Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  She imagined herself flitting down the hall. She opened the door of the Green Room — click-thud — and went to the hearth where Parsefall slept. Parsefall! Listen to me! It’s Clara! I’ve come to warn you. Madama’s a witch, and the fire opal is evil!

  She saw him twitch in his sleep, and her heart leaped. Had he heard her? Perhaps in his sleep, in his dreams . . . His face was pale. Clara imagined herself hunkering down beside him, touching his hand to wake him. She felt a surge of protective love.

  Suddenly her vision changed. She slipped into Parsefall’s mind smoothly and completely; it was as easy as sliding her hands into her fur muff. The Green Room vanished, and she was within his dream, seeing the shadows that haunted his sleep.

  His dream was not a pleasant one. Clara stood beside him in the dormitory of a dim brick building. The room was desolate and prison-like, and she understood that once again they were in the workhouse. Parsefall was small in his dream, no more than five years old. His head was shaved, and he clutched a bundle of rags to his chest. It was human shaped: a doll.

  She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Parsefall!”

  He squinted as if he didn’t know who she was. “Eppie?”

  “No,” Clara said. “I’m Clara. Listen to me, Parsefall —”

  His features blurred. It was as if she saw him through a wall of moving water. Then the water stilled and she saw that he had aged. He was taller now and gazed straight into her eyes. Clara spoke in a rush.

  “Parsefall, listen to me. The red stone that Madama wears round her neck — the fire opal. You mustn’t take it. No matter what happens, you mustn’t. It’s dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “Madama wants you to take it. It’s hurting her. It’ll hurt you.” Clara seized upon a new way to explain. “Remember that play you did, with the Bottle Imp? The stone is like that — there’s power in it, but the power’s bad. So you must keep away from it, and you must warn Lizzie Rose —” She stopped, for again he was changing. His body dwindled and he was a small boy once more.

  “Who’re you?” Parsefall asked. His voice was higher, his pronunciation less distinct. “Where’s Eppie?”

  “Who’s Eppie?” asked Clara, but before he could answer her, she knew.

  “Eppie’s me sister,” Parsefall said. His face twisted and he began to cry. “She gi’me her rag doll. She’s dead,” he said, and his cry rose to a howl of raw misery.

  In an instant, Clara’s arms were around him. She pressed his head against her front, trying to hold him as softly and strongly as she could. It was like clasping a bird that had no feathers; he was nothing but breath and bone. “Don’t cry, oh, don’t,” she said with stupid tenderness, but his body melted away. She was back on the gallows, in the Green Room. The connection between them had been lost.

  Clara fought to regain it. She repeated her warning, hoping to hammer it into his mind. Parsefall, listen! You’re in danger here! Don’t take the fire opal! It’s like the Bottle Imp! But he had gone deeper into sleep, and she could not reach him.

  The door of the Green Room opened.

  Who’s there? wondered Clara, but she could not turn her head to see. She heard soft footsteps. They hesitated beside the empty bed. Then a shadowy figure came into view: a tall, thin man in a ragged frock coat. Grisini! thought Clara, and she went cold all over. She wanted to shriek at the top of her voice: Look out, Parsefall — wake up!

  But her panic was voiceless. Grisini lowered himself to his hands and knees, crouching over the sleeping boy like a werewolf. The firelight threw his shadow on the ceiling. Then, with a brutal lurching movement, he clamped one hand over Parsefall’s mouth and pinned him down by kneeling on his thighs.

  Parsefall’s eyes flew open; the whites gleamed. His arms thrashed, but the blows he struck were feeble. His resistance was frantic but short-lived. After a few seconds he stopped struggling.

  “Stai zitto!” hissed Grisini. “Not a word, or I will tear out your throat! You are surprised, sì? You thought — no, you hoped — that I was dead.” He shifted his weight, twisting so that he sat on the boy’s legs. “I assure you, I am very much alive. And I have forgotten nothing.”

  Parsefall’s face was unreadable, but Clara seemed to feel his thoughts. They were like splinters of glass when a mirror breaks: jagged, brittle, darting in all directions. He knew he was going to be hurt, but he didn’t know how, or how much. He fastened his eyes on Grisini’s face, desperate to anticipate what might happen next.

  “I remember how you kicked me — disgraziato, ingrato! But if you will obey me, we will be friends once more. Senti.”

  Grisini lifted his hand from Parsefall’s mouth. Scream! thought Clara, but Parsefall was too wise to scream. The hour was late and the servants were abed. Lizzie Rose was at the far end of the corridor.

  “You have met Madama, yes?”

  Parsefall drew his chin close to his chest, nodding. Grisini picked up the poker. There was a hideous moment when Clara thought he was going to use it to hurt Parsefall, but he only leaned forward to stir the fire. The room grew brighter, and Clara saw her kidnapper more clearly. He was unshaven, and his face was seamed with fresh scars. Grains of snow clung to his boots. He came from outside the house, thought Clara, and she wondered whether Cassandra knew he was there.

  “When you met her, did you notice the locket around her neck?”

  Parsefall jerked his chin toward his chest.

  “Did she show you the stone inside?” Another jerk. “What color is it?”

  “Red.”

  “And how big?”

  Parsefall lifted his hands, crooking his fingers to approximate the size of the fire opal.

  “Va bene. We are speaking of the same stone. Now, listen to me. I want that stone for myself. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must steal it.”

  No! thought Clara. She saw Parsefall swallow and grimace, but he did not speak. The boy’s silence seemed to exasperate Grisini. He caught hold of Parsefall’s ear, digging his fingernails into the tender lobe, drawing blood. Parsefall inhaled sharply.

  “Listen to me! I was your master once! Non ti scordar — I will be your master still! What I tell you to do, you do. Do you understand that, my little pickpocket? Or must I remind you —?”

  “No,” shot back Parsefall. “I’ll steal wot you want — only”— he shut his eyes for a fraction of a second before he went on —“if I give you the stone — will you go away and leave me and Lizzie Rose alone?”

  There was a moment of utter silence. Grisini shifted his position. Parsefall winced.

  “You wish me to leave you? I, who took you from the workhouse, who have been more than a father to you? I taught you my trade: how to bring the piccoli to life, how to pick a pocket, how to pick a lock. . . . Ingrato!” He flung up his hands to express disbelief. The thumb and finger of his right hand glistened with Parsefall’s blood. “Still, if that is what you wish, we will part. Bring me the fire opal and I will trouble you no more.”

  Parsefall did not relax a muscle. “Do I go and get it now?”

  No! Clara shrieked silently.

  Grisini spoke at the same instant. “No. Piu tardi. Day will be better than night — I have questioned the servants, and they tell me that Madama sleeps during the day. It will be best if you enter her room when she lies sleeping. Your nimble fingers will do the rest. And not a word of this to Lizzie Rose — not one word! Or it will be the worse for her. For her as well as for you, capisci?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you fail me, I will be obliged to hurt you. You know I should like nothing better.”

  Parsefall didn’t speak. A tremor ran through his body.

  Grisini nodded his satisfaction. “Va bene. As soon as you have the stone, you must bring it to me. You will find me in the gatehouse — do you know where that is? Go out the front door and follow the path away from the house. Bring me the stone, and from that day on, you will see no more of me. But u
ntil then, I will haunt you, lest you neglect your duty. Otherwise, you might say, Ah, my old master! He has forgotten me! But even as you speak the words, I will be at your elbow!” He opened his eyes wide, mimicking Parsefall’s astonishment. “I can enter the house whenever I like; I can come into your room at any hour —”

  He was interrupted by a shrill, sweet chiming. Grisini slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out the automaton watch. His fingers, still wet with Parsefall’s blood, caressed the edge of the dial. He listened until the twelfth chime rang out. “Mezzanotte. It is apropos, sì? The wolf snaps its jaws at the swan, but the bird cannot fly away. They are always together. If you want to escape from me, figliolo, you will have to bring me that stone.”

  “I will.”

  Grisini shifted his weight until he was on all fours. Gingerly he found his balance and raised himself to a standing position. Moving stiffly, he crossed the room and went out into the corridor.

  Parsefall got up. He could not stop shaking. After Grisini left, he stood facing the door, terrified lest it open again. He scarcely breathed. He wished he could hear Grisini’s footsteps descending the great staircase, but the walls were too thick or the carpet too soft — or Grisini was outside the door, waiting to come back in! Parsefall shivered. He touched his torn earlobe. It was still dripping, and he put his fingers in his mouth to lick them clean. Warm tears stole down his cheeks, gathering inside the collar of his nightshirt.

  He kept still for some time. Then he crept to the door, rocking from toe to heel with each step, making no sound. He thought longingly of Mrs. Pinchbeck’s cramped house, where only a spangled curtain separated him from Lizzie Rose. Lizzie Rose had always tried to comfort him when he was afraid. He thought of how indignant she would be if she could see the blood on his ear. All at once, he wanted her desperately, all the more because he could not go to her. Even if he were brave enough to venture into the corridor, he dared not confide in her. Only by saying nothing could he protect her from Grisini.

  He ran his fingers over the doorplate. There was a keyhole but no key; he could not lock Grisini out. Even if there had been a lock, it would have been no good; Grisini was a skilled picklock. What Parsefall needed was a secure hiding place, a room with a bolt on the inside of the door —

  I know a room with a bolt on the door!

  The words rang inside his head, as sharp and clear as the chime from Grisini’s watch. Parsefall shook his head as if there were a bee in his ear. He raked the room with his eyes, selected a chair, and carried it on tiptoe to the door. He wedged it underneath the doorknob. The chair was heavy, but the back of it was full of pointy little holes, crosses and teardrops. He didn’t know if it was strong enough to withstand an attack from Grisini.

  He went back to the hearth. As he neared the mantel, his glance fell upon the puppet gallows. Clara’s glassy eyes shone like water in the dark, and he had a weird fancy that she had been crying, too. He lifted her perch. His hands were shaking so hard that she quivered like a twanged string.

  He scooped her up and held her in his arms. He settled down cross-legged with Clara in his lap, mounting guard with his face to the door. Little by little, he shifted to a reclining position. Then he fell asleep.

  When he opened his eyes, he stood before the door to the Tower Room. It was still night, but there was a lamp at his feet: a lamp and Clara, who lolled untidily against the wall. He was gripping something thin and sharp: two of Mrs. Pinchbeck’s wire hairpins. They had been twisted together to serve as a picklock.

  It took Parsefall a few minutes to understand that he was awake. He realized that he had been sleepwalking — and in his sleep, he had determined to pick the lock of the Tower Room. Why? He stared at the tool in his hand. The tower was dangerous. Mrs. Fettle had warned the children not to go there, and so had Madama. Why, then, was he wanting to go inside? There was no point in it — but after a moment, he dropped to his knees and inserted the pick in the lock.

  It was a simple lock, the kind Grisini had taught him to pick when he was seven years old. In less than a minute, Parsefall had the door open. On the inner side was a heavy bolt: solid iron, three-quarters of an inch thick. Somehow he had known it would be there.

  He picked up the lamp and started into the room. He halted and yelped in terror. Phantoms surrounded him: ghosts of children clad in white. Parsefall spun around. They moved with him.

  They were his reflections. He halted in mid-flight, his hand vibrating so that the mirrored lamps quaked. Once he was sure that none of the children were ghosts, he took a deep breath and examined the room around him.

  It was peculiarly warm. He could feel dust and grit under his bare feet. The tower was unsafe and therefore uninhabited. He tested the floorboards with his weight. They wiggled a little, but they didn’t feel as fragile as Mrs. Pinchbeck’s staircase. He was light, not like Grisini; Grisini might fall through the floor, but he wouldn’t.

  And Grisini would not be able to come here. He might pick the lock, but he wouldn’t be able to get in. The iron bolt would keep him out, the bolt that could be worked only from the inside of the room. Parsefall cast his eyes over the gloomy tower and nodded his satisfaction. Here he would be able to sleep, safe from whatever ghastly surprise Grisini might choose to inflict on him.

  He eyed the mirrors, appraising them. They would be excellent for rehearsing with the puppets. If he stood on the table, he would be able to see his work from every angle. He let out his breath. For the moment, at least, he had found a sort of sanctuary. He would bring the bearskin rug into the room, and Clara — he would certainly bring Clara. He set the lamp on the floor and went out into the passage to fetch her.

  Lizzie Rose paused under the stone arches of the Great Hall, preparing to explore the house.

  She was in no mood to do so. She had awakened with a headache that the acrid smell of Strachan’s Ghyll did nothing to appease. The memory of last night’s meeting with Madama was still fresh in her mind: the hideous old woman, the brass monkey, the troubling beauty of the red stone. She recalled Madama’s instructions for the day: the children were to explore the house and choose their Christmas presents. Lizzie Rose was quite certain that the invitation to take what she liked was a test, a trap. She knew she needed her wits about her and wished that her head would stop pounding.

  She had hoped to warn Parsefall against taking too many Christmas presents, but he was unaccountably absent, and this, too, was a source of worry. Thus far, every morning at Strachan’s Ghyll had begun the same way: Lizzie Rose wrapped the velvet coat around her nightdress and went outdoors to walk the dog. On her way out, she passed through the kitchen and asked the servants to send two breakfast trays up to the Green Room. That morning she’d found the Green Room deserted. It was clear that Parsefall had been there — he had seized upon his full share of porridge and hot rolls, bacon, jam, and tea. But he himself had disappeared, and Lizzie Rose hadn’t seen him all morning.

  She stood at the window with Ruby at her side. The long windows were made of small panes of cloudy glass; they diluted the color of the sky and gave a greenish cast to the snow. Lizzie Rose scanned the landscape, searching for a thin boy in a gray jacket. She gave herself a little shake. Parsefall hated the cold; he had to be somewhere in the house. Perhaps she would find him as she hunted for her Christmas present.

  She began her task in the Great Hall. With its black-and-white floors and heavy oak furniture, it seemed centuries old. The swords and shields on the walls held no charms for Lizzie Rose. She wondered what the point was of such a huge and dismal room. The fireplace was so large that no amount of coal could heat it, and the wind swept down the chimney and rattled the windowpanes. Shivering, Lizzie Rose snapped her fingers at Ruby, and they passed into the music room.

  It was smaller than the Great Hall and more feminine, with a suite of gilded furniture that looked too frail to sit on. The harp’s strings were broken and the piano was out of tune. Ruby yipped happily, trotted to the hearth, and sn
iffed, searching for mice. Lizzie Rose went on to the next room.

  If the music room had been almost empty, this room was overstocked. It was a cabinet of curiosities, crammed with antlers, stuffed birds, and animal bones. There was a spiral horn that could only have come from a unicorn and a tiger skin on the wall behind it. The pelt was the first thing Lizzie Rose had seen that could serve as a cloak or a shawl. She unpinned it from the wall and draped it around her shoulders, grateful for the extra warmth. She swept her eyes over the cases on the opposite wall.

  There were a great many of them. It seemed to Lizzie Rose that there was nothing that Madama did not desire, did not collect. She gazed on seashells and fish skeletons and corals that looked like tree branches. There were glass trays full of butterflies, and a magnifying glass; Lizzie Rose took up the glass and examined the designs on the dead wings. They were as intricately lovely as bits of stained glass, but sad: how could anyone be so cruel as to kill a butterfly? Lizzie Rose set down the magnifying glass and picked up a conch shell to listen for the roar of the sea.

  The last cabinet in the room was filled with miniature portraits, painted on ivory and framed in gold. The colors were so fresh and delicate that it was some time before Lizzie Rose noticed that all of the subjects were gentlemen. Below each frame was a lock of hair tied with a narrow ribbon. Every shade of hair was represented: browns ranging from wheat to stained walnut, auburn and black and blond and gray.

  Lizzie Rose’s mouth opened in a silent O. A lock of hair was a keepsake, a token of true love. . . . Why, this was a catalog of Madama’s admirers! Lizzie Rose looked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone. Then she counted, smudging the glass with her fingertip. Forty-eight miniatures; forty-eight locks of hair. She murmured, “It isn’t even respectable,” and caught herself on the brink of a laugh. It seemed incredible that somewhere in this world there were, or had been, forty-eight men who had fallen in love with the vulgar, unbeautiful, and odious Mrs. Sagredo.