Snow (12 page)

“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.”

T
he 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.

S
he 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.

Before her was a person or creature she didn’t think she had met yet, presumably the one who had just spoken. He was short and lean, tightly muscled and sinewed. Older than she, but hard to tell by how much. He had the friendliest face so far, with beady little black eyes but a comic, pointy noise and smiling lips that almost made her forget his large pink-and-gray ears and the long gray tail snaking down to the floor.

“She was in my place,” Cat hissed. As it flung off its cloak Snow realized with a start that Cat was a young girl. But as this young girl flipped the rain out of her hair and slicked it back, Snow got a good look at the claws that had threatened to rip her throat out.

“So you decided to keep her?” the man—
rat,
Snow decided—asked.

“She
saw
us,” another explained. This was the short, plumper one, younger than Cat. Was that Sparrow? He
did
have a round face, large brown eyes, and a beaky little nose.

“Obviously,” the rat-man said dryly. “What I’m trying to figure out is why you decided to bring her back to our
hideout?
You know?
Hideout?”

“We didn’t know what to do,” the tallest one admitted. He still had his cloak on.

The rat-man sighed. He cocked his head at her
the way she had seen many rodents do when deciding to flee or investigate something more closely.

“I won’t tell anyone, I swear it.” She was trying to be brave but could not stop the tears from silently leaking out down her cheeks, or her chin from trembling, any more than she could help noticing his pointy teeth and nails. “I will forget everything I’ve seen if you let me go!”

There were snorts and growls of disbelief.

“Ah. Well. About that we shall see,” the rat-man said, not unkindly. “But what’s your story, Princess? Nice clothes like that, nice skin—you’re not poor. What’s a girl like you doing in the streets?”

And so, surrounded by a gang of half-human, half-animal people in flickering lantern light, Snow told a slightly edited story of her dead mother, her father, her stepmother, the fiddler and her escape, and the cutpurse who left her penniless. She mentioned no names or stations.

The members of the group became enraptured despite themselves. She could tell from their widening, dark eyes. Sometimes they fluttered, like the one in the back, and Cat’s tail flipped back and forth slowly as if she were about to strike. Although Snow wasn’t sure what telling the story would accomplish, she prayed it would at least soften their hearts a little.

“Fairy tale,” Cat hissed. “Made-up stories.”

“Highly unlikely,” said another.

“Unbelievable,” stated a third.

“Oh? And what are we?” the rat-man demanded. “I would be far more likely to believe that an insane old crone tried to kill her stepdaughter than in a pack of … of …
us
.”

“If you please,” Snow asked, quietly but still surprising herself with her boldness. “Who
are
you?”

“We?” the rat-man grinned. “Why we, dear lady, are the Lonely Ones.” He swept down in an elaborate and graceful bow that almost touched his head to the floor. “Castoffs and the swept-unders of the grand carpet of society. Thieves and poets, every one. And you have seen us, and that is very dangerous.”

“But why? I could not harm you,” Snow asked, eyeing his claws.

“No, but the authorities could. The Queens finest. Fleet Street. Or, even worse, the
circus.”

Everyone shivered.

The rat-man tapped his tooth with a claw. “Does your father still love you?”

Snow started. She had not expected the question, and now that it was asked did not have a ready answer.
Does my father still love me? Maybe, in a fashion.
She remembered him being particular about her introduction to the duchess, and the toys he had bought her over the years. It wasn’t his fault that her mother had died, or that Snow looked like her …. “Yes, I suppose he does,” she answered slowly, though no more certain of the answer than before.

“Excellent!” The rat-man grinned again. His teeth gleamed like bones in the light. “We shall demand a
ransom for you. Besides our fat reward, your father will find out the truth about your stepmother and everyone will live happily ever after. Sparrow, come here and bring me a piece of parchment.” He rubbed his hands together, very much like a rat, and sat down to prepare the note.

“No!” Snow cried out. “No, please! Don’t make me go back.” Despite her best efforts, she began to sob. “P-please, I beg you—she’ll kill me, she’s mad. … She locked me up for
two years …”

The rat-man’s eyes went wide with surprise and horror at her display. It was certainly not the reaction he had expected. Nor, Snow realized, was it the one she had expected, either.

“But certainly once you speak to your father, you can explain. She daren’t try it again.”

“You don’t understand. She has some sort of hold over him. Over
all
of them.” She thought about Alan and his strange devotion to the duchess, and the fear the other servants had of her.

All of the craziness inside her—the tears, the sorrow, and the horror of the last few days—crashed against the inside of her skull.
My stepmother was going to have me killed
. The craziness of it made her cry more. “Please don’t send me back. I beg you.” She fell to her knees, wracked with sobs.

“Is there anything we can do?”

This might have been said by the tall one; she could not be sure.

The rat-man tapped his tooth again for a long
moment. “All right then. We shall solve both problems—ours (your having seen us) and yours (having no place to go)—at once. You shall stay here and cook for us and clean our place for us.”

Everyone blinked at this, Snow and the Lonely Ones together.

“All right?”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” the short, fat one asked.

“If she goes to the police there will be questions. About
her
. Resulting in a quick ride home and probably a fat reward for the bobby who brought her.” He frowned at the thought of the money he was missing out on and gave her a hard look. “Besides, we’re giving you a chance, Princess. You’re not going to mess that up, are you?”

“No,” Snow whispered. “Thank you.”

Her mind raced. A couple of days ago she had been a miserable young lady of high estate. Then she had been a girl on the run. In neither situation did she imagine she would wind up as a maid for a pack of demons. It was the best, no,
only
option she could see at this point.
At least I know how to clean and cook,
she thought wryly.
And it’s a good thing I like animals
.

“That’s that, then. I think introductions are in order. What’s your name, Princess?”

“Jes—,” she began, then stopped and thought. “Snow,” she said decidedly.

The rat-man stared at her, but did not question.

“Well, we are all in the big city together, and no one cares about your old life—that’s fine. Choose
whatever name you like. This is Cat; you’ve already met her” The girl—cat—in question didn’t extend a paw to shake or say a “How d’you do?” She may have been part animal, but Snow could already see she was going to have problems with the human, girl side of hen “And Raven.” He was the tall one. Raven took his cloak off and revealed pale skin with high, high cheekbones. His eyes were dark brown, and except for black, black hair he seemed to lack animal attributes. Snow reminded herself to thank him later for intervening and bringing her to their hideout. “And Sparrow.” The other boy, short and plump, made a little bow. Soft brown feathers crested in place of his eyebrows. “The Mouser is on his rounds.”

“And you are?” she asked, though she could guess.

“Chauncey,” he answered, grinning.