Splendors and Glooms (16 page)

He spoke her name as he once had, lingering over each syllable. He remembered how her eyes used to kindle when he spoke like that. She had fought against her love for him like a fish on the hook, but he had once had the power to soften her.

Her color darkened. “That night in Venice — the night we parted — you spoke of the stone I wear around my neck. You said you knew its history. I didn’t care to listen to you then, but I will listen now. Tell me what you know.”

He wondered if he could disobey her. Weak though he was, he craved the game of thwarting her. But as he hesitated, she cupped her right hand around the filigree locket. He felt a wave of feverish heat. “Speak.”

He sighed. “Among jewelers, it was called the phoenix-stone —”

“I remember that. What else did you learn?”

“Less than you think, perhaps. I had to piece together the story, and it is far from complete. The stone had a bad reputation among jewelers; it was considered unlucky. I consulted my fellow magicians. After that, I had the good fortune to discover a parchment in the Libreria Sansoviniana —”

“Never mind your good fortune. Tell me what you found out.”

Her impatience intrigued him; he wished he had time to think through what it might mean. “The story began more than three hundred years ago, with the burning of a witch.” He heard her intake of breath. “According to the legend, she was possessed of great wealth. The fire opal was a treasure from the New World. How she came by it, no one knows. But someone feared her, or envied her good fortune, and she was accused of practicing witchcraft. In one telling of the tale, the accuser was her brother; in another, it was her lover. Who can say? What does it matter? What matters is that she was found guilty, and her property was forfeit. Her lands were seized, and so was the fire opal. She was burned at the stake. With her dying breath, she cursed those who had stolen from her.” His eyes shifted to Cassandra’s face. “You’ve gone pale. What is it?”

He did not expect her to answer, but she did, driven, perhaps, by the same motive that had led her to consult him. “I’ve seen her. The witch, burning at the stake. In my dreams, and — when I look in the glass.”

“Ah!” He raised himself to a sitting position. “Have you seen the other ones?”

Cassandra turned away from him and began to pace, the hem of her dressing gown rasping against the carpet. “What do you mean, the other ones?”

“The other women who burned. The opal is known as the phoenix-stone because the fires recur. Almost everyone who possessed it died by fire. One woman was struck by lightning. Another perished in a house fire; that was said to be an accident. But there were other women who set themselves ablaze. Madwomen, suicides. One woman left a letter behind. She said that the women she saw in her looking glass had driven her insane.”

Cassandra halted in midstep. Then she reversed and resumed pacing, the train of her gown uncoiling like a scorpion’s tail.

“Here’s the curious thing: the stone itself always escapes the blaze. Always. That’s part of the pattern. A woman inherits the stone or steals it. She may not fall under its power right away. But the more the stone is worn, the more it is handled, above all, the more it is used to make magic, the stronger its power grows. In time, it maddens and consumes its owner.” He shot a malicious glance in her direction. “I warned you years ago, didn’t I? Your hand is bandaged: have you been setting fires? You burned yourself, perhaps?”

“No.”

“But you see the other women in the looking glass.”

She inclined her head.

“You must wish I had stolen it, all those years ago.”

“I wonder,” she said very slowly, “if you could steal it now.”

It was an invitation. She crossed the carpet haltingly, as if every step hurt her. He was seized by a frenzy of rash desire, and he raised himself on one elbow. In spite of his knowledge of the stone, in spite of the curse she had placed on him, his hand shot forward, fingers trembling. The witch leaned over him so that he might seize it. His fingers fastened themselves around the gold chain.

Then she recoiled, wrenching the chain away from him so that his fingertips smarted. She seemed to shimmer and swell before his eyes. She was a giantess wreathed in flame. He fancied that he could see inside the filigree locket, where the red stone pulsed like a racing heart. The air around him darkened, and he swooned.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that the witch had retreated. The scars on his cheeks oozed blood, and the back of his head felt tender. Grisini said bitterly, “Your curse holds,” and Cassandra heaved a sigh of mingled frustration and relief.

“That night in Venice,” she said, “you said
unless.
You told me that the stone would consume me
unless.
What did that mean?”

He felt too ill to speak. He knew that blood was soaking through the bandages on his head.

“Answer me! The fire will consume me
unless.
Unless what?”

“Unless the fire opal is stolen.”

Hope dawned in her face. It was swiftly replaced by mistrust. “You tried to steal it, but you couldn’t.”

“I was not a child.”

His vision was beginning to blur, but he saw the look that came over her face, the sudden alertness. It was as if she understood something she had failed to grasp before. He hazarded a guess. “You stole it, didn’t you? Weren’t you a child at the time?”

“I was thirteen.”

An idea flashed through his mind like a comet. He wanted to clap his hands and crow with laughter and drum his heels with joy. In one flash of inspiration, he saw how he might gain the power of the fire opal — the power, not the doom of it. He thought of the children he had planned to discard as useless. They would not be useless now. He lowered his eyelids, scarcely daring to breathe. Cassandra must not see the triumph in his eyes.

He searched for words to distract her. “Thirteen,” he repeated, “exactly! You were a child on the threshold of womanhood. A remarkable time in life. For the child believes — everything! And feels — everything! So much life, instinct, vital force — and then the first stirrings of adult desire. Everything is potent, volatile . . . ! Why do people sacrifice infants in the Black Mass? It makes them feel wicked; that is something, of course, but what strength is there in a suckling babe? If one wants power, there is far more power in
children
—! The women who did not burn survived because the phoenix-stone was stolen from them. And the thieves were always
children
!” He was out of breath. “When I tried to steal from you — I failed — I was twenty-three — I was
too old
—” The room went dim. He panted openmouthed, like a dog.

Cassandra hastened to his bedside. She kept one hand around the filigree locket but pressed the other against his cheek. He knew that she was only healing him so that she could go on questioning him, but the sensation of warmth was exquisite. He wanted to give himself up to it but instead forced himself to think. How might the children be summoned to Cassandra’s house? He could write to them from his sickbed, but they would be loath to come. At their last meeting, Parsefall had kicked him, and he had beaten Lizzie Rose.

It was several minutes before Cassandra spoke to him again. “Do you truly believe a child could steal the phoenix-stone?”

He was ready for her. “Why not put it to the test? By a stroke of good fortune, I can provide you with two children: my apprentices in London. They’re the right age, more or less, and the little boy is a trained pickpocket. Show him your jewels, and give him the run of the house. He won’t disappoint you.”

Cassandra looked dubious. “A little boy?”

“Not so very little. He’s quite old enough to be dishonest. I took Parsefall from the workhouse five years ago. A clever boy. A good thief, an even better figure worker.”

Her eyebrows rose and she gave a
tchha
of laughter. “Lud, Gaspare! You still play with your string puppets?”

“Why not?” Her amusement nettled him. “My father was in the profession; so was my grandfather. The puppets are in my blood.” He changed the subject. “If you think a girl is more likely to serve you, I have one of those, too. Her name is Lizzie Rose Fawr, and her parents were theatrical people. They died, and I took her in out of charity.”

Cassandra uttered a snort of disbelief. “Is she a pickpocket, too?”

“Not a pickpocket, no. When you first meet her, you will be struck by her air of innocence. It is misleading. She’s a deceitful little puss, in spite of her pious airs. You must not let her deceive you.”

“I am not easily deceived.”

Grisini was greatly tempted to laugh. He closed his eyes as if the conversation wearied him. “Write to them. Invite them here. Tempt them. One or the other will steal the phoenix-stone from you.”

And whichever it is,
he thought,
will be my puppet and my slave. If Parsefall steals it, he will use it according to my commands. And if it is Lizzie Rose . . . She has not yet learned fear, not as the boy has, but I shall enjoy teaching her.

“Very well, then. Write to the children and invite them here.”

“It will be better if you write to them. They’re ungrateful little beggars and dislike my society. You may have to lure them here — and you’ll have to address your letter to the girl. The boy can’t read.”

“You have taught him nothing?”

“On the contrary, I have taught him everything. How to animate the puppets, how to ease a purse out of a waistcoat pocket . . . But reading, no. That is not one of his accomplishments. The girl can read. Invite them both.”

“Or perhaps all three,” Cassandra said shrewdly. “Remember, Gaspare, I have sat by your bedside. You have dreamed and raved in your sleep. Tell me, if you please: who is Clara Wintermute, and what is all this about a ransom of ten thousand pounds?”

P
arsefall was washing his hands. Lizzie Rose, who knew how seldom he washed, would have rejoiced over this, but Lizzie Rose was out, and the only witness to this unusual event was Clara. Clara lay on the mantelpiece, facing a streaked and spotty mirror. From this vantage point, she could see most of the room, a thing for which she was grateful.

Clara had spent the last week on the mantelpiece. It was one place, Lizzie Rose reasoned, where Ruby could not reach her. Lizzie Rose might have doubts as to whether it was possible that anyone could be changed into a puppet, but she took care to keep Clara out of harm’s way. Clara was not sorry to be safe from the dog, but she was weary of lying in the same place for days on end. She felt stranded. She found herself listening for noises in the street below: the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels, the tolling of the bells, and the battle cries of the cats. She looked forward to the hours when the children were at home and she could hear their conversations.

The mantelshelf was cluttered. In the past few days, Lizzie Rose had taken to cleaning the lodgings. Whenever she found something of value, she placed it next to Clara. Gazing into the glass, Clara could see three snuffboxes, a pair of opera glasses, and a photograph in a silver frame. The frame looked oddly familiar, but it faced outward: Clara could see only the back of it.

Parsefall’s splashings ceased. He wiped his palms against his filthy trousers, walked directly to the mantel, and picked up Clara. He carried her to the puppet gallows and laid her on the floor. Then he hunkered down next to her. From his jacket pocket, he took a reel of black thread, a lump of beeswax, and a needle.

He’s going to string me,
thought Clara. She wanted to stretch her painted lips and shout for joy.

Parsefall bit off a piece of thread, sucked one end, and inserted it into his needle. He knotted a string close to her left temple — Clara realized that there must be a screw there — and pulled the string through the perch that hung from the gallows. Clara rose in the air, neck bent, body dangling. Parsefall lowered her until her left foot was flat against the floor. He knelt back down and threaded the string through the screw on the other side of her head.
It’s not right,
Clara wanted to tell him,
my right knee is sagging.
As if he heard her, he reached up to adjust the string.

Clara thrilled to his touch. As the strings passed through her limbs, she felt as if her bones were full of air. She longed for Parsefall to lift the crutch off the gallows. She imagined herself dancing on the tips of her toes, light and supple and free. She wondered if Parsefall were thinking the same thing. She seemed to hear the sound of coins dropping into a tin box and the patter of applause.

A door slammed downstairs. “It’s broken!” the parrot cried triumphantly. There was a fanfare of barking. Clara heard Lizzie Rose’s footsteps on the staircase and the skittering sound of Ruby’s toenails. The door opened, and the dog rushed in, circling the room at top speed.

Parsefall yelped and yanked Clara into his arms. For a moment, Clara’s head rested against his chest, and she could hear his heartbeat. It was fast and strong. She felt him lift her; the spaniel was jumping at his knees. Lizzie Rose said, “Ruby! Come here!” as she set off in pursuit. Ruby eluded her, making a wide circle around the carpet. After another lap of the room, she settled down by the hearth, her black lips open in laughter and her pink tongue showing.