Clara waited. After a moment, Miss Cameron inclined her head.
“You are right to want to apologize. Very well. You may go to your mother’s room. After you have spoken to her, you must go to the nursery and get ready for bed.”
“Yes, Miss Cameron,” said Clara. She turned from her governess and began to mount the stairs.
Something glistened on the stair landing. Clara caught sight of it as she climbed the last three steps: something that shone against the dull carpet like a miniature sun. She bent down and picked it up.
It was a gold watch. Clara had never seen a watch quite like it. The dial was no larger than her thumbnail; it seemed to represent the full moon. Around it was a night sky made of black enamel, with two figures set against it: a golden wolf and a silver swan. The swan was suspended in midair, its wings outstretched. The wolf’s jaws gaped, its teeth as thin as needles.
“Madamina!”
Clara’s head jerked up. The puppet master Grisini stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She had seen him leave a quarter of an hour ago.
“You come apropos.” He swept off his hat and bowed. “I want your eyes, Miss Wintermute — your keen, bright eyes. Come and help me!”
Clara hung back. She wasn’t sure whether it was proper to speak to him. They had not been introduced, and she didn’t know what apropos meant. She had a vague idea that madama was the proper title for an Italian lady; madamina might mean a little lady. She wasn’t sure whether Grisini was mocking her or being very polite.
The puppet master stretched out his hands. “I have lost my automaton watch. Your so-kind butler, Bartletti, told me I might come up the back stairs and search for it — but the light is dim, and my eyes are no longer young. Will you come into the drawing room and help me, little madama? It is very rare —preziosissimo! — my automaton watch.”
Clara hesitated. She had no wish to follow Grisini into a dim and empty room, but she could think of no polite way to refuse. Close at hand, she could see how disreputable he looked. His tattered frock coat glistened with fog, and there was a patch of sticking plaster under his chin. His words seemed to hang in the air: madamina, apropos, preziosissimo, automaton watch . . . ! But automaton watch was English and must refer to the object in her hands. Clara smiled with relief. “I’ve just found it,” she said, and held out the timepiece.
In a flash he was at her side. He nipped the watch out of her fingers so swiftly that she never saw his hands move. “Ah! There it is! Attenti — I will show you; six o’clock is about to strike. It is time for the wolf to frighten the swan — guardate!”
As if in response to his words, the figures on the watch began to move. The wolf’s golden jaws gaped and snapped. The swan’s wings flapped, allowing the bird to jerk upward a quarter of an inch. There was a faint sound from inside the watch: a minute hammer striking a tiny gong.
“Bau! Bau!” Grisini mimicked it. “That is how dogs bark in Venice, Miss Wintermute. Do you like it — my automaton watch?”
Clara wavered. She liked the colors of the watch, the richness of the gold and silver against the black enamel, but she pitied the poor swan, who could not fly away. Soberly she said, “It’s beautiful.”
Grisini nodded. “Sì, molto bello.” He cocked his head to one side, his eyes alight. Would you like it as a birthday present? Shall I give it to you, Miss Wintermute?”
Clara cried, “Oh, no!” and clasped her hands behind her back. “I mean, no, thank you. It’s very kind of you — but I couldn’t take it.”
“Perchè no?” Grisini shut his fingers over the watch and opened them again. His palm was empty. He laughed at her surprise, stepped forward, and flicked one of Clara’s ringlets. The watch reappeared between his fingers. “If I choose to give it to you, why not?”
“I don’t —” Clara began, but the watch had vanished again. He snapped his empty fingers, and it gleamed in the palm of his other hand. He lost the watch a third time and discovered it behind Clara’s sash; he produced it from under her chin; he bent almost double and brought it out from the hem of her skirt. He circled her, his hands fluttering, the watch winking in and out of thin air. Clara felt as if she were being tickled. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream.
“Perhaps you are afraid your mother will find out,” Grisini said softly. “How shocked she was, a little while ago! Oh, yes, I saw! The boy works the skeleton puppet — so I watch — and I hear you laugh!” His grin widened. His teeth were black and yellow, like the keys of an old piano. “But of course, she is shocked because you are laughing at death. Is that not so? È vero! But I say, Miss Wintermute, it is good to laugh at death —”
“I — I wasn’t,” Clara stammered, “I didn’t —”
“You did,” he contradicted her. He set his forefinger in the narrow groove above her lips, commanding her silence. “You have a brave heart, madamina.” His finger descended, grazing the lace on the bodice of her dress. Clara thought he was about to lay his hand against her heart, but instead he scooped up her gold locket and held it in the hollow of his hand.
“Cosa c’è? It is new, yes? A birthday present? Only I think you do not like it.” His mouth twisted in an upside-down smile, as if he were talking baby talk.
“I do like it,” Clara said desperately.
Grisini smiled at her dishonesty, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “A very good sapphire,” he said in a pleased tone of voice. “Siamese?”
“I don’t know,” Clara answered. Her mouth was dry.
“The filigree work is well done,” Grisini observed. “Not quite so well as a Venetian jeweler might do it, but very fine.” He turned the locket to catch the light. “It’s the inside you don’t like, yes?” He leaned closer. “Open it up and let me see. I have shown you my treasure; now you must show me yours.”
Clara felt sick. Grisini, the puppet master; Grisini, the foreigner, had touched the lace on her dress and was asking to see inside her locket. Such things did not happen. She gazed at his wriggling, agile fingers and felt a throb of terror lest he touch her again. She yanked the gold chain over her head and held it out to him.
He accepted it gracefully and opened it to see the picture within. Against an ivory background was a weeping willow tree, less than an inch high. Each branch and frond was fashioned from snippets of human hair. “Ah, so this is for mourning! The hair is from your dead brothers and sisters, I suppose.”
“How did you —?”
“Servants talk, I am afraid, and such a sad story begs to be told. Povera Clara!” He held out the locket so that she could take it back. “But you were not made for weeping, little madama. You should laugh — as you did today — and you should dance. You shall dance.” He smiled. “Shall I tell you how?”
His voice was gentle, encouraging. Against her will, Clara’s eyes met his. It seemed to her that they were terrible eyes: the whites slightly reddened, the irises as opaque as granite. She could not look away.
“You are weary of mourning, are you not? You want to laugh and to dance . . . and there is something else, yes? No, do not deny it; I can see into your deepest heart. You carry a secret, don’t you, mia piccina? Something that haunts you and makes you feel you are a very wicked girl . . . ?”
Clara stared at him dumbly. After a moment, she moistened her lips and whispered, “Yes.”
“I thought so.” He nodded. “Now, listen to me,” he said, and he lowered his voice still further. His whisper was so muffled that Clara could scarcely hear him. She understood nothing that he said and she did not try. The bit of sticking plaster under his chin moved as he spoke, and she wondered if it might fall off. She could smell the gin on his breath and the Macassar oil that stained his collar, but she did not step away. She stood as if she had taken root, trembling at first, and then still. By and by she was as calm as she had ever been in her life.
Bau! Bau! The gold watch was striking. Clara looked down and saw that it was back in her hand. All at once she realized that it was safe to c
ome to her senses. Grisini had gone. The hands on the watch stood at half past six.
“Dr. Wintermute, I would be grateful if you would look in on Miss Clara.”
Dr. Wintermute closed his book, marking his place with one finger. It was eight thirty at night and his first break in what had been a long day. He had been called out before dawn to deliver a baby and returned home just in time to see the performance of the fantoccini. At the end of the show, he had seen his daughter disgrace herself, casting his wife into something close to hysterics; before he could calm his wife, he had been summoned to treat an ill-tempered duchess with a stone in her kidney. When he arrived home, his wife was still distraught and his solitary dinner was overcooked. As he sat with his book before the fire, the last thing Dr. Wintermute wanted was to be assigned a new duty by his daughter’s governess.
None of this showed on his face. Like Clara, Thomas Wintermute could make his countenance a mask. He regarded Miss Cameron with a look of courteous interest. “What is the matter, Miss Cameron?”
“She won’t stop crying,” answered the governess.
Dr. Wintermute kept his finger inside his book. “I should have thought that today’s incident might teach Clara the value of repressing her feelings.” He frowned at Miss Cameron. He had hired her because he thought her stern common sense might balance his wife’s excitable nature. “Let her cry herself to sleep. I don’t suppose it will hurt her.”
Miss Cameron did not seem satisfied. After a moment, she said bluntly, “I don’t like the look of her.”
Dr. Wintermute set down the book. The simple statement, I don’t like the look of her, was enough to set his heart hammering. Dear God, if the child was ill . . . He told himself there could be nothing wrong. If Clara had been anyone else’s daughter, he would have said she was as strong as a little pony. But the nightmare of the past would be with him till the day he died. When the cholera struck, the children had been taken ill very suddenly. He remembered his wife’s face as she wept over the bodies of the children he had been unable to save. As he followed the governess upstairs, he was praying silently, though he wore the same look of calm interest on his face.
Clara was in bed. She lay very still, with her clenched hands on top of the blankets. Dr. Wintermute turned up the gaslight so that he could examine her. She looked more like a child who had suffered a shock than one who had misbehaved at a birthday party. Her pupils were dilated. Though her cheeks were wet, she held her facial muscles rigid, as trying if to demonstrate as little grief as possible. At the sight of her father, her chest heaved, but she did not speak.
“Now, then,” Dr. Wintermute said soothingly, “what’s all this about, Clara?”
Clara gulped. “Mamma said —” She could not finish the sentence, but gazed at him with tears streaming down her cheeks. She tried again. “Mamma —”
“Your mamma is in bed,” said Dr. Wintermute, “and you must be like her and go to sleep. Miss Cameron.” He raised his head to look across the room, where the governess stood. “I think Clara should have a cup of hot milk with plenty of sugar and a teaspoon of brandy. Will you see to it, please?”
Miss Cameron answered, “Yes, sir,” and left the room.
Dr. Wintermute drew a chair beside the bed. He felt his daughter’s forehead. Her skin was clammy, and her pulse was a little too rapid. She curled her fingers around his hand. “Sit up and let me examine you.”
Clara sat up obediently. Her face twisted as she tried to cry without uttering a sound. Dr. Wintermute bent over so that he could listen to her chest. “Have you any pain?”
“No, Papa.”
“Are you dizzy? Thirsty?”
“No, Papa.”
“Have you a headache?”
“No, Papa.”
Dr. Wintermute reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, only to recall that he had given his handkerchief to his wife. It occurred to him that he had spent the day ministering to female creatures, and all of them had cried. Clara, reading his gesture, dug under her pillow and drew out a handkerchief of her own.
“My dear, you must stop crying. You behaved badly today, but your mother will forgive you.”
“She won’t,” said Clara. “She told me so. I went to see her after the party — I wanted to say I was sorry — and she said that — that I insulted their memories and that God was punishing her — and the only child He spared her had a — a h-heart of stone.” A huge sob rose in her throat, making her shoulders jerk. “She said she didn’t think she could ever forgive me. She said that.”
Dr. Wintermute winced. He did not doubt Clara’s word. He knew the kind of thing his wife could say when she was beside herself. He often marveled that Ada, who wept at the sight of a whipped horse or a malnourished child, could be so merciless with her tongue.
“She only loves the Others,” Clara sobbed. “They c-can’t do anything bad because they’re dead.”
“Listen to me, Clara.” Dr. Wintermute took his daughter’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “Stop crying and listen. Your mother loves you dearly. She should not have said those things to you.”
Clara gazed at him with startled eyes. Dr. Wintermute felt a surge of guilt. He had betrayed his wife.
“But you must remember,” he went on quickly, “we must all remember, how much your mamma has suffered.” He cleared his throat. “Today wasn’t your birthday alone, you know. Your brother Charles Augustus —”
“I know,” Clara interrupted him. “He would have been twelve years old today. We went to Kensal Green, the way we always do, because it was his birthday, and we went in the mausoleum and cried.” She spoke the last word flatly; crying was an essential part of the outing. “I hate the mausoleum. I hate seeing the caskets and the space on the shelf next to Charles Augustus — I hate looking at it and thinking that I shall have to lie there one day, all dark and dead and cold. And”— her face twisted, making her ugly in her father’s eyes —“my casket will be bigger than his, because I’m older, which isn’t fair, because we’re twins —”
“Clara,” Dr. Wintermute said, “please.”
Clara twisted her handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” she said levelly, “but it’s every birthday and every Christmas and every Easter. And Sundays. And after we cry at Kensal Green, we come home and look at their pictures in the photograph album and pray and cry some more. And every birthday Mamma gives me presents from the Others.” She pointed to the table across the room. “The lace collar and cuffs are from Selina and Adelaide. And Quentin always gives me chocolates. The toy theatre is from Charles Augustus.” She drew in a ragged breath. “That was clever, the toy theatre — I like it. I miss him. He ought to have been the one who lived —”
Dr. Wintermute stiffened. Clara had touched a nerve. He was ashamed of it, but he often found himself wishing that Charles Augustus had been the twin to survive the cholera. It was his most terrible secret. He loved Clara. He was quite sure he loved her, though he sometimes felt he didn’t know her very well. But a man needed a son. Dr. Wintermute had placed his dearest hopes in his firstborn son. Charles Augustus had been a promising boy, bright and strong and handsome. The deaths of baby Quentin and his other two daughters were deep wounds, but nothing was worse than the loss of Charles Augustus.
Clara’s breath was coming in gasps and spasms. Dr. Wintermute forced his attention back to his daughter. “Clara,” he said, “please stop crying.”
Clara averted her face.
“Your mother will forgive you in time,” Dr. Wintermute assured her. “You must remember”— with a twisted smile —“you’re the only little girl we have. Your mother loves you. As do I.” He forced himself to lean over the bed and kiss his daughter’s wet cheek.
Clara clung to him, pressing her face against his sleeve. He could feel her shaking. “I ought to have eaten the watercress,” she said. “If I’d eaten the watercress, I’d have —”
Dr. Wintermute could bear no more. “For God’s sake, Clara!” he said. “You must not say thes
e things. You are making yourself ill.” He heard footsteps on the stairs: Miss Cameron was returning with the glass of hot milk. His heart lifted. All at once he could not wait to return to his quiet study, with its glowing fire and decanter of port.
He pried Clara’s arms loose and stood up, smoothing his wrinkled coat. Clara looked straight into his face. Her eyelids were red, but her gaze was like a lance. Dr. Wintermute had a sudden, uncomfortable conviction that she had seen into his soul. It was a look he was to remember often in the weeks to come.
November the sixth was also the witch’s birthday. There were no parcels, no letters, and no cake; Cassandra did not expect anyone to wish her many happy returns, and she would have been rude if anyone had. She saw no visitors but the doctor, who examined her mutilated hand and tried, once again, to explain that the safest course would be to amputate. Cassandra made use of her good hand to seize the tray of medicine bottles by her bed and hurl it at him. The doctor backed up, stammering apologies, and the servants hastened to show him out.
Exhausted by her tantrum, Cassandra fell asleep and did not awaken until after dark. The pain in her hand was sharper. It throbbed like a drumbeat, making her head reel. She felt like a wolf with its paw in a trap. She wished she had a wolf’s courage and could bite off her hand at the wrist, separating herself from the pain.
She sat up and drew the bed curtains, craving cold air. Her thumbnail scratched at the filigree locket, feeling for the spring that would release the fire opal. At last she found it, and the phoenix-stone fell onto the counterpane. Cassandra rubbed it against her swollen hand, rolling it like a child playing with a marble.
The pain changed. It did not leave her but became a fierce and gnawing pleasure. Tears of relief filled the witch’s eyes. Cassandra knew that the phoenix-stone would heal her. Underneath the swollen flesh, the bones were knitting. She fixed her eyes on the jewel as it tumbled and twirled.
Splendors and Glooms Page 4