He shut his eyes and tried once more to sleep. Time passed, then: “Parsefall, look!”
Lizzie Rose sounded so excited that he left his seat and joined her at the coach window. They were approaching a red stone building, half castle, half cottage. It was attached to a high wall with an open archway. The house had a small turret, deliciously capped with snow. It looked like a piece of scenery for the puppet stage. “Is that it?” asked Parsefall.
“I hope it is,” Lizzie Rose answered. “It’s like something from a fairy book, isn’t it?”
Parsefall shrugged; he had never seen a fairy book. The horses drew the coach through the archway, but they did not stop, and Lizzie Rose looked crestfallen. “I suppose that was the gatehouse.”
Parsefall wondered what a gatehouse was. He said, “Huh,” in a skeptical tone of voice.
“Very rich people have gatehouses,” explained Lizzie Rose, “at the entrance to their estates. I suppose Mrs. Sagredo is very rich.”
Parsefall repeated, “Huh,” and clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.
“She must have been expecting us.” Lizzie Rose sounded as if she were reassuring herself. “She sent the carriage. That was good of her. I hope she won’t be very distressed that we’ve come without Grisini.”
Parsefall stuck out his tongue to show what he thought of Grisini, but Lizzie Rose was too lost in thought to rebuke him. The horses drew them into an avenue of trees. The branches had not been trimmed and pressed close, tapping the sides of the coach and sending down miniature snowfalls. Parsefall tensed. He could navigate the thickest traffic and the narrowest alley, but he didn’t like being surrounded by trees. They seemed alive to him: they had too many fingers.
When at last the trees parted, the children saw the house: a castle of red sandstone. The gatehouse had mimicked the larger building; this was the real Strachan’s Ghyll, and it was forbidding, not picturesque. It stood in a circle of hollies, and the verdant green of the leaves made the stones look blood red. A round tower leaned over them at a menacing angle, as if daring them to take shelter. Even to Parsefall’s ignorant eyes, it looked unstable. Lizzie Rose said faintly, “It’s very grand, isn’t it?” and the carriage came to an abrupt stop.
The carriage doors opened. Mr. Fettle let down the steps so that the children could climb out. Parsefall wondered why the coachman hadn’t driven them all the way up to the house. He looked to Lizzie Rose for enlightenment, but she was busy with Ruby, who was whimpering, I-want-to-go-out. Lizzie Rose extracted the dog from the burlap sack and set her down. Ruby squatted in the snow.
Parsefall gave a snort of disgust. He started up the brick walkway to the great house. He had a queer instinct that someone was watching from within, and he eyed the windows nervously. They were pointed, with stained glass at the tops and small square panes, like scales. Three broad steps led to the entrance. The doors were arched and carved like church doors, and the hinges were black iron, cast in the shape of butterflies.
He raised one hand to the knocker, and the door opened from within.
From her tower, the witch surveyed the children. She had sat by the window all morning with a spyglass in her lap; it was by her order that the carriage stopped a little distance from the house. She wanted to see the children before they saw her.
Why hadn’t they come sooner? It had been weeks since she’d written; what had taken them so long? She had banished Grisini from the house, lest his presence frighten them; she had told the servants to expect two children who must be treated as honored guests. Cassandra had unearthed treasures from her collections and strewn them about the rooms, hoping to stimulate the children’s appetite for plunder. Each day, she had hoped for their arrival, only to be disappointed. Then that morning, she had awakened knowing that the children were on their way. They would come — at last, at last! — and one of them would deliver her from the phoenix-stone.
But they were not as she had pictured them. Her wistful fancy had conjured up a brute of a boy, a painted minx of a girl: two ripe young criminals who would have no scruples about stealing from her. The children who crept out of the coach were younger than she had thought they would be. They looked malnourished, especially the boy; probably the girl, being older, took the lion’s share of the food. What had Gaspare said about the girl? She’s a deceitful little puss, in spite of her pious airs. But it didn’t seem to Cassandra that either of the children looked particularly deceitful; they looked exhausted and defenseless. She lowered her spyglass. She had seen neglected children before. The streets of London were full of them. But one did not look at them there. One averted one’s eyes.
The girl stooped in the snow, opening the sack she had been clasping to her breast. A small red dog emerged.
It was a spaniel. Cassandra’s lips parted in surprise. Marguerite had kept a spaniel as a pet, a red-and-white spaniel named . . . Fanchon? Ninon? Cassandra couldn’t remember. She must not fret over useless memories. She must think only of her current plight and of the children who might rescue her. One of them must steal the fire opal. Their poverty, deplorable as it was, would serve her well.
Only which of the two would deliver her? Which was the more promising, the greedier, the more vulnerable? Cassandra heard the rattle of the front doors opening. She had no doubt that her housekeeper would welcome the children properly. Mrs. Fettle was a stiff, tiresome old thing, but she knew her duty.
Cassandra shifted in her chair. It was time to return to her bedchamber. The thought of the walk down the passage wearied her. She wished she could ring for one of the servants to help her, but they had no idea that she still frequented the Tower Room. Even if she shouted for them, they would not be able to enter. She had bolted the door from inside.
She raised her hand to the gold locket. The filigree that encased the phoenix-stone was lukewarm. Her lips shaped a single word: Which? She shut her eyes, trying to concentrate on the question, wishing she could force a prophecy from the stone.
Her head flopped to one side, and she gave herself up to sleep.
At first there was no coherent dream, no story: just slumber and nonsense. She was unwinding a tangle of embroidery silks, sorting through the different colors: scarlet and sea green and peacock blue and white. . . . They were snarled and knotted, and she couldn’t draw the threads free. Then, with a suddenness that made her twitch, she was in Venice. She was standing at the threshold of an open door, blinking at the sunlight. She was twelve years old again, at school in the convent of Santa Maria dei Servi.
There was a draft of chilly air and a whisper of laughter. Marguerite stood behind her, so close that Cassandra felt the younger girl’s head against her shoulder. It was Carnival time in Venice, and one of the convent doors had been left unlocked. The two girls exchanged glances. With one accord they stepped out and shut the door behind them. Quivering with suppressed laughter, they ran down the street.
Only the wind pursued them. It was a boisterous wind that drove the clouds across the blue sky and scattered confetti on the cobblestones. Sunlight flashed and skipped over the waters of the canal. It had rained the night before, and the cobbles were still damp; the girls’ shoes slid on the rain-washed stone.
They ran hand in hand, steadying each other in the slippery places. Up one street and over a bridge; through a courtyard and under a dim sottoportego; back out in the sunlight and over the hump of another bridge, stone bridges and wooden bridges, over a dozen of them, until they found themselves in the great piazza. The balconies were hung with flags and waving banners, and there was a puppet booth set up beside the bell tower.
The two girls raced up to it. In the center of the miniature stage was a string puppet, a girlish figure in a white frock. No, not a puppet, but a child, a living child only thirteen inches high. She smiled and raised one hand. Her fingers opened, small as the spines of a sea urchin. In the center of the tiny palm was a pulsing heart: scarlet and sea green and white and peacock blue. . . . Cassandra knew it for what it was:
the fire opal.
She cried out harshly and awoke. She blinked, trying to make sense of her dream. Some of it was not a dream but a memory; she recalled that long-ago day when she and Marguerite escaped into the streets. Only the part about the puppet stage was a dream, or perhaps a vision: the part with the child who was a puppet, or the puppet who was a child. . . . Cassandra’s mouth dropped open. How could she have forgotten the child Gaspare had kidnapped? In her mind’s eye, she saw him again, with the bloodstained bandages around his head; he had been weak and dizzy, and she had forced him to confess every detail. He had imprisoned Clara Wintermute in the body of a puppet. Was it possible that the other children had brought Clara with them to Strachan’s Ghyll?
Cassandra’s mind raced. That captive child would be easy prey. Above all things, Clara Wintermute would desire the magic power that would break Grisini’s spell. Nothing would be simpler than to tempt her with the fire opal. It only remained for Cassandra to devise some way of speaking to Clara in her paralyzed state. It could be done; with the power of the cursed stone, it could be managed. Cassandra thought of the intricate, draining spell she would have to cast and wanted to groan with weariness.
How sick, how sick she was of magic! With her one good hand, she pushed herself to her feet, forcing herself to a standing position. The spyglass clattered to the floor and rolled under her chair. Under her weight, the floorboards creaked, emitting a sound like the squeal of an animal in pain.
Ruby was whining, asking to be taken out. Lizzie opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Above her head was a canopy of creamy linen, embroidered with fantastical birds. She was in the White Room at Strachan’s Ghyll.
She threw off the bedclothes and slid out of bed. She spied her boots beside the washstand and shoved her bare feet into them. Ruby leaped off the bed and trotted to the door, making it clear that she wanted to go out now. The spaniel was keenly aware of how disgraceful it would be to make a puddle in the house. She whimpered imploringly.
Lizzie Rose scanned the White Room, searching for her clothes. The light was dim, and she wondered how long she’d slept. She hobbled to the window, found the curtain cord, and drew the curtains.
Outside, the sun had almost set. The White Room overlooked the slope of lawn that led to Lake Windermere, and the frozen lake reflected the colors in the sky: gray and lilac, pale rose and flaxen yellow. The trees on the shore cast deep shadows onto the ice, rimming the lake in black. Even as Lizzie Rose took in the beauty of the view, her mind was at work, unraveling the events of the day.
She had come to Strachan’s Ghyll only that morning. The housekeeper, Mrs. Fettle, had greeted the children with three statements that brooked no argument: One: they would see Mrs. Sagredo when, and only when, Mrs. Sagredo asked to see them; Two: they would have an early dinner at noon; and Three: after dinner they would want baths. At this last assertion, Parsefall rebelled; he had never in his life wanted a bath, and he wasn’t ashamed to say so. Mrs. Fettle turned a deaf ear to his protests. It was perhaps fortunate that the dinner, when it arrived, was sumptuous: roasted chicken with bread sauce, apple fritters, and marmalade pudding.
The children ate ravenously and drank a large pot of tea, loading their cups with lashings of cream and emptying the sugar bowl. Afterward, they were sent upstairs to bathe. Lizzie Rose suggested timidly that if it would save trouble, she could bathe first, and Parsefall could use her bathwater; they might even share a room, as they were brother and sister. Parsefall growled, “You ain’t my real sister”; Mrs. Fettle snapped out, “Most improper!” and the children were assigned bedrooms at the opposite ends of the corridor.
Replete with roasted chicken, exhausted, and rather cowed, Lizzie Rose watched as two sullen housemaids prepared her bath. Screens were set before the bedroom fire, and cans of steaming water were brought up in relays, along with Turkish towels, a sponge, and an unused cake of Pears’ soap. Once the servants were gone, Lizzie Rose shed her clothes and climbed into the bath. She was luxuriating in hot water and sweet-smelling lather when one of the housemaids returned. To Lizzie Rose’s embarrassment, the woman invaded the shelter of screens and gathered up Lizzie Rose’s dirty clothes. Without uttering a word, she carried them off, leaving a lace-trimmed nightdress in their place.
Now Ruby yipped, her cries mounting to a crescendo. Lizzie Rose looked desperately around the room. She couldn’t go outdoors in her nightgown. Her eyes went to the wardrobe. Inside, there might be a dressing gown, or even a cloak. The key was in the lock. . . . Feeling like a thief, she crossed the room and turned the key.
A whiff of strong perfume rose to her nostrils: sweet musk roses and another, more metallic smell, reminiscent of something or someone she disliked. Nevertheless, she stood transfixed, for inside the wardrobe were gowns such as she had scarcely imagined: iridescent taffetas and silk brocades, India muslins, cashmeres, and velvets. A flash of black-and-white caught her eye. It was the trim on a jade-green coat, and it was ermine. Lizzie Rose had seen ermine on theatrical costumes, but that had been rabbit fur daubed with blacking. This was the real thing: tiny pelts as soft as gossamer and whiter than pearls. The precious fur edged the coat sleeves and the yoke around the shoulders.
Ruby shifted her weight from paw to paw, moaning with impatience.
With fingers that trembled, Lizzie Rose lifted the garment from its hook and slid her arms into the sleeves. The coat was loose and warm and deliciously heavy; it hid her nightdress, reaching to the tops of her boots. Lizzie Rose cast a glance over her shoulder. Across the room, the looking glass reflected a stranger: a princess with loose red hair and startled eyes.
The transformation was so arresting that Lizzie Rose would have liked to look at herself a little longer, but she dared not. She picked up Ruby’s leash, fastened it to the dog’s collar, and opened the door.
The frantic dog lunged into the passage. She headed for a narrow staircase at one end of the passage: Lizzie Rose hoped it was the servants’ staircase; with luck, it would lead to the servants’ hall and the back door. She followed the dog down two long flights, ending up in a vaulted cellar. She smelled kitchen smells: coal smoke, onions, vinegar, and cloves. Her hand was on the knob of the kitchen door when she heard a woman’s voice. Lizzie Rose stopped. She didn’t want the servants to see her in the coat she had borrowed from the White Room.
“After we’ve served her all these years, you’d think she might do something for us. But no, not she! She’d rather take in a pair of dirty little beggar children and leave her money to them.”
Lizzie Rose’s heart gave a leap. So Cassandra Sagredo did mean to leave them her estate! She wound Ruby’s leash around her hand, caught between warring emotions: relief that the legacy was forthcoming; anger at hearing herself called a dirty little beggar; shame that in wanting Mrs. Sagredo’s money, she was coveting what might be left to someone else. She understood now why the housemaids had been so cross when they prepared her bath.
“And now we’ve got to wait on them,” continued the sharp voice, “which’ll mean carrying trays upstairs four times a day, not to mention the coal scuttle. Why, Essie and me are worn to a thread — hauling all that bathwater up the stairs! I’ve half a mind to leave here and seek another place.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Mrs. Fettle contradicted her. “Which of us has ever managed to leave here? If Madama wants you to go, she’ll dismiss you. Otherwise, you’ll stay and do as you’re told.”
A third voice spoke up plaintively. “All the same, Mrs. Fettle, it is hard — respectable people having to wait on children like them. It isn’t as if they were any kin to her. What do you think she wants them for?”
“It’s not for me to say why she does what she does,” answered Mrs. Fettle, “and it’s not for you to ask.”
A fourth voice spoke up. “At any rate, they won’t be hard to cook for. They won’t want no polenta or foreign messes. They ate every scrap from them trays! Picked the carcass clean and licked out the inside of the s
ugar bowl. I ’ad to laugh — there wasn’t a lump left. I feel sorry for ’em — poor little toads!”
“Aye.” It was a man’s voice: Mark Fettle’s. “They’ll be glad of a few good meals. The girl has a sweet face, I thought.”
“All the same, she’s nothing but riffraff, and I’ll warrant she’s no better than she should be,” argued the first voice. “First foreigners and now riffraff ! I shouldn’t wonder if they’re crawling with lice, the pair of them —”
Lizzie Rose lifted her chin. She no longer cared that she was wearing a coat that did not belong to her. As she swept into the kitchen, her posture was queenly and her cheeks were scarlet.
“Forgive me for disturbing you.” She was not sorry to see the consternation caused by her entrance. “I must take the dog out. If you will be so good as to return my clothes as soon as possible, I should be grateful.”
She espied the door at the other end of the room and made her way to it, stepping out into the winter landscape. The cold was piercing, and the light had faded. The shadows on the snow were faintly blue. Lizzie Rose took a shaky breath. “Come, Ruby,” she said, and led the dog down the path to the lake.
The golden wolf barked four times. Grisini watched the tiny jaws close and returned the watch to the pocket of his dressing gown. He had walked for only eight minutes; he had meant to walk for ten. Breathing heavily, he lowered himself into the armchair before the fire.
Splendors and Glooms Page 17