Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Lizzie Rose nodded. “I’m sorry I interrupted, Madama. I won’t do so again.”

  Cassandra leaned sideways and jerked the bed cord. “You won’t have the chance. I’ve spoken too long and told too much. Run along — that’s a good child. Fettle will attend to me. Take your little treasures and let me sleep.“

  Reluctantly Lizzie Rose gathered up the books and the seashell. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted the rest of the story. But Madama would brook no argument. She held out the portrait to Lizzie Rose. “Here, take it. You want it — I don’t.”

  Lizzie Rose snapped her fingers for Ruby. On her way out, she set the little painting on Madama’s dressing table.

  It was Christmas Eve. Under the table in the Tower Room, Clara lay beside Parsefall and listened to the sound of distant church bells tolling the hour for Midnight Mass. Beside her, Parsefall muttered and twitched in his sleep. Clara wondered if he was dreaming of Grisini. Grisini’s not here, Clara soothed him. He can’t get in. There’s a bolt on the door.

  She didn’t think Parsefall heard her. But after a little while, he sighed deeply and his restless movements ceased. Clara relaxed her vigilance. She was drowsy. The church bells had fallen silent, and the sleeping tent Parsefall had made in the Tower Room was dark and close. He had covered Madama’s table with a counterpane that fell to the floor on all slides, leaving just a slit for ventilation. Underneath the table were eight wool blankets, innumerable pillows, a satin-covered eiderdown, and the bearskin rug.

  Clara! Clara Wintermute!

  Cassandra’s voice shattered the stillness. The darkness under the table shifted and billowed. Now it was a cloud streaked with brilliant colors: tantalizing scarlet and sullen gold, deep cobalt and acid green —

  Clara Wintermute! I summon you now!

  Clara felt herself grow larger. She rolled over and crept forward, careful not to bang her head on the underside of the table. Outside the sleeping tent it was only a little less dark. The light that stole through the casements was lackluster; a small moon shone in the sky. Clara scanned the mirrors, hoping to see some gleam of reflected light from her white frock, some sign that she was really there.

  She saw nothing. Once again, she wasn’t really moving: she wasn’t real. The idea that she could crawl out from under the table was sheer fancy, part and parcel of Cassandra’s spell.

  Clara! I must speak with you.

  Clara paused with her hand on the doorknob. Why?

  The witch’s response was immediate, furious, and oddly jumbled. It is your fate, Clara. . . . I have learned more of you. . . . Clara caught the words phoenix-stone, destiny, and birthday. The rest was unintelligible. It was as if the witch were too impatient to put her summons into words.

  She’s changed, mused Clara. The first time Cassandra summoned her, each word had been crisp and strong. She isn’t as powerful as she was before. If she was, I should have obeyed her by now.

  Clara lifted her hand and stared at it through the dimness. Of course, I’m not really moving, she reminded herself. I’m a puppet. That’s Grisini’s spell. And Madama can reach into my mind and read my thoughts and tell me what to do. That’s her spell.

  But I’m not obeying her. Not yet. That’s my spell.

  Spell wasn’t the right word, not really. But the idea that she had the power to delay her obedience made a thrill run down Clara’s spine. She set the flat of her hand against the door, dramatizing her resistance. No. I won’t come to you.

  The witch punished her. Clara felt a wave of heat that made her gasp. The reddish cloud surrounded her; sparks of color pricked and singed her skin. Clara steeled herself. It’s not real, she told herself. None of this is real. I’m not really standing before the door; I’m only imagining it. I’m not really being burned. It’s a spell.

  The witch responded to her thoughts with a bellow of frustration. If you won’t come to me, Clara Wintermute, I will come to you! And you will be sorry for it!

  You can’t. I’m in the tower. And the door’s locked. Even as she framed the words, Clara quailed. What if the power of the phoenix-stone was strong enough to break down the door? All too soon, she heard footsteps in the corridor. The tread was heavy and uneven — the footsteps of someone who was weak and old and perhaps dizzy. Clara’s head swam as she caught the witch’s vertigo. She slumped against the door for support. The red fog enveloped her, and her throat felt parched; her eyes ached with the heat.

  Something rustled behind her. Startled, Clara whirled and saw Parsefall in the mouth of his tent. He crouched on his hands and knees, low, like a frightened cat. It was too dark to read the expression on his face, but Clara knew what he was feeling. He believed that Grisini had found his hiding place. For Parsefall, it was Grisini on the other side of the door.

  The doorknob rattled. Cassandra yanked and pounded, shaking the door in its frame.

  Clara turned to face the door. She thought of Parsefall’s terror, and fury rose within her. She recalled the tantrums she used to throw when she was young and naughty, before the Others died. She kicked the door savagely. Go away! You can’t come in! Willfully she reverted to her younger self. She shrieked and stamped her feet; she hammered on the wood until her fists went numb. Go away! Go away! Leave us alone!

  There was a great thud, the sound of a heavy body striking the floor. Clara froze. The walls seemed to ring with silence. I’ve killed her, Clara thought with horror. But no: a muffled groan came from the other side of the door. Madama was calling for help. A second moan and then silence. Clara felt her muscles go slack. The shadows around her congealed. She could no longer see the faint light from the windows.

  She was back under the table, on the bearskin rug.

  She listened as Parsefall got to his feet and tiptoed across the room. He went to the door but dared not unbolt it to see who had collapsed in the corridor. After a short time, he crept back to his tent shelter. He lay stiffly, his heart beating double time, and it was almost dawn before he slept.

  Lizzie Rose slept late on Christmas morning. Even before she was fully awake, she remembered what day it was. “Christmas,” she said groggily, and wondered whether this would be a good Christmas or a bad one. Last year’s Christmas, the first after her parents died, had almost broken her heart, but every other Christmas had been good.

  She tossed aside the bedclothes and padded across the carpet to the window. A light snow had fallen during the night, and the sun on the snow was dazzling. Bits of dry grass, tawny as wheat in harvest time, reached up through the snow, and the sky was clear blue, tinged with lavender. “It’s Christmas,” Lizzie Rose told Ruby. “Let’s make it a merry one, shall we, Roo?” Ruby danced in circles, suggesting that it was not only Christmas, but walk time and breakfast time: two of her favorite things on earth.

  Quickly Lizzie Rose dressed herself and slipped downstairs to the servants’ hall. The servants were seated at the table, consuming bacon and porridge. “Merry Christmas!” sang out Lizzie Rose.

  No one smiled or returned her greeting. Lizzie Rose felt herself flush. She clasped her hands in front of her, put up her chin, and waited.

  At long last Mrs. Fettle answered her. “I’m afraid none of us are very merry this morning, Miss Fawr. Madama suffered an attack last night, and we had to send for the doctor.”

  “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry!” said Lizzie Rose. “Is she very ill?”

  “She’s poorly,” replied Mrs. Fettle. “She’s had spells like this before, but each time it’s worse. The doctor says it’s a wasting fever, and her heart’s bad. Still, she’s pulled through before, and she’ll likely pull through again.” She addressed the other servants. “The doctor says she’s not to be left alone, so you’ll sit with her this morning, Esther, and Janet’ll stay with her this afternoon.”

  Esther and Janet looked glum. Lizzie Rose cleared her throat. “I could sit by her.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Mrs. Fettle, as if the offer had offended her. “You’re a guest, not a se
rvant. That reminds me: Madama bade me tell you that you’re not to leave Strachan’s Ghyll. Whatever happens, you and your brother are to stay on here, and as soon as Madama’s better, she’ll have the lawyer in and settle what’s to be done about her will.”

  Lizzie Rose heard a faint hiss from either Esther or Janet; she wasn’t sure which one. She squeezed her hands tighter. “I’m very willing to help, ma’am, if there’s anything I can do.”

  “You can take that dog out before she makes a mess on the floor,” Janet retorted, so pertly that Lizzie Rose looked daggers at her and took as long as she dared leaving the house.

  It was still Christmas, and the sun was shining. The air was sweet and bracing, and it seemed that Madama’s offer of a legacy was an honest one, after all. Lizzie Rose reminded herself of these good things and plucked a sprig of holly to adorn her coat. It was Christmas, and she would celebrate by letting Ruby off the leash.

  The dog sprang forward and raced down the lawn to the lake. In the roseate glow of morning, Lake Windermere appeared enchanted, reminding Lizzie Rose of her father’s old tales of underwater fairies and the sword Excalibur. Then another memory assailed her, more personal, more poignant: the Christmas she had spent in Northumberland when she was six years old.

  She remembered it with the utmost clarity. The theatre was shut down because there was cholera, but she was too little to understand what that meant, and she was delighted by the holiday. Her parents had taken her to the vicarage where her mother had grown up. There was a pond below the churchyard, and her mother and father taught her to skate. Superimposed against the Cumbrian landscape, Lizzie Rose saw her parents once again: her father’s peaked eyebrows as he skated backward, her mother’s rosy cheeks and hazel eyes.

  How long ago it seemed! Tears gathered in Lizzie Rose’s eyes, dulling the clarity of the winter day. She stood and wept until Ruby bounded over and pawed at her skirt.

  The dog’s intervention did the trick: Lizzie Rose laughed a little and squatted down to caress the squirming, silky body. Her parents were her good angels; she could not remember them without also remembering how truly they had loved her. “It’s Christmas, Roo,” said Lizzie Rose, and because the dog still looked concerned, she took off her mitten and threw it as hard as she could. Ruby charged after it, delighted that her mistress’s grief had given way to a game of fetch.

  Obligingly Lizzie Rose received the mitten and tossed it again and again. It occurred to her that unless she was mistaken, her mother’s ice skates were at the bottom of the trunk the children had brought to Strachan’s Ghyll. Lizzie Rose had hoarded — and packed — every remnant of her parents’ lives. Now that she was nearly fourteen, she might be able to wear her mother’s skates. She clapped her hands to call Ruby, pried her mitten out of the spaniel’s jaws, and started up the hill to the house.

  In the kitchen, she wiped Ruby’s paws. Then she went upstairs to have breakfast with Parsefall. For the second morning in a row, she found the Green Room deserted. Parsefall’s nightshirt lay on the carpet like a shed snakeskin, and his breakfast tray held nothing but crumbs. Where was he? He had seemed all right last night at dinner — a bit surly, perhaps; he hadn’t been in a very talkative mood. . . . Lizzie Rose raised her eyes to the tapestry, as if the knights and ladies in the Green Room might offer some clue as to Parsefall’s whereabouts. She had a queer sense that something was missing, something that she was used to seeing there.

  Her eye fell on the wicker trunk. She flew to it and knelt down, rummaging until one hand closed around a metal blade. Yes: there were her mother’s skates. The blades were only slightly rusted; the leather straps were only a little moldy. She measured one skate against her boot and saw that it would fit very well.

  Ruby let out a moan of extreme anguish, publishing the fact that she was about to die of starvation. Lizzie Rose set down the skates and went to her breakfast tray. She tore the crusts off her toast and flung them to the dog, one piece at a time. Then she sat down and ate her breakfast, sharing her bacon and allowing Ruby to lick the porridge plate. After three cups of much-sweetened tea, Lizzie Rose tucked a lump of sugar into her cheek and set off to find Parsefall.

  She searched every room, but in vain. Upstairs, downstairs, Great Hall, cellars . . . If Mrs. Sagredo had not been ill, Lizzie Rose would have shouted for him; as it was, she crept through the house on tiptoe, like a thief. She began to feel rather cross. The metallic smell of the house irked her, and her head was starting to ache. Where was Parsefall? He must be avoiding her, hiding from her on purpose. For the second time that day, Lizzie Rose felt her eyes well up with tears. She did not deserve such treatment; she should not have to be all by herself on Christmas Day.

  She stalked back to the Green Room, bundled herself up in the jade velvet coat, and picked up her mother’s ice skates.

  Outside, the weather had changed. The fickle sky was overcast, and snow flurries drifted through the damp air. The lake was dull white, and the fells looked translucent. It was like standing inside a moonstone, thought Lizzie Rose. Shivering, she went back to the kitchen and fetched a broom to sweep the snow off the ice.

  She started down the brick path, sweeping as she went. The rhythmic movement warmed her, and she began to breathe deeply, drawing the pure air into her lungs. “At any rate, it’s a live cold,” she remarked to Ruby, who pricked up her ears. “In the house, it’s a dead cold.”

  Ruby had no opinion of this. She didn’t know one kind of cold from another, but she knew immediately and without doubt that Lizzie Rose was beginning to feel better. She wiggled her red rump and bounced forward, sending clouds of drifted snow up in the air.

  Lizzie Rose went on sweeping. Close to the lake’s edge was a short flight of steps flanked by stone urns. She brushed the steps free of snow, sat down, and buckled the ice skates around her shoes. She drew the straps uncomfortably tight, remembering that her father had insisted upon this. Clinging to an urn for balance, she stood up. Delicately she minced to the edge of the lake.

  She slid one foot onto the ice and then hesitated. She had told no one what she was doing, and she might drown, if the ice wasn’t thick enough to hold her. Aloud she said, “But not right next to the shore,” and stepped forward.

  The ice held. She didn’t slip. She tried to remember what her father had taught her. All at once she seemed to hear his voice: “One foot behind the other, and the toes turned out, my Rose. Bend the front knee and push off from the back.” Lizzie Rose adjusted her feet and launched herself forward.

  She glided. It was an almost-forgotten sensation, joyful and free. Another stroke, and she began to pick up speed. “Keep bending the knees,” shouted her father, and she took his advice, though it made her shins ache. The ice was not even and Ruby was in her way, but Lizzie Rose’s face broke into a blissful grin. She spread her arms like wings and took another stroke.

  It was even better than she remembered. Up and down the edge of the shore she skated; much hampered by Ruby, who leaped at her skirts, barking shrilly. As Lizzie Rose tried to dodge the dog, her right skate skidded, and she crashed downward. The slickness of the ice broke her fall. She knelt on one knee and shifted her weight upward. In an instant she was skating again, stroking with greater force.

  Little by little, the old skill came back to her. She tottered back to fetch the broom and swept a small rink for herself, discovering that the ice was smoother away from the shore. If the cold weather held, she would sweep a larger rink every day. She would bring a length of clothesline from the scullery and tether Ruby to one of the stone urns so that the spaniel wouldn’t trip her. Perhaps she could learn to skate a figure eight on one foot, as her father had done. Perhaps she might teach Parsefall; perhaps she wouldn’t. It was glorious, having the whole lake to herself. Lizzie Rose caught the tip of her skate on a furrow in the ice, tilted wildly, and saved herself from falling just in time.

  Her headache had vanished. So, too, had her sense of cold; she was sweating inside the green velvet c
oat. From time to time she glanced up at the sky. The great clouds were parting, showing shreds of watery blue. Shafts of sunlight turned the lake to mother-of-pearl.

  “It’s Christmas,” Lizzie Rose said, for the third time that day. She leaned against the wind like a sailing ship, and her mind was peaceful and clear.

  In London, Christmas morning arrived wrapped in fog. Dr. Wintermute was awakened by the pealing of the church bells. He did not rise at once but stared up at the ceiling, shrinking from the day before him. He hoped that one of his patients would need him, so that he wouldn’t have to spend the whole of Christmas Day at his wife’s side. It would be a hideous holiday for both of them. He longed for it to be over.

  He waited until the clock struck seven before he rose. He washed and dressed mechanically, then descended the stairs to the breakfast room. Last Christmas, the staircase had been adorned with holly and white ribbons. Clara had pleaded for red ones, but Ada had insisted on white, as being more suitable for a house in mourning. Dr. Wintermute wished he had taken Clara’s part. He tried to remember Clara’s presents from last Christmas. Had there been a doll? Or had the doll been from the year before? He wasn’t sure. Ada would remember, but he knew he would not ask her.

  He stopped before the door of the breakfast room, wondering if his wife would be at the table. Sometimes she asked for a tray upstairs. Since Clara’s disappearance, she had eaten very little. As a medical man, he disapproved; as a parent, he felt that her thinness was seemly, a tribute to Clara. His own appetite shamed him, surfacing with ruthless regularity. He might be heartsick, but he was also an active and hardworking man; his stomach insisted on breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner. Even now, in his holiday misery, he smelled broiled kidneys and ham, and his nostrils twitched hungrily. He opened the door and went in.

  Ada drooped before an empty plate. With some relief, he observed that she was drinking tea; she would take a little nourishment from the milk and sugar she mixed with it. He bent and kissed her, careful not to speak of Christmas.