by Tracy Lynn
This is worse than the animals.
“I have everything. Everything!” The duchess knocked aside a pile of books in a rare fit of rage. Ancient grimoires of curses and spells fell down among scientific treatises. None was dusty; the duchess was neat and careful through and through.
“The lock of a maiden, the blood of a mother, gold and electrum, and a spectral screen of mica …”
Alan said nothing.
The duchess’s normally immaculate appearance had come undone. Her golden hair was out in wisps. She threw her head down on the table and began to sob.
“My Lady …” Alan began quietly.
Her head popped up. There was a wild look in her eyes Alan did not like, a feral gleam unlike her usual ferocity.
“Of course,” she said slowly, “How could I be so stupid?
“A heart. It needs a human heart.”
Chapter Eleven
AWAY
Two years.
Two years and fifty-five days Snow had been a prisoner in her own home. Several generations of mice had come and gone; Andy, Colin, and Nigel had formed clans, houses, and lineages of their own, but still found time to play with her. They now ran up and down her arms, looking for treats.
She missed being outside. She imagined shoving her fingers into the dirt, during the rain maybe, shoving her fingers and hands in as deep as she could.
“Jess!”
She looked up, surprised, Alan was the only one who called her that anymore—and there he was, perched outside on her windowsill.
“Alan,” She carefully put the mice on her shoulder and padded delicately over to the windowpane. “Whatever is wrong?”
His normally rosy face was beet red and sweating; veins popped out on his head as evidence of an inner struggle. His hand twisted at the fiddle charm he wore around his neck.
“Listen to me. You have to go. She’s going to—you’re going to be—she will—she hired—a murderer—” His face went white with the effort of whatever he was trying to say, and he almost fell.
“Alan!” She grabbed his hand to steady him. Andy Campbell squeaked with dismay as her shoulder jerked.
“You’re going to be killed if you stay here” Alan said finally, after he had rested a moment. His eyes were closed and his breath came in gasps.
“What are you talking about?”
“Please, just listen to me. You have to go. I … can’t … help you…. She’ll ask…. I cannot lie…. Meet me at your mother’s crypt as soon as you can. Take very little with you so no one will suspect anything! Hurry! Wait for me there!”
And he was gone. Just like that, her world had changed.
Murder her? Who? The duchess? Why? Was she pregnant at last? Was Snow some sort of a threat?
Her next thought was for the mice. She carefully set them down and took all of the food out of her special hiding place and put it under the bed for them.
“That will last you awhile.” She would ask Alan to look after them after she was gone. How long will I be gone? Snow quickly went through a list of her dearest possessions. She was already wearing her locket. She found a little bag and put papers and a pen and pencils in it, so she could write letters from wherever she went. She folded up one of her nicer—but not nicest—dresses and put that in as well. Money. She almost forgot, not having been out or allowed to buy anything since she had been first confined. She gathered up all the money she had and some jewelry to sell: a couple of necklaces and bracelets, and a pretty little ornamented pocket mirror the duchess had given her their first Christmas together. She put in a scarf and a muff, unsure of the weather, wherever she would be going. Then she hid the bag as close to her body as she could and donned the black cloak she was famous for wearing down to the old church. Snow inspected herself in the mirror. There was barely a bulge where she wore the bag. Then she quietly slipped through the shadowed halls of the great estate.
“Mistress Talbot,” she said quietly and deferentially to the old tutor, who was reading in the library. “I would go see my mother’s grave.”
The woman frowned at her over small wire glasses. “I think you grow excessively morbid, child, but do as you will. Be back before supper.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Where would she go? Where could she go? She had no other family, no friends…. Davey, perhaps? No, he lived too close. Dolly? Was Swansea also too near? Alan would think of something. He would take care of her.
But wait, didn’t he say he couldn’t help? What did that mean?
People saw her, but no one really took notice as she walked quietly down the gravel-strewn path under the beeches to the old church. It occurred to her that she hadn’t even thought of her father—then again, she saw him so rarely. She wondered if he would miss her.
The wooden door was hard to push, the air cold and damp as she entered. Alan was nowhere to be seen yet, so she sat by her mother’s grave, to say goodbye and to wait.
PART THREE
The Lonely Ones
Chapter Twelve
LONDON
Snow was sure she would never be warm again.
It was not just the rain or the evening air, but a sinister mix of the two that became fog here, patches of freezing darkness there, and icy rivulets going down the back of her dress everywhere. She tried to put thoughts of fever out of her mind; she was a healthy girl and in no danger yet.
The wagon and driver Snow had found eventually got her to Cardiff, with a change to a real coach at an inn along the way. No one would think to look for a young duchess on such a “measly” means of conveyance. In Cardiff she took a coach-class seat on the train. It was her first trip on a locomotive, but she was too scared and exhausted to enjoy it. She fell asleep, awoke, bought a cheese sandwich and a watery tea, and fell asleep again.
When she arrived at Paddington Station, Snow stood stock-still, staring at the crowds. She had never seen so many people in her life. Families, women, children, policemen—but mainly men, all hurrying in and out as if there were very important places waiting for them. The building itself was larger than any she had ever beheld and could barely have imagined; three Kenigh Halls could have fit below its curved archways and domed ceiling. She craned her neck and stared, wondering at the tiny country life she had lived.
It was probably while she stood entranced that her purse was stolen.
She did not notice it until much later, when she had finally tired of wandering around and exhaustion had caught up with her, numbing her ability to take in more wonders. It was evening and she figured she had better find a place to stay, so her first thought was for a bite to eat and something hot to uplift her spirits. There were bakeries just outside the train station, bustling places as busy as the platforms themselves, and if it hadn’t been for her look of hunger the proprietor might have forever ignored her standing meekly there.
“Dundee cake, please,” she asked, thinking of Alan, A hard, heavy bundle was slapped into her hand.
“That’ll be tuppence.”
The fat woman had greasy, floury arms and reminded her a little of Dolly, except for the pock-marked face and impatience. Snow dug quickly through her skirts as a line formed behind her, and she suddenly realized the little purse was gone. All that was left was its ribbon handle with knife-cut ends. She fumbled some more in her larger bag for loose change, trying not to panic. A handful of coins slipped coldly into her palm, and she nearly burst with relief.
“Thank ’ee,” said the fat woman who was not Dolly, but before Snow could give her a proper “You’re welcome” she was already taking money from another customer, forgetting the girl before her.
Snow wandered away nibbling her cake, shocked that something so dreadful had occurred so quickly. She was under no illusion about her ignorance of the city and its people; she had figured, however, that she would be granted a little time to find her footing …. She clutched her bag to her and counted coins through the cloth. Four shillings and tuppence. Not enough for a night at an inn,
much less renting a room, even if she knew where to go.
She tried to keep a “stiff upper lip” like the men in her Scottish novels, but finally she sank down on a bench and cried. Pigeons swept up around her and people rushed by like shadows.
When there were no more tears, she sat for a little longer, wishing for someone to help her, for guidance, for at least some idea of what to do.
When there were no more wishes, she rose and went out into the streets.
The city was enrapturing even through her sadness. Shiny cobblestones and golden reflections of gas lanterns glittered on the ground. Hundreds of people hurried wetly on errands or on their way home; the streets were far from deserted even at this late hour. Snow was easily coaxed into a dream state, already hungry again and still worn out from her escape. She fell into sleepwalk step with the other pedestrians.
She passed under the windows of middle-class houses, having left the station district. In each home families were gathered, fires were stoked, and modest meals were prepared. Surely happy and good people would willingly spare a scrap….
Snow thought vaguely about begging—It’s not like my position doesn’t warrant it—but she could not for the life of her think of what to say. Tomorrow, she promised herself, if I fail to find employment.
She was still stuck with the problem of the night and the cold, and sleep. Something, from a book or a story or a song, prompted her to begin looking down alleys. She had visions of hidden gardens or at least rubbish bins, maybe a dry stairwell to sleep on. Snow worked to convince herself not to fear strange people and city rats. This was easier than expected, as she was both exhausted and familiar with neither.
“I should like to see a nice, honest rat,” she chatted to herself while picking her way through the tiny spaces and crawlways between buildings away from the streets and their lights. It was as black as a moonless night in the country; she often had to feel along the cold, wet brick and stone with her hands. “It would give me someone to talk to. I would share my bread with it—if I had any.”
Her steps echoed far too loudly against the hard walls and pavement, making her feel even lonelier. She was just on the point of giving in and crying when she saw something so strange and fantastic she stopped still, certain she was hallucinating.
Down one of the twisty little turns she had almost missed, a first-floor walkway connected two adjacent houses, creating a little bricked arch and a snug, dry corner beneath. Under this was the scene that caused her to blink. Someone had spread an old, flowered tapestry on the ground and arranged odds and ends of furniture on it like a room accidentally outdoors. A small, broken-legged cabinet with a cracked washbasin stood next to a stool with a threadbare cloth-of-gold pillow, and in the center sat the best thing of all: a worn red velvet couch with carved and faded gilt trim. Everything was reasonably clean and decorated with all manner of cozy, soft trinkets, such as tiny cushions, torn silk throws, and old painted dolls.
“Doesn’t look like the owner is around,” Snow murmured as she approached the fairy tableau, “I’m sure whoever saved all this has to be poor—but regal, A lady of the streets, perhaps.”
Such speculation did not really matter; Snow was dead tired, and nothing was going to convince her not to lie down on the velvet couch, short of an ax to her head. She carefully pulled the covers back, removed her shoes, and snuggled down.
Before her third breath she was fast asleep.
“SSSssssst!”
Snow awoke with a start. It was the middle of the night; the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared, but moonless, it was even darker than before.
A pair of slit yellow eyes glared at her from the other end of the couch. Snow sighed in relief
“You want a place to sleep too, puss?” She moved aside some covers and patted the couch to encourage it.
“This isss my place!”
The eyes came closer, and Snow realized they were proportioned all wrong; what rose up out of the dark had a human shape and cat’s eyes. She opened her mouth to scream.
A small hand—paw—clapped over her mouth.
“Cry and I ssslit your throat.” A claw was held menacingly against her neck.
Snow caught sight of more movement behind this creature—two others. They were silhouetted against the sky, so Snow could see nothing of their features.
“Whatcha got there, Cat?” one of them asked,
“Sssomeone who has been sleeping in my bed.”
“Well, kick it out and lets get on with it then. We promised Chauncey we would split up by dawn.”
“She looksss rich,” Cat said, cocking its head. Snow could a see a brief flash of white, sharp teeth, but no fur; except for the eyes and the fangs it might have been a human face.
“Yeah? And I suppose that’s why she’s sleeping out here, on your flea-bitten old furniture.”
Cat hissed angrily. “It’sss my place, flea-bitten or not.”
“Oh, cut it out, Cat. Let’s have a look.”
This was an older-sounding voice. Cat pulled its face back and the two others drew close, but the claw remained on her throat. Snow could see little of these attackers other than that their eyes appeared to be normal, at least.
Somebody’s tail waved behind their heads.
“She is awfully delicate looking, ain’t she?” This came from the shorter, fatter one.
“Look at this, her cloth is like country wear—cheap,” the older one said, picking at her sleeve. He had no claws, but something ran up the backs of his hands. Not fur—feathers?
“This isn’t cheap,” Cat said, reaching over and picking Snow’s necklace out of her collar with short, stubby fingers. The dull gold heart glimmered like a dying flame.
“Take it—it’s yours,” Snow whispered, feeling her throat expand against the tip of Cat’s claw. “But leave me the painting, please. You can have whatever you want, just leave me the painting.”
“What else you got, then?” the shorter one asked. He began to rummage through her cloak, cackling triumphantly when he found her bag.
Cat opened the locket with a graceful snap of its claws and peered at the contents. It was still too dark for Snow to see anything, but apparently that wasn’t a problem for these three.
“Who is this pretty lady, then:?”
“My mother,” Snow fought back tears. “She died when I was born.”
At this the three creatures paused, even the one looking for coins.
“What’s your story, little princess?” the older one asked, not unkindly. Cat closed the locket but did not let it go.
“What d’ye mean, what’s her story?” the short one demanded, resuming his pilfering. “She’s some little rich thing who’s run away. What—bad arrangement for marriage? Some rich old codger? Yer parents treat you poorly? Not enough sweets?”
Cat hissed in agreement.
Snow said nothing, tears streaking down her face. He was partially right, and treated her tragedy so easily … like it was a common story in the city. What kind of people—or monsters—are these? What would they do to her?
“That’s enough, the two of you. She’s alone, she’s lost—and she’s seen us. There is only one thing to do. We have to take her to Chauncey. Sparrow, blindfold her.”
The last thing Snow saw was her locket, which Cat tugged at until with a snap it came off in his hands.
“Do as you’re told, and everything will be fine,” the older one said as a cloth was slipped over her eyes.
“Do otherwise, and your painting is the least important thing you’ll lose.”
INTERLUDE: ALAN
The duchess was kind enough not to have Alan present while she made the necessary arrangements. All he heard was her muted whisper, referring to someone known as the Hunter, and all he saw was a tall, skinny man in drab black clothing slip onto the estate one day. Alan lay awake at night, imagining the Hunter looking for Snow, walking quietly up and down the hallways, the glint of a stiletto in his hand. What will happen when
he cannot find her?
Alan needn’t have worried, he saw, and should have trusted in the power of gold.
The Hunter eventually disappeared as silently as he had come, mission seemingly accomplished.
An ugly wooden box appeared on the duchess’s vanity, Alan slipped out as she settled herself down and pulled out a tiny, golden fork.
These things were horrible, and true.
But this was also true: Thieves had stolen a sow from the farmer Llanfred, and ravens feasted on something dead, large, and bloody, in the woods.
And as long as the duchess asked him no direct questions about what really happened to Snow, then he, the Hunter, and the pig would never tell.
Chapter Thirteen
THE LONELY ONES
She was not able to keep up. Even with someone—or something—on either side of her, guiding her, they trotted and leaped, and she stumbled and fell. A couple of times she was grabbed by strong, short limbs and heaved. Then she was weightless, falling up and over. It was cold, and they were none too careful with her arms and legs; wherever they were taking Snow, she would arrive frozen and bruised.
Eventually they stopped. There were scratching noises like a key—or a claw—against glass. Rap-rap, tap. A secret signal? She was pushed down and inside, where the air was warmer and smelled. It stank of animals, Snow realized. Not badly, just powerfully, like stables. It was almost comfortable after the unfamiliar and city smells.
“Well, well … what have you got there?” a new voice asked.
The blindfold was taken off her.
She was in a basement. A basement abandoned and seized, she realized, not rented. Tiny windows around the top let in a little bit of city light and moonlight, and a sputtering gas lantern lit the rest. It hissed and illuminated a large front room furnished with pieces of chairs and stools, worn rugs, and sheets and cloths mounded here and there in the corners. Everything looks borrowed or left behind. A cook-stove sat fetidly next to a couple of pots, caked with old food.
