Scarlet in the Snow

by Sophie Masson

  About the Book

  When Natasha is forced to shelter from a blizzard, she is lucky to see a mansion looming out of the snow. Inside, it is beautiful – except, instead of paintings, there are empty frames on every wall. In the snowy garden, she finds one perfect red rose in bloom. Dreamily she reaches out a hand . . .

  Only to have the terrifying master of the house appear, and demand vengeance on her for taking his rose.

  So begins an extraordinary adventure that will see Natasha plunged deep into the heart of a mystery, as she realises she has stumbled upon a powerful sorcerer’s spell of revenge.

  But even if she can break the spell, the Beast she has come to love will be snatched from her. Natasha will have a long journey ahead before there can be a happy ending.

  ‘Utterly enchanting! A wondrous mix of magic, adventure and romance.’ Kate Forsyth, author of The Puzzle Ring

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Dedication

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Also by Sophie Masson

  Moonlight & Ashes

  Three Wishes

  Pop Princess

  Cupid’s Arrow

  Bright Angel

  Copyright Notice

  Loved the Book?

  Three sisters sat spinning at the old tower window, watching for their mother to come home. After a time the first sister said, ‘I see our mother’s sleigh flying through the forest, laden with fine things, with silks and satins, velvets and furs.’ Then the second sister said, ‘I see our mother’s sleigh speeding over snowy fields, laden with valuable things, with caskets of jewels, pearls and amber and gold.’ And then the third sister spoke, and she said, ‘I see our mother’s sleigh hurrying towards home, light as a feather with fragrant flowers, roses and lilac and jasmine and lilies. And behind the sleigh, spring is coming, the snow is melting, winter is being chased away . . .’

  ‘Ah, there you are! I might have known I’d find you up here, scribbling like some old clerk. Look at you – you’ve got ink all over your fingers! No, stop, don’t do that, Natasha, you’ll get it on your nose too!’

  Too late. The tip of my nose was already graced with a blotch. I hurriedly closed my notebook and pushed it under the pile of old blankets. Scrubbing half-heartedly at the nose-blotch with a crumpled handkerchief, I said, ‘What’s the matter, Liza? Is the house on fire? Have the horses run away? Are the hens off their lay? No, wait; it must be something much more important. I know. Anya’s run out of hair-curling papers!’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny,’ she said sourly. ‘Don’t you remember? Your godfather’s coming to tea. And he’s due in less than an hour.’

  ‘And you came bursting in here to tell me that?’ I hadn’t forgotten. I just hadn’t wanted to think about it. I don’t like my godfather, Captain Peskov. With his cold beady eyes and his spindly legs in their dusty black trousers, he reminds me of a bedraggled elderly crow. And as for his title, I cannot believe he’s ever been captain of anything other than the good ship Misery, for he is for ever croaking about this or that unpleasant and miserable thing, usually how someone had cheated him of what was rightfully his. He’s some kind of distant cousin of my father’s, but aside from that I don’t know why he was chosen as my godfather. He’s a real skupoy, a real stingy person, and he’s certainly never taken an interest in me. Now, though, I can’t help thinking that my poor papa must have owed him money and by asking him to be my godfather, was trying to get on his good side. But I don’t think that side exists.

  ‘Why on earth is he bothering to visit us now, when he didn’t even come to Papa’s funeral and hasn’t sent so much as a note since?’ I said scornfully.

  Shrugging, Liza pushed back a stray strand of her fair hair. ‘Maybe he’s had a change of heart and he’s decided to help us.’

  I laughed. ‘A change of heart? He doesn’t have a heart to change, Liza. That old skupoy might be rich but he’s also a real miser and you know it. His purse strings are so tight you’d need a crowbar to open them and even then they’d probably stay shut.’

  ‘You have to be nice to him,’ she said, ignoring my comment. ‘Mama says you must. She says it’s our only chance.’

  I stared at her. ‘Mama said that?’

  She had the grace to flush. ‘All right, not the last bit she didn’t. But she did say you should be nice, so it must mean she thinks that.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I began hotly, and then I cut myself short. Because I know how hard it’s been for Mama these last eighteen months. It’s not just the grief at losing Papa, not just the loss of our old life, not just the constant money worries that have put grey streaks in her black hair and dark shadows under her green eyes. It’s also knowing what it all means for us, for her daughters. Balls, parties, fine dresses, costly jewels, city living, high society, romance, hopes for a glittering marriage to an important nobleman: all that belongs to dreams of the past now. To be honest, that side of it didn’t worry me, like it worried my older sisters. Anya had been the belle of the Summer Palace Ball and Liza had just made her own entry into society only a few weeks before Papa died and the true state of our finances was revealed. But back then, at fifteen I’d still been too young for all that. You can’t miss what you’ve never known. And probably now would never know.

  But I lost no sleep over that, or even over the loss of our beautiful city mansion, and everything in it, to pay the enormous debts Papa had left behind. Our country house, which had once belonged to Mama’s father, was much smaller than the Byeloka mansion, but it was cosy and homely, with ample space for us all. We had plenty to eat too, for we had cows, chickens, a vegetable garden, an orchard, a fish-filled stream, and mushrooms and berries in the woods. It was true we only had one house-servant now instead of the flock we’d had before, and we’d all had to learn to do our own hair and look after our own clothes and sometimes lend a hand to Sveta in the house or with the chickens, and help Oleg and Vanya, who look after the garden and the cows. My sisters minded terribly, but I didn’t. It was a small enough thing to do for Mama, who works so hard, sometimes long hours into the night, even in winter when her studio in the garden is so cheerless.

  Truth is, I miss my father, but I don’t miss society. I find the whole notion of it suffocating, with its gossip and matchmaking and rules for young ladies. Occasionally, we’re invited to village dances, and though my sisters moan about what country-bumpkin affairs they are, with farmers and local gentry noisily mixing, I enjoy them much more than I’d have enjoyed Byeloka balls. But even more than that, I love the freedom I have here, where you can run barefoot in long summer grass or whoop as you race a sleigh across snowy fields, or get ink on your fingers and nose, and nobody cares. Nobody, that is, apart from my sisters. I don’t share their feelings, but I understand them and love them. And especially I love my mother dearly and would
do anything to put the sparkle back in her eye. So if Liza’s right and by some miracle the stingy old Captain might be persuaded to help us and lighten Mama’s burden, then for her sake I should pretend I’m glad to see him.

  I sighed. ‘I suppose this means we’d better look our best. Do you think my brown velvet would do?’

  Liza’s blue eyes widened in surprise. She’s not used to me being biddable, still less asking her advice. But she soon recovered. ‘What, that old thing? Certainly not. The sleeves will be too short; you’ll look like a clown in it.’

  ‘Then it will go nicely with my ink-blot nose,’ I said flippantly, but Liza wasn’t amused.

  ‘Stop being silly, Natasha, and come with me. We have to ask Anya what she thinks.’

  I groaned inwardly. I could see that I was in for a long and tedious session of parading in front of the mirror, but I could also see that I’d have to put up with it.

  It took even longer than I thought, because Anya wasn’t in a good mood. She’d found a tiny pimple on her normally flawless creamy skin, and her sea-green eyes were stormy with irritation as she dabbed at it with powder. Liza usually humours her, but today she was impatient. ‘For heaven’s sake, we don’t have time for this! Anya, you look beautiful, you always do!’ She stroked Anya’s black ringlets. ‘But if the Captain claps eyes on Natasha in that shabby old velvet, he’ll change his mind about making her his heiress and then we’ll be stuck here for ever.’

  I couldn’t understand how she’d gone from the faint hope that he might help us to the ridiculous fantasy that the old miser would make me his heiress, and I nearly laughed aloud, but stopped myself in time. Turning to my eldest sister, I said solemnly, ‘That’s right. And you’re so good at understanding these things, Anya. You have such a fine eye for clothes and what they say about people.’

  She gave me a hard look. No wonder. It’s not exactly the sort of thing I’m in the habit of saying. But like Liza she recovered quickly enough, saying, rather ungraciously, ‘Oh, very well.’ She looked at me critically. ‘Hmm. Now let me see . . .’

  Although it was autumn and there was a definite bite in the air, in the house, with the blue and white stove burning cheerfully, it was very warm. So between them Anya and Liza decided that given the regrettable fact my face and neck still bore traces of a summer tan like a peasant girl’s, and the less regrettable fact that my brown hair was still sheened with summer gold, I could play the part of the fresh-faced country maiden in a light flowery dress that would make the old miser think of spring. ‘And as everyone knows,’ said Anya, ‘the thought of spring makes you happy, and happiness makes you generous.’

  It was my turn to be surprised. Practical Anya had said something not only acute, but beautiful. I wished I’d thought of it. I made a note of it in my head, to add to my story, the story I’d started when Liza burst in. Happiness makes you generous. That would be the theme of my story. It would be like a magic charm, to work on my own family. And on myself.

  Alas! All our efforts – the pretty rose-patterned muslin dress, the coral necklace Anya said would set off my brown eyes, my tidy plaited hairdo, clean face and stiff smile – were for naught, as were my sisters’ rustling, perfumed presences and my mama’s gentle conversation. Not to speak of the honey cake and tiny gingerbread stars and horses painstakingly iced in pink and white by Sveta, and the hot fragrant tea, poured from the best samovar into the best tea-glasses. All of it was for nothing. That greedy old Captain devoured everything without pleasure or thanks, and did not even look us in the face when he finally came to the reason for his visit: how it had ‘lately come to my attention, Madame Kupeda, that your esteemed late husband, my dear Cousin Alexander, neglected to return some items he had borrowed from me’.

  This was so unexpected that we all stared at him as though he was speaking in a foreign language. I saw the colour rush out of Mama’s cheeks as she murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Captain Peskov. I don’t think I quite understand.’

  He drew a list out of his pocket, adjusted his spectacles, and said, ‘It’s all itemised here, Madame Kupeda, but just so you know: Item 1, an umbrella, black. Item 2, a pair of socks, plain grey. Item 3, a pair of wet-weather galoshes.’ He saw our baffled expressions. ‘It was some years ago. Cousin Alexander called in to see me. It had been raining and his feet had got wet, so I let him borrow these items.’ He sounded like he thought he’d done something very noble. And indeed it must have wrenched what passed for his heart to part with any of his things, I thought, even if no doubt they were old and shabby and fit to be thrown out. I certainly didn’t remember seeing them in the house.

  I saw Mama’s hands clench in her lap and her features harden. I knew that set expression on her face and so did my sisters. We looked at each other, holding our breaths. But all she said was, very softly, ‘And of course you wish your property to be returned, Captain Peskov. As it will be, as soon as I find it. Why, the thought that we might have retained any of your property makes me feel quite . . . quite ill.’

  His face twisted in what was clearly meant to be a smile. ‘Oh, but you must not upset yourself, dear Madame Kupeda. I am sure we can come to some suitable arrangement,’ and he licked his lips. We all stared at him. But before any of us could say anything, he added hastily, ‘I understand you’re painting portraits for a living these days. And I fancy having my portrait painted. We can negotiate a suitable fee, from which the value of the items your husband borrowed can simply be deducted, so there would be no need to return them.’ He beamed, well-pleased with himself. ‘Now, what do you say?’

  ‘What do I say?’ she whispered. ‘I say that if you don’t get out of this house this very minute, this very second, I will not answer for my actions.’ Her eyes flicked to the cake knife. Noting the direction of her look, the Captain scrambled to his feet in panic, spluttering, ‘You’re mad, woman, quite mad! Here I am giving you a favour out of the goodness of my heart and you –’

  ‘Get out,’ she said, ‘just get out.’ Her voice was still soft but there was such a chilling undertone in it that it was much more frightening than if she’d shouted, and her eyes were like stones. I got up then, and Anya and Liza too, and together we went to stand by our mother, to protect her . . . to stop her from doing something terrible.

  Under our combined gaze, my godfather mutely fumbled for his hat and coat. Just before scuttling out, he hissed over his shoulder, ‘You’ll regret this! Mark my words, you’ll regret this. Your name will be mud. No-one will commission you, I’ll make sure of it. No-one, do you hear!’ The last word ended on a squeak of pain as Mama, after calmly removing one pretty shoe, threw it at his retreating backside, the sharp heel connecting perfectly with its target. And then he was gone, rushing out of the house as if Old Bony herself was after him, howling for his blood.

  The old miser was as good as his word, spreading poisonous rumours about us to all and sundry in Byeloka. We heard about it in letters from friends: apparently, from his reports, we lived in a squalid hermitage at the back of beyond, Mama’s loss had quite turned her brain, and as for us girls, we were running wild as wolves and no-one who was anyone respectable should have anything whatsoever to do with us.

  Well, as for the last part, that was already true. Since our financial ruin, the large social circle Mama and Papa used to move in had melted away like snow in the spring. Our few remaining city friends were not rich or powerful or influential, so their opinion did not matter to the bigwigs of Byeloka. Mind you, neither did Peskov’s; his reputation was not exactly a shining one, for no-one much likes a miser. Still, enough mud stuck for the Byeloka merchants and their wives, who had been Mama’s main clients, to think that perhaps their fat red faces and self-satisfied jowls might be better painted by someone else – anyone else. So as the weeks went by the commissions began to dry up, and a couple of clients who’d already had their portraits painted quibbled about the price, demanding a discount. Poor Mama had no option but to agree, for otherwise they would simply not have pai
d at all and she’d have been left not only with no money but with two canvases ruined by the ugly mugs of their owners.

  By the time winter had really set in, our situation was becoming desperate. Oh, we still had more than enough to eat, thanks to our home resources: the barrels of salted meat and cabbage, the wheels of cheese, the rows of jars of preserved fruit and vegetables in the pantry. But the small reserve of money Mama had put aside from the sale of her paintings was dwindling by the day, and soon there would not be enough to afford other things, things she’d tried so hard to keep giving us: magazines, books, new shoes, a new dress, the occasional lace handkerchief or shawl.

  Mama looked more and more haunted while Liza and Anya’s faces grew longer by the day. As for me, I embarked on a secret money-making project. The most famous literary magazine in Ruvenya, The Golden Pen, ran a big writing competition every year, with large cash prizes, and you could enter up to three stories. Why shouldn’t I enter? I had been writing since I was little, and because I also read a lot, I knew my stories were not bad at all. I told no-one about my project; it would stay a secret unless and until it worked out. So, in my best hand, I made a good copy of what I considered to be my three best stories, including The Three Sisters, the tale I’d started the fateful day Captain Peskov came to visit. (I was very proud of that one.) I gave myself the pen-name A.A. Fenicks, which I thought sounded intriguing, maybe even a little foreign, and certainly not like that of a girl of nearly seventeen living in some benighted hermitage in the provinces. I took my stories in their envelope, carefully stamped, to the post office next time we were in Kolorgrod, our small local town, giving as return address the post office itself, for I did not want anything to come to our house. The competition results would not be announced till well into the new year, and I had already devised a little plan about how I was going to tell the post office we were expecting a letter to arrive for a cousin called Messir Fenicks.

  Days passed. A week. Two. Three. Christmas came – not very merry, this year. Well, in truth it hadn’t been since Papa died. Oh, we tried; we made pretty paper decorations for the tree, Sveta baked a beautiful cake, and Mama had made us each a present: lovely wooden brooches, painted with our own exquisite miniature portrait. Anya’s wore an emerald tiara on her ebony-black hair and emerald earrings in her ears; Liza’s had a sapphire circlet on her brow, with a filmy veil over her hair like new-minted gold; and mine had hair the colour of fresh autumn leaves touched with the last of the summer sun, and a single magnificent ruby like a flame on a fine chain around her neck. I thought it was as if each of us had looked in a magic mirror and seen someone like us but touched with unearthly glamour, like a princess in a fairy tale.