Snow on the Sea

  A retelling of Snow White & The Seven Dwarves

  The Clockwork Fairytales Book Five

  By A. B. Keuser

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Once Upon a Time

  ONE

  Heather Marchant had woken up that morning with a scream.

  Though she’d been plagued by nightmares all her life, no dream had flung the sound from her mouth.

  It had been the undertaker’s fault entirely.

  The only bright point she could find in the situation was that the undertaker himself had screamed just as loudly, then fainted dead away. The tape measure clutched in his hand scattered around him like a strand of dry kelp and the notebook on her bedside table—with its coffin shaped illustration and notations on her height and width—were enough to ensure her flight.

  Her aunt had assured her the incident was nothing more than a misunderstanding.

  “Bollocks,” she said, and then sent an apologetic smile to the woman who flinched away.

  If she was trying to go unnoticed—or at least as unnoticed as possible—she was doing a terrible job of it. But she wasn’t used to this sort of deception. She’d certainly never fled for her life before.

  She stood in the middle of the crowded wharf scowling at the ships that bobbed against their moorings in the deep harbor. Brightly painted hulls reflected off the deep green of the sloshing water and ugly men in bright plumage stood at the head of them, sickly smiles encouraging anyone wishing barter for passage to come do so.

  At one time, she would have said that the merchants shoving wares at her as she tried to get through the crowded streets were the worst sort of cheats. These tufted peacocks were worse.

  Walking down the long line, she scoured the ships’ names for the one she’d been told to seek out. Ravenscroft, from the only account she’d had, was a hard captain with fair prices. But most importantly… one who didn’t ask questions. That was precisely the sort of woman she needed.

  What she found was not what she’d expected. The woman at the front of the Marked Reveler sat sideways in a clockwork chair, limbs sprawled over its arms with a hat draped over her face and a pipe smoldering in one hand.

  “Excuse me?” She said quietly. When there was no response, she spoke again. Louder this time and she saw that she’d been heard in the movement of the woman’s shoulders—an annoyed sigh Heather didn’t hear.

  She grumbled something in another language and struggled to sit upright, brushing her hat off and squinting in the bright light. “What do you want?”

  The chair clicked and clattered and reformed itself.

  Pulling back, Heather screwed up what little courage she had in reserve. “I want to buy passage to Beriquais.”

  The captain looked Heather up and down, setting the pipe between her teeth and then glanced at the long row of ships Heather had passed to get to this end of the wharf. “We don’t offer a pleasure cruise.”

  “I know, but Derivan Coal said you’d let me work to pay off part of the cost.” She prayed her lungs wouldn’t fail her. “I can cook and clean. I may not be help on deck, but I won’t mooch about while everyone else does their part.”

  She flicked her pipe, knocking out dark ash, and Heather caught sight of the tattoo on top of her hand. The same as the Huntsman’s. Or nearly.

  Glaring at her as though she was too bright in the sun, Ravenscroft nodded. “Fine. It’ll still be… a hundred and forty-five guineas. Can’t let you ride for free or everyone will be asking for it, won’t they?” Her eyes were bright, her smirk held a challenge.

  “I understand.” It was a large sum… not nearly as large as others would have asked for. And she had it—even if it would deplete her funds lower than she’d hoped.

  When she’d handed over the coin, she jerked her thumb at the ramp. “See the quartermaster. She’ll set you up in a bunk.”

  Nodding, Heather looked in the direction Ravenscroft pointed. “I have to get something first.”

  Setting her jaw and letting out a breath that defined annoyance, she leaned forward on her knees and tapped her empty pipe on her boot. “Maybe you should have done that before you came to me.”

  Licking her lips and wincing at her, Heather murmured an apology. She’d needed to be sure she had enough money for the passage.

  The captain threw her hand to the side as if dismissing it. “Just be sure you’re back within the hour. We sail with the tide and you’ll need to be settled in before then.”

  Nodding, she turned on her heel and hurried through the streets of Shisaido.

  Ravenscroft was right, she should have done this first, but somehow, the idea of it twisted her stomach into knots, and so, she’d put it off.

  Mentally calculating the remains of her meager purse after she’d paid her passage, Heather cursed. What money she had was a laughable sum, and it not only had to get her to Beriquais, it had to sustain her there until she could find some means of employment. Keeping herself alive shouldn’t be so difficult. Or expensive.

  The muddy streets of the market town were crowded with carts and ship’s buyers. Stores and ramshackle stalls lined each side of the busy walkways, and Heather clutched her bag tightly. It was all she had left in the world… all she’d been able to take without encouraging suspicion.

  As far as her aunt knew, she was at the market to shop. It was how she’d left the house with as much money as she had. Lucinda had a dress that needed retrieval. Keeping the money didn’t feel like stealing when she reminded herself the woman was gleefully waiting for her death with bated breath.

  Slipping through the market streets, she hurried toward her destination with the knowledge that the rushed panic coursing through her veins was a product of her own making. She acknowledged the fact that she would have found a way to put off her plans, and continue to put them off until she was dying on the street if she hadn’t found herself on her now abbreviated timeline.

  Then again, dying in the street would give Lucinda exactly what she wanted… or maybe she just wanted Heather gone. It was anyone’s guess.

  Though Heather had seen some paperwork with her name and sums beside it on her aunt’s desk, the contents of said paperwork weren’t discernible in the brief glance she’d been afforded.

  An interesting document for a woman who constantly pontificated on money as the root of all evil.

  Money couldn’t buy her everything. Especially when she didn’t have much of it. But it could buy her freedom in the form of a ship to sail away in… and a bottle of white powder that might keep her alive long enough to enjoy the sun on a distant shore.

  The only issue with the latter was that she had to visit the chemist.

  Ugly memories roiled in her mind as her stomach mimicked the action.

  Hushed rumor and fractured myth surrounded the woman who created all manner of lotions and potions in her darkened lair at the heart of the village. Heather’s sister was the only one in her acquaintance who had visited the woman with regularity—indeed, the only one Heather knew who actually seemed to like her.

  Isabelle was the first person her aunt would expect her to run to, and if she was completely honest, Isabelle was the first person she’d thought of as well. But there were some things that couldn’t be asked of another person—especially a person who had spent too much time saving her... only to have her treat her abominably.

  No, Heather simply had to rescue herself.

  Her feet failed her at the corner of the street that lay between her and the chemist’s shop.

  Everything about it spoke of disuse and ill care. The stoop was small, the stairs crooked, and the full windows covering the front of the building were blackened and yellowed with age and mildew. The boards had once been painted white, if the sliver of brightness under the eaves was any clue, but muck from the street had clawed its way up, and the dark, weatherworn boards had begun to warp.

  If she’d had another option, she’d take it.

  She’d once thought she’d had a choice in how to escape Lucinda. But that hope had ended abruptly with Gaston’s death.

  Isabelle had taken on this burden for years.

  But now… now that she knew her sister was not, in fact her sister and now that her attempts to gain her own freedom had required pitting herself against Isabelle. Well, now she had to do it all on her own.

  And she no longer had the time to stall.

  She climbed the steps one at a time. Clenching her teeth with each creak of the wood. The sooner she got this over with, the better.

  Which was why she couldn’t quite explain why she stopped at the door and leaned back against the side rail, her mind wracking for any possible alternative.

  And then she saw him.

  Derivan walked through the streets slowly, his eyes meandering. And if he was there, then Lucinda was close by.

  Heart in her throat, she watched him scour the crowds. He’d taken up a relaxed stance on the corner, gaze continually going back to the storefront kittycorner from him…. Lucinda’s dressmaker.

  He swept his surroundings again and caught her eye. Held it.
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  And then, the door to the dress shop opened, Lucinda emerged, and Derivan’s attention turned back. Even from here, Heather could tell her aunt was cursing.

  The Huntsman shook his head, they argued.

  Lucinda shoved a shining knife into his hand, forcing him to close his palm around the jeweled handle.

  She shifted, pressing herself back against the door, hoping the small inset would hide her from view.

  That dagger was meant for her. There was nothing that would convince her otherwise.

  Lucinda wanted her dead and she was no longer willing to wait for her faulty lungs to do the job.

  Lucinda turned toward her, stalking through the street.

  With a squeak in a vocal range she didn’t know she had, Heather grasped the door handle and threw herself inside. Closing it with a snap and pressing her face against the clean side of the dirty glass, she searched the road, moving up to the next pane, hoping she wouldn’t see anything beyond. Lucinda hadn’t seen her. Couldn’t have. Surely, she couldn’t have.

  She was safe for now.

  So why was she trembling?

  Her bag dropped to the floor with a thump and clatter, and still, she couldn’t look away. She had to be sure she wasn’t followed in.

  Heather froze, swallowing heavily. She was inside the chemist’s shop.

  From a viper at her throat to a vial of poison against her lips.

  Closing her eyes, she let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her head against the pane. Of course, she would have been forced inside at some point, but now… back turned to the shop with no idea what she’d see when she turned around….

  Now, she had to face the fabled woman.

  Inhaling—trying to steady her heartbeat, Heather’s eyes snapped open. Her chest prickled and she shook her head, willing the impending attack away.

  Lucinda might not get the chance to kill her.

  *

  Xingjuan Sendi hung from the ceiling of her shop, suspended by a harness of her own design, with a basket of boxes, bottles and vials waiting to be put away.

  A basket she’d almost dropped when her first customer of the day had finally entered the shop.

  The woman who had spent too long on her stoop looking as though she might retch had thrown herself into the shop with such force and slammed the door shut so harshly that Xin was certain one of the many panes in her front windows would shatter.

  They had remained intact. She’d have to remember to thank the glazier—if he was still alive, and if she could ferret out who had built it.

  Dark hair fell in loose strands from the bun that managed to stay atop the woman’s head all the while looking as though it would unravel on a breath. In this lighting it looked black, but she could be wrong about that. The hand on the window was a sickly pale, the sort of coloring that spoke of little to no sun exposure, or the severest cases of anemia.

  The woman clutched her chest and breathed in heavy, panting gasps for a moment before she inhaled so sharply, Xingjuan would have thought the sound could break the glass that survived her slammed entrance.

  She coughed so loudly and so violently that she doubled over a moment before the spasms knocked her to the floor.

  And that was when she knew Heather Marchant had finally come to collect her own lung powders.

  Reaching up, Xin shoved the lever on her pulley system up and the wheels dropped her to the ground too quickly. Something in the basket broke when she hit the ground, knees barely absorbing the shock, but she set it on the back counter without a care. Disconnecting the harness from its rigging, she rushed around the counter and dropped to her knees by the now prostrate woman whose coughing had become so strong she was convulsing.

  Xin picked her up off the floor, cradling her head with both hands and using both her legs and the arm over the top of her to keep her from lurching too far forward.

  Gasping for air like a fish out of water, Heather stared blankly at the ceiling.

  It seemed to take an hour for the fit to pass, but Xin held her tight throughout and whispered softly, hoping it might somehow help.

  Heather came back to herself slowly, melting into her embrace. Then she flinched, realizing she was being held. Heather looked at her without turning her head, and so Xingjuan flashed her a smile.

  “Hello, Heather.”

  The smile on her face was apologetic as she said, “Hi.”

  “I assume you’re here for your powders.”

  She nodded stiffly, her too-bright lips pursed ever so slightly. Xin didn’t like the direction her thoughts flit. Customers—especially those who’d just suffered from their ailment—were not to be ogled over.

  “You’ve gone too long without refilling your prescription. I hope you haven’t been foregoing the use. That could be very dangerous.”

  “Everything in my life right now is dangerous. What’s one more thing?”

  She allowed herself to be helped upright, and Xin watched as she dusted off her skirts and retrieved her bag.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to have a fit on your floor.”

  “No one ever does.”

  She looked back at her with a wary expression. Like so many others, Heather couldn’t tell if she was joking, so she sent her a quick smile and moved to the door. No one lurked on the other side, and when she realized just how uncomfortable Heather was, she moved away, clasping her hands behind her back to keep from fussing with her hair.

  She’d pulled her hair over one shoulder and braided her beard into it that morning without realizing her first customer would make her nervous enough she’d long for the opportunity to fidget with the long white strands.

  When she glanced up, Heather was studying her with unabashed curiosity and so she felt no qualm with doing the same.

  Heather was almost beautiful. Her coloring was startling… though not as startling as the sharp bones Xin had felt through her clothing. The woman was sick and no one was taking care of her.

  Potentially not even herself.

  She hid dark circles beneath powder that was just a shade too dark for her skin—possibly a remnant of a time before she’d lost her normal pigments.

  “Thank you.” She said, again. “I haven’t had an episode that bad for a long time.”

  “I’d imagine the stress of running from whoever is chasing you increased the severity.” Here words were as stiff as she felt.

  She nodded once, looking nervously about.

  Whatever she was running from, she did not want to discuss it. Xingjuan could respect that… maybe.

  Heather slung her bag over her shoulder and moved to the counter, rigid posture speaking of a woman who had no desire to engage in friendly conversation. She was here to buy her powder and be on her way.

  She—like most everyone else—likely believed the rumors and tales of the fairy-touched chemist who hid away in her stacks of poisons and powders… who could snap her fingers and produce a love potion or turn its drinker into a frog.

  The suppositions were close and yet so far from the truth it had become an amusement to learn the newest story ascribed to her. Last month, she’d heard that she was actually a fairy herself. Utter nonsense.

  But amusing, nonetheless. And until it hurt her business, she didn’t much care what they got wrong.

  “How is your sister?”

  She glanced down as though searching the case in front of her for something else to buy. “She’s thriving.”

  “Those incense cubes will make your condition worse, not better.” Xin glanced at the cube burning in the far corner. “I have some that wouldn’t aggravate your lungs.”

  “No, thank you.” She looked up and sent a pained smile her way. “To be completely honest… I’m not sure how to go about this.”

  “Usually when people need something, they come in and ask. It’s a rather simple exchange. You pay me, and I provide you with your powder or tincture of choice.”

  “Right, I need as much powder as I can buy for two hundred guineas.” she nodded and let go of a deep sigh before sorting out a handful of coins.

  Stepping back behind her counter, Xing glanced down at the coins. Shining copper against the cold stone. “Why so much?”

  Heather straightened, the tendons in her neck strained. “I didn’t think I’d need to explain myself.”

  “I’m just curious. After all. Buying in bulk could get you a discount… but it also could mean running my stock out which would require others in need to wait the three days it takes to make the drug.”

 

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