Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Cassandra gave a great wild cry. Her hand flew to the locket at her breast. She shut her eyes and willed the vision — if vision it was — to stop. She told herself that it could not be happening — it must not happen, not ever; she must not burn.

  She felt a breath of cooler air and opened her eyes. The figures in the mirror were no longer clear; as she watched them, they became translucent and drifted away like smoke. Cassandra let out her breath. It had been a waking nightmare, no more. There was still time to save herself from a fiery death.

  She tightened her grip on the fire opal. It tingled as if it were alive and eager to serve her.

  She opened her lips and spoke Grisini’s name.

  In the gin palace of the Juniper Bough, Grisini swayed and set down his glass. A red mist glowed around him; his skin prickled and felt hot, as if he stood before the mouth of a great furnace. Then the sensation passed.

  He reached for his glass of gin. He had drunk scarcely a tablespoon, knowing that he must keep his wits about him. Now he took a large swallow, fixing his eyes on the clock across the room. It had stopped an hour and a half ago, as he had reason to know: he had tampered with the pendulum. If policemen came tomorrow and asked the landlady of the Juniper Bough what time he came or left, she would be unable to answer them.

  He reached in his pocket and took out the automaton watch. It was almost nine o’clock, and he wanted to see the hour strike. He cherished a childish fancy that someday the machinery might jam so that the wolf could capture its prey. He imagined the tiny jaws tearing at the swan’s feathers; he pictured drops of ruby-bright blood, smaller than grains of sand. He even wondered if such a drama could be engineered, if in all of London there were a clock maker who could alter the works so that the wolf might bite the swan.

  He returned the watch to his pocket, reviewing his plans. In another quarter of an hour, he would head back to his lodgings at Mrs. Pinchbeck’s. There he would assume the disguise he had contrived and take a hackney coach westward, toward the cemetery at Kensal Green.

  He congratulated himself on the excellence of his plan. He had chosen his victim well. Dr. Wintermute could be relied upon to pay Clara’s ransom; a man who had lost four children would stop at nothing to rescue the fifth. Not until the following morning would the doctor understand that his daughter was never coming home. It tickled Grisini to think that he had forced Dr. Wintermute to spend the night in the cemetery where his children had been buried. It was a masterstroke, the kind of inspired touch that made Grisini an artist in crime.

  He thought hungrily of the ransom money. Ten thousand pounds. Enough money to leave London and live abroad in luxury. Grisini tilted the glass so that the last drop of gin fell on his tongue. He missed Venice but dared not return there. The Venetian police bore him a grudge; so did the authorities of Austria and Spain. He had no wish to return to France, where he had been imprisoned for fourteen years. After weighing the remaining choices, he had booked passage on a ship to Madeira. He wanted the sun. He hated the northern winters, and he was sick to death of fog.

  A wave of intense heat broke over him. He swayed, clinging to the counter for balance. One hand came up to his face, tracing a pattern of old scars: furrows where a woman had raked him with her claws. It had happened thirty-eight years ago, in Venice. He had nearly lost an eye.

  The scar tissue tingled, but his cheeks were dry. The old wounds had not reopened. He blinked, and the red fog around him cleared.

  He raised the empty glass to his lips. His hand was shaking. Why should Cassandra Sagredo summon him after so many years? The thing was unlikely, impossible. Why now, when he was happy in his thoughts, envisioning Madeira and ten thousand pounds?

  He set down the empty glass and left the Juniper Bough. After the frowst of the gin palace, the cold of the streets was piercing. It seemed to Grisini that the fog had crept into his bones. He was not well. In the past months, he had been troubled by a hoarse cough and restless nights. He was afraid his lungs were not strong.

  He was also deeply bored. Even the puppet theatre failed to amuse him. He was willing to abandon it, and eager to be rid of the two children who worked for him. He knew he would never find a boy who suited him better than Parsefall did — the boy’s hands were wonderfully deft — but he found he didn’t care. He looked forward to a life of idleness, with servants to attend him instead of children.

  “Gaspare! Gaspare Grisini!”

  He stopped in the middle of the street. It was as if Cassandra had thrown a noose around his neck and yanked it tight. He felt her presence. He even smelled the scent she used to wear: a nauseous blend of myrrh and musk roses.

  “Gaspare! I want you!”

  He spun like the needle of a compass. If he did not obey her, she could make him bleed. He recalled the night they had parted, when she clawed his face and laid her curse on him. The blood had streamed from him, ounce after precious ounce, pint after pint, not clotting, but flowing in eight crimson streams.

  “You come, Gaspare! I summon you!”

  He lurched forward as if she had released the halter around his throat. As he stumbled through the streets, pictures swam into his mind. He must go north. He would have to go to a railway station, and he knew which one; in his mind’s eye, he saw the great arches and tunnels of King’s Cross. He glimpsed his destination: a landscape of dark fells and silver lakes. A castle of red sandstone rose before him.

  He heard footsteps. He imagined Cassandra tracking him, like Hecate with her pack of hounds, and he panicked. He spied a narrow alley to the left of him and ducked into it, wrapping his arms around his chest as if he could squeeze himself into invisibility. He realized that he was panting and shut his mouth to muffle the sound.

  The footsteps passed.

  Grisini stifled a gasp of relief. Once again, he touched his cheeks, making sure that the wounds had not opened. All at once he recalled his appointment with Dr. Wintermute, and the ten thousand pounds he was about to lose. Ten thousand pounds! He could have screamed with frustration. Why must Cassandra summon him now? Another night — just one — and he would have ten thousand pounds —

  His fingers curled into fists. If he could disobey her — for three hours, three little hours, just long enough to collect Clara’s ransom . . . In the old days, it would not have been possible. But the witch had grown older; the power of her summons was not as strong as it had once been. Perhaps he could manage it.

  He felt his pulses quicken. He had always been a gambler, and though his heart raced with fear, the situation was not without its savor. He turned his footsteps homeward and doubled his pace. He was so intent on his purpose that he was nearly home before he saw the man who followed him through the streets.

  Parsefall was rehearsing. He was trying to learn the dance of the ballerina puppet, which Grisini had refused to teach him. Grisini was fond of taunting his apprentice; he was willing to admit that Parsefall had mastered the skeleton dance, but the ballet was more difficult, requiring the finesse of a true artist. The insult ate deep into Parsefall’s soul. Whenever Grisini set off for the Juniper Bough, Parsefall took the dancer from her muslin bag and practiced. He was determined to prove Grisini wrong.

  He propped a mirror against the side of Lizzie Rose’s bedroom, positioning it so that he could watch the puppet’s movements. He would have liked to practice close to the fire, but Lizzie Rose had laid claim to that territory. She had hauled a basin of water upstairs and was heating a kettle on the hob. Parsefall rolled his eyes at her. Lizzie Rose’s propensity for washing things struck him as insane. He was glad he knew better than to waste time like that.

  He stood on a chair — he was shorter than Grisini, and the puppet’s strings were too long for him. He lifted the perch of the little dancer, and she swung like a child on a swing. He waited patiently until she was still. Then he pulled the hand string. The ballerina raised her arms.

  Parsefall began to hum the music of the dance, keeping his eyes on the mirror. He was dissatisf
ied: the puppet jerked with every move. Though she was beautifully balanced, she was rather light; if she were his, he would experiment with adding weight to her hips. He steadied her and relaxed his hands. The slow, supple movements, each melting into the next, required an almost superhuman delicacy and control. He swore under his breath.

  “Don’t swear,” said Lizzie Rose automatically. “It’s vulgar.”

  “Vulgar be blowed,” countered Parsefall. He knew that Lizzie Rose was only pretending to be shocked. She didn’t think swearing was as sinful as stealing, or thumbing through Grisini’s pictures of naked ladies. “Listen, Foxy-Loxy, would you get the fiddle and play for me?”

  “I’m not Foxy-Loxy,” Lizzie Rose said between her teeth. “And I’m busy. I’m going to wash Ruby.”

  Parsefall wrinkled his nose at her. The day before, Ruby had discovered the source of the foul smell in Mrs. Pinchbeck’s kitchen. The little spaniel had found a dead rat behind the stove and dragged it forth in triumph. Before eating it — and being extremely sick — Ruby had celebrated by rolling over and over on her prey. The smell was so vile that the dog had been shut in the cellar ever since.

  “She’ll ’ate it,” Parsefall predicted.

  “She hates being alone in the cellar,” Lizzie Rose countered. “She’s been crying all day, poor thing.”

  “I’m tryin’ to rehearse,” Parsefall said in an aggrieved tone of voice. “That’s more important than washin’ a dirty dog.”

  Lizzie Rose rolled up her sleeves. “You wouldn’t think so if she slept in your bed.”

  Parsefall shrugged, giving up. He tugged the string for the dancer’s leg, easing her into an arabesque. The standing leg left the floor. He sighed and started over, humming creakily. By the time Lizzie Rose had the dog in the bath, he was beginning to make progress.

  A door slammed downstairs. Parsefall dropped the puppet. The dogs in Mrs. Pinchbeck’s lodgings emitted an earsplitting series of barks and yaps. Ruby leaped out of the basin and raced around the room, spraying the carpet with water.

  Parsefall yelped. The dog was headed for his puppet. He snatched up the dancer by one leg, forgetting what he had known since the age of six: a string puppet should always be picked up by its control. The strings tangled. Parsefall shoved the ballerina under a chair so that Grisini would not see.

  The door burst open, and Grisini came in.

  Parsefall saw at once that something was wrong. There was a sense of heightened alertness about the man, as if he were a predator about to spring. Parsefall kept very still. He fixed his eyes on the carpet so as not to draw attention to himself. He was poised to duck, dodge, or flee.

  But there was no need. Grisini passed between the children as if they were invisible. He strode into the bedchamber and slammed shut the door.

  Parsefall let out his breath. He set his finger to his lips, cautioning Lizzie Rose to silence. He listened to the sounds in the next room. He heard rustles and thumbs, the rasp of wood scraping wood, the tinny rattle of drawer pulls. He wondered what Grisini was searching for.

  Lizzie Rose wiped her wet hands on her skirt and went after Ruby. She knelt down and forced the shivering dog back into the washbasin. Parsefall cocked his head, still listening. Impelled by some instinct, he went to the window and peered between the soot-stained curtains. When he saw the policeman across the street, he nodded. He spoke in a low voice. “Lizzie Rose, there’s a copper out there. ’E’s watchin’ the ’ouse.”

  Lizzie Rose lifted her head. He saw the fear come into her eyes — fear and comprehension and a look of guilt. She whispered, “Don’t tell Grisini.”

  Parsefall shook his head impatiently. “’E knows,” he hissed back. “Don’t you see? That’s why —” He broke off, staring at her incredulously. “God strike me dead, Lizzie Rose, you never went to ’em! You never told ’em wot Mrs. Pinchbeck said!”

  Lizzie Rose pointed to the door of Grisini’s bedchamber. The doorknob was turning. The door opened, and a stranger came out.

  Lizzie Rose uttered a faint cry. Parsefall stared. It took him several seconds to realize that the stranger was Grisini.

  He had changed his clothes. Grisini’s regular clothes were grimy and torn, but they had once been elegant; his tattered frock coat had been cut by a master tailor, and his hat was genuine beaver. The clothes he wore now made him look like a pauper. An overcoat woven of some heavy wool covered him from throat to knee. His boots were clumsy, and his trousers were frayed. The torn brim of a slouch hat cast his face into shadow.

  And his posture had changed. He moved heavily, his shoulders bowed. His hands — Grisini’s long-fingered, theatrical, gesticulating hands — hung from his wrists like a pair of empty gloves. Here was a beggar like ten thousand others: a man so cheerless and commonplace that no one would give him a second glance. Only the eyes were Grisini’s: they were hawk bright and angry.

  Grisini took Lizzie Rose’s jacket from the back of a chair. He flung it down beside her. “Go outside,” he said curtly. “Go and walk the dog. There’s a policeman on the other side of the street. You must distract him — speak to him — fai la civetta; play the coquette. Make him turn his back on the house.”

  Lizzie Rose quailed. The color drained from her face. “I can’t,” she faltered. “Ruby’s wet. She can’t —”

  “Ubbidisci!” Grisini’s voice was a whiplash. “Subito! I need to leave the house — quickly and unseen. Obey me, or you will be the worse for it!”

  “I can’t,” Lizzie Rose said desperately. “He won’t believe me —”

  Grisini’s hand lashed out. His fingers curled like a hook, snagging one of Lizzie Rose’s plaits. He yanked her to her feet so violently that she lost her hold on the dog in her arms. Ruby fell to the floor, squealing with pain.

  “How do you know what he will believe?” demanded Grisini. “What do you know of him?” He twisted both plaits around his hand and dragged her closer, peering into her face. There was a moment of utter silence as he glared into her eyes. Then: “Have there been words between you?” he inquired, sotto voce. “Have you betrayed me — perfida, ingrata!”

  “No,” gasped Lizzie Rose. “No!” Her voice rose to a shriek. Grisini forced her head down and slapped her viciously, striking at the back of her neck.

  Lizzie Rose’s knees buckled. Her hands went out to break her fall, but Grisini jerked her to her feet. Ruby circled them, barking wildly. There was the sharp crack of a second slap. On the third slap, the ring on Grisini’s finger cut into Lizzie Rose’s neck. A long scratch appeared, beaded with drops of blood.

  There was a queer, high noise, as piercing as a pennywhistle. Parsefall had no idea that it came from his own throat. He knew only that his whole body had been set in motion. He leaped like a cat onto Grisini’s back, seizing him by the collar. Grisini shook him, but Parsefall tightened his grip, keeping the stranglehold. He swung forward, chest to chest with Grisini. One knee shot out and kicked hard, landing squarely between Grisini’s legs.

  Grisini swore. Parsefall tightened his grip and kicked again, aiming for the same place. He had learned to fight in the workhouse, and his methods were simple and vicious. He went on kicking until the puppet master doubled over. Then, like Ruby, Parsefall tumbled to the floor.

  He was back on his feet in an instant. Lizzie Rose was at his side.

  “Quick.” Parsefall seized her hand. “Out.”

  They swooped for the door with Ruby at their heels, and flung themselves headlong down the passage to the stairs. There was no time to strike a light, or hold on to the guard rope, but it scarcely mattered. Neither Parsefall nor Lizzie Rose had ever been more sure-footed. They reached the ground-floor landing and hammered at Mrs. Pinchbeck’s door.

  “Old Pinchbeck!” bellowed Parsefall. “Mrs. Pinchbeck, let us in!”

  The door was bolted shut. Behind it, the dogs were enjoying a frenzy of barking.

  “She’s drunk,” Parsefall said bitterly. “Damn her eyes, she’s drunk. I should’ve kno
wn —”

  “Parse —” gasped Lizzie Rose, and she pulled him around to face upstairs.

  There was a shadow at the top of the staircase. Grisini stood there, swearing softly in Italian. At any moment, he would fly down the stairs and strike them dead. Parsefall flattened himself against the door.

  What happened next seemed to happen very slowly. The children heard footsteps, followed by the sound of wood splintering: a crack like a pistol shot, knocks and thuds and a scream like a woman’s. The stairwell reverberated like a drum. Then the sounds were muffled, duller: the thud of a man’s body as it tumbled and slithered down the steps.

  The door behind the children opened. Mrs. Pinchbeck stood white-faced, with a candle in her hand. “What ’appened?”

  Parsefall answered at once. “Grisini.”

  “He fell. Down the stairs. We’ve killed him,” said Lizzie Rose, and burst into fresh tears.

  “We might ’ave,” Parsefall said hopefully. “He was after Lizzie Rose and she runned away. An’ then he came after us and the stairs fell apart.” He strained to see up the dark staircase.

  Mrs. Pinchbeck put her hand over her mouth. The words came out between her fingers. “He’s fallen?”

  “Down the stairs,” repeated Lizzie Rose.

  Mrs. Pinchbeck took a deep breath. The children watched her, prepared for an outburst. But when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm. “I suppose we’d better ’ave a look at him.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “There’s a looking glass on the chest of drawers in my boudoir. Go and fetch it. Don’t let the dogs out.”

  Parsefall obeyed. In a moment he was back in the hall with the mirror in his hand.

  “That’s good,” Mrs. Pinchbeck said levelly. “Now, if you’ll hold the candle, we’ll see whether ’e’s still breathing.”

  She pinched the skirt of her dressing gown and started up the steps, clinging to the rope with her other hand. Parsefall followed with the candle and the mirror. Mrs. Pinchbeck stepped over Grisini’s legs, squatted down, and fumbled for his wrist, seeking a pulse. “Now, give me the glass.”