Splendors and Glooms (15 page)

“She
is
real,” Parsefall said in a thread of a voice. “Grisini must’ve —”

Lizzie Rose’s fingers tightened. “He couldn’t have, Parse. People can’t do things like that. Magic spells — and evil magicians —” There was a brief, pregnant pause. “They’re only in plays.”

Parsefall leaned in closer; Clara was forehead-to-chest with his grimy shirtfront. His fingernail scraped the side of her neck. “Look at the gewgaw she’s wearin’. It’s the same one she ’ad on that day.”

“Her birthday locket,” gasped Lizzie Rose. “She showed it to me.” She bent down to examine it. “Oh, Parse, look! It opens — just the way hers did! And inside there’s a tiny, tiny picture — made of little weenie bits of hair —”

“It’s
’er,
” insisted Parsefall. “Grisini did her.”

Yes,
thought Clara.
It was Grisini.
She concentrated on each syllable, willing the words to reach him.

“People can’t change into puppets,” argued Lizzie Rose.

“Grisini could change ’em,” Parsefall said staunchly. “You don’t know ’im. Not the way I do.” He lowered Clara to his lap. “I’ll warrant that’s ’ow he did the other ones. He kidnapped ’em and changed ’em, and the coppers wouldn’t find ’em, even if they woz in the same room —”

“They opened the trunk,” Lizzie Rose interrupted. “The police did, remember? When they were looking for Clara, they opened that very trunk!”

Parsefall nodded, evidently following her thoughts. “If they’d opened the bag, they might a-seen ’er — but they wouldn’t ’ave believed their eyes. Not once she woz changed. He changed ’er.”

“But how?” Lizzie Rose sounded as if she might cry. “Oh, Parsefall, I can’t believe it! How could he — and why —?”

“For the money,” Parsefall answered promptly. “Clara was rich, weren’t she? And ’er brothers and sisters woz all deaders. He must’ve known ’er father would pay to get ’er back again. He must’ve done the same thing to that girl wot went missin’ in Leeds.”

“Parsefall, he couldn’t —”

“Why couldn’t ’e?” persisted Parsefall. “It were safe enough, if the children was changed. Nobody’d find ’em. Then after he got the money, he could change ’em back an’ send ’em ’ome.”

Change me back,
thought Clara.
Please.

“How can you know that?” demanded Lizzie Rose. “How can you be so sure?”

Parsefall didn’t answer. Lizzie Rose leaned forward and seized his arm, giving him a little shake. The movement made Clara tumble from Parsefall’s lap to the floor. She found herself staring at the side of the chamber pot. The handle was sage green and shaped like an ear.

“Leggo-a-me!” Parsefall said shrilly. “I don’t know wot I know. I don’t look back — not when it’s about Grisini. There’s a black place in my mind wot ’e made, and if I think about ’im too much, I fall into the black place. So I don’t do it. See?”

Lizzie Rose struck her hands together. “I can’t believe it. That puppet can’t be Clara Wintermute — and Grisini can’t — couldn’t — work a spell like that! He might have been wicked, but he wasn’t clever enough to turn flesh and blood into —” She stopped.

“Into wot?” jeered Parsefall. “Wot’s she made of, then?”

Once again, Clara was taken up by Lizzie Rose. One work-roughened thumb rubbed Clara’s cheek.

“She ain’t wood,” Parsefall pointed out, keeping tally on his fingers. “She ain’t chiny. She ain’t cloth, and she ain’t papery-mash. Wot is she, then?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie Rose said faintly. “She feels like wax — or soft leather — and oh, Parsefall, I think she’s
warm
—”

I’m not wax,
Clara thought.
I’m myself. Only I can’t move.

“Look.” Parsefall pinched Clara’s wrist between his thumb and forefinger. “She’s got ten fingers. Puppets only ’ave eight.” Clara felt a draft on her lower limbs. “And look under ’er frock. She’s got things on underneaf. Real puppets never ’ave nuffink underneaf.”

“Don’t look under there, Parsefall.”

“Why not?” demanded Parsefall. “You’re lookin’.”

“That’s different,” Lizzie Rose said firmly. “It’s very naughty for little boys to want to know about ladies’ things. And besides, she’d hate it if she were alive —”

“She’s alive,” Parsefall said. He corrected himself. “’T’any rate, she ain’t dead. Not all the way. Look at ’er.”

I am alive,
Clara agreed silently.
Listen to him. I can see you; I can hear you; I have feelings. Grisini changed me
—
I don’t know how he did it, but he changed me
—

She tried to retrace the steps that had brought her to Grisini. On the night of her birthday, she had cried herself to sleep. She had awakened a little before midnight, possessed of the idea that there was something of the utmost importance that she had to do. Without knowing what it was, she dressed herself in the clothes she had worn earlier that day. She crept back to her bed and reached inside the pillowcase, where she had hidden Grisini’s watch. Once the automaton watch was in her hand, she understood. She must find Grisini before the watch struck twelve, and give it back to him. Quickly, on tiptoe, she descended the stairs and unbolted the front door.

She knew that the streets were dangerous at night; she had never walked through them alone. But she did not hesitate. Swiftly she made her way to the King’s Road and down to Sloane Square. There she waited, hugging herself against the cold. When Grisini appeared, he bowed and held out his hands. Then she was afraid. Every cell in her body shrank from him; she felt as if he were some great carrion bird, whose touch was contamination. She dropped the automaton watch into his cupped hands. After that, she remembered nothing.

A large black knob appeared before Clara’s eyes. It had a bristly reddish halo around it. A curl of pink cartilage flicked out of the halo. Something wet and warm slicked across Clara’s face.

Lizzie Rose shrieked, “Ruby!” She stood up, clutching Clara to her breast like a favorite doll.

Clara heard Parsefall mutter, “’Orrible little dog.”

“Parse, what are we to do? If it’s Clara — only it can’t be — how are we to keep her safe from Ruby? We’d better put her back in the trunk.” Lizzie Rose snatched up the puppet bag. “If we put something heavy on top —”

No!
thought Clara. Her mind flashed to her brother, locked up in his casket in the mausoleum. She thought of herself, motionless in the trunk, with the lid pressing down upon her.
No! Don’t bury me alive!

“She won’t like it inside the trunk,” Parsefall said, as if he had heard.

“How do you know?” demanded Lizzie Rose.

“Well, you wouldn’t like it, would you?” retorted Parsefall. “Stuck in a box like a deader! She’ll like it better out ’ere.” He reached for Clara. “I could string her,” he said tentatively.

Yes,
thought Clara at once.
Please.

“String her? Like one of the other puppets?”

“We need a dancer,” Parsefall said defensively. “She’s dressed like a bally dancer, and she’s about the right weight. She won’t ’ave nuffink else to do, will she?”

Clara waited, her face hidden against the bodice of Lizzie Rose’s dress.

“Parse,” Lizzie Rose said slowly, “if it is true — I can’t believe it, but I do — if it’s really Clara, and Grisini changed her — how on earth are we to change her back?”

T
he bedchamber was unfamiliar. The man with the bandaged head raked it with his eyes, searching for clues as to where he was. No gas lamps shone outside the pointed windows, and he heard none of the London street noises. It was night, and he was in the country.

He lifted himself on one elbow. At the far end of the room was a chair like a throne, and in that chair sat a woman. Her back was turned to him, but he could see the lustrous fabric of her dressing gown.

He heard the woman muttering. “The Tower. That’s danger or a fall. Nine of Swords and the Wheel of Fortune. Then there’s the Magician — a man of genius — and the woman subduing the lion — Strength. The Two of Cups — but that doesn’t belong; that’s love.”

The woman’s voice was familiar. It was shaky with age, and deeper in pitch than he remembered it. It was Cassandra’s voice and she was reading the
tarocchi.
The Tower, the Wheel of Fortune, the Nine of Swords. They were all Tarot Cards.

“The Hanged Man, reversed. That’s someone trapped between life and death. Perhaps I am the Hanged Man. And Death — perhaps that’s mine. And the Devil — that’s a liar; that’s Grisini.”

The man with the bandaged head recognized his name. He was Grisini, and this must be Cassandra’s house. He raised one hand to his face. The furrows she had carved into his skin thirty-eight years ago were ragged with fresh scabs. He remembered the staircase breaking beneath him and the blinding pain when he cracked open his skull. Later he had come to himself and crawled out of the house: dizzy, feeble, bleeding, but with just enough strength to obey Cassandra’s summons. Weak though he was, he had remembered the policeman stationed across the street. He had stumbled down the cellar steps and crept out the back door through the lavatory. Either the simple ruse or his disguise protected him, for he was not followed. He had a dim recollection of a railway station and an endless journey by train.

Cassandra rose from her throne. Grisini watched her warily. She was no longer as tall as she had been. Age had gnawed her bones and bowed her broad shoulders. She had grown coarser and heavier, but she was magnificently dressed. Her dressing gown was woven from some changeable fabric, saffron yellow where the light struck it, blood red in the folds. Around her neck was a filigree locket containing the gem he had tried to steal. At the thought of the fire opal, he experienced a mixture of terror and desire: terror lest the stone be used against him, desire that he might wrest it from Cassandra and make it his own.

Cassandra spoke, using the Venetian dialect they had once shared. Enemy though she was, he welcomed the caressing tones of his mother tongue. “So, Gaspare. You are awake.”

He licked his dry lips. “How long have I been here?”

“Nine days. I summoned you, but you didn’t come.”

“I suffered an accident.”

“Yes, and lost your way. In the end, you came to the railway station in Windermere. You were out of your wits, railing in Italian, unable to walk or tend to yourself. I had you brought here.” Her lip curled. “My housekeeper would not wash you, you were so foul. I had to ask the groom.” She added deliberately, “You’ve grown old. I shouldn’t have known you.”

He smiled at the crude attempt to wound him. They had both changed since last they met, but she was twenty-three years older than he was, and she had aged badly. She looked ill; her eyes were feverish, and her color was unnaturally high. He selected his words carefully. “To me, you are as beautiful as you ever were.”

It was a double insult. She bared her teeth at him, the unhealthy color in her cheeks deepening. “How dare you, Gaspare! I could have let you die —”

“And would have, no doubt, unless you wanted something.” He took a shallow breath. “What do you want, Cassandra? You summoned me here; you bandaged my head; you put me to bed in a very luxurious room. . . . This house must have cost a fortune. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“If I have, you haven’t,” she said spitefully. “I thought it was your destiny to be a great man. What became of you?”

Grisini’s smile faded. “I’ve never sought the things you care about. You’ve always had a swinish love for comforts and luxuries, have you not? Trinkets and feather beds and sweets to suck upon. Whereas I —”

“Yes, you.” The pronoun was an insult. “What have you sought?”

“Knowledge. Secrets. I studied magic in Budapest, Paris, Prague. My misfortune was that my experiments were too daring, and I was found out. I was imprisoned for fourteen years.”

He tried to speak as if there were something heroic about a long term in prison. In fact, those fourteen years had almost broken him. His arrest had been violent and unexpected: he had been beaten unconscious and stripped of the tools he used to work his enchantments. Those years in prison haunted him still: the hunger, the hard labor, the monotony. By the time he was set free again, his powers had all but left him.

“Why were you imprisoned?”

He made a small, impatient gesture. “I told you: I was experimenting. There was an accident. A child died.” He saw her features contort in a grimace of disgust. “What, are you shocked? Have you grown sentimental? Magic power cannot be had for nothing. There must always be some sacrifice. You of all people ought to know that.” He changed the subject. “And you? What use have you made of your time?”

A hunted look came over her face. “I’ve doubled the Sagredo fortune,” she shot back. “I’ve traveled; I’ve gambled; I’ve entertained. Men have courted me and I’ve collected them like butterflies. I’ve gathered marvels and curiosities; I built this house.” She flung open one hand, indicating the high ceilings, the Venetian windows, the carved and gilded furniture. “There is not a single caprice — not one — that I have not indulged.”

“How happy you must have been.”

The shot went home. She looked daggers at him, and he laughed under his breath, because he could see that her life had been a burden and a misery. Her hands came together as if she wanted to wring his neck. For the first time he noticed that her left hand was bandaged. He forbore mentioning it but repeated his former question. “What do you want, Cassandra?”