Snow

by Tracy Lynn

  “Who are these two?” his friend asked, gesturing at Alan and Raven with the pistol.

  “These two came with a legitimate riddle and paid the price for their answer already. Actually, they are the unusual and exciting. Perhaps you all should talk. Leave, I mean, and talk on your way out. Actually …” the Clockwork Man’s face turned thoughtful, and he looked at Alan and Raven. “You two should definitely take this man, and this other man, and their guns along with you.”

  “Absolutely not!” Raven snapped.

  “My dear Raven,” the Clockwork Man said gently. “You never know when you’re going to find you have need of a duke. You have here a rich, powerful, and trustworthy young man—” The duke nodded eagerly and hopefully. “—who may be interested in your cause. Why not invite him along?”

  Raven and Alan looked at each other uneasily.

  “Have ye ever noticed,” Alan said to no one in particular, “that lately, whenever there’s trouble, a duke is involved?”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  SNOW

  Like Alan and Snow before them, the duke of Edgington and Henry were blindfolded on their way back to the Lonely One’s new hideout.

  “Ye get used to it,” Alan told them, winking at Raven.

  “These two are not going to get ‘used’ to it,” Raven said. “We bring them back, we wake Snow, they go away. They are only coming at all in case there’s trouble, and there won’t be any.”

  “We could take a carriage,” the duke suggested eagerly. “I will pay.”

  “That’s why you brought him along, isn’t it?” Henry muttered under his breath.

  “Ah, are the drivers nae going to be suspicious that we have ye both blindfolded?” Alan asked.

  The duke frowned, or appeared to—it was hard to tell with the blindfold on. Then he brightened. “You could say it was for my birthday! You’re taking me to a surprise party!”

  Raven, Alan, and even blindfolded Henry exchanged weary glances.

  “I think we’d better stick to walking,” Alan suggested.

  * * * *

  When the four returned, Chauncey just rolled his eyes and went to get his pipe. “Is there to be no end of the stream of visitors we’ve been having?”

  The Lonely Ones gathered and watched the duke and Henry remove their blindfolds as Alan and Raven explained what happened with the Clockwork Man.

  “I say! So this is a hideout!” the duke exclaimed happily. Henry rolled his eyes, much like Chauncey had done, and threw himself into a chair.

  Then the duke noticed Cat—and his eyes widened.

  The Mouser quickly took Cat aside and nodded at Sparrow to make sure his wings were hidden. Henry didn’t notice.

  “This doesn’t look so difficult,” Chauncey said, puffing and looking at the diagram and pieces of the machine.

  “It just requires some gold, for the bit here,” Raven pointed. “About the size of the tip of your finger. Something to do with the way it never tarnishes, it isn’t affected by time.”

  “Gold? That’s easy then.” Chauncey clapped his hands together. “Mouser? Sparrow? You feel like going on a jaunt?”

  “You’re thieves,” Henry suddenly realized.

  “Then that sort of makes you our prisoner, doesn’t it?” Alan said, pointing at Henry’s pistol, which, with the duke’s, was being worn by Chauncey.

  “No, wait, here, don’t do that.” The duke tumbled with his watch. “Please, let me. I haven’t helped at all yet.” He wrenched a charm off the fob and handed it to Alan. “Will this do?”

  Alan peered at it. “You’re a Mason? Is there a secret club you don’t belong to?”

  “I’m going to see Snow,” Raven said, leaving the room.

  “Oh yes, let me see the sleeping damsel as well,” the duke said as he jumped up and followed Raven into the other room.

  Chauncey looked at Henry, who continued to sit looking at his fingernails. “Don’t you want to see our ‘sleeping damsel’ as well?”

  “My job is to keep the duke from getting into too much trouble on his ridiculous jaunts,” Henry replied. “Sleeping damsels don’t really interest me. Seeing if you are planning to attack him from behind, however, does.”

  Chauncey nodded appreciatively. He and the Mouser then proceeded to ignore him and concentrate on putting the machine together.

  Raven knelt next to Snow’s sleeping body and took her hand in his. Alan, Sparrow, and Cat watched quietly from the door.

  “Just a little while longer,” he whispered to her. “Just a little, and—” “That’s your ‘Snow?’” the duke cried, coming in.

  Raven flinched. “Yes,” he replied acidly. “She’s our Snow.”

  “That’s the young duchess of Kenigh Hall you have there.”

  The Lonely Ones and Alan looked at each other.

  “I went to her fourteenth birthday party. Years ago.” The duke leaned over Snow and looked at her interestedly. “She didn’t actually show up for very much of it. Some business with that nasty count what’s-his-name. I don’t remember—” He paused and looked up. “Ah, shouldn’t she be older? Like, ah, me?”

  “She ain’t changed since she fell asleep,” Sparrow said quickly. Raven looked like he was going to kill the duke for his nonchalance and familiarity. “Ever since the duchess cast her spell on—” Cat hissed at Sparrow to stop speaking; Alan slapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Which duchess? Anne of Mandagor?” the duke stood up. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Chauncey,” Alan called, “I think we have an information leak.”

  “Cor! Will ye all keep it down in there?” Chauncey shouted back. “Better yet, stop yer gabbing and come in and help us.”

  Everyone did wind up helping, in each his or her own way, long into the night. Cat’s claws were invaluable for pushing bits of wire through and clamping pieces while Chauncey set them. Sparrow made tea and biscuits. Alan remained his cheerful and optimistic self, playing his fiddle to keep people awake. Henry kept Raven and the duke from interacting as best he could.

  A day—and many scratched heads—later, an ugly lump of a machine sat next to Snow’s sleeping body. It was a mass of tubes and jars of chemicals, wires of zinc and copper, and small bits of gold. A crank on the end had to be continuously operated during the process.

  “This doesn’t look like anything the duchess had,” Cat said doubtfully.

  “Just put the bits into her mouth, like the directions say,” Chauncey sighed, scratching his head and rubbing his eyes.

  Everyone looked at Raven.

  Hesitantly he reached over, placing a green and corroded copper wire onto her lips.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  AWAKE

  Snow awoke.

  Not with a kiss, but with a jolt of electricity.

  A voice spoke: “Wait, I want to see—”

  Her eyes snapped open in pain, and beheld

  Golden hair, blue eyes, a smile of wonder.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  AWOKEN

  She blinked and sat up on her elbows. People surrounded her bed, or coffin, or whatever it was. One was the handsome man who had bent over, and the rest were … were wrong somehow—strange shapes under hoods, eager feral eyes.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, frightened. “Where am I?”

  The people all looked at one another, apparently as confused as she.

  I know who they are, she thought, putting her hand to her head. They are—they are—

  “Who am I?” she shrieked, panicking. “Why am I here?”

  A cloaked figure stepped forward to do something, restrain her maybe. Its eyes were all yellow and wrong, like a snake or something; when the figure opened its mouth to speak, sharp, evil little fangs showed.

  She screamed and pulled away from the monster.

  “Get away!”

  She tried to get up, to run away, but her legs felt like they were made of stone; it took every bit of willpower just to back herself
up into a corner.

  “Easy,” a black-haired, normal-appearing young man said, coming forward. “Don’t you remember us?”

  He had pleasant brown eyes but a very serious face. It was handsome, but inspired nothing within her.

  She shook her head. Then she began to cry.

  She sat with the man called Henry, ironically the only one in the group who didn’t know her.

  “Would you like some tea, or something?” he asked.

  She looked around the dingy room, the broken furniture, the piles of pots, and shook her head.

  “Can I, ah,” Henry sighed. “No, I don’t suppose there is anything I can really do for you.”

  She was apparently a duchess. That was nice, since these people weren’t. She had run away from home because someone tried to kill her. Maybe. The blond duke didn’t seem to believe that her stepmother was capable of such a thing. Alan was a servant, but also her friend, which didn’t make sense from what she thought she could remember about how classes and society worked. These other ones were … thieves, or something, who took her in when she was wandering London, lost. The hooded figure was a girl, sort of. She approached her later and whispered sadly, “You really don’t remember me?” She kept her eyes lowered and lips covering her teeth. “You brushed my hair …?” Snow—that was one of her names—couldn’t imagine it.

  The one called Raven had fierce tears in his eyes but a stony face; he was close friends with Alan, it seemed. Plump Sparrow sniffled a bit, trying to be grown up and not cry—she had no idea what her relationship with the boy was. The ones called the Mouser and Chauncey kept their distance, for which she was grateful.

  Presently they were all discussing her.

  “I mean no offense, but it is obvious she cannot stay here,” said the duke.

  Raven eyed him icily, but it was the Mouser who spoke and clenched his fists. “You mean to take her away? Absolutely not! This is her home.”

  “Easy there, Mouse,” Chauncey warned. “This is her home, duke.”

  “Come now. It was very kind of you to take her in—many people would have tried to take advantage of the duchess in such a state. It is obvious that you have cared for her….”

  “Love her,” Sparrow corrected.

  “Well, all right, love her, but she has no memory, and nothing around here to stir it. She has been with you but two years asleep, a year awake—she grew up at Kenigh, with her father and mother—”

  “Stepmother,” said Alan. “Evil stepmother,” said the Mouser.

  “I am not entirely convinced that she tried to do as you suggested; certainly she was cruel, but—”

  “For heavens sake, man!” Chauncey cried, exasperated. “We take you into our hideout, show you our girl-under-a-spell, and tell you her story, and you think we’d lie about something like that?”

  “All he’s saying,” Henry broke in gently, “is that she is more familiar with her room, her things, the people from home. And they have the resources there to care for her, doctors and the like. And Alan, the duke and I can stay in the area, making sure she is not … abused again. Alan, can you take up your old position there?”

  “Ah, no.” The Scotsman’s brow darkened. “It would probably be best if I never set foot there again, where the duchess might see me.”

  “Well, then, at least he and I will be there. And if she regains her memory, she can always return, right?”

  Everyone was silent; the two sides glared at each other.

  Raven finally spoke. “Why don’t we ask Snow what she wants to do?” he asked quietly.

  They all looked surprised, then turned to her.

  “Well, Princess?” Chauncey asked softly.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  NOT HERSELF

  When she told them she wanted to go home, she had no idea what she really meant. She wanted so badly a mother or father she recognized, some warm and loving place and person she would know, and it just seemed more likely to find them at the place called Kenigh, The disappointed and sad looks on the faces of her old friends, whom she could not remember, was almost too much to bear; she pleaded to go at once.

  The blond duke had Henry send word by post to Kenigh and swore to Chauncey that she would never be long out of their sight.

  The journey was long and tiring. Well, at least with no memory I shall be experiencing old places again like seeing them for the first time! But the view outside the train was drab and rainy; she played checkers with Henry while the duke prattled on about all he could remember about Kenigh Hall and their somewhat shared life as privileged children.

  “… 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.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  THE LONELY ONES

  The 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.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  A BALL

  The 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.