Splendors and Glooms (27 page)

“I saw them,” Lizzie Rose said, tight-lipped, “but I didn’t think it proper —”

“Take any gowns you want and have the servants make them fit you. The house is full of fripperies — gowns, stockings, petticoats. I don’t want them; I’m too ill. Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Lizzie Rose gritted her teeth. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”

“I’m all kindness,” the old woman said with a savage grin. “Kindness and stumpy! Do you know what day it is?”

The sudden change of subject took Lizzie Rose aback. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, mentally counting on her fingers. “Why, it must be nearly Christmas!”

“Just so. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve. And because I am all kindness, I have thought much about your Christmas presents. You must have gifts from me; I insist upon it. You may choose what you like from the things in this house.”

Parsefall looked blankly at Lizzie Rose. She shook her head.

“You may begin now.” Cassandra spread her hands. “Here and now — in this very room. Go to the table before the fire, and take anything you like! Think of it as treasure trove! Go and choose! Be bold!”

Unwillingly Lizzie Rose turned to face the hearth. There was a table spread with a white cloth and a tempting array of objects: small animals carved from amber and jade; fragments of lace; leather masks and ivory fans; enameled watches; silver penknives; and a wicked-looking pistol with gilded steel mounts. An open jewel box held bracelets and necklaces, all coiled and entwined like serpents in a snake pit.

“You are suspicious.” Cassandra lingered over the last word, as if it were
luscious
or
delicious.
“I don’t blame you. But I assure you: you may explore the entire house and take anything you like — almost anything. The rooms are all unlocked — except the Tower — the Tower isn’t safe. But except for that one room — and except for one thing — you may go wherever you will and take whatever pleases you. And tomorrow evening, Christmas Eve, you must show me what you’ve chosen. That will help me decide what to leave you in my will. Why aren’t you taking anything?” She spoke pettishly: a child on the verge of a tantrum. “Fettle brought those things up just for you. Look — and desire — and
take.
”

Lizzie Rose hung back. She was determined not to show any interest in the objects on the table. But Parsefall went forward and dipped his fingers into the jewel box. There was a flash of green and gold. “Catch!”

Lizzie Rose’s hands opened instinctively. Something hard and metallic stung them, and when she looked down, she was staring at a necklace of heavy gold, set with square green stones.

“Go ahead. Keep it.” Cassandra Sagredo leaned sideways to watch her. “What use will it be to me in my coffin?” Her voice grew sharp. “What’s the matter? Aren’t my emeralds good enough for you?”

“It isn’t that, ma’am —”

“Try them on. And call me
Madama,
not
ma’am.
Put on the necklace and look in the glass. There!”

Lizzie Rose turned to face the tarnished mirror. One of her plaits hung in front of her shoulder. She could not help appreciating the contrast between the glinting green stones and her red hair. Tentatively she touched the gold links.

“You like that, don’t you, little Vanity?”

Lizzie Rose made up her mind. She reached behind her neck and undid the clasp. She crossed to the table and returned the necklace to the jewel box. “It’s very kind of you, ma’am, but I think I would rather not.”

Cassandra mimicked: “‘I think I would rather not.’ Lud, but you
are
a precious one, aren’t you? Such blushes, such a virtuous air! If Gaspare hadn’t warned me —” Her words caught on a laugh. She choked so violently that Lizzie Rose hastened to the washstand to pour her a glass of water.

Cassandra took the glass with a shaking hand. She gulped the water and cleared her throat. Under the powder, her skin was a curious shade of gray. The red paint on her cheeks looked pathetic and grotesque.

“Help me sit up. There is something else I must tell you. I must warn you against the one thing you may not take.” She dropped the empty glass onto the counterpane. “Lift me up.”

Lizzie Rose slid one arm under the old woman’s shoulders. The hot-metal smell was very strong.

“Give me another pillow. And take that pitying look off your face — it’s mawkish. Now — I’ll show you.” She raised her voice. “Come here, boy! You must see this, too.”

From around her neck, she held out a gold chain with a round locket. One yellowed fingernail found the catch, breaking the sphere in two, and releasing a red gemstone. Lizzie Rose was reminded of the cracking of an egg.

Cassandra scooped up the jewel, holding it in the hollow of her hand. It didn’t glitter but glowed like a red-hot coal. Against the carmine red of the stone, other colors curled and dissolved: peacock shades of blue and green, dim white and pale yellow.

“Look, but don’t touch. It’s a fire opal. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Lizzie Rose shook her head.

“Look at it — its size and depth and sheen! Few fire opals have such play of color. It is extraordinarily rare. The stone is worth more than the whole house and everything in it. But that is only the beginning. There’s magic in it. In your wildest flights of fancy, you could scarcely imagine what it might do for you — but here’s the cruel thing: I will not part with it. Lay even a finger on it, and you will be a thief. And what thief would be bold enough to steal my fire opal?”

“But we’re
not
thieves,” protested Lizzie Rose. “We wouldn’t dream of taking it, would we, Parsefall?”

Cassandra bared her teeth in a crooked smile. “I wouldn’t speak for him, if I were you. He’s a bold one, ain’t you, boy? I wouldn’t put it past him to creep in here while I was asleep. It could be done, you know; I sleep very soundly, and the clasp on the locket is loose.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and spoke directly to Parsefall:

“Your blood wouldn’t run cold, would it, boy? I like that about you. I like you altogether.” She sounded surprised. “It’s been years since I liked anyone. I wonder what it means.”

Parsefall said, “Huh,” and scratched his ear.

Lizzie Rose gazed from one perplexed face to another and felt an unaccustomed pang of jealousy. Unlikely as it might seem, the old woman had taken a fancy to Parsefall. Lizzie Rose told herself that she ought to be glad of it. She was aware that most people preferred her to Parsefall, and it wasn’t fair. Nevertheless, she felt shaken, as if Madama’s partiality had wounded her in some way. She looked down at Ruby, who seemed to be enjoying the comforts of Madama’s bed, and a new lump rose in her throat.

“I will see you both tomorrow,” said Cassandra. She ran her hand over the spaniel’s back. “You will come in the evening and show me what you chose for Christmas. Now, go.” She closed her eyes. “Take your pretty little dog and go.”

C
lara hung from the gallows, close to Parsefall’s sleeping place. It was eleven o’clock at night, and she was wide awake. Though she could not stir, she was hard at work, straining to cast a spell that would allow her to communicate with Parsefall and Lizzie Rose.

She was no witch, and she had no idea how to work her spell. But she had devised a ritual, and over and over she practiced it.

She began by recalling the night Cassandra’s magic had brought her to life. She pictured herself swelling until she was full-size; she envisioned herself crossing the carpet and going out into the passage. She went first to the White Room, where Lizzie Rose slept. Her spell — if spell it was — was hampered by the fact that she had never seen the White Room; Parsefall hadn’t taken her there. Even so, she strove to imagine it, and the name was some help to her.

She found her way down the dark corridor and stopped before the door. Calling on all her powers of memory, she thought of what it was like to operate a doorknob. If she could imagine the doorknob, she told herself, she could open the door.

She worked hard, framing every detail of her vision. She saw her hand go out and her fingers curl around the knob. She twisted her hand clockwise, so that the knuckle of her thumb stood at twelve o’clock; she called to mind the click and creak of the latch. She conjured up the sensations that followed: the swing of the door as she opened it and the carpet brushing the soles of her shoes.

She imagined the White Room. It was lit by moonlight, as clean and pure as a lily. Lizzie Rose lay sleeping with her red hair loose on the pillow. Clara stood at the end of the bed, grasping the footboard. She tried to remember how it felt to speak: the sensation of air filling her lungs, the play of muscles in her throat. With all the strength she could muster, she thought the words she wanted to say:

Lizzie Rose! Listen to me! There’s danger! Madama’s a witch, and the fire opal’s evil! Don’t let her trick you into taking it! Whatever you do, don’t take it!

The figure in the bed never stirred. Clara imagined herself raising her voice:
Lizzie Rose, there’s danger here! Take Parsefall and leave Strachan’s Ghyll!

There was no response. Clara remembered what Cassandra had said:
What makes a spell work is passion — fear or desire or rage
— Clara prayed that her passion might be strong enough. She thought the words a third time, intensely, trying to convey the urgency of the danger. She turned from Lizzie Rose and retraced her steps.

Once again, she opened and shut the door. She could almost hear it: the click of the latch and the thud of the door against the wooden frame.
I have warned Lizzie Rose,
Clara thought, desperately hoping that this was true.
Now I must warn Parsefall.

She imagined herself flitting down the hall. She opened the door of the Green Room —
click-thud
— and went to the hearth where Parsefall slept.
Parsefall! Listen to me! It’s Clara! I’ve come to warn you. Madama’s a witch, and the fire opal is evil!

She saw him twitch in his sleep, and her heart leaped. Had he heard her? Perhaps in his sleep, in his dreams . . . His face was pale. Clara imagined herself hunkering down beside him, touching his hand to wake him. She felt a surge of protective love.

Suddenly her vision changed. She slipped into Parsefall’s mind smoothly and completely; it was as easy as sliding her hands into her fur muff. The Green Room vanished, and she was within his dream, seeing the shadows that haunted his sleep.

His dream was not a pleasant one. Clara stood beside him in the dormitory of a dim brick building. The room was desolate and prison-like, and she understood that once again they were in the workhouse. Parsefall was small in his dream, no more than five years old. His head was shaved, and he clutched a bundle of rags to his chest. It was human shaped: a doll.

She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Parsefall!”

He squinted as if he didn’t know who she was. “Eppie?”

“No,” Clara said. “I’m Clara. Listen to me, Parsefall —”

His features blurred. It was as if she saw him through a wall of moving water. Then the water stilled and she saw that he had aged. He was taller now and gazed straight into her eyes. Clara spoke in a rush.

“Parsefall, listen to me. The red stone that Madama wears round her neck — the fire opal. You mustn’t take it. No matter what happens, you mustn’t. It’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Madama wants you to take it. It’s hurting her. It’ll hurt you.” Clara seized upon a new way to explain. “Remember that play you did, with the Bottle Imp? The stone is like that — there’s power in it, but the power’s bad. So you must keep away from it, and you must warn Lizzie Rose —” She stopped, for again he was changing. His body dwindled and he was a small boy once more.

“Who’re you?” Parsefall asked. His voice was higher, his pronunciation less distinct. “Where’s Eppie?”

“Who’s Eppie?” asked Clara, but before he could answer her, she knew.

“Eppie’s me sister,” Parsefall said. His face twisted and he began to cry. “She gi’me her rag doll. She’s dead,” he said, and his cry rose to a howl of raw misery.

In an instant, Clara’s arms were around him. She pressed his head against her front, trying to hold him as softly and strongly as she could. It was like clasping a bird that had no feathers; he was nothing but breath and bone. “Don’t cry, oh, don’t,” she said with stupid tenderness, but his body melted away. She was back on the gallows, in the Green Room. The connection between them had been lost.

Clara fought to regain it. She repeated her warning, hoping to hammer it into his mind.
Parsefall, listen! You’re in danger here! Don’t take the fire opal! It’s like the Bottle Imp!
But he had gone deeper into sleep, and she could not reach him.

The door of the Green Room opened.

Who’s there?
wondered Clara, but she could not turn her head to see. She heard soft footsteps. They hesitated beside the empty bed. Then a shadowy figure came into view: a tall, thin man in a ragged frock coat.
Grisini!
thought Clara, and she went cold all over. She wanted to shriek at the top of her voice:
Look out, Parsefall — wake up!