Snow ✓

The Abominable Idea

At Gran's cottage, orbits without incident slackened all certainty that the world would come knocking to whisk Snow away. Routine brought comfort, and comfortable people do dangerous things. Mat's resolve to keep her safe unraveled like a ball of yarn, bested by his desire to please and give her the childhood neither of them had had. Not getting caught in nighttime jaunts to Myst only fortified their urges to play outside the lines.

It took one other close call with the same drunkards in a back pasture for Mat to pull Snow into the road, and not long after that for them to ditch the backyards entirely. On the rare occasion someone who could not be avoided by darting quickly into an alley came their way, they embraced, hoods pulled low, which never provoked anything more than a few snickers. They lingered outside Mad Hare on balmy nights, when the bartender Hilda left the shutters open, and listened to a musician whose name Mat didn't know strum a lute atop a low-rise in the corner. Whenever the door swung open to spit out a patron, the duo made a mad dash for the beach on the other side of the marsh that bordered Myst's far end. The first time Snow set foot there, looking up and down the rows of tiny boats tied to tiny docks, she asked if they might ever go for a ride. He told her no straight away, but his resolve had been crumbling at an embarrassing rate ever since. These days, he regularly untied a boat spacious enough for two, and each time they pushed off of the dock, his heart felt as if it intended to break through his chest and flop out onto the bottom of the boat. They hugged the shore until they reached an inlet where should a man standing on the shore peer to his right, he would see nothing but dark waters. There they coasted, trailing their fingers in the inky black with constellations in their eyes, and the lapping of the water against the rocks whispering in their ears.

But their biggest and most foolish leap of faith was when she convinced him to break into Cat's Crumble.

"It's not breaking and entering; he left the window unlatched." She shoved her fingers in the crack between the slats and the shutters gave as she pulled.

He reasoned that the ramshackle town didn't need security when any thieves were surely neighbors and would soon be found out.

"Look at all those day-old pastries he's going to waste on pigeons," she said. "C'mon, give me a boost."

"Who knew you'd be the terrible influence on me," he whispered as they stole through the dark shop. "If Gran could see us now."

Snow plucked a croissant from the pile behind the counter, took a big bite and groaned. "Sometimes being terrible feels pretty great," she mumbled through a mouthful of pastry.

Teeth deep in their third pastries apiece, they started—crumbs cascading down their fronts—when Ed began clomping down the stairs, lantern swinging and casting a wild light. The thieves scrambled and pushed violently out into the night, stumbling over one another, but not before Ed tore into the room with a shout. They raced around Lamb Chops and clamored inside the cauldron. It was a tight fit and not the cleverest hiding place, they agreed later, but it did the trick, for Ed could be heard huffing and puffing down the road as he peeked down alleys. They hunkered down and squeezed in close as the light from Ed's lantern streaked down the walls of the neighboring buildings, then released bated breath after it receded and a door slammed. The baker had given up.

"Close one," Mat whispered, his words a sweet-smelling plume that dashed against Snow's cheek.

He ran a finger over the corner of her mouth to wipe away a speck of chocolate before sticking it in his mouth.

"I feel a bit sick," Snow groaned, holding her belly.

He scoffed. "You inhaled those pastries like a starving dog."