Splendors and Glooms

T
he witch burned. She tossed in a sea of blankets, dizzy with heat. It was fever, not fire, that tormented her, fever and the nightmares that came with it.

She opened her eyes, breathing hard. There was no smell of smoke, no crackle of flame. Her doom had not yet come.

A brass monkey with a hideous face hung on a cord above her head. She curled her fingers around the monkey’s body and jerked. The bed curtains opened. Outside them, the candles in the wall brackets burned steadily. Cassandra was glad of that. Now that she had reached the end of her life, she was a child again and feared the dark.

She heaved herself out of bed and stumbled to the washstand. She splashed herself with cold water, drenching the front of her nightdress. Her fingers went to the filigree locket and the gold chain around her neck. She wished she could take the locket off and cool it in the water.

But the clasp of the chain was tiny and her fingers were swollen. Cassandra heaved a great sigh and sank onto the stool beside her dressing table.

It was the stone within the locket that burned her. She kept it caged inside the gold filigree: a fire opal the size of a crow’s egg, blood red, veined with ribbons of changing color. For seventy years she had cherished it. Now it fed upon her, burning her and sapping her strength.

In former times, it was called the phoenix-stone —

Cassandra’s head jerked up. The room was empty, but the words were as clear as if the speaker stood at her elbow. It was the voice of Gaspare Grisini, her fellow magician.

You have no idea how dangerous it is. You possess it now, but in time it will possess you. It will burn you alive. In former times, it was called the phoenix-stone —

Cassandra dragged her fingers through her matted hair. Grisini had been in her dream; that was why she seemed to hear his voice. She had dreamed of a dark city, a labyrinth of steep houses half drowned in fog: London, she supposed. Grisini had been there, smiling at her through the gloom.

The strange thing was that he had not been alone. There were two — or were there three? — shadowy figures by his side. Small shadows . . . children? Why should there be children? Once again, she seemed to hear Grisini speak:
Like the phoenix-bird, it erupts in flames. I have studied its lore and found out its secret history. Its fire will consume you unless —

Unless. He had spoken the warning nearly forty years ago, in Venice, but Cassandra recalled every word of their quarrel. She had spun round to face him, shouting, “If the stone is accursed, why did you try to steal it from me? Gran Dio, but I will punish you —”

She had punished him. He had studied the Black Arts, and she had not, but she was at the height of her power and her magic was stronger than his. By the time she was through with him, the floors of the palazzo were sullied with his blood. Late though the hour was, she had rung for the servants and ordered them to remove all traces of it, but to no avail; Grisini’s blood seeped into the pale marble and left a stain. She had sold the palazzo the following month.

Its fire will consume you unless —

Cassandra sighed. She wished now that she had let him finish his sentence. In her mind’s eye, she seemed to see him as he looked then. Thirty-seven years ago — dear God, but he had been young! She had been forty-six and he had been twenty-three, maddeningly handsome, with his keen hawk’s eyes and teasing smile. . . . Her frown deepened. Grisini had not been young in her dream. He had looked every day of sixty: a ruined, seedy scarecrow of a man.

What if her dream was a true seeing? What if she had seen him as he was and where he was, in London? If her dream was to be trusted, she might send for him, and he would have no choice but to come to her. She could force him to tell her what he knew about the phoenix-stone. At the thought of seeing him again, her heartbeat quickened, and she felt a tug in her belly that she recognized as hunger — not hunger for food but for something far more shameful and dangerous: love.

She recoiled at the thought. Love Grisini? She hated him. She had cursed him, and she was glad of it. Rather than ask for his help, she would burn alive. Better to let the fire opal consume her —

Unless she could destroy it.

A wild hope seized her. Perhaps tonight she might do what she had never succeeded in doing before. Her fingers shook as she pried open the filigree cage and set the jewel on the dressing table.

She looked around for an object with which to smash the stone. Her eyes fastened on the silver hand mirror. It was heavy, and the back was adorned with raised flowers: small, tight rosettes and pointed leaves. The tips of the rosebuds looked sharp enough to puncture the stone.

With one movement, she swept the dressing table clear of everything but the fire opal. A thin glass bottle broke, filling the air with the scent of roses. Cassandra snatched a handkerchief out of the drawer. She crumpled it, making a nest for the opal, so that it could not roll away. The gem seemed to dilate and pulse, like a beating heart.

The witch got to her feet. She set her left hand flat on the dressing table, bracing herself to strike the blow. With her right hand she grabbed the mirror, raising it high over her head.

Her muscles locked. For almost a minute, she stood frozen. Once the stone was destroyed, she would be powerless. She was old, and soon she would die. She knew she would die alone.

But not by fire. And she would die without asking for help from Grisini. That one humiliation she would be spared.

Cassandra set her teeth. Her arm cut through the air, slamming the mirror downward.

But the muscles of her arm betrayed her. The silver mirror changed direction. It struck Cassandra’s left hand with such violence that the mirror glass cracked. Four bones shattered, and the back of her hand began to ooze blood from a dozen cuts.

Cassandra dropped the mirror. The pain was so great she could not breathe. She curled inward, rocking, unable to utter a sound.

The fire opal flashed like the eye of a phoenix.

C
lara came awake in an instant. She sat up in bed, tingling with the knowledge that it was her birthday. On this very day, the puppet master Grisini would perform at her birthday party. If all went well, she would have tea with Grisini’s children.

The room was dim. The curtains were drawn tight against the November chill. Clara gazed at them intently. If it was very foggy, Professor Grisini might not come. Everything would be ruined; her twelfth birthday would be like all the others, with a trip to Kensal Green in the morning and presents in the afternoon. Clara loved presents, but she dreaded the ceremony of opening them. It was ill-bred to show too much excitement, but if she wasn’t grateful enough, she ran the risk of hurting her mother’s feelings. Clara thrust the thought aside. This year she would do everything exactly right.

She flung back the coverlet and tiptoed across the nursery floor, noiseless as a thief. If anyone came in, she would be scolded for walking barefoot.

She reached the window and slipped her hand between the curtains. There were two sets between herself and the outside world: claret-colored velvet on top, frilled muslin next to the glass. The muslin was sooty from the London fogs; though the windows fit tightly, the fog always found its way in. Clara leaned forward and peered through the peephole she had made. Her face lit up.