“I don’t know,” Lizzie Rose said faintly. “She feels like wax — or soft leather — and oh, Parsefall, I think she’s warm —”
I’m not wax, Clara thought. I’m myself. Only I can’t move.
“Look.” Parsefall pinched Clara’s wrist between his thumb and forefinger. “She’s got ten fingers. Puppets only ’ave eight.” Clara felt a draft on her lower limbs. “And look under ’er frock. She’s got things on underneaf. Real puppets never ’ave nuffink underneaf.”
“Don’t look under there, Parsefall.”
“Why not?” demanded Parsefall. “You’re lookin’.”
“That’s different,” Lizzie Rose said firmly. “It’s very naughty for little boys to want to know about ladies’ things. And besides, she’d hate it if she were alive —”
“She’s alive,” Parsefall said. He corrected himself. “’T’any rate, she ain’t dead. Not all the way. Look at ’er.”
I am alive, Clara agreed silently. Listen to him. I can see you; I can hear you; I have feelings. Grisini changed me — I don’t know how he did it, but he changed me —
She tried to retrace the steps that had brought her to Grisini. On the night of her birthday, she had cried herself to sleep. She had awakened a little before midnight, possessed of the idea that there was something of the utmost importance that she had to do. Without knowing what it was, she dressed herself in the clothes she had worn earlier that day. She crept back to her bed and reached inside the pillowcase, where she had hidden Grisini’s watch. Once the automaton watch was in her hand, she understood. She must find Grisini before the watch struck twelve, and give it back to him. Quickly, on tiptoe, she descended the stairs and unbolted the front door.
She knew that the streets were dangerous at night; she had never walked through them alone. But she did not hesitate. Swiftly she made her way to the King’s Road and down to Sloane Square. There she waited, hugging herself against the cold. When Grisini appeared, he bowed and held out his hands. Then she was afraid. Every cell in her body shrank from him; she felt as if he were some great carrion bird, whose touch was contamination. She dropped the automaton watch into his cupped hands. After that, she remembered nothing.
A large black knob appeared before Clara’s eyes. It had a bristly reddish halo around it. A curl of pink cartilage flicked out of the halo. Something wet and warm slicked across Clara’s face.
Lizzie Rose shrieked, “Ruby!” She stood up, clutching Clara to her breast like a favorite doll.
Clara heard Parsefall mutter, “’Orrible little dog.”
“Parse, what are we to do? If it’s Clara — only it can’t be — how are we to keep her safe from Ruby? We’d better put her back in the trunk.” Lizzie Rose snatched up the puppet bag. “If we put something heavy on top —”
No! thought Clara. Her mind flashed to her brother, locked up in his casket in the mausoleum. She thought of herself, motionless in the trunk, with the lid pressing down upon her. No! Don’t bury me alive!
“She won’t like it inside the trunk,” Parsefall said, as if he had heard.
“How do you know?” demanded Lizzie Rose.
“Well, you wouldn’t like it, would you?” retorted Parsefall. “Stuck in a box like a deader! She’ll like it better out ’ere.” He reached for Clara. “I could string her,” he said tentatively.
Yes, thought Clara at once. Please.
“String her? Like one of the other puppets?”
“We need a dancer,” Parsefall said defensively. “She’s dressed like a bally dancer, and she’s about the right weight. She won’t ’ave nuffink else to do, will she?”
Clara waited, her face hidden against the bodice of Lizzie Rose’s dress.
“Parse,” Lizzie Rose said slowly, “if it is true — I can’t believe it, but I do — if it’s really Clara, and Grisini changed her — how on earth are we to change her back?”
The bedchamber was unfamiliar. The man with the bandaged head raked it with his eyes, searching for clues as to where he was. No gas lamps shone outside the pointed windows, and he heard none of the London street noises. It was night, and he was in the country.
He lifted himself on one elbow. At the far end of the room was a chair like a throne, and in that chair sat a woman. Her back was turned to him, but he could see the lustrous fabric of her dressing gown.
He heard the woman muttering. “The Tower. That’s danger or a fall. Nine of Swords and the Wheel of Fortune. Then there’s the Magician — a man of genius — and the woman subduing the lion — Strength. The Two of Cups — but that doesn’t belong; that’s love.”
The woman’s voice was familiar. It was shaky with age, and deeper in pitch than he remembered it. It was Cassandra’s voice and she was reading the tarocchi. The Tower, the Wheel of Fortune, the Nine of Swords. They were all Tarot Cards.
“The Hanged Man, reversed. That’s someone trapped between life and death. Perhaps I am the Hanged Man. And Death — perhaps that’s mine. And the Devil — that’s a liar; that’s Grisini.”
The man with the bandaged head recognized his name. He was Grisini, and this must be Cassandra’s house. He raised one hand to his face. The furrows she had carved into his skin thirty-eight years ago were ragged with fresh scabs. He remembered the staircase breaking beneath him and the blinding pain when he cracked open his skull. Later he had come to himself and crawled out of the house: dizzy, feeble, bleeding, but with just enough strength to obey Cassandra’s summons. Weak though he was, he had remembered the policeman stationed across the street. He had stumbled down the cellar steps and crept out the back door through the lavatory. Either the simple ruse or his disguise protected him, for he was not followed. He had a dim recollection of a railway station and an endless journey by train.
Cassandra rose from her throne. Grisini watched her warily. She was no longer as tall as she had been. Age had gnawed her bones and bowed her broad shoulders. She had grown coarser and heavier, but she was magnificently dressed. Her dressing gown was woven from some changeable fabric, saffron yellow where the light struck it, blood red in the folds. Around her neck was a filigree locket containing the gem he had tried to steal. At the thought of the fire opal, he experienced a mixture of terror and desire: terror lest the stone be used against him, desire that he might wrest it from Cassandra and make it his own.
Cassandra spoke, using the Venetian dialect they had once shared. Enemy though she was, he welcomed the caressing tones of his mother tongue. “So, Gaspare. You are awake.”
He licked his dry lips. “How long have I been here?”
“Nine days. I summoned you, but you didn’t come.”
“I suffered an accident.”
“Yes, and lost your way. In the end, you came to the railway station in Windermere. You were out of your wits, railing in Italian, unable to walk or tend to yourself. I had you brought here.” Her lip curled. “My housekeeper would not wash you, you were so foul. I had to ask the groom.” She added deliberately, “You’ve grown old. I shouldn’t have known you.”
He smiled at the crude attempt to wound him. They had both changed since last they met, but she was twenty-three years older than he was, and she had aged badly. She looked ill; her eyes were feverish, and her color was unnaturally high. He selected his words carefully. “To me, you are as beautiful as you ever were.”
It was a double insult. She bared her teeth at him, the unhealthy color in her cheeks deepening. “How dare you, Gaspare! I could have let you die —”
“And would have, no doubt, unless you wanted something.” He took a shallow breath. “What do you want, Cassandra? You summoned me here; you bandaged my head; you put me to bed in a very luxurious room. . . . This house must have cost a fortune. You’ve done well for yourself.”
“If I have, you haven’t,” she said spitefully. “I thought it was your destiny to be a great man. What became of you?”
Grisini’s smile faded. “I’ve never sought the things you care about. You’ve always had
a swinish love for comforts and luxuries, have you not? Trinkets and feather beds and sweets to suck upon. Whereas I —”
“Yes, you.” The pronoun was an insult. “What have you sought?”
“Knowledge. Secrets. I studied magic in Budapest, Paris, Prague. My misfortune was that my experiments were too daring, and I was found out. I was imprisoned for fourteen years.”
He tried to speak as if there were something heroic about a long term in prison. In fact, those fourteen years had almost broken him. His arrest had been violent and unexpected: he had been beaten unconscious and stripped of the tools he used to work his enchantments. Those years in prison haunted him still: the hunger, the hard labor, the monotony. By the time he was set free again, his powers had all but left him.
“Why were you imprisoned?”
He made a small, impatient gesture. “I told you: I was experimenting. There was an accident. A child died.” He saw her features contort in a grimace of disgust. “What, are you shocked? Have you grown sentimental? Magic power cannot be had for nothing. There must always be some sacrifice. You of all people ought to know that.” He changed the subject. “And you? What use have you made of your time?”
A hunted look came over her face. “I’ve doubled the Sagredo fortune,” she shot back. “I’ve traveled; I’ve gambled; I’ve entertained. Men have courted me and I’ve collected them like butterflies. I’ve gathered marvels and curiosities; I built this house.” She flung open one hand, indicating the high ceilings, the Venetian windows, the carved and gilded furniture. “There is not a single caprice — not one — that I have not indulged.”
“How happy you must have been.”
The shot went home. She looked daggers at him, and he laughed under his breath, because he could see that her life had been a burden and a misery. Her hands came together as if she wanted to wring his neck. For the first time he noticed that her left hand was bandaged. He forbore mentioning it but repeated his former question. “What do you want, Cassandra?”
He spoke her name as he once had, lingering over each syllable. He remembered how her eyes used to kindle when he spoke like that. She had fought against her love for him like a fish on the hook, but he had once had the power to soften her.
Her color darkened. “That night in Venice — the night we parted — you spoke of the stone I wear around my neck. You said you knew its history. I didn’t care to listen to you then, but I will listen now. Tell me what you know.”
He wondered if he could disobey her. Weak though he was, he craved the game of thwarting her. But as he hesitated, she cupped her right hand around the filigree locket. He felt a wave of feverish heat. “Speak.”
He sighed. “Among jewelers, it was called the phoenix-stone —”
“I remember that. What else did you learn?”
“Less than you think, perhaps. I had to piece together the story, and it is far from complete. The stone had a bad reputation among jewelers; it was considered unlucky. I consulted my fellow magicians. After that, I had the good fortune to discover a parchment in the Libreria Sansoviniana —”
“Never mind your good fortune. Tell me what you found out.”
Her impatience intrigued him; he wished he had time to think through what it might mean. “The story began more than three hundred years ago, with the burning of a witch.” He heard her intake of breath. “According to the legend, she was possessed of great wealth. The fire opal was a treasure from the New World. How she came by it, no one knows. But someone feared her, or envied her good fortune, and she was accused of practicing witchcraft. In one telling of the tale, the accuser was her brother; in another, it was her lover. Who can say? What does it matter? What matters is that she was found guilty, and her property was forfeit. Her lands were seized, and so was the fire opal. She was burned at the stake. With her dying breath, she cursed those who had stolen from her.” His eyes shifted to Cassandra’s face. “You’ve gone pale. What is it?”
He did not expect her to answer, but she did, driven, perhaps, by the same motive that had led her to consult him. “I’ve seen her. The witch, burning at the stake. In my dreams, and — when I look in the glass.”
“Ah!” He raised himself to a sitting position. “Have you seen the other ones?”
Cassandra turned away from him and began to pace, the hem of her dressing gown rasping against the carpet. “What do you mean, the other ones?”
“The other women who burned. The opal is known as the phoenix-stone because the fires recur. Almost everyone who possessed it died by fire. One woman was struck by lightning. Another perished in a house fire; that was said to be an accident. But there were other women who set themselves ablaze. Madwomen, suicides. One woman left a letter behind. She said that the women she saw in her looking glass had driven her insane.”
Cassandra halted in midstep. Then she reversed and resumed pacing, the train of her gown uncoiling like a scorpion’s tail.
“Here’s the curious thing: the stone itself always escapes the blaze. Always. That’s part of the pattern. A woman inherits the stone or steals it. She may not fall under its power right away. But the more the stone is worn, the more it is handled, above all, the more it is used to make magic, the stronger its power grows. In time, it maddens and consumes its owner.” He shot a malicious glance in her direction. “I warned you years ago, didn’t I? Your hand is bandaged: have you been setting fires? You burned yourself, perhaps?”
“No.”
“But you see the other women in the looking glass.”
She inclined her head.
“You must wish I had stolen it, all those years ago.”
“I wonder,” she said very slowly, “if you could steal it now.”
It was an invitation. She crossed the carpet haltingly, as if every step hurt her. He was seized by a frenzy of rash desire, and he raised himself on one elbow. In spite of his knowledge of the stone, in spite of the curse she had placed on him, his hand shot forward, fingers trembling. The witch leaned over him so that he might seize it. His fingers fastened themselves around the gold chain.
Then she recoiled, wrenching the chain away from him so that his fingertips smarted. She seemed to shimmer and swell before his eyes. She was a giantess wreathed in flame. He fancied that he could see inside the filigree locket, where the red stone pulsed like a racing heart. The air around him darkened, and he swooned.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that the witch had retreated. The scars on his cheeks oozed blood, and the back of his head felt tender. Grisini said bitterly, “Your curse holds,” and Cassandra heaved a sigh of mingled frustration and relief.
“That night in Venice,” she said, “you said unless. You told me that the stone would consume me unless. What did that mean?”
He felt too ill to speak. He knew that blood was soaking through the bandages on his head.
“Answer me! The fire will consume me unless. Unless what?”
“Unless the fire opal is stolen.”
Hope dawned in her face. It was swiftly replaced by mistrust. “You tried to steal it, but you couldn’t.”
“I was not a child.”
His vision was beginning to blur, but he saw the look that came over her face, the sudden alertness. It was as if she understood something she had failed to grasp before. He hazarded a guess. “You stole it, didn’t you? Weren’t you a child at the time?”
“I was thirteen.”
An idea flashed through his mind like a comet. He wanted to clap his hands and crow with laughter and drum his heels with joy. In one flash of inspiration, he saw how he might gain the power of the fire opal — the power, not the doom of it. He thought of the children he had planned to discard as useless. They would not be useless now. He lowered his eyelids, scarcely daring to breathe. Cassandra must not see the triumph in his eyes.
He searched for words to distract her. “Thirteen,” he repeated, “exactly! You were a child on the threshold of womanhood. A remarkable time in life. For the child believ
es — everything! And feels — everything! So much life, instinct, vital force — and then the first stirrings of adult desire. Everything is potent, volatile . . . ! Why do people sacrifice infants in the Black Mass? It makes them feel wicked; that is something, of course, but what strength is there in a suckling babe? If one wants power, there is far more power in children —! The women who did not burn survived because the phoenix-stone was stolen from them. And the thieves were always children!” He was out of breath. “When I tried to steal from you — I failed — I was twenty-three — I was too old —” The room went dim. He panted openmouthed, like a dog.
Cassandra hastened to his bedside. She kept one hand around the filigree locket but pressed the other against his cheek. He knew that she was only healing him so that she could go on questioning him, but the sensation of warmth was exquisite. He wanted to give himself up to it but instead forced himself to think. How might the children be summoned to Cassandra’s house? He could write to them from his sickbed, but they would be loath to come. At their last meeting, Parsefall had kicked him, and he had beaten Lizzie Rose.
It was several minutes before Cassandra spoke to him again. “Do you truly believe a child could steal the phoenix-stone?”
He was ready for her. “Why not put it to the test? By a stroke of good fortune, I can provide you with two children: my apprentices in London. They’re the right age, more or less, and the little boy is a trained pickpocket. Show him your jewels, and give him the run of the house. He won’t disappoint you.”
Cassandra looked dubious. “A little boy?”
“Not so very little. He’s quite old enough to be dishonest. I took Parsefall from the workhouse five years ago. A clever boy. A good thief, an even better figure worker.”
Her eyebrows rose and she gave a tchha of laughter. “Lud, Gaspare! You still play with your string puppets?”
“Why not?” Her amusement nettled him. “My father was in the profession; so was my grandfather. The puppets are in my blood.” He changed the subject. “If you think a girl is more likely to serve you, I have one of those, too. Her name is Lizzie Rose Fawr, and her parents were theatrical people. They died, and I took her in out of charity.”
Splendors and Glooms Page 11