Splendors and Glooms (30 page)

He looked dubious. Cassandra changed her tack. “Besides, why would I call in the police when you haven’t stolen anything? I said you might take anything in the house — except one thing, of course. You haven’t done anything wrong. Have you shown me everything you took?”

Parsefall shifted his weight, lifting one leg to scratch the back of the other. His eyes widened in a look of specious innocence.

Cassandra sighed. Wearily, she lifted her hand, cupping it around the gold locket. The effort it took to see into his mind made her feel faint. “Less than five minutes ago, when you went to the table for the pistol, you palmed my emerald necklace, the one your sister didn’t want. It’s in your trouser pocket,” she said flatly. “And earlier this morning, you took two rings from the Florentine chest in the Blue Room. One’s set with a ruby and the other with a yellow diamond. The diamond’s good, by the way — don’t let the man in the pawnshop tell you it’s a topaz and cheat you. You wrapped the rings in a handkerchief and hid them in the lining of your jacket.”

Parsefall looked dumbfounded. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You may keep the rings. You may keep everything.”

“Why don’t you want ’em?”

Cassandra said irritably, “I told you. I’m dying. I shan’t need them. Aren’t you curious about how I knew where you hid my jewels?”

“Woz the servants spyin’ on me?”

“No. I found you out because of my stone. I told you it was magic,” retorted Cassandra. “Would you like to see it again? I’ll let you look at it.”

“Wot for?” demanded Parsefall. “If I can’t ’ave it, why do you want to show it to me?”

It was an intelligent question, one Cassandra was not prepared to answer. She paused to think. “I want to show you a trick.” She nodded at a glass globe on the mantelpiece. “Fetch me that case.”

The boy brought the case and laid it in her lap. Inside, perched on a branch of coral, were two stuffed hummingbirds. Their bodies were scarcely larger than a bumblebee’s. Cassandra hugged the fire opal with her fingers. “Watch.”

The heat of the phoenix-stone came slowly, and with it a wave of nausea. Seconds passed, and nothing happened. Cassandra squeezed the stone tightly. One of the dead birds began to move. It cocked its tiny head, and the wings began to pump up and down. The iridescent colors of the feathers appeared: lime green and ultramarine, glittering gold and violet. Now the second bird was fanning its wings and jerking its head, and the ghost of a twitter came from inside the glass globe: a thin, eldritch sound.

The boy said, “Is it clockwork?”

Cassandra’s concentration wavered. One of the birds stopped moving, its beak ajar. The other dropped its wings.

“No, it’s not clockwork. It’s the stone.” She forced a smile. “What do you think of that, Master Parsefall?”

Parsefall hunched one shoulder. “It ain’t bad,” he said, “but I know an old Chinaman who does birds better. He uses shade puppets.”

“That’s puppetry,” Cassandra said scornfully. “This is magic.”

He bristled. He came closer to examine the case, running his hands over it to feel for hidden wires or strings. Cassandra saw the stump where his fourth finger ought to be, and a new idea came to her. “Don’t you ever wonder what happened to you?” she asked softly. “Wouldn’t you like to find out how you lost your little finger?”

The boy’s pupils dilated. He put the maimed hand behind his back.

Cassandra opened the locket to release the stone. She rocked it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. “Would you like to touch it? You can’t take it, because that would be stealing, but you may touch it, if you like.”

He drew closer still. Cautiously, as if he were afraid of being burned, he laid one finger against the crimson gem. Cassandra had invited the touch, but she found it disturbing. It was as if he had kissed her mouth. She breathed shallowly, forcing herself to remain motionless.

Suddenly he recoiled. It was as if he’d received an electric shock: he jerked back his hand, breathing hard. He took two steps backward, his gaze inward, as if he were trying to remember something.

“Wot if it’s like the Bottle Imp?”

Cassandra said, “What bottle imp? What are you talking about?”

“It was a play we used to do wiv Grisini,” explained Parsefall. “There was this man, and he had a bottle wiv a n’imp inside it, like a demon. The demon could grant wishes, but the wishes never worked out proper. An’ whoever took the bottle, if ’e didn’t get rid of it, ’e was going to burn in hell.”

“How did it end? Did the man go to hell?”

“Not the principal puppet,” Parsefall said, as if she’d asked a stupid question. “’E can’t go to hell, ’cos he’s the hero, innee? He tricked somebody else into taking it — the wicked Spaniard with the mustaches — and then
’e
went to hell. The Bottle Imp dragged ’im down, and there woz flames.”

Cassandra’s skin crawled. “But that was only a story.” She spoke lightly, trying to regain the ground she had lost. “My fire opal is real. Demons and bottle imps — they’re things in stories. You wouldn’t be frightened by a story, would you?”

Parsefall shouldered his pillowcase and stepped away. “How do you know we ain’t
in
a story?” he demanded, and was out the door before she could think of a response.

L
izzie Rose stood outside Madama’s room, steeling herself to go in. It was past teatime on Christmas Eve, and she had been summoned to show what she had chosen for her Christmas presents. Lizzie Rose had made up her mind to behave like the youngest daughter in the fairy tales she loved. The youngest daughter always preferred the humblest gift: a rose instead of a diamond, a blessing instead of a fortune. Things always seemed to turn out well for her. Even so, Lizzie Rose dreaded the interview to come. “She can’t eat me,” she muttered, but that was sheer bravado. Cassandra Sagredo might not stoop to cannibalism, but she could humiliate Lizzie Rose and make her cry. That was bad enough.

Lizzie Rose shifted her stack of books from one arm to the other and adjusted the tiger skin around her shoulders. In only a few hours, she had grown fond of the tiger skin. It was bracing to look down and see her arms wrapped in yellow fur and black stripes. Tigers were courageous animals, she reminded herself. She opened the double doors and marched into the room.

Her changed costume was not lost on Cassandra Sagredo. The old woman barked with laughter. Ruby, who had followed Lizzie Rose, woofed in response and sprang onto the bed.

“Outlandish,” commented Cassandra. She smacked the bedclothes, inviting the dog to settle down beside her. Ruby bounded across the blanket hills and licked the old woman’s fingers.

Lizzie Rose said pointedly, “Good evening, ma’am.”

Cassandra fondled the dog’s ears. “I suppose you think ‘Outlandish’ is a poor way to begin a conversation?”

“I didn’t say so, ma’am.”

“No, you didn’t. Polite child. Polite-child-in-a-tiger-skin. You like furs, do you?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t think I do.”

“Why ever not?”

Lizzie Rose thought a little. The old woman sounded almost friendly, and it occurred to her that talking to Cassandra Sagredo was rather like talking to Parsefall: manners were not strictly necessary. “I think it must be very agreeable to be a tiger. I don’t know much about India, but I believe it’s warm, and there are jasmine flowers. . . . To live in the sun and be fierce, and then to die because someone wants your skin . . . I think that’s sad. If I were a gentleman, I wouldn’t shoot tigers.”

“Then why did you take the skin? Don’t you like it? Didn’t you
want
it?”

“I
didn’t
take it,” answered Lizzie Rose. “Not to keep. I only borrowed it, because the house is so cold —” She stopped. Madama’s room wasn’t cold at all. No matter how drafty the rest of the house might be, the sickroom was stifling and pungent.

“That dress of yours isn’t very warm, is it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Or very pretty, for that matter. I thought Fettle burned it.”

Lizzie Rose’s chin came up. “I don’t think Mrs. Fettle had any right to take my clothes. I paid sixpence halfpenny for this dress.”

“A fortune.”

Lizzie Rose bit her tongue. She was tempted to tell this pampered woman that sixpence halfpenny
was
a fortune. One could buy six penny loaves for sixpence: six frugal suppers for Parsefall and herself. Remembering just how frugal some of those suppers had been, Lizzie Rose was seized with the impulse to tell Mrs. Sagredo even more. She wanted to throw her problems in the old woman’s face. She wanted to tell someone how frightened she was of hunger and poverty and ending up on the streets.

Instead she defended herself. “You said I might explore the whole house and have anything I liked. I found my clothes in the ragbag belowstairs. I had nothing to wear, so I took them back.”

“The White Room wardrobe is full of things to wear,” argued Cassandra. “Beautiful things. Didn’t you even look at them? Didn’t you
want
them?”

Lizzie Rose blushed. She had, in fact, looked at the gowns. There was one — a gown of creamy silk, embroidered with butterflies and wild pansies — that she had not been able to resist trying on. It was thirty years out of fashion and several sizes too big for her, but she had stood transfixed before the mirror, astonished that anything could make her look so pretty. If she had known how to make it fit her, she wouldn’t have been able to resist it. But the silk was so exquisite that she couldn’t bear the thought of ruining it — and that meant asking for help from the servants. The thought of Mrs. Fettle’s disapproval had settled the matter.

“Well? Cat got your tongue?”

“I did look at them,” admitted Lizzie Rose, “and I like pretty things, but I couldn’t — I didn’t —” She sighed. “My own things are best.”

Cassandra snorted disagreement. “Your things are hideous. It’s a shame — you’re not a bad-looking girl. Fetch one of the candlesticks from the mantel. I want to look at you properly.”

Lizzie Rose set her books on the dressing table and returned with a three-branched candelabrum. Candlelight flashed across the face of the brass monkey. Like Madama, the monkey seemed to be sneering.

“What a nose you have!” exclaimed Cassandra. “A nose like a vixen’s — but that’s what will make you a beauty when you grow up. If it weren’t for your red hair and long nose, you’d only be pretty — but with that nose, you’ll do better. The great actress Siddons had a nose like that. Men will stare at you and think that your nose is too long, but they’ll go on staring. Haven’t you started to think about that sort of thing — gentlemen and gowns and admirers?”

The word
admirer
reminded Lizzie Rose of Fitzmorris Pinchbeck. Her lip curled. “No, ma’am.”

“Just as well. Lud, what a waste of time! When I was young, I was always in love with some man. Not that I was a beauty. ‘A big girl’ — that was what they used to call me. Hateful phrase. I was too big and I could never endure tight lacing, but I knew how to make men look at me. I had many admirers in my heyday. One man put a bullet through his head for love of me — though I admit he was inordinately stupid. You don’t believe me, do you?”

Lizzie Rose took a moment to consider. She recalled the glass case with its hairy relics, and it suddenly seemed less macabre than pathetic. She stared at the old woman, trying to catch a glimpse of the coquettish girl who had craved the attentions of men. It was difficult to imagine. No wonder Mrs. Sagredo needed her souvenirs. They were proof of an impossible past.

“I do believe you, ma’am. I saw the cabinet downstairs. The one with the little portraits of all your admirers.”

“Oh, that,” Cassandra said fretfully. “That was . . . Well. It was all so long ago.”

Silence fell between them. Lizzie Rose returned the candlestick to the mantel. Cassandra settled back against the pillows. Ruby sighed deeply and stretched out flat.

Cassandra broke the silence. “If you don’t want dresses and you don’t want men, what do you want? Tell me that. Don’t stop and think — just tell me, quick as ever you can. I want to know.”

A swarm of images darted through Lizzie Rose’s mind. She wondered if she dared broach the subject of the legacy. Even a fraction of Madama’s wealth would make such a difference! She envisaged herself and Parsefall living a whole new life, and in less than a second, she had conceived of a home for them: a cottage by the lake, complete with honeysuckle, and deep, cozy chairs covered with flowered chintz. She pictured Parsefall sitting at a desk while she helped him with his schoolwork. Because she was in charge of constructing the scene, he didn’t pull away when she put her arm around his shoulders; he didn’t tell her she wasn’t his true sister. She saw herself in the cream silk dress, reading fairy stories before the fire, or skating on the frozen lake with her hands kept warm in a dear little muff. She thought of feeding Ruby a mutton chop every evening, and there being meat enough for all three of them.

She caught herself up. These were selfish wishes. The youngest daughter in a fairy story should have a mind above mutton chops and silk dresses. The youngest daughter would think only about the people she loved. Dutifully Lizzie Rose thought of her own beloved, and all at once she knew what she longed for more than anything in the world. “I want the people I love not to have died.”