Snow ✓

Down the Rabbit Hole

Winter went without a storm to rival the one the girl had rode in on an orbit ago. Once frost was all that remained and Gran had readied the peat trays, Mat, a man of his word, prepared to visit Elis.

"Over my dead body."

It wasn't up for debate; Gran needed him here. So, he waited until the ground was tilled and the seedlings planted to ask again. It wouldn't be the first time Snow had stuck her hands in the dirt, he reasoned, but the old woman had always felt safer with an extra pair of eyes and feared that if the girl did see someone that she might not raise the alarm.

"Got a history of having her head in the clouds and feigning mute."

But Gran was growing soft in her old age, and in the end, Mat got his way.

"Hey." Gran got in Snow's face as the boy wrapped a scarf around her head. "You see anyone crest that hill, you give me a shout, a tug on my dress, somethin', anything, you hear me? Or ya best believe they'll haul ya away faster than these cankles can keep up," she added, gesturing accusingly toward her feet.

Gran ignored Mat's stern glare and straightened at Snow's nod.

"You sure that pasty skin of yours isn't going to burn?" Gran asked, not for the first time.

Snow shook her head.

Mat tucked one last long strand of white away. "She doesn't burn."

Now it was Gran's turn to glare.

He turned Snow toward him. "You behave for the old woman, you hear me?" he said loudly, before he leaned in close and added under his breath: "Don't worry. She's all grizzle." He leaned back in time to catch her smile.

"Alright." Gran swung her weight as a wedge between them. "No secrets from the lad who's heck bent on abandoning his family to play with toys and swindle with an old geezer.

"'Til high sun," Gran warned as Mat grabbed his cloak from the peg at the door and swung it open. "You best be back here when the sun's at its highest in the sky or y'r not too old to get whooped, you hear me?" she shouted as Mat gave a little wave and shut the door behind him.

The rim of the sky was still pink like a healing scar when Mat caught sight of the cherrywood door and found it curiously ajar. Bustling and subdued music reached his ear as he peeked inside. The bell overhead didn't chime, the door was already past the threshold; he gave no introduction to the chaos inside, which robbed him of all coherent thoughts and rooted him to the spot.

A matinee of tiny, glass-blown frogs in top hats that he had previously spied in various states of frozen pomp and circumstance were playing miniature brass instruments atop a shelf, their little legs pumping to the music, their cheeks swelling with each breath as more than a dozen velveteen rabbits jumped and jived to the spirited tune down below on the floor. One with a floppy ear twirled and dipped its partner only to drop it a moment later as its backside split, tearing at the seam. Its partner showed the appropriate amount of horror as those around them threw up their stitched paws to their whiskers in a collective gasp. The floppy-eared rabbit turned to glance at its torn bottom, its stuffing falling out, then fell to the floor in a fit of giggles, losing more of its fluff with each wiggle. Its dancing partner placed its paws on its knees with a chitter that wracked its furry body while another rabbit darted down a side aisle and the others resumed dancing. Moments later, a high-pitched squeal clashed with the music. Mat glanced around, looking for the source, when the rabbit who had darted away returned with two honey-colored stuffed hamsters—seams giving their artificial nature away—in white helmets with red crosses, oblong tubes emitting that whistling sound between their plump cheeks, hauling a green stretcher between them. They halted in front of the victim who was still clutching its deflating belly, then hoisted the rabbit onto the stretcher. The forgotten partner scooped up the stuffing and shoved it atop the patient before the hamsters hustled back down the aisle.