Splendors and Glooms (26 page)

“How?” interrupted Clara. She needed no further persuasion. She envisioned herself dancing in a rain of rose petals. The applause broke against her ears like thunder; her parents were clapping in the front row.

“I have cast a spell, Clara: a spell that will bring you back to life. Your desire is the key; you need only wish for the stone, and you will be yourself again. Wish with all your heart! If your wish is strong enough, your strings will snap and Grisini’s spell will be broken. Then you must come to my room — and steal! You will have to pry open the locket, and remove the stone, and”— the old woman’s voice grew rough and deep; something feral gleamed in her eyes —“I will fight you for it. No, don’t shrink away from me! If you use all your strength — all! — you may defeat me. Think of what you might gain! It’s your last hope, you know — your only hope of being human and happy once more.”

But you’re not human,
Clara thought rebelliously.
And I don’t believe you’re happy.
She raised her eyes to the witch’s face. Deliberately, with terrifying ease, Clara crossed the boundary between them, and all at once, she
was
Cassandra. She was old and ill, thirsty and feverish; pain gnawed at her joints and bit deep into her left hand. She was haunted by nightmares; she wanted to die; she was terrified of dying; she was surrounded by flames —

Clara snatched her hand free. She scrambled to her feet. “You’re not happy!” she cried accusingly. “You’re in pain — dreadful pain! I can feel it — I can see into your thoughts, just as you saw mine. The spell works both ways, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” conceded Cassandra. She was breathing heavily, and her face was ashen.

“You’re miserable!” said Clara. “And you’re frightened to death, because of that
thing
! Now you want me to take it — but I won’t! It’s a trap!”

“Someone must take it,” the old woman said desperately. “Someone. If it isn’t you, it will have to be one of the others.”

The Others.
Clara clutched the locket at her breast. She thought of the snippets of hair inside it: all that was left of her brothers and sisters. “You can’t hurt them! They’re dead!”

“They’re not. They’re here,” snapped Cassandra.

Clara gazed at her, aghast. She realized she had misunderstood. The witch was talking about Parsefall and Lizzie Rose. She stammered, “I — I won’t let you. I’ll warn them.”

“How? You’re a puppet. You can’t speak; you can’t move —”

Clara shook herself like a wet dog. She turned to flee, as if she could escape the witch’s power by physical force. She reached for the door handle, only to find it wasn’t there. She stopped, bewildered. She could not find the way out. She could not sort out where the walls were and what was mirror glass: what was reflected and what was real. She whirled clockwise, and the uneven floorboards tripped her. In a heartbeat, she was on her feet again, only to see that the silver mirrors were darkening. All around her were women with haggard and desperate faces, women wrapped in tendrils of coiling smoke.

Clara shrieked, “Help me!” She clenched her fist around the sapphire locket, as if the Others were good angels who could rescue her. Her frantic mind dredged up a single hope: earlier that night, when she’d entered the room, Cassandra had been facing her: Cassandra’s chair must be opposite the door. Clara turned her back on the witch. She leaped for the door.

She never touched it. The red light dimmed. When Clara’s vision cleared, she was staring down at Parsefall, who lay like a sleeping giant before the fire. She — small and inert, a puppet once more — was back in the armchair, with one foot clamped in the crook of her knee.

M
adama was not well. When Lizzie Rose asked Mrs. Fettle when she might meet the mistress of Strachan’s Ghyll, the housekeeper said that Madama had passed a bad night and would see no one but the doctor. The children were not to leave — Madama had been very insistent on this point — but they must be very quiet, and the dog must be quiet as well. If the dog misbehaved, it would be shut up in the stables.

Lizzie Rose assured Mrs. Fettle that Ruby would be the best of good dogs and scuttled back to her bedroom. It worried her that Mrs. Sagredo was so ill. Lizzie Rose had been hoping that the old lady would welcome them and make them feel at home. She began a prayer for Mrs. Sagredo’s recovery: “Please, God, don’t let her die until —” She stopped in mid-sentence. Until what? It horrified Lizzie Rose to realize that what she feared most was not that Cassandra Sagredo might die, but that she might die before she decided to leave her money to the children. Hastily Lizzie Rose amended her prayer: “Dear God, please make Mrs. Sagredo get better and live a long time,” but her feelings of guilt were not easily banished. Neither was her desire for the legacy. At Strachan’s Ghyll, she and Parsefall were sheltered and fed and safe. There were no policemen, no Luce, and no horrid Fitzmorris. To wake every morning in a clean bed, with a fire in the grate and breakfast on a tray, was an extraordinary privilege; to know that someone else had to carry the coals and empty the slops was a blessed relief.

In spite of these luxuries, the days that followed were anxious ones for Lizzie Rose. Her conscience was fretful, and it worried her that she could not make friends with the servants. She spent most of her time in Parsefall’s bedchamber, rehearsing with the puppets.

The Green Room, which Mrs. Fettle had allotted to Parsefall, was a stately chamber, richly decorated with tapestries, Gothic fretwork, and serpentine marble. It took Parsefall less than twenty-four hours to despoil it. The four-poster, with its curtains of bottle-green velvet, struck him as the perfect place to erect his theatre, so he stripped the bed and piled the blankets on top of the bearskin by the fire. He unpacked the wicker trunk and strewed the carpet with puppets and backdrops, scraps and tools. Lizzie Rose worried that the mess made work for the servants, but Parsefall didn’t care. If he had been a duke, he could not have cared less what the servants thought.

On their fourth evening at Strachan’s Ghyll, the children were busy with the puppets when the door of the Green Room opened and Mrs. Fettle addressed them. “Madama wishes to see you. You’re to come at once.”

Lizzie Rose felt her stomach tense. Here was the interview for which she had waited. She scrambled to her feet, wishing she were wearing her own clothes. Parsefall’s clothes had been returned to him two days ago, cleaned, mended, and pressed; Lizzie Rose’s frocks hadn’t. She had been forced to adopt the ermine-trimmed coat as a sort of day dress.

Mrs. Fettle turned her back, assuming that the children would follow her. Lizzie Rose caught Parsefall’s sleeve. “Let me do the talking,” she whispered. He jerked his head in agreement, and they pursued Mrs. Fettle down the passage. The housekeeper opened a pair of double doors and stood aside to let them pass.

Lizzie Rose halted in the doorway. The room was radiant with candlelight and lined with crimson damask; the bed hangings were sulphur yellow and blood red. Beneath the smell of coal smoke and wax candles, Lizzie Rose detected another scent, a weird, inhuman odor, like hot metal.

“The children from London, ma’am. Miss Fawr and Master Hooke.”

“Close the doors behind you,” commanded a voice from the bed.

Lizzie Rose obeyed, but not quickly enough. A small red figure darted between the doors and frisked over the carpet. Ruby halted before the high bed, barked impetuously, and launched herself upward.

Lizzie Rose cried, “Oh, ma’am! I beg your pardon!” and hastened to the bedside.

She was startled to hear Mrs. Sagredo laugh. It was a jarring sound: creaky and rasping and too low for a woman’s voice. As Lizzie Rose bent under the canopy to retrieve the dog, something caught on her sleeve. She started and looked up. The thing that had touched her was a silken cord, and shinnying up the cord was a brass monkey with a dreadful grin. Lizzie Rose thought she had never seen an uglier ornament, and she gazed warily at the woman who had chosen it.

She was a thickset woman, with a large head and a wide square brow. Lizzie Rose had expected Cassandra Sagredo to be frail and aristocratic. Instead, she was ruddy and full bosomed, with a nose like the snout of a sow. A close look revealed that her brilliant complexion was unnatural: she was powdered white and painted red. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she breathed unevenly.

Lizzie Rose reached for Ruby. To her surprise, the dog eluded her, scampering over the invalid’s lap. The spaniel turned in a circle and sat down, wedging her rump against the old woman’s side. Cassandra Sagredo ran her hand down the dog’s spine. “Ah,” she said, and the monosyllable spoke of pure pleasure.

“I thought you didn’t like dogs,” said Lizzie Rose.

“Who told you that?” demanded Cassandra Sagredo. “Fettle? Fettle doesn’t know what I like. Perhaps I’ll confound Fettle.” She grinned, looking uncannily like the monkey on the bed cord. “So! You are Elizabeth Rose Fawr, and you are Parsefall Hooke. What have you done with my old friend Grisini?”

It was the question Lizzie Rose had been dreading, but she was ready for it. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but I have bad news. Back in November, Professor Grisini fell down the steps of our boardinghouse. He hit his head, and I’m afraid he wasn’t quite in his right mind, because he wandered off into the streets and didn’t come back.” She paused for Mrs. Sagredo’s exclamation of dismay, but the old woman scarcely batted an eye. “We couldn’t find out what became of him. And Parsefall and I hadn’t anyone to look after us, and we were in such straits! So when I saw your letter —”

“You read it,” interrupted Mrs. Sagredo.

Lizzie Rose flushed. “I did, ma’am.” Unconsciously she assumed the pose of a suppliant, clasping her hands. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am! I know how wrong it is to read other people’s letters —”

Cassandra interrupted her again. “Oh, fie! Don’t be such a little prig! I always read other people’s letters. The world would be a very dull place if one had nothing to read but one’s own letters. What I want to know is what took you so long. I wrote you weeks ago.”

“Parsefall takes in the post,” explained Lizzie Rose. “He left the letter in his pocket, and I didn’t find it right away. When I did find it, I hoped it might be from someone who could offer us comfort and advice. Your letter sounded so very kind.” She faltered on the last word, aware that it didn’t ring true. “I’m afraid you must think us very bold to have come —”

Cassandra cut her off with a flick of the hand. “‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold!’ Do you know that old rhyme? I’ve always liked it. But now you must tell me: Did you really come all this way for comfort and advice? Or were you hoping to inherit my fortune?”

Lizzie Rose gave a little gasp. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and knew she was red to the roots of her hair.

“Tell the truth and shame the devil!” mocked Cassandra. “It was the money you came for, wasn’t it? Why not say so? You’re like the cat that wants to catch fish but won’t get its feet wet! Well, come on, girl! Answer my question!”

Lizzie Rose did not trust herself to speak. To her astonishment, Parsefall came to her rescue. “We got our feet wet.” He stepped forward, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t we take the night train from London? We woz on that train for hours, and there woz a baby in the carriage wiv’us, screaming its bloody ’ead off. Lizzie Rose an’ me wanted to wring its neck, didn’t we, Lizzie Rose? Then after we come, Old Fettle made us bathe in ’ot water, whether we wanted to or not. I call that gettin’ our feet wet.” Scornfully he turned to Lizzie Rose. “I told you it woz all flimflam. We come all this way, and she ain’t going to fork over the stumpy.”

Lizzie Rose shut her eyes. When she dared to open them, she saw that Mrs. Sagredo was gazing at Parsefall as if he were some exotic animal at the zoo. “What’s that you say, boy? I didn’t catch half of that. Tell me: what’s
stumpy
?”

Parsefall did not deign to speak. He removed one hand from his pocket and rubbed his thumb against his forefingers.

“I see. So
stumpy
’s money. And I’m to fork it over, am I? Well, my little man, you shan’t be disappointed; I mean to fork over my stumpy, and you shall have your share. Come here and let me look at you! You’re missing a finger. What became of it?”

“Dunno.”

The old woman caught hold of his wrist, unfolding his fingers so that she could trace the lines on his palm. “Why, you’re a thief !”

“He isn’t,” Lizzie Rose said hotly.

“He is. I can see it in his hands. Quite a nimble one, aren’t you, boy? A pickpocket — and clever with the puppets, just like Gaspare.” Mrs. Sagredo narrowed her eyes at Lizzie Rose “What about you? Are you a thief, too?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“Where d’you get the coat you’re wearing?”

Lizzie Rose lifted her chin, determined to defend herself. “From the wardrobe in the White Room. I borrowed it because I had nothing to wear. Your servants took my frocks away.”

“Those were my orders,” Mrs. Sagredo said indifferently. “Fettle said your things weren’t worth mending. I told her you could have my castoffs. Didn’t you see the other gowns in the wardrobe?”