He was displeased to find that Lizzie Rose showed little interest in learning her new roles. She spent long hours in service to Luce, Mrs. Pinchbeck’s maid-of-all-work. For years the slatternly Luce had toiled for Mrs. Pinchbeck, ill paid and dog tired, never doing more than half the work assigned to her. When Mrs. Pinchbeck explained that Lizzie Rose was to help with the housework, Luce’s dull eyes glistened.
Lizzie Rose had always tended the dogs because she liked dogs; she had always straightened and tidied because she craved order. Now she carried coal and hot water up and down the stairs, scrubbed out the chamber pots, blackleaded the stove, and riddled the ashes. Within two weeks, her clothes acquired a patina of oily filth, and she was prone to tears and temper. She snapped at Parsefall every time he spoke to her.
Parsefall was too busy to take much notice. He hammered together one of Grisini’s old wagons and contrived a new stage for the theatre, one that was small and light enough to be hauled by a single person. He spent long hours practicing with the fantoccini, perfecting his work with the acrobats and the magnetic skeleton. He fancied he was as good as Grisini with the variety acts, except for the ballerina. He had not practiced the ballet dance since the night of Grisini’s accident. The ballerina had disappeared.
He found it one afternoon when he was searching Lizzie Rose’s bedroom for a spare penny. He espied a small pointed foot, sticking out from under a chair. Parsefall scooped up the puppet, only to see that its face and bosom bore the imprint of teeth marks. One arm was missing, and the tulle skirt hung like an unwrapped bandage.
Parsefall gave a howl of fury. He had no doubt which of the dogs had mauled the puppet. He tucked the dancer under his arm and stamped downstairs to Mrs. Pinchbeck’s chambers. The door was ajar. Parsefall smacked it open and strode inside.
Mrs. Pinchbeck had gone out. Lizzie Rose was in the back room, changing the sheets. Ruby was making a nuisance of herself, following her mistress from one side of the bed to the other.
Parsefall held up the puppet. “Your bloody ’orrible dog —” he began.
“Don’t you use that language to me!” snapped Lizzie Rose.
“Look what she done!” Parsefall shook the puppet in Lizzie Rose’s face. “She near chewed off the ’ead. I could tack on another arm,” he said plaintively, “but the face is spoiled for good. And the boozum’s ruined — just look at the boozum!”
“It wasn’t Ruby,” Lizzie Rose said indignantly.
“Must’ve been,” argued Parsefall. “She’s the only one that comes upstairs.”
Lizzie Rose could not deny it. She turned her back, heaved up the mattress, and slapped it down on the bed ropes. A cloud of dust flew up, accompanied by a sour smell. Both children sneezed.
“I been a-workin’ and workin’,” Parsefall complained bitterly, “trying to get that bally dance in me ’ands, and then your bloody ’orrible dog steals the puppet and chews ’er up. Now I’ll ’ave to change puppets, and the weight’ll be different —”
Lizzie Rose gazed at him stonily. “Hand me that sheet.”
Parsefall glared at her and did not help.
Lizzie Rose’s eyes flashed. With dangerous briskness, she reached past Parsefall, snatched the sheet, snapped it into the air, and brought it down on the mattress. She bent over and began to tuck in the edges, pounding the mattress in a way that would have been a warning to anyone but Parsefall.
“I can’t sew,” Parsefall said pointedly. “I can get one of the lady puppets out of the wicker chest, but you’ll ’ave to make her a skirt that sticks out.” He waited for a response and added, “I can’t do everyfink. Besides, it ain’t fair — it woz your dog and I’ll have all the trouble of restringing her —”
Lizzie Rose uttered something between a growl and a scream and threw the counterpane at him. Then she sat down on the bed and burst into tears.
Parsefall disengaged himself, blinking — the corner of the quilt had caught him in the eye. He gazed warily at Lizzie Rose. He hated it when she cried. He liked a good fight, but Lizzie Rose’s tears took all the joy out of battle. When she cried, his stomach knotted up. And she always cried. Lizzie Rose couldn’t seem to lose her temper without shedding tears.
“Your trouble?” echoed Lizzie Rose. Her face was crimson. “It seems to me that I’m the one as has the trouble. It’s me who has to sweep out the ashes and empty the slops —”
“Yes, but you don’t ’ave to,” Parsefall pointed out. “The Louse is supposed to do all that. Besides, I’ve took the bloody dogs out — and last night I went to the chop’ouse for supper —”
“Yes, because you were hungry. You don’t do a single thing to help me,” declared Lizzie Rose. “You’re a lazy, thoughtless, selfish boy!”
“I ain’t,” Parsefall defended himself. “I bin workin’ on the show —”
“The show!” Lizzie Rose cried scornfully. “Playing with puppets when I —”
“I ain’t playin’!” Parsefall flung back at her. “I bin changin’ the show so it’ll work wiv two people. I’ve thought the whole thing through — every scene. We’ll ’ave to bring back the Babes in the Wood —”
“We can’t do the shows without Grisini,” said Lizzie Rose.
“We’ll ’ave to,” Parsefall shot back. He was so astonished that he forgot to be angry. “’Ow else are we to live?”
Lizzie Rose, astonished in turn, stared at him.
“It’ll be Christmas soon,” Parsefall said. “Last year at Christmas, Grisini and me made five quid a week. Only we ’ave to rehearse — you ’ave to rehearse, because you ain’t good with the puppets; you float ’em, and you jerk the strings —”
“Parsefall,” Lizzie Rose spoke with maddening patience, “things are different now. Grisini’s gone.”
“I know ’e’s gone!” shouted back Parsefall. “I woz there when he bashed in ’is skull! Now that he’s gone, it’s up to me to plan the shows. I’ve done the ’ard part,” he said soothingly, “the proper work. All you ’ave to do is rehearse and do as you’re told.”
Lizzie Rose got to her feet, leaving the bed half made. She marched out of the room with her head up and her chest heaving. She slammed the door of Mrs. Pinchbeck’s lodging so hard that the dogs began to bark and the parrot screamed, “No good! No more! It’s ruined!”
Parsefall opened the door and followed her up the stairs, accompanied by Ruby. “If Grisini’s dead, the business’s ours,” he called after her. “The puppets and all. We can make our fortunes.”
Lizzie Rose put her hands over her ears. She stalked into Grisini’s chambers and flounced into her bedroom, dashing aside the sequined curtain as if it were a door she wanted to slam. Ruby darted under the curtain. Parsefall halted outside.
“Only we ’ave to rehearse!” he shouted.
There was no answer. Parsefall waited on the other side of the curtain. He heard Lizzie Rose whimper, “Oh, Ruby!” followed by a series of sobs and sniffs.
After a stretch of silence, he inquired, “’Ave you stopped cryin’?”
“Yes,” answered Lizzie Rose. “Come into my room. I want to talk to you.”
Parsefall drew aside the curtain and went into the dim little room. Lizzie Rose sat with Ruby in her lap. Her face was still red, but she seemed to have regained her composure. Her tear-streaked face looked both older and younger than usual.
“Parse,” she said, “you’re younger than I am, and —”
“No, I ain’t,” Parsefall said glibly. “I’m thirteen, same age as you.”
Lizzie Rose glared at him. “You’re younger,” she contradicted him, “and even if you weren’t, you’re a baby and a fool, so it comes to the same thing. You don’t seem to understand that things are different now. When Grisini was our master, the shows were our living, but he’s left us. If Mrs. Pinchbeck were to throw us out, you’d have to go back to the workhouse and I’d have to live on the street. There’s girls younger than me on the street and it’s a bad, bad life. So you see”— her voice
shook —“we must be grateful to Mrs. Pinchbeck and do everything we can to help with the housework — and the dogs — and everything.”
“But there’s no end to that,” Parsefall said, baffled that she should not see what was so clear to him. “There won’t be no end to the ’ousework, ’cos the Louse is lazy, and Mrs. Pinchbeck won’t do anyfink but lie on the sofa and say how good she is to us.”
“She is good,” Lizzie Rose said despairingly. “Our lodgings are five shillings a week. That’s thirteen pounds a year, Parse — and poor Luce gets only six; she told me so. And we don’t just need rent; there’s food as well.” Her eyes filled with tears. “We eat so much.”
Parsefall sat down on the bed, one leg under him. He leaned toward her. “But don’t you see? All this ’ousework — there ain’t any money in it. You’ll be cleanin’ the slops and haulin’ coal the rest of your life if that’s all you do. You’ve got to find time to rehearse —”
“I can’t.” Lizzie Rose scooped Ruby from her lap and set her on the floor. “I’m run off my feet as it is, can’t you see? Parse,” she said earnestly, “if you could only help a bit, it would make things so much easier. I don’t mind the hard work so much as the smells — the chamber pots and the things in the larder that’ve gone bad — and the dogs, you don’t take them out near often enough —”
“I can’t do all that,” Parsefall objected. “I ’aven’t got time. Besides, all that ’ousework would make me ’ands too stiff to work the fantoccini.”
Lizzie Rose lunged at him. She grabbed his jacket and shook him. Then she seized a handful of hair and yanked. Parsefall pulled away, crying out as if she had stabbed him with a red-hot poker. Lizzie Rose, guilt stricken, stepped back. “I really don’t see,” she said with a despair that was worthy of Mrs. Pinchbeck herself, “what I’m to do. I do nothing but work from dawn till dusk, and you won’t help me”— she relapsed into tears —“because you’re a horrid, wicked, selfish boy.”
Parsefall felt the familiar knot beginning to form in his stomach. Ruby pawed at Lizzie Rose’s skirt, whimpering mournfully.
“I only said we ought to rehearse,” muttered Parsefall.
“Rehearse, then,” Lizzie Rose said stonily. Her head came up, and tears glittered on her cheeks. “Go ahead and rehearse, while I work myself to death —”
“I can’t,” Parsefall said, returning to his original point. “Your bloody ’orrible dog ruined my puppet. Our puppet,” he corrected himself, “wot’s part of the show.”
Lizzie Rose flung the curtain to one side and flounced over to the wicker trunk where the old puppets were kept. She threw open the lid. “There are puppets in here,” she said frostily. “Do you want me to choose one for you, or is that something you’re willing to do for yourself?”
“I can’t sew,” Parsefall began, but Lizzie Rose was rummaging through the puppet bags.
“Here’s one with a stick-out skirt,” she said, feeling through the muslin bag. “Take this one, and leave me alone — I’ve too much to do —”
Her voice broke off as she drew the puppet out of the muslin bag. She took in her breath sharply. “Parse —”
The puppet in her hand was beautifully made and entirely suitable for a dancer. She had black ringlets and a snow-white frock. Her complexion was delicately pink and white; her Cupid’s-bow mouth wore an enigmatic simper. Around her neck was a locket smaller than a pea. The jewel in the center flashed blue fire.
“Parsefall,” whispered Lizzie Rose. “It’s Clara.”
“I’m going to be sick,” announced Parsefall.
The words startled Clara. The sound of her name had roused her from a long and dreamless sleep. Two enormous children were staring down at her. Beyond them was a vast and dingy room, larger than a cathedral. Swaying just above Clara’s face was an inverted flame, red-gold in color: it was the tassel end of Lizzie Rose’s plait. The tassel moved higher, and Clara’s position shifted. Lizzie Rose leaped to her feet. Clara fell, and her head struck the floor.
Clara felt the impact, but no pain. Her eyes were fixed; she had no choice but to watch the scene before her. Lizzie Rose rushed to fetch a chamber pot. Quickly she collared Parsefall and set the pot before him. She wrapped one arm around his forehead as he vomited.
Clara tried to turn away and found she could not. The spectacle of Parsefall was enough to make her own gorge rise, but she could neither close nor avert her eyes. She lay stock-still, baffled by the immensity of the room and the presence of the children. She had no idea how she came to be there. She strained to think back, but memory eluded her. A single image passed before her mind’s eye: the streets at night, and a tall shadow detaching itself from the fog.
Parsefall wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Tastes ’orrible.”
“I know.” Lizzie Rose released him. “Do you think it’s over?”
“Dunno” was Parsefall’s discouraging reply.
The children sat in silence for a moment. It struck Clara that she had been spared the sickly odor of the chamber pot. She stared past the children, taking stock of the cavernous room. The snuff-colored paint was peeling, and there were string puppets hanging from the ceiling. This must be where the children live, thought Clara, where they keep their puppets. This must be Grisini’s house. . . . The name Grisini rang a bell. Grisini was the man she had met in the streets.
Lizzie Rose released Parsefall and twisted sideways so that she was facing him. “Parse,” she said tentatively, “I’m sorry I frightened you. I didn’t mean the puppet was really Clara —”
But I am Clara, Clara wanted to protest, and then the word puppet struck home. All at once she understood. Her skin prickled, as if someone were walking on her grave; she felt as if she were trembling, but she never stirred. No puppet could stir, unless the worker touched its strings — and Clara had no strings. Her limbs were lax, disjointed. Nevertheless, she tried to speak: I am Clara! A wave of grief washed over her as she failed to make a sound.
“Because it can’t be,” went on Lizzie Rose. “Things like that can’t happen. It was just such a shock to see her — it, I mean — because of the ringlets and her birthday frock. She looks so real.” Her hands closed around Clara’s waist, lifting her from the floor. Clara’s head flopped back.
“She is real,” Parsefall said in a thread of a voice. “Grisini must’ve —”
Lizzie Rose’s fingers tightened. “He couldn’t have, Parse. People can’t do things like that. Magic spells — and evil magicians —” There was a brief, pregnant pause. “They’re only in plays.”
Parsefall leaned in closer; Clara was forehead-to-chest with his grimy shirtfront. His fingernail scraped the side of her neck. “Look at the gewgaw she’s wearin’. It’s the same one she ’ad on that day.”
“Her birthday locket,” gasped Lizzie Rose. “She showed it to me.” She bent down to examine it. “Oh, Parse, look! It opens — just the way hers did! And inside there’s a tiny, tiny picture — made of little weenie bits of hair —”
“It’s ’er,” insisted Parsefall. “Grisini did her.”
Yes, thought Clara. It was Grisini. She concentrated on each syllable, willing the words to reach him.
“People can’t change into puppets,” argued Lizzie Rose.
“Grisini could change ’em,” Parsefall said staunchly. “You don’t know ’im. Not the way I do.” He lowered Clara to his lap. “I’ll warrant that’s ’ow he did the other ones. He kidnapped ’em and changed ’em, and the coppers wouldn’t find ’em, even if they woz in the same room —”
“They opened the trunk,” Lizzie Rose interrupted. “The police did, remember? When they were looking for Clara, they opened that very trunk!”
Parsefall nodded, evidently following her thoughts. “If they’d opened the bag, they might a-seen ’er — but they wouldn’t ’ave believed their eyes. Not once she woz changed. He changed ’er.”
“But how?” Lizzie Rose sounded as if she might cry. “Oh, Parsefall, I can’t believe
it! How could he — and why —?”
“For the money,” Parsefall answered promptly. “Clara was rich, weren’t she? And ’er brothers and sisters woz all deaders. He must’ve known ’er father would pay to get ’er back again. He must’ve done the same thing to that girl wot went missin’ in Leeds.”
“Parsefall, he couldn’t —”
“Why couldn’t ’e?” persisted Parsefall. “It were safe enough, if the children was changed. Nobody’d find ’em. Then after he got the money, he could change ’em back an’ send ’em ’ome.”
Change me back, thought Clara. Please.
“How can you know that?” demanded Lizzie Rose. “How can you be so sure?”
Parsefall didn’t answer. Lizzie Rose leaned forward and seized his arm, giving him a little shake. The movement made Clara tumble from Parsefall’s lap to the floor. She found herself staring at the side of the chamber pot. The handle was sage green and shaped like an ear.
“Leggo-a-me!” Parsefall said shrilly. “I don’t know wot I know. I don’t look back — not when it’s about Grisini. There’s a black place in my mind wot ’e made, and if I think about ’im too much, I fall into the black place. So I don’t do it. See?”
Lizzie Rose struck her hands together. “I can’t believe it. That puppet can’t be Clara Wintermute — and Grisini can’t — couldn’t — work a spell like that! He might have been wicked, but he wasn’t clever enough to turn flesh and blood into —” She stopped.
“Into wot?” jeered Parsefall. “Wot’s she made of, then?”
Once again, Clara was taken up by Lizzie Rose. One work-roughened thumb rubbed Clara’s cheek.
“She ain’t wood,” Parsefall pointed out, keeping tally on his fingers. “She ain’t chiny. She ain’t cloth, and she ain’t papery-mash. Wot is she, then?”
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