by Tracy Lynn
She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
And she found something miraculous—in the midst of a cloud of dirt, grime on her knees and hands, scrubbing furiously, Snow was the happiest she had been in years.
She was determined to do the best job she could so they would have no cause to throw her out. More, she wanted to impress them. Never in her life had she had to earn anything, never had she been needed by anyone. It was a good feeling to have to work to belong.
And dirt was something Snow could easily cope with and conquer; after all of the duchess’s punishments, cleaning was something she knew without a doubt how to do.
At one point in the afternoon—no, night—someone rapped at the door. She stood still, clutching a rag to her chest. Have they found me so soon? The pattern was all wrong; it wasn’t the Lonely Ones’ secret code. There was another knock. She was both glad and terrified that they didn’t have a peephole.
Eventually whoever it was went away, and Snow went back to work, convincing herself that it was Chauncey or the Mouser testing her. Or maybe a salesman.
It took a number of hours to get the main room to a barely passable state; her arms and body tired faster than she expected. Probably because of the schedule change; my clock hasn’t adjusted to this new life. It would take a couple of days before she would become fully adapted. The floor sparkled as much as a packed-earth floor could be expected to, lit by two lanterns and rushlights that Snow constantly had to trim. The sky outside was just beginning to change colors, from black to dark blue, and she supposed she would have to begin making their breakfast—no, supper—soon. But first she spent a few minutes in Cat’s room, straightening her things, fluffing her bed and remaking it as best she could. Interestingly, Cat’s “real” room was far less feminine than the one in the alley, as though she was embarrassed by girlish tendencies.
Snow set to work on cooking when she was done. The only thing she could attempt was a stew, since she was lacking a proper oven. Perhaps she could improvise something later on. They were short a couple of bowls so she ate her own share before they came, directly out of the pot, and put the rest in hollowed-out pieces of bread. She tried to set the table—with no spoons, forks, knives, or napkins. She wondered if she should ask Chauncey about it; physical appearances aside, it was obvious they were from vastly different financial backgrounds. When does being a maid slip over into a more civilizing role? she wondered, seeing herself there for years, mothering them.
A knock on the door—rap rap-rap. Not the code, but almost. Snow ignored it. Another verson: rap rap rap. She sang a little song to herself. Finally: rap-rap-tap.
“Who’s there?”
She undid the chain and opened the door a crack.
“Excellent. We’ll have you trained yet.” Chauncey’s beady little eye gleamed. “Now open the door quick—we’d best not be seen, even coming and going.”
They all trooped in. No, not “troop.” They make very little noise and spread out immediately, very much like mice investigating a place.
“What smells so good?” Chauncey asked dramatically, nose in the air.
“A clean housed?” Snow said timidly.
“No, it’s supper!” Sparrow skipped over to the pot and peeked in. “We could smell it a mile away.”
They probably could, too.
He started to poke a finger in for a taste, but before she could stop herself Snow had whipped out her spoon and rapped his knuckles with it, just like Dolly.
Stung, Sparrow put his fingers in his mouth.
No one seemed to notice or care. So, if Dolly she was to be …
She made her face look stern and put her hands on her hips. “No putting fingers in the pot. Ever. Sit down and I will serve you properly.”
Sparrow looked chastened. Chauncey and the Mouser grinned. Cat and Raven quickly made their way to the table and sat down in chairs, trying to look proper.
“Mouser, I thought we’d hired ourselves a maid.”
“Chaunce, I think we hired ourselves a wench.”
Snow served them as efficiently and carefully as possible. She put on a neutral face, but as soon as everyone was eating she sat by the pot and watched them, looking for the slightest hint of pleasure or praise.
She would be disappointed. There were no words, just slurps, burps, and chewing—all with mouths open, except for Raven, she noticed. He ate carefully, quickly, and quietly. In just a few minutes she was serving them more, and then more again. It wasn’t until they were done that anyone spoke.
“Ah,” Chauncey let out a big burp and pushed his chair back from the table. “What it is, to come home to a hot meal!”
“Not enough pepper,” said Sparrow peevishly.
“I didn’t have any to cook with,” Snow replied.
“A splendid—if simple—meal, Princess.” The Mouser stood up and stretched. “Not exactly haute cuisine, but…”
“I have neither an oven nor flour,” Snow said, a little upset. “If you provide me with those I shall bake pies until they come out your ears.”
The Mouser raised an elegant eyebrow but said nothing.
She cleared the table and rubbed it down as best she could. Chauncey took his usual seat at the head with a box of money he unlocked and a black ledger book. One by one each of the Lonely Ones came up and gave him money, or sometimes a trinket. Chauncey carefully wrote down each amount and put it away, sometimes giving something back.
“If you’ll pardon me,” Snow asked timidly, “what do you all do for a living?”
“What do we do?” Chauncey’s eyes gleamed, and he smiled. “Why, Princess, we’re miners!”
“Miners?”
She didn’t know much about the vocation, but thought they should have more equipment, like shovels, or picks, or hats with candle-lanterns on them.
“Aye, miners. The streets of London are filled with gold, if you know where to look.”
Snow wasn’t quite there yet, but she was beginning to catch on.
“Our quarries are the roads, our veins the dark alleys.” The Mouser smiled. “We pick pockets, Princess, not dirt.”
“Oh.” Snow didn’t know what else to say. She was certainly in no position to judge them. But they are thieves.
“What else do you expect us to do?” Raven asked softly. “Work in a factory?” He pulled back his sleeve to reveal black feathers that angled back from his wrist and continued up the backs of his arms to his shoulders. “Manage a bank?”
“I didn’t … I just … I’m sorry.” She looked down at the ground.
“You’re not the one who should be sorry,” the Mouser said bitterly.
Snow looked at the floor, at the wall, still unsure what to say.
“Hey!” The horrible long moment was broken by a cry from Sparrow, who had his head poked in Cats room. “She made Cats bed, but not mine!”
Cat yelped and ran into her room to look.
“I’m sorry, Sparrow,” Snow said as contritely as she could since he was obviously still upset from when she had whacked him over the stew. “I ran out of time. I will do it from now on.”
“You’d better.” He stuck out a lower lip.
“You’ve been in my room!” Cat hissed.
When she came out of her bedroom there was very little of her human aspect showing. Her hair was on end and her eyes were so wide with upset that Snow could not miss how yellow they were, or how black slits cut down through the center of them. “No one goesss in my room!”
“I just did,” Sparrow pointed out. Cat glared at him.
No love lost between those two. Snow wondered if it was because they were close, like brother and sister, or because birds and cats are enemies in the wild. How much did the animal they look like affect the way they thought and spoke?
“I’m sorry, Cat.” Apologizing again. Just like the servants were constantly doing at Kenigh Hall: “Sorry, mum. Apologies, Your Grace.”
“I thought you would like it if I got to your room first a
nd neatened it a bit.”
In answer to her apology, Cat deliberately stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a handful of things—coins, fluff, string, pocketstuff. Then she carefully dropped it all on the floor.
“Cat,” Chauncey warned. She hissed and flounced into her room.
“There’s nothing to be done with that girl,” the Mouser sighed.
He and Chauncey stayed up late into the morning, talking and muttering about this and that. Chauncey smoked a clay pipe, the Mouser cigars. Snow shivered, the smell reminding her of the prince who had grabbed her. Sparrow went to bed, Cat didn’t come out of her room, and Raven disappeared.
She tried to stay up to listen to what the other two were talking about, but she had been awake for almost twenty hours straight and was completely exhausted. She sat down on her pile of rags, fully clothed.
She thought about Dolly and all of the pies, sweets, roasts, and buns she had baked. She thought about her own spoiled complaints to Dolly, and worse, her father’s complete lack of comment, praise, or criticism. At least the duchess had said nice things occasionally, like after a particularly big dinner. “My dear Dolly, you have outdone yourself,” she would say. And even if Dolly didn’t like her—for Snow’s sake—she would blush with pride. “Oh, its just me job, Your Grace.”
Snow wished she had said more. There were times she had, usually after a special treat or a holiday dinner. But not just on an ordinary day, for an ordinary meal that she loved, and now missed—not once. She wished she could say some things to Dolly now: “I’m sorry,” “Your meals are delicious,” and “I understand.”
Eventually she fell asleep, sitting up.
Chapter Fifteen
REVELATIONS
“I know how you feel about me leaving your hideout, Chauncey,” Snow began tentatively one day “But unless you or someone else wants to haul buckets of water back to the hideout every day, I’m going to need to do it myself.”
Snow had been with them for a week and felt that she could finally suggest such a thing. She had settled in as comfortably as she could, considering her lack of a bed and their lack of any set routine. Chauncey tried to have them all get together for at least one night at home a week, but often they stayed elsewhere, out in the city. Raven and Cat had their own private, scattered hideouts in case they did not want to make a long trip home; Sparrow “perched,” as he called it; and the Mouser found different places each time. With him it was usually gentleman’s clubs—he was often misidentified as a regular patron who napped quietly in corners with a good book.
Then the Lonely Ones would return at all hours, expecting the hot food they thought they hired a maid for. She had finally convinced Chauncey that this was unreasonable.
“I understand there seem to be …,” she had said, looking for a politic turn of phrase, “certain … resentments because of who I am and who you are, and what you can and cannot do in society and what I can, but that does not make me your slave.”
Chauncey had sputtered indignantly that no one felt that way about her and that that was certainly not the case, but he came down especially hard on Sparrow and Cat the next time they demanded the impossible of her. The Mouser eased off having her press every article of his clothing every day.
Snow felt that she and the rat-man could talk. The Mouser was nice, but too elegant and scary. Sparrow and Cat didn’t seem to like her. And Raven—well, Raven didn’t say much to anyone. He was gloomy; shadows hung off his features like black feathers. She thought they could be friends eventually, though, if he would just talk with her. She was determined to make friends with all of them eventually. She was a part of them now, for heaven’s sake, and she had no place else to go. She had better make a family here.
Water was certainly important for her duties, but if truth be told, she was feeling a little stir crazy. She had been in the same three-and-a-half-room basement for more than a week straight, and though it was better than being killed by her stepmother, she began to wonder how much better, especially after the initial wonder of living with and working for a magical group of animal people had worn off. They were attractive, they were unusual—but in the end, they behaved just like anyone else, with very human faults and foibles.
“I could also take care of the market shopping.”
She very carefully avoided any reference to the fact that she firmly believed they stole all their produce. “If you don’t trust me with the money, I can write up a list of everything and keep an accounting book.”
She could see he liked that. She thought he would. Who knew rats were so punctilious? They always seemed rather sloppy and broken-whiskered to her.
But still he said nothing, just looking at her, tapping his tooth.
“Chauncey, I’m going mad cooped up in here,” she finally admitted. “I think I have performed more than adequately in my new position and have given you no reason to doubt me.” The duchess’s favorite tactic: When all else fails, be supremely polite. “If you distrust me so much, you can follow me.”
“Aye, you do have a point there. I didn’t think I’d become a water hauler, meself” He tapped his tooth one more time, for good measure. “All right. We’ll give you a key. But you’ll be under strict surveillance until we can be sure, Missy.”
“Thank you, Chauncey.”
After everyone fell asleep, she took the wooden yoke with its buckets and threw it over her shoulders, trying to remember how the dairymaids did it back home. She knew there was a trick to it and could already predict the blisters on the backs of her shoulders and neck. She carefully opened the door, trying not to bang the buckets against the door and wake everyone.
Snow stood blinking for a moment, enjoying the young rays of a morning sun on her face. In her pocket mirror the night before she had observed her clammy white face with some alarm. Now they really could call me Snow. The duchess probably would have been proud of her aristocratic paleness.
Snow shook her head, trying to clear the woman’s face from her mind. She had no idea why she kept on thinking about her at unexpected times, and of almost-pleasant incidents and memories. At night before she fell asleep Snow would try to figure out what she would have said or done to the duchess if she had found out about the planned murder herself—if Alan hadn’t been there and taken care of her.
Sometimes she imagined slapping the duchess, or hitting her across the face with something heavy, like a shovel. She tried to get rid of these thoughts as well, but there was a grim satisfaction in them she couldn’t dismiss so easily.
She thought about Alan, too; he must have been worried sick about her. She must find a way of getting a note to him. For that she needed envelopes, stamps, sealing wax … she needed money.
Though she was doing quite well in her new role as maid and Chauncey had given her a few coins, she had no clue what things actually cost.
Cat had grudgingly told her about a market nearby and a public well. Snow went to the former and watched women conduct their business. This was no country market or farm stand, however; the end of a whole street was closed off, and there must have been more than a dozen tents and stalls selling everything from fish to flowers.
The cobblestones were slick with water that the merchants occasionally doused over their produce to keep it fresh. Those selling wore smocks and aprons over brown and black work clothes. Those buying were dressed in styles varying from servants gear with caps, starched skirts, and aprons, to that of old crones bent over, all in black, complete with canes to point at things they disapproved of.
Occasionally there were real aristocrats, buying nosegays or putting in special orders. Snow gawked at them, having rarely seen real city gentry. Their skirts are so wide … like gigantic bells from the belt down! Tiny, tiny waists that must have been corseted plumed out and up into chests fluffy with lace and trim.
Unthinkingly Snow’s hand went to her own breast and felt the plain, coarse fabric there.
The ladies’ hats were indescribable. Some w
ere so large and covered with so many feathers that the women they sat upon had to bend very delicately so as not to tangle them in the roofs of the stalls. All the rich women also carried pretty little parasols that matched their outfits, and pretty little purses that dangled from their elbows.
Snow smugly wondered what the duchess would think of these styles. She has no idea how out of fashion she really is.
The men were all handsome and well groomed, with perfectly even sideburns. They wore tailored jackets, striped trousers, and shiny, shiny boots. Tall hats finished them off, and some even had monocles and walking canes that they didn’t seem to need. Some made a big deal of taking out gigantic gold pocket watches and looking at them very carefully.
Snow watched the parade of bright colors, fancy and poor dress, the assortment of accessories—including tiny dogs on long, thin leashes—so intently that she almost forgot to observe how they bought and haggled.
When she finally joined the crowd she was quiet, speaking politely and keeping her eyes down. No one took note of her. The dress accomplished that, she saw: the merchants were polite—some even smiled—but perfunctory, keeping their eyes out for the next, wealthier customer. She would not be remembered in their stories that evening as they met their husbands, wives and children at supper and talked about the events of the day.
Jessica Abigail Danvers Kenigh, daughter of the duke, ignored and forgotten.
But she was Snow now.
Some of the younger ladies were her age, about to have their debut, she realized—their coming-out party—the first ball or tea dance just for them. This autumn would be their first season, when they would spend every evening at a different party, dinner or theatre and be seen by the crowds and courted by young men. Jessica could have spoken to them about what it was like—what they wore, what kind of food was served at the dances, whether the dances were lit with candles or lanterns—but Snow could not, and speaking up would have been presumptuous.