her tears. He was older and dressed in a servant’s uniform, complete with cap and knickers, but he put his arm around her like a brother and led her gently away.

  They walked together through the church and out to the field. It was gray and damp and misting slightly; the grass blew with the possibility of a storm. A carriage was waiting, a wagon really, with two old draft horses and an old man with a pipe at their reins.

  “Good-bye, Jessica,” the servant said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Remember that I love you. Keep safe.”

  “Good-bye, Alan. I will miss you, and Kenigh Hall.” She said it bravely, like a queen, but tears kept running down her face. He helped her up onto the cart and threw a bag in after her. The wagon began to move at a pace slower than walking. The two horses ambled as if they had all the time in the world. The servant boy cast a worried eye on the church and estate behind them. Slowly the horses gained speed, and soon she was halfway down the hill, standing up and waving.

  “Farewell!” he cried.

  “Farewell,” she whispered. Then she turned around
and sat down so she could see the road ahead and what lay in store for her.

  PART ONE

  Home

  Chapter One

  ONCE UPON A TIME …

  … there lived a duke and a duchess in a remote corner of Wales. It was a cold land, rugged and wild, known more for its strange weather than anything else. A sunny day could become windy and rainy and turn to snow just as quickly, then clear away to blue skies again, full of rainbows and bright golden sunlight. Fields were few and carefully tended; most of the land was hilly and overrun with half-wild ponies, shaggy and fierce. There was an abundance of nothing but landscape, sheep, and canal boats carrying coal from other parts of the country.

  Yet the people of Kenigh lacked nothing; they had their pubs and their dances, their gossip and their holidays. They were an independent people beholden to no one, and only grudgingly did they acknowledge the queen of England.

  The duke and duchess lived on a large estate in a positively enormous old house called Kenigh Hall, partly built into a real castle made from the same stones ancient invaders used for roads and temples. They had a proper staff, with servants, maids, cooks, butlers, and dozens of others. They had a huge kitchen in which feasts were occasionally prepared, libraries filled with old books occasionally read, velvet-draped studies decorated with French furniture, stables with expensive horses, game parlors, and dozens of bedrooms. Like royalty in the rest of the world they passed their hours usefully: The duchess ran the house, wrote letters to friends, and embroidered and sewed. She spoke French with important visitors when they arrived and was as perfect a hostess as one could imagine. The duke managed the estate and the finances, spoke with his retainers, and invested in exports from the Caribbean. Their leisure time was spent mostly with each other, except when the duke went on foxhunts or the duchess made the long trip to visit a friend in London.

  In the rest of the world far away, time marched on relentlessly through its new mechanical clocks, but at Kenigh Hall life went on much as it had for hundreds of years.

  The only thing it could be truly said that the duke and duchess lacked was a child and heir. For many years they consulted doctors, midwives, priests, and spiritualists, all to no avail. Neither the duke nor the duchess had family, not even distant cousins with sons who could inherit the estate. The people of Kenigh were likewise apprehensive; as far as the whole buisiness of royalty was concerned, these two were polite, generous philanthropists who employed almost half the town, from scullery maids to expensive orders from the butcher. Once they died the Crown might very well auction off the title to some rich nobody who would use the place as a summer retreat and spend most of his time in London. And where would they all be then?

  But as the couple and their town began to lose hope, the duchess at last conceived a child. For nine months she was treated delicately, like the sickest of invalids, coddled and cooed over by the servants and lavished with kisses and presents from her husband. During the rare times that no one was around to keep her from leaving the bed, the duchess would rise and stand in front of her largest looking glass, hold her belly, and imagine what her son or daughter would look like. She herself was slender, with pale cheeks to her husband’s rosy ones, and dark hair to the duke’s mane of orange-gold.

  “I hope he will be handsome. I hope she will be beautiful,” she would say. Gazing out at the wintry landscape she would add, “With skin as fair as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as shadow.” Identical twins, boy and girl, played in her head. Then she would shake her head at her silliness. “I hope he is brave like my husband. I hope she is kind, like—like I hope I am.” She willed the baby inside her to be strong, to live out the nine months and be born healthy. The duchess knew the duke was expecting a boy, but she would be grateful for either, and secretly she would have been pleased with a daughter.

  Finally, one chill winter morning, the duchess did indeed give birth to a girl. She had just enough time to cradle the baby in her arms and kiss her neck before slipping quietly away to the dark lands. “Jessica,” she murmured with her last breath, her lips already gone cold.

  The duke came running in, throwing aside the midwives and nurses. When he saw a maid gently removing the baby from her dead mother’s breast, the duke howled in despair. “Mary,” he cried, rushing over to his wife and kissing her hands. He wept and stroked her hair. Everyone in the room averted their eyes, allowing him some semblance of privacy.

  He kissed her brow one last time and stood, shaky, spent, and almost as pale as her.

  The baby made the softest noise, more of a sigh than anything else.

  The duke turned to glare at it, all his anger at his wife’s death directed toward the tiny thing.

  “Well, what is it?” he growled.

  “It’s a girl, Your Grace,” a nurse spoke softly as she curtsied.

  “Even that is denied to me.” His eyes flashed. “Not even an heir, a hope of the future now that my past is dead.”

  “My Lady’s last words,” an older maid spoke evenly, knowing the things that must be done even in unpleasant times, “were to request that she be named Jessica.”

  The duke’s face went soft for just a moment at the mention of the duchess’s last act on earth. Then he scowled.

  “Jessica, Elizabeth, Constance—it makes no matter to me. Call her what you will. Just keep her out of my way while I mourn.” And he strode out of the room.

  A wet nurse was found for the baby Jessica. The first time she was brought outside, it was to attend her mother’s funeral. A maid held her as she slept, woke, and made small noises. They stood at the back of the crowd where they would draw little attention.

  But Jessica showed none of the sickness one might expect from the child of a dying mother; she was obstinately healthy and smiled early. The wet nurse and the other maids and servants doted on her; it could well be said that Jessica had a multitude of replacement mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts, and brothers and sisters. Her own father showed little interest in her fate or development. Once in a great while—on a holiday, for instance—Jessica would be dressed in long white clothes and presented to the duke. He would lean over and see her black hair and black eyes, so reminiscent of her mother, and his face would soften for just a moment. Then the baby would smile or gurgle, full of life, and he would send her away again.

  Years passed.

  The duke demonstrated no growing love for his own daughter; if anything, his bitterness grew with her as Jessica walked and talked. She was raised in the kitchen, sitting well-behaved on a stool in the corner when she was a toddler, playing with a wooden-spoon or pot lid the cook gave her. Warm smells and big, friendly faces surrounded her early childhood. What mischief she made was little; at most, she would pretend to sneak out of the kitchen, only to be run after, caught up, and hugged in a fit of giggles by Dolly, the fat old cook.

  Once in a while the local priest or a friend would come by and mildly suggest that the kitchen was no place for a child of royalty. For a fortnight thereafter the unhappy Jessica would be confined to a large, drafty bedroom near the duke, cared for by an equally unhappy butler. As soon as the duke stopped noticing or caring, off Jessica would go, back to the kitchen where she was happy again.

  The problems of the estate, far from being a concern to the little duchess, were nonetheless strangely felt by the duke and the town. There was still no royal heir. Girls and women could no more inherit property than men could bear children. At the very least the old duke would have to live until Jessica grew up and married so the estate could pass to her husband if he were high enough royalty, to her own son if he was not. But that was many years off, and as the poor duchess was an example, there are no guarantees in life or death.

  So the duke was obliged to find another wife—one who could still bear him a son. He was not inclined to do so; for all of his many other faults he had loved his wife dearly and had no desire to replace her. He took his time—some would have said dragged his feet—as secretarie
s and advisors suggested this match or that, and foreigners came from as far as France to offer their noble daughters and sisters as his bride.

  Jessica was still a child at this time. But unlike many duchesses, by the age of seven she could bake bread, doing everything herself from weighing the flour to slashing the top for steam to escape. She could churn butter, make jam, carefully weave pastry lattices for the tops of tarts, and expertly carve a paper-thin slice of rare meat off a leg of lamb if required.

  Her favorite kitchen task was turning meat on the gigantic spit over the kitchen fireplace. The fat would drip and sizzle, and the herbs would roast and fill the room with intoxicating smells. It was the warmest place in the drafty old estate house, and while staring into the fire Jessica would make up stories about the people and dragons she saw in the flames. Where other duchesses wore silk and velvet, she wore rough linen smocks; where they learned to sew and curtsy, she painted her face with flour and played catch-the-sack with the stableboy and the servants children.

  Little did visiting nobles, presenting possible brides to the duke, realize that their meals were prepared, and sometimes served, with the help of a duchess.