Disclaimer: I own Snow and no one else.

Snow Falls

Chapter Nine

"You look pretty today," Willy Wonka ventured as he traveled across the bridge with his female companion.

Snow smiled. "We don't quite match, though," she pointed out. "I'm Victorian and you're Edwardian."

"Close enough," he said, shrugging casually. "People who don't know their history won't know the difference."

"True," she agreed, nodding slightly. Then, "Oh." She halted and dislodged her arm from his for a moment. She grabbed her drawstring purse and opened it, extracting the key. She held it out to him and smiled. "Thanks," she said, and put it back in the bag. She resumed hanging off of his arm, daring this time to lean her head on it.

He smiled and said, "It was nothing."

Meanwhile, Grandpa Joe was observing the pair from a nearby patch of bushes that smelled rather odd. He couldn't pair a name with a scent, but it was making him sneeze horribly. He was afraid, too, that if he sneezed too loudly, he would most assuredly be discovered. And while he was certain that Willy would do nothing to harm Snow in anyway, he'd made a commitment to that crazy old guy, and he was going to uphold it.

Snow reached down to grab a rose made of pressed licorice. She held it to her nose and breathed in, then smiled and bit off a petal. Still chewing, she extended her hand and offered it to Willy, who took it with a grin and a bow of the head. "You're really a trip, you know that?" she said, once she'd swallowed.

All of a sudden, he tossed the rose aside and lowered the girl's parasol. She did not resist his advances, icy eyes full of curiosity and quiet puzzlement. He gazed upon her face, unadorned save for the choker around her neck, and lost himself in her beauty. Her face was very pale, but her pallor did not make her body sink into the jet black cloth. Her lips were crimson of their own accord, and as sumptuous as the candy apples that hung somewhere near. Those lips were parted slightly, and baited breath passed between them as she waited for his next move. Then gently, so gently, he raised a hand and lightly stroked her cheek for a brief moment. And then someone sneezed.

Very suddenly, they became aware of the fact that perhaps they were not the only ones in this utopia, and that perhaps someone might see them if they were so inclined. Willy stiffened and he entwined their arms, whispering, "Let's walk some more."

Grandpa Joe replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose, then looked about for Willy Wonka and Snow, but they were nowhere to be found. Blast. He'd lost them. His sneezing had undoubtedly scared them off, and now they were gone. He smiled to himself. They certainly liked to remain aloof, and they obviously wanted to be alone. But then he recalled that oddly tender moment that had passed between the two before he'd erupted in an expulsion of sweet scent from his nostrils. Now that he thought about it, it made him a tad uncomfortable. Casual acquaintances, even friends, weren't supposed to share tender moments like that. For an instant, he agreed with George, the old bugger. So he stepped out of his hiding spot and resolved to find them again, wherever they'd gone.

They'd gone to a small space under the bridge just on the edge of the chocolate river, a very cramped and uncomfortable space if one happened to be trapped there with the wrong sort of person. But neither Willy nor Snow minded being trapped there with one another, especially somewhere where they could not be seen. Snow folded up her great aunt's parasol to avoid dipping it in chocolate and bent over, ducking under the bridge while Willy kept watch. When the coast was clear, he joined her, and they squatted together in the crawlspace.

After some moments of silence, Snow dared to whisper, "What exactly are we doing here?"

He gave her an odd look. "I don't know," he whispered back.

"Why don't you know?" she demanded. "You're the one who dragged me under here. I at least deserve an explanation."

"You know why," he said. "Someone sneezed in the bushes. If they'd have seen us, we would have been done for."

She made no response to this for quite some time, and after a few minutes, he dared to look at her. Her eyes had taken on a very odd glimmer, one he could not decipher. "Willy," she asked, using his first name for the first time, "is there something officially going on between us?"

How to answer that? He began with, "Well..." but lost all command of the English language after that. He looked at her again, with her unreadable cyan eyes, but could not force the words from his lips.

"Is there?" she persisted.

Finally he answered her question with another. "Do you want there to be?"

She was taken aback. It was so direct. He obviously wasn't one to beat around the bush. But it was a question she had to consider, and consider it she did, but only briefly. She figured that if she was scrunched into a crawlspace under a bridge made of chocolate with someone, then she must have been willing to risk a lot to spend time with them. So she said, "Yes."

At her answer, his features betrayed no emotion. He merely backed out of the space and offered her a hand, which she gratefully accepted. As they both straightened and brushed themselves off, he said, "All right. Then I want you to meet me tonight in the library."

"Again?" she said.

He nodded. "And wear that dress."

During her summer spent in Willy Wonka's wonderful chocolate factory, Snow did a lot of things for a lot of reasons that she never quite figured out. She went to the library that night, not having changed out of her Victorian dress, as he'd requested, but she didn't quite know why. She also rummaged around in her suitcase before dinner and found a few of the precious CDs that went everywhere with her. She put those in her drawstring purse, to be used in the library. But she had no idea what compelled her to bring that music along, it was just a feeling. She found out that lots of things that summer were "just feelings."

She stole away into the night under cover of her great aunt's parasol, after having borrowed her great uncle's ancient top hat to truly complete her Victorian ensemble. She walked to the library, guided by the dim light from the lantern of an Oompa-Loompa who happened to be out her time of night and was so gracious as to escort her to the vast hall of knowledge. She thanked the little man with a curtsy, to which he gave a bow (and Snow was amazed how in tune with Wonka his workers really were), and she proceeded to let herself in.

This time, there were no simple candy button lights; the faint glow of candles replaced them. Stepping farther into the room, she saw a very colorful phonograph positioned in the corner. But there was no sign of Willy. So she folded her parasol and set it by a squishy crimson armchair. She removed her hat and, holding it in her hands, called out ever so softly, "Mr. Wonka?"

He appeared out of thin air, standing before her in an instant, looking as dignified as his attire dictated. "Good evening, Ms. Carmichael," he said, and gave a bow.

She replaced the top hat only to tip it again as she curtsied. "Good evening, Mr. Wonka." She looked about her surroundings and said, "I like what you've done with the place."

"Thank you," he said. "I decorated it with you in mind." This made her blush, though both of them would be damned if they could have seen it in the dim light. Then he asked her, "Do you like to dance?"

Her eyes grew wide. "Dance?" she repeated.

"Yes. Dance."

"The Venetian Waltz?" she asked, smiling slightly. How she loved to get into character.

"If you wish it," he replied.

"Such a gentleman," she said, smiling. "Actually, though, I brought some music of my own." She extracted the CDs from her bag and held them out to her companion, who took them and examined their titles in the dark.

"Tori Amos?" he said after a moment, glancing up at her.

"Yeah," she said. "She's done some wonderful stuff." She pulled one from the small pile. "This is one of my personal favorites. My only question to you is, do you have a CD player? I love that phonograph, but these things simply won't work on it."

He nodded and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the stairs. They emerged onto the second floor, which was decorated much the same way. He sat her down in the couch circle and took the disc from her. He ran his violet-gloved hand across the wall for a moment before he made that odd little noise of his and pressed his finger into the wall. A small plate extended, and he placed the CD on it. As the disc was swallowed up into the wall, he turned back around and said, "I had that installed before Charlie arrived, just in case my heir happened to have a taste for music." He smiled.

"Oh," she said. She seemed disappointed, mildly hurt, even. "Your heir."

Obviously Charlie had told her the details of the contest, and obviously this topic of discussion bothered her, so he flourished his hand and said, "Never mind Charlie right now. What do you want to do?"

She glanced at the wall that had devoured her music, and then smiled up at Willy Wonka, eyes twinkling. "I want to dance."

The blood is the life, Sikerra.