Disclaimer: I own Snow.
A/N: I cannot describe in words the genius that was the late Vladimir Nabokov.
Snow Falls
Prologue
No one ever seemed to know her real name. Everyone assumed it was "Winter" or something of the like, from which her nickname was derived. Everyone always called her "Snow," which was, by many accounts, extremely fitting. She was a particularly pale girl, and it was even speculated at some point that she had that rare allergy to the sun known as photo sensitivity. But once that was disproved, they all assumed she simply disliked the outdoors.
She also wore a lot of black, which only made her appear more pale; but to Willy Wonka, it made her look all the more beautiful. Her bright, icy blue eyes were constantly outlined with thick black eyeshadow, so that they stood out greatly from the rest of her deceptively cherubic face. Upon her thin and frail wrists, there always dangled a number of silver bracelets, inlaid here and there with ruby red gems. Her nails and lips were often painted black, but sometimes she liked to coat her rosebud mouth with a layer of crimson instead.
Upon first impression, no one would think that the well-mannered and cheerful Charlie Bucket shared a single chromosome with the vulgar and antisocial Snow Carmichael. But they did, and they were only a year apart. Snow, as of the second day of the month of October, was fourteen. This was the age at which she traveled to the chocolate factory (upon, oddly enough, her mother's orders) where her cousin and family presided, and fell into a hopeless and doomed love with Willy Wonka, a man at least a quarter of a century her senior.
It had been a particularly warm day in late May when both of the teenagers had received news that their paths were to cross soon enough. Snow's mother, the plump, pampered, and prissy wife of an astute businessman barged without announcement into her daughter's room, and, with her eyes closed, said, in a sing-song tune, "Guess who's going away for the summer?"
Snow, nonplussed, had continued to study photos of a centuries-old castle in Toronto, and responded, "Oh, are you finally gonna ditch Dad and elope with that boy...what was his name? Carlito?" Before her mother had had the chance to open her mouth, she'd continued, "And of course you're gonna tell Dad that you were nursing some affliction that you thought up at three in the morning while you were stumbling back from some bar or other where Carlito was undoubtedly hitting on a much, younger, prettier Latin whore, to quote my eminent mother?"
Angrily, Mrs. Carmichael had tossed an envelope down on the floor and huffed out of the room. Snow, smirking to herself, had set the magazine aside and crawled across the floor to the envelope. She had ripped it open and read the letter inside.
At the same time, many miles away, Charlie Bucket had been about to dash out the door and join his mentor/employer for a busy day of testing candy recipes when his mother had called, "Charlie!"
He had paused and said, "Yes, mum?"
"Your cousin Snow is coming to visit in about a week," his mother had told him.
He had smiled widely. He remembered Snow. They had met once, some great many years ago. She had not been an unpleasant child, nor spoiled at all, despite her generous lifestyle. In fact, she had hated, even at such a young age, all the attention her parents had given her, and she had been mightily glad when she and Charlie had been left to explore the mansion on their own.
"Is Aunt Harriet your sister or Dad's?" he had absently asked.
"Mine!" his father's voice had called.
"All right," the boy had said, more to himself than anyone else. Then he had added, "I've got to go now!"
And thus was set in motion the way fate saw fit to tangle some hearts and break a few more.
The blood is the life, Sikerra.