Snow

by Tracy Lynn

  Snow strained to listen, but she was already falling asleep. Her vision dimmed, but she couldn’t tell if it was from her lids closing or from something scarier.

  Have to stay awake! Must warn …

  The duchess was rolling her sleeves up, and she put her glasses down on the table. “I’ll be back in an hour. If you re dead,” she said, frowning, “well—we’ll give you a proper burial, back home, I promise. The streets of London can be so cruel….”

  And Snow was alone.

  She thought; she silently screamed.

  Minutes or seconds passed. She tried to blink.

  Shadows flowed into the room.

  Everything was still.

  Cat’s face appeared before her.

  “She’sss not talking,” Snow heard the familiar hiss, “Hey, wake up!”

  Snow felt vague echoes of taps as Cat slapped her on the cheeks, and slight tremors as she shook her.

  “Hey!” Cat began to panic. Her claws came out, and she scratched Snow across the face, near her mouth.

  The pain finally came through. It wasn’t as searing as the flames that put her to sleep, but it was enough to stir her.

  “Stop it, Cat!” That was Raven’s voice. “You’ll hurt her!” His face appeared before Snow, pushing Cats out of the way. The world spun; she was vaguely able to tell that he was cradling her in his arms.“Snow?”

  “Hideout … danger …” It took all of her will.

  “What? What are you talking about?” In the background, Cat was blurrily wrestling with the cords attached to the orb.

  “Go home,” Snow! wheezed. “Duchess … destroy …”

  “Stay awake! Snow! Cat—go back. Ill take care of Snow. Warn the others—”

  Cat looked unsure for a second, then scampered away, fully cat, little human.

  “Snow …?” Raven stroked her hair.

  And the world went black.

  INTERLUDE: A SONG OVERHEARD IN A LONDON TAVERN

  Hey diddle, diddle

  I’m Alan o’ th’fiddle

  I play for a penny and a smile

  Or buy me a drink

  And I’ll make you think

  Your cares are gone for a while

  Hey nonny nonny

  From home I’m a long way

  I look for a girl in a locket

  Here, let me show you—

  D’ye think that you know her?

  The picture is here in me pocket

  Hey moon and starshine

  I’m in London a long time

  I’ve no clue to her whereabouts yet

  Dark haired and pale skinned

  Black eyes and long limbed

  Just like her mother, I’ll bet

  Hey diddle, diddle

  I’m Alan o’ th’fiddle

  I’ll play you the sweetest song

  I’ll keep on looking

  For her between bookings

  And find her before it’s too long’.

  PART FOUR

  Sleeping; Waking Up

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  SNOWDREAMS

  She slept.

  Once upon a time a queen and a king had a baby girl whose skin was as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as the windowpane. They named her Jessica, and raised her with wisdom and love. She never married, but took care of her parents when they grew old, inherited the kingdom, and ruled as wisely as she had been raised.

  Once upon a time a woman bore a child whose skin was as pale as snow, hair as black as death, eyes as red as blood. The mother howled with pain and fury; the father did his duty and dashed the monster to the ground, grinding its head under his heel.

  Once upon a time a wicked stepmother had a daughter who was not hers. Understanding the inevitable confusion, the king arranged to have the baby exposed on a nearby mountainside. Unbeknownst to him, however, the child was adopted by a family of woodland creatures: a cat, a sparrow, a mouse, a rat, and a raven. Together they lived in the wild until they were old enough to build a house. And there they lived happily until their end of days.

  * * * *

  Once upon a time a girl got caught in a snowstorm.

  “These snowflakes aren’t real” she said, catching one and shaking her head.

  “Come on,” said her brother the fiddler, all bundled up against the cold. He held out his hand. “I’ll help you. Mum’s going to make us a big pot of stew when we get home. Rabbit, your favorite.”

  The girl took his hand, ignoring the white world and trudging along behind him. His hand was very warm.

  A young woman sat on a rooftop, talking to a raven.

  “As far as Constantinople, well, I’ve never been,” it was saying.

  “But we weren’t talking about that,” she said.

  “I wish I could fly,” the raven said sadly.

  “Jess, look,” the boy said.

  He had dark eyes and eyebrows, and leaned in to reveal the secret the bird would not tell her. His lips were warm and brushed against her ear. Then he laughed, loudly—it was a prince with blond hair and blue eyes. She screamed and threw herself from the roof, falling … falling …

  Once upon a time a girl was given a mirror by her two mothers. It was divided in three: a floor-length one, a vanity-sized one, and a tiny one hanging in a locket on one corner. The girl looked in each, seeing a wild young girl, an old dead woman, and something sad and gray. The room was a tower in the top of a castle and had five windows, each watched over by a giant gargoyle—half-human monsters with the heads of a cat, a mouse, a sparrow, a raven, and a rat She ran from mirror to mirror, seeing nothing but sadness.

  The door out of the room clicked and disappeared; she was locked in.

  She ran from window to window but could not see out; a great snowstorm had blown in, drifts of white obscuring the landscape in every direction.

  She finally sat in the middle of the floor for a very long time, regarding her reflections. The other versions of her had beautiful landscapes behind them—gardens, topiary mazes, and gently rolling hills and valleys stretched out as far as the eye could see.

  Was she in a zoo?

  Faces kept peering in at her, closely but not too close, as if they were separated by bars.

  She wondered what kind of animal she was, but couldn’t seem to move her hands, arms, or legs. Maybe she was a bird; she felt as light and silly as a sparrow. Maybe she was tiny and timid like a mouse—hence their pity.

  “What should we do?” said one.

  “She looks so peaceful,” said another.

  “Why?” said a third, miserably.

  Their faces weren’t quite right. There was something nightmarish about their features, something she couldn’t put her finger on, but they seemed puzzled and sad, not threatening.

  She realized they were on the other side of the mirror; she had become trapped in the glass.

  She tried to scream, but her lips were frozen.

  * * * *

  Once upon a time an old woman was telling a story to young children, about animals that could talk just like people. The children sat in front of afire in a snug little house with thick wood walls and a thatched roof. The winter howled around them outside, but they were safe inside, listening to the words.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  BEYOND THE SLEEP OF REASON

  Cat ran back to the hideout to warn the others. Running, normally a joy for her, was now a necessity. She wished she had all four legs like her namesake. She used her paws to grab, climb, and leap, but down the streets it was two legs, just like the humans.

  He and Cat had decided that he would take her to Cat’s alley hideout. Cat would tell the others, and they would all meet there to figure out what to do. Raven tried to walk as gently as he could, cradling Snow in his arms. When he finally arrived, he laid her out on Cat’s pretty little divan, the one Snow had slept on the first night she came to London. That brought a smile to the serious young man’s face; he stroked her hair back and tucked an old
silk blanket under her chin. Her skin was glassy and porcelain, but her colors were still healthy and vibrant.

  One by one the others arrived by different routes, throwing off pursuers.

  “Well, that’s that,” Chauncey said without preamble. “Hired thugs, all of them—with nets and bags and all sorts of nasty things.” He came out of the night with a nimble leap and perched on the back of the couch where Snow slept. He balanced on the narrow edge against all reason, more like a rat than even They were all there, looking at Snow. “That duchess knew something of us, that’s for certain. Prolly wanted to stuff us and sit us in a museum somewhere.”

  Sparrow made an angry snort, a whistling sound. “Trashed one, I did. Thumped him on the back of the head. Coming into our hideout!”

  “Is he dead?” the Mouser asked anxiously.

  “No. Wish he was, though. Hurting our Snow!”

  “The last thing she did was warn us,” Raven whispered, touching her cheek.

  “Is she—is she dead?” Cat asked hesitantly.

  “No—but she’s not even breathing,” The Mouser put his hand to her heart, and her head. “Her heart isn’t beating, either. But she’s warm, like there’s still life in her.”

  “Magic?” Chauncey asked, astounded.

  “Or science, or both.” Raven sighed, standing up. “There was all this equipment around her, wires and golden balls and tubes…. We should go back and try to get them.”

  “Can’t go back there anytime soon.” Chauncey shook his head. “Place is surrounded by bobbies. And we can’t go back to our old place again, I don’t think. There’s a place in the warehouse district, on Bank Street, that I had my eye on…. We should probably move our base of operations there.”

  “And?” Cat demanded.

  “And what, Cat?”

  “What about Sssnow?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find her a cure.” The Mouser waved his fingers in the air as if it was no concern, but he looked worried.

  “And how do we do that!” Raven asked. “Or where?”

  The first thing they did was to break into the Olde Curiosity Shoppe and steal a glass cabinet in which to keep Snow. That way they could keep an eye on her while they were there, and throw a tablecloth over it while they were out. Not, perhaps, the best possible solution, but for the time being it would do.

  Cat scampered around their new hideout—it was essentially half of a warehouse floor, all open.

  “She would have loved thisss,” she sighed. “All this ssspace.”

  When it was obvious that there was nothing more they could do immediately, they fell to arguing about what to do next.

  “We should find the duchess and make her fix Sssnow,” Cat hissed, extending her claws.

  “I hardly think that the sort of woman who hires a private army to track Snow down is likely to be unprotected,” the Mouser said mildly.

  “Who else would know how to do the sorts of things the duchess did?” Raven asked.

  “I suppose we had better find out. Ask around. Scientific circles and the sort.”

  “Aye,” Chauncey agreed. “But except for you, and Raven on one of his good days, there’s not a one of us who can interview respectable, normal people and all.” He eyed Cat’s lashing tail.

  “We need help. But who?”

  Raven coughed uncomfortably.

  The letter Snow had been meaning to send, to a boy named Alan—Raven had found it and read it. His stomach had flip-flopped; she had told him so many stories about her fiddler friend. Nothing in the note was too intimate, but she was obviously quite fond of him. Of course, he did save her life, but still…. He shoved those worries and concerns aside; they were of little importance right now.

  “I think I may know of someone who can help.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  STRANGERS

  “Ah, we’re looking for a young man named Alan,” the Mouser said, smiling. Raven just stared.

  The pretty young woman at the door stared back, scrunching her eyes and scrutinizing them. The Mouser shifted uncomfortably.

  It had been a long journey for two unaccustomed to mixing directly with the rest of the human population. They had dipped into Chauncey’s “Special Funds for Emergencies” box and had a semiprivate compartment on the train. But even with his suaveness, his passion for conversation, and his charm, the Mouser was grouchy by the end of the day, having to keep his tail tucked in and even sleep on it. And while Raven’s feathers were hidden by his sleeves and not easily noticeable in his hair, he didn’t much like the people, the crowds, or the Mouser’s friendliness to strangers.

  The bumpy carriage ride through the area where their mother had died did nothing to improve their moods.

  And here they were, being scrutinized by this maid, exhausted from a trip which so far seemed to be unsuccessful.

  “You don’t look strange,” the girl finally said, crossing her arms.

  Raven and the Mouser looked at each other.

  “I … beg your pardon?”

  “Alan said I was to give his information out to people who looked strange. You don’t look so strange.” She cocked her head at one and the other. “You look like regular folks. Well, maybe handsomer than regular.” She smiled at Mouser. Delighted, he opened his mouth to say something in return.

  Raven sighed impatiently and pulled up his sleeve. Shiny black feathers sprang forth as he flexed his arm. “Is this strange enough?”

  The pretty maid’s eyes grew wide with shock.

  “Aye, that will do.”

  Gwen didn’t ask them any questions; she served them tea and biscuits and gave them Alan’s address. Raven gritted his teeth through her and the Mouser’s flirting, finally leaping up and demanding that they go; Snow needed them.

  “Snow?” Gwen asked. “Is she in trouble? Is she all right? She ran away—I don’t blame her, locked in her room all day—do you really know Snow?”

  “Were taking care of her for now,” the Mouser said carefully, “until its safe for her to come home.”

  “Well, I’m glad she found some friends.” From the tone of her voice it was obvious she was a little uncertain about the quality of friends who grew feathers on their arms. “You’ll let me know, somehow, how it all turns out? I miss Jessica….”

  “Jessica?” Raven asked, startled.

  Gwen smiled. “That’s her real name. She got so pale Davey called her Snow, and then it stayed with her, at least to us downstairs folk.”

  “We’ll make certain to let you know,” the Mouser promised her.

  Hours later, in a carriage back to the train station, the Mouser and Raven were silent for a long time, exhausted and bemused about suddenly heading back to London.

  “‘Jessica’?” Raven finally said, exasperated.

  “It does seem a little plain,” the Mouser agreed.

  Chapter Thirty

  CONVERSATION OVERHEARD IN A CHELSEA TAVERN

  “Are you Alan McDonald?”

  The fiddler was just taking his first sip of a well-deserved ale after almost two hours of continuous playing. He looked at the three men who sat down unasked across from him and wiped the foam from his lips.

  “Aye,” he said slowly.

  “We’re friends of Snow” said Chauncey. The Mouser and Raven flanked him. Raven stared hard at the red-haired fiddler.

  Alan choked.

  “How did you know that ‘strange-looking’ people would come asking for you or Snow?” Chauncey continued before Alan had a chance to speak.

  He started to answer but felt the familiar burning around his neck. The necklace sent little waves up into his head and mind, blurring his vision.

  “I … can’t tell you,” he finally said, shrugging helplessly.

  Chauncey gave him a hard look. “Yer friend’s in trouble. The duchess did summat to her, and now she’s like the dead, but not”

  Alan was bewildered; this was some plan the duchess had not shared with him. What was it she said? I
even have an idea—a gift, in return for forgiveness…. She will still be useful.

  “We need your help, as a friend of Snow and a normal man.” Alan was about to ask what he meant by that when Chauncey took off his hat to show his ears. “What we don’t need,” Chauncey leaned forward, showing evilly pointed teeth, “is a traitor and a looselips, Help us or not, but if you say anything to anyone, I’d sleep with me eyes open if I were you.”

  “I ran away to try and find Snow,” Alan said calmly. “I escaped from the duchess myself You have no worries from me, and ye have all of my help.”

  “Well and good, if you’re saying the truth.” Chauncey exchanged a look with the others. The Mouser shrugged; Raven glared at Alan. “Come with us.”

  They took him to their hideout, blindfolding him as they had with Snow, just in case. When they took the cloth off him, Alan opened his eyes to see all of the Lonely Ones regarding him curiously.

  “You!” he cried, pointing at Cat. “I saw you! With Snow … in the … the …” But that was all the necklace would let him say.

  Everyone looked at Cat, who for once in her life looked surprised and unsure.

  Chauncey frowned. “Well, Cat is strange looking—for regular people” he added quickly when she began to hiss. “That’s what you told the maid…. Strange looking …” He shook his head. “How you saw her is a mystery for another time. Here’s your friend.”

  He pulled the cloth off the “table” in the middle of the room, and there she slept, like a curiosity in a sideshow or a chemist’s shop.