He glanced around the room, checking to make sure that it was tidy. In a little while, one of Cassandra’s servants would come with food and tend the fires. He made sure that the servants always found him in bed. The witch must think he was still bedridden. She must never suspect that each day he dragged himself around and around the small room, resurrecting his strength.
He leaned back, watching the fire through half-closed eyes. He wondered, as Cassandra had wondered, why the children had not come. He thought of them with longing: Parsefall, who already feared him, who would obey him absolutely; Lizzie Rose, who had yet to discover what terror and obedience were. Which would be his own particular Bottle Imp, his personal genie? Who would assume the curse of the fire opal, while allowing Gaspare Grisini to taste its power?
His lips opened in a yawn. He was still weak from loss of blood, and the exertion of walking had tired him. He had better return to bed before he fell asleep in the chair. He stood up and started to leave the room. As he did so, a noise reached his ear — a high-pitched and much-detested noise: the barking of a dog.
The barking was familiar. It was Ruby’s bark, which he had cursed a score of times. Grisini went to the window and peered out, screening the dusk for a moving figure. His eyes found them quickly: a girl in pale green and a small patch of dark red, connected by the straight line of the leash.
They had come. The children had reached Strachan’s Ghyll. Grisini smiled to himself and made his way back to bed.
“Clara. Clara Wintermute.”
Clara opened her eyes. Then she recalled that this was impossible. Her eyes were fixed and could not open or shut. But her eyelids twitched and she felt her upper and lower lashes meet; she even fancied she could hear them. She blinked a third time and was flooded with joy. She was moving.
She screwed her head sideways. Her cheek rasped against cloth — Parsefall had freed her from the wicker trunk and placed her on a chair. He slept by the hearth on a bearskin rug and looked oddly small. With a jolt, Clara realized that she was as big as he was. She filled the chair like a person, not a puppet: her skirt fell over the edge of the seat, and one foot dangled. Her other foot was tucked in the crook of her knee. She felt pins and needles in it.
She sat up, easing the foot out from under her. The blood rushed back, hurting her so that she caught her breath. She could feel pain; it was a miracle. She was alive.
“Clara Wintermute. Come to me now.”
Clara stood up. Never before had she heard that voice, but she knew she was bound to obey it. She wanted to rouse Parsefall, to show him she wasn’t a puppet anymore, but instead she headed for the door. Favoring the ache and prickle in her foot, she limped out into the hall.
The corridor was darker than Parsefall’s room, because there was no fire. Why, then, were the shadows tinged with red? Clara felt the first stirrings of fear. She recalled the night after her birthday party, when she wandered the murky streets in search of Grisini. Her footsteps slowed. She stopped before a heavy door in a curved wall.
“Clara. Come into my tower.”
Clara opened the door. The Tower Room was hung with mirrors: silver mirrors with gilt frames and sheets of dark lacquer that glistened like water. Candles had been placed so that the quivering flames gleamed against the icy glass and plumbed the depths of the lacquer. Reflections darted from wall to wall, light to dark, dark to light, until the eye was baffled by innumerable flames. Lines of red paint hooked and spiraled across the bare floorboards, tracing the pattern of a labyrinth. At the heart of the labyrinth was a chair like a throne, and a massive, ancient woman.
Clara felt a surge of panic. Quickly it subsided, leaving behind a weird sense of amusement.
What a pretty little puppet! No wonder Gaspare was tempted to meddle with her!
Clara didn’t understand the joke. Nevertheless she put up her hands to cover her mouth and giggled in sympathy.
“Shut the door and bolt it. That’s good. Now, come back and stand still. I want to look at you.”
Clara obeyed. On her way back, she tripped over the uneven floorboards and caught herself just before she fell.
She’s clumsy. As I was.
“Please, ma’am, who are you?”
“I am Cassandra Strachan Sagredo. You may call me Madama, as Grisini does.”
Clara twisted her hands together. She wished she could find the words to ask how she had been set free from Grisini’s spell. But her thoughts shuttled back and forth like the flickering lights; she could not fasten upon them. After a long pause, she moistened her lips. “Is Grisini here?”
“Gaspare? No. He wouldn’t dare set foot in this place. This is my tower, my stronghold.” The old woman’s voice softened. “You are quite safe here. My powers are greater than Grisini’s are. So long as you are with me, there is nothing to fear.”
Clara didn’t believe it. She squeezed her fingers together and lowered her eyes to the floor. Against her will, she found herself thinking of Grisini, of his mocking Bau-bau! and the gold watch with the silver swan on it.
“Ah, the automaton watch!” Cassandra lifted her hands; one was bandaged like a mummy’s paw. “So that’s how he cast his spell on you! Years ago, I gave him that watch. He was my pupil in sorcery, Gaspare was; he pretended to love me, and I —” She shrugged. “You know how it is. Someone pretends to love you, and you give too much away.”
Clara thought confusedly, Her pupil. In sorcery. She’s a witch.
In the same breath: I mustn’t frighten her. I must go slowly.
“Come closer.” The witch’s voice was low and kind. “You’ve never been inside a magic tower, have you? You may be quite at home here; indeed, you belong here. Look around and see what you can see.”
How can I belong here? But Clara didn’t speak the words aloud. She revolved slowly, her hands behind her back. A tall cabinet inlaid with mother-of-pearl caught her eyes. It was fitted with rows of little drawers, perhaps three dozen of them.
“You may open the drawers.”
Clara opened one at random and found it full of pearls. Another held crystals, glinting green and yellow; she scooped them up and let them trickle through her fingers. The third drawer rattled when she opened it, revealing a collection of chalky white sticks. With a shudder, Clara realized that they were the bones of some hapless animal. She shut the drawer quickly. I ought to have locked that one. It shocked the poor little doll!
Clara giggled again. She wiped her contaminated hand on her skirt and turned her attention to a bookcase with glass doors. On top of it was a great crystal ball; the shelves below were crammed with books so huge and black that they could only be Bibles.
“Not Bibles. Grimoires. Books of spells,” explained Cassandra. “You may open them if you like, but most of the spells don’t work. What makes a spell work is passion — fear or desire or rage —”
Clara nodded. That made sense to her.
“Witchcraft begins with passion. You’ve a world of strong feeling locked up inside, haven’t you, Clara Wintermute? You think it makes you weak, but it doesn’t. It might make you strong, if you knew how to use it.”
Clara cast down her eyes. Frightened and dubious she might be: she was also fascinated. What if the witch were telling the truth? What if passion could somehow be converted into power — even into magic? If Clara were a witch, she wouldn’t have to be good; she wouldn’t have to be sad. She might free herself from Grisini’s spell and be happy for the first time since the Others died.
“Step into my labyrinth and follow the painted lines. I want to know you better.”
Mutely Clara stepped into the maze. The arches of her feet tingled, and she felt curiously giddy, as if she had been twirling round and round on a swing. Gingerly she traced the convoluted path, her footfalls as regular as the tick of a metronome. At each narrow turn, she spun counterclockwise. Fragments of memory played before her mind’s eye, each one awakening a different response: pity, surprise, amusement. Clara saw herself at the Others’ funeral, dress
ed in mourning. Then the funeral was over, and she was shrieking with laughter at her birthday party. Another twist of the path and Clara was small again. She knelt in the mausoleum beside her Mamma; she was cold and bored and she wanted to go home, but she knew better than to say so. The walls of the mausoleum turned to vapor, and Clara heard the tinkle of a music box. She was a puppet, dancing in the chill November air. The red lines jackknifed, and Clara was alone in the nursery, balancing before the looking glass. More than anything in the world, she longed for proper ballet shoes, so that she could stand on her toes. Three steps forward, and it was teatime, a rare sunny day, and she was sulking because she didn’t want to eat her watercress —
Clara stiffened. No one must know about the watercress. She was suddenly and acutely aware that the witch had been following her thoughts as she wound her way through the maze. Stop it, stop it! she thought frantically. Get out! She opened her mouth to shriek the words, but no sound came. Deliberately she brought her foot down on one of the painted lines, breaking the rules of the labyrinth. She stumbled sideways, staggering until she touched the rough stones of the tower wall. She leaned against it, feeling sick.
“You’ve done well.”
Clara lifted her head to stare.
“When I sought to invade your thoughts, you resisted me. I thought you were strong, and I was right. Now, go to the table across the room and choose one of the tarocchi. I want to see which one you choose.”
Clara paused, not recognizing the word. But after a moment — Tarocchi are Tarot Cards, stupid child! — her legs dragged her to the great carved table and she stood looking down at the cards. They were larger than ordinary playing cards, and the images on them were haunting: a woman holding a silver crescent, a skeleton with a scythe, a tower struck by lightning.
“Choose one.”
Clara had already chosen. Her card showed a dancing man in a white smock and green leggings. He stood on one pointed toe with his hands behind his back. Silently she crossed the floor and offered the card to the witch.
“Ah, the Hanged Man!” The old woman’s face lit up. “But you’re holding him the wrong way.” She turned the card, and Clara saw it properly; it was not a dancer, but a man hanging upside down with a noose around his foot. “See how he’s a prisoner, with his hands tied behind his back? That’s your card. I thought I was the one who was trapped —”
“Trapped?” echoed Clara.
“You’re trapped, aren’t you? You’re caught in Gaspare’s spell. You’re a puppet.”
“I’m not,” Clara said. She lifted her palms to show there were no strings.
The old woman’s smile broadened, baring her ugly teeth. “Look in the glass.”
Clara wheeled around. There were the flames, floating in the mirrors like drowned suns; there was the tall cabinet and the woman in her throne-like chair. But she, Clara, had no reflection. She opened her mouth to ask, Where am I? Why can’t I see myself in the glass?
“You’re inside the stone.“
Clara could have wept. She asked, “What stone?” and clenched her teeth. She must not cry before this horrid old woman.
Horrid, am I? But Cassandra’s cruel grin was gone and she spoke gently. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
Clara had no wish to draw near. But her feet towed her forward, and she knelt before the old woman as if they were granddaughter and grandmother. Cassandra bent toward her, her age-spotted hands fumbling for the chain around her neck. At the end of the chain hung a cage made of golden wires. The cage broke open, releasing a red jewel as large as an eye. It fell on the old woman’s scarred palm.
Clara had never seen anything like it. Gazing at it, she had no difficulty believing that she was inside it. It was a whole world, a red sea, a bloody womb, a beating heart. . . . She wanted to close her eyes against it. She wanted to go on looking at it for the rest of her life.
“You see how beautiful it is? And beauty is only the beginning. There’s power in it — power to gain, power to heal, power to break down the barriers between minds. That’s how I can speak to you. I brought you inside it, so that I could see into your heart.”
Clara stretched out her hand. She did not dare to touch the gem but rested the tips of her fingers against Cassandra’s wrist. The contact seemed to intensify the bond between them.
“Would you like it, Clara? It could be yours to keep. Only, I cannot give it to you. You will have to steal it from me. Have you the courage to steal from me, Clara?”
Clara stared into the depths of the stone. She felt the witch’s mind holding her, lulling her.
“Listen, and don’t be frightened,” murmured Cassandra. “Let me tell you who you are.”
Clara did not stir. She wanted to hear what the old woman thought.
“I see you, Clara Wintermute,” murmured the witch. “I see you at home, where you are unhappy, as I was, when I was a child. My mother deserted me and my father neglected me, even as yours does. You seek to please your parents, to comfort them, but they don’t love you; you know they will never love you, don’t you?” She caressed Clara’s hand. “And so your heart breaks, and your home is a prison. I know all about it. That’s why I want you to have the stone. With the magic of the fire opal, you will win your mother’s heart; you will fill your father’s house with joy. Think of it, Clara! If you want to dance, you may. Whatever you want will be yours for the taking. Only first you must dare — dare to steal from me —”
“How?” interrupted Clara. She needed no further persuasion. She envisioned herself dancing in a rain of rose petals. The applause broke against her ears like thunder; her parents were clapping in the front row.
“I have cast a spell, Clara: a spell that will bring you back to life. Your desire is the key; you need only wish for the stone, and you will be yourself again. Wish with all your heart! If your wish is strong enough, your strings will snap and Grisini’s spell will be broken. Then you must come to my room — and steal! You will have to pry open the locket, and remove the stone, and”— the old woman’s voice grew rough and deep; something feral gleamed in her eyes —“I will fight you for it. No, don’t shrink away from me! If you use all your strength — all! — you may defeat me. Think of what you might gain! It’s your last hope, you know — your only hope of being human and happy once more.”
But you’re not human, Clara thought rebelliously. And I don’t believe you’re happy. She raised her eyes to the witch’s face. Deliberately, with terrifying ease, Clara crossed the boundary between them, and all at once, she was Cassandra. She was old and ill, thirsty and feverish; pain gnawed at her joints and bit deep into her left hand. She was haunted by nightmares; she wanted to die; she was terrified of dying; she was surrounded by flames —
Clara snatched her hand free. She scrambled to her feet. “You’re not happy!” she cried accusingly. “You’re in pain — dreadful pain! I can feel it — I can see into your thoughts, just as you saw mine. The spell works both ways, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” conceded Cassandra. She was breathing heavily, and her face was ashen.
“You’re miserable!” said Clara. “And you’re frightened to death, because of that thing! Now you want me to take it — but I won’t! It’s a trap!”
“Someone must take it,” the old woman said desperately. “Someone. If it isn’t you, it will have to be one of the others.”
The Others. Clara clutched the locket at her breast. She thought of the snippets of hair inside it: all that was left of her brothers and sisters. “You can’t hurt them! They’re dead!”
“They’re not. They’re here,” snapped Cassandra.
Clara gazed at her, aghast. She realized she had misunderstood. The witch was talking about Parsefall and Lizzie Rose. She stammered, “I — I won’t let you. I’ll warn them.”
“How? You’re a puppet. You can’t speak; you can’t move —”
Clara shook herself like a wet dog. She turned to flee, as if she could escape the witch’s power by physical
force. She reached for the door handle, only to find it wasn’t there. She stopped, bewildered. She could not find the way out. She could not sort out where the walls were and what was mirror glass: what was reflected and what was real. She whirled clockwise, and the uneven floorboards tripped her. In a heartbeat, she was on her feet again, only to see that the silver mirrors were darkening. All around her were women with haggard and desperate faces, women wrapped in tendrils of coiling smoke.
Clara shrieked, “Help me!” She clenched her fist around the sapphire locket, as if the Others were good angels who could rescue her. Her frantic mind dredged up a single hope: earlier that night, when she’d entered the room, Cassandra had been facing her: Cassandra’s chair must be opposite the door. Clara turned her back on the witch. She leaped for the door.
She never touched it. The red light dimmed. When Clara’s vision cleared, she was staring down at Parsefall, who lay like a sleeping giant before the fire. She — small and inert, a puppet once more — was back in the armchair, with one foot clamped in the crook of her knee.
Madama was not well. When Lizzie Rose asked Mrs. Fettle when she might meet the mistress of Strachan’s Ghyll, the housekeeper said that Madama had passed a bad night and would see no one but the doctor. The children were not to leave — Madama had been very insistent on this point — but they must be very quiet, and the dog must be quiet as well. If the dog misbehaved, it would be shut up in the stables.
Lizzie Rose assured Mrs. Fettle that Ruby would be the best of good dogs and scuttled back to her bedroom. It worried her that Mrs. Sagredo was so ill. Lizzie Rose had been hoping that the old lady would welcome them and make them feel at home. She began a prayer for Mrs. Sagredo’s recovery: “Please, God, don’t let her die until —” She stopped in mid-sentence. Until what? It horrified Lizzie Rose to realize that what she feared most was not that Cassandra Sagredo might die, but that she might die before she decided to leave her money to the children. Hastily Lizzie Rose amended her prayer: “Dear God, please make Mrs. Sagredo get better and live a long time,” but her feelings of guilt were not easily banished. Neither was her desire for the legacy. At Strachan’s Ghyll, she and Parsefall were sheltered and fed and safe. There were no policemen, no Luce, and no horrid Fitzmorris. To wake every morning in a clean bed, with a fire in the grate and breakfast on a tray, was an extraordinary privilege; to know that someone else had to carry the coals and empty the slops was a blessed relief.
Splendors and Glooms Page 18