Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Parsefall snarled, “Leave ’er alone!”

  Lizzie Rose asked, “How do you know about Clara?”

  Cassandra sighed. “I’ve known about Clara ever since she was kidnapped by that human plague, Gaspare Grisini. I know, too, that you were trying to escape from him tonight. What I don’t know is why. Tell me why you fear him, and I will protect you.”

  There was a brief silence. Don’t tell her anything, thought Clara, but Lizzie Rose answered. “Grisini wants Parsefall to be a thief. He came into Parsefall’s room in the middle of the night and threatened to hurt him if he didn’t steal from you.”

  “Ah,” said Cassandra. “Of course. I ought to have known —” She stopped. “Never mind. Grisini is in my power, and I shall see to it that he never hurts you again. I will punish him before your very eyes, and you will see that I am your friend.”

  She sounded close at hand. Parsefall took a sudden step back, but not quickly enough: Clara felt the witch seize the puppet bag. Cassandra tore the limp muslin, releasing Clara from her cocoon. The glare stung Clara’s eyes: the witch’s room was hung with scarlet and gold, ablaze with firelight and candlelight.

  “There!” Cassandra said briskly. “Don’t worry — I shan’t hurt her. I only want her to be able to see.” She glided to the window and hooked Clara’s crutch over the curtain rod.

  It was an excellent vantage point; Clara could see the whole room. There was the tumbled bed, with Ruby lying sphinx-like upon it; there were the other two children, with their clothes all lumpy and disheveled. By contrast, Cassandra was resplendent; she had swept her hair up on top of her head and secured it with a jeweled pin. With her swollen body and billowing yellow gown, she appeared inhuman: a pyramid of fire with the head of an ogress.

  The doors swung open, and Grisini came in.

  He wore a queer assortment of clothes: his tatty frock coat, a pair of satin knee breeches, and his nightshirt, which was tucked into the breeches in front but not in back. At the sight of him, Lizzie Rose stiffened. Parsefall’s face went blank, and he jammed his hands in his pockets.

  Cassandra stretched out her hand and pointed to the floor. Grisini bowed, but not low enough; Cassandra glowered until he went down on one knee. He covered his heart with his hand and spoke deferentially. “Madama.” His face was ashen, the half-healed scratches on his cheeks emphasizing his pallor.

  He’s afraid of her, thought Clara.

  Cassandra circled him, her train hissing. “Don’t speak as if you wish to flatter me! I am disgusted with you, Gaspare! These children are under my protection; how dare you seek to frighten them?”

  Grisini shifted. The kneeling position was evidently painful. He spread his hands in a dumb show of innocence. “Madama, lo prometto —”

  “Speak English, if you please. The children are here to witness your humiliation. I would not have them miss a word. And don’t waste my time with lies. I caught them trying to escape — not from me but from you. What have you done to them?”

  Grisini started to rise, but the witch glared at him, forcing him back to his knees. He flourished one hand in the direction of Lizzie Rose. The gesture was elegant, almost balletic: the palm up, the outer fingers curled, the smallest finger pointing to the ceiling. “Nulla. I have not touched her —”

  “Is that true?” Cassandra twisted around to face Lizzie Rose. “If it isn’t, tell me. Whatever injury he has done you, I will avenge.”

  “It isn’t me,” said Lizzie Rose. “He struck me once, but it isn’t me. He’s cruel to Parsefall.”

  Cassandra pivoted, facing Grisini. Her lip curled. “So. You ill-use the boy. I’m not surprised. His hand — is that your work?”

  There was a sudden appalled silence. Clara felt as if she might cry out. But Parsefall did not make a sound. He didn’t seem to be following the conversation.

  “That was — discipline,” Grisini answered at last, pronouncing the last word with the utmost delicacy. “It was necessary that the boy should obey me. Have I not been a second father to him? Did I not feed him and teach him my art? Should he not obey me?”

  Lizzie Rose stared at him in horror. Then she began to cry. Ruby emitted a yap of alarm, leaped off the bed, and ran to her mistress. Only Parsefall showed no emotion. He fixed his eyes on the carpet. He’s trying not to hear, thought Clara. He doesn’t want to know.

  “You are a monster, Gaspare.” Cassandra’s face was twisted with loathing. “You are both more wicked and more trivial than I ever dreamed of being.” She stalked to the window, raising one hand to point out Clara. “The Wintermute child — I suppose she was another of your experiments?”

  Stiffly Grisini got to his feet. “Ah, Madama, forgive me. I can no longer kneel. I am an old man, a poor man. Let us come to an agreement.” His voice wavered as if he were on the point of tears, but his eyes were dry. “If you want these”— he flung out one hand, casting an invisible net over Parsefall and Lizzie Rose —“you must have them, of course. How should I deny you? But the little girl, I beg you, leave her to me. Her father is willing to pay and I give you my word of honor that I will send her home again once the money is mine. Give me the girl, so that I may not starve, and I will trouble you no more.” He reached upward. The tips of his fingers brushed the hem of Clara’s skirt.

  No! Clara screamed silently, and Parsefall shouted the word at the same time. He darted past Madama. “You leave ’er alone! Don’t touch ’er!”

  “Do you hear him, Gaspare?” Madama came forward, spreading her fiery skirts to make a barrier between Parsefall and Grisini. “I forbid you to touch Clara. As for your enchantments, you shall cast no more of them. Give me the automaton watch.”

  Grisini threw out his hands. They were shaking. “Madama, I have it not. I have lost it.”

  “It’s in the right-hand pocket of your frock coat,” Cassandra said sharply. “Give it to me or I will make you bleed to death here and now. Give it back.”

  She held out her hand for the watch. From her high perch, Clara could see the old woman’s palm; it was seared and bloodstained. Grisini slapped the watch into it so savagely that Cassandra flinched. Then, as if the glittering timepiece were trash, she flung it into the fire. A strangled sound came from Grisini’s throat.

  “And now,” said Cassandra, “tell me, Gaspare. Do you bleed?”

  Grisini grimaced. He touched the back of his head and looked at his fingers. They shone crimson. He smiled a sickly grin. “Sì, Madama.”

  “And shall go on bleeding until I choose to stop it.” Cassandra looked from Lizzie Rose to Parsefall. “You see how I avenge you, my children? You see how great my power is? This man will never harm you again. He is my puppet.” She raised her arms, spreading her fingers as if manipulating strings. “See? I can make him bleed, and I can make him dance.”

  Grisini’s body twitched. He held up his hands, palms out, as if he were about to play a clapping game. He bent his knees and cocked his foot, tapping the heel against the floor. Then he capered, his head flopping from side to side. Beads of blood sprouted from the scratches on his cheeks; blood darkened his shirt collar and glistened against the dull black of his frock coat. The witch lifted her hands, and he leaped straight up in the air. Cassandra snapped her fingers, and he fell to his knees with a cracking sound. Instantly he was up again, striking his heels against the floor and spinning like a top. He was short of breath, wheezing and whimpering with pain.

  “Stop it!” Lizzie Rose seized the witch’s arm. “Stop it! It’s horrid!”

  “Are you mad?” Cassandra shook off Lizzie Rose. “Think of what he has done to your brother! Shall I not punish him? Shall I not have my revenge?”

  “Not like that!” Lizzie Rose averted her eyes from the dancing man. “Stop it — oh, please, stop him dancing!”

  Cassandra shrugged and let her hands drop. Grisini tumbled down onto his hands and knees. He cringed like a whipped dog.

  “If I stop punishing him, will you agree to do as I ask?”

&
nbsp; Lizzie Rose jerked her head so that her tears caught the light. Clara couldn’t tell if she was shaking her head or nodding.

  “The thing I will ask is no evil thing, and you will come to no harm. Will you promise? Or shall I go on tormenting Sior Grisini?”

  Grisini moaned. Lizzie Rose gulped. “I promise.”

  Cassandra cleared her throat. “Gaspare. The young lady has seen fit to have mercy on you. Get up and get out of my sight.”

  Grisini struggled to his feet. He tottered to the double doors and went out. Clara could hear him on the great staircase, his footsteps growing softer as he descended.

  Cassandra held out her hands to Parsefall and Lizzie Rose. “Come here.” Her voice was weaker than before; the last spell had diluted her strength. She guided them to the sofa and fell onto it with a sigh of relief. “Now I will tell you what to do.” She turned to Lizzie Rose. “Marguerite?”

  Lizzie Rose stared at her. “Ma’am?”

  Cassandra shook herself. “Forgive me. I meant Lizzie Rose, of course! Listen, my child, I want to speak to your brother alone. You must take the dog and go to your room and climb into bed. Will you do that?”

  Lizzie Rose leaned past the witch, looking into Parsefall’s face.

  “I shan’t keep him long, and I shan’t harm him,” Cassandra assured her. “Five minutes. You promised to obey me.”

  “Parsefall ought to be in bed, too.”

  “He shall be. But first I want a word with him. If you disobey me, I shall have to recall Gaspare and make him dance again. Will you do as I ask?”

  “Yes,” Lizzie Rose said reluctantly, “but you mustn’t say anything bad to Parsefall.”

  “Run along, now, and take the dog with you. I shall send Parsefall after you in five minutes.”

  Lizzie Rose snapped her fingers to Ruby. She stopped by the door to look back, but Parsefall didn’t meet her eyes. As the double doors shut, Cassandra bent forward and spoke softly. “Tell me, Parsefall. Did you like seeing your master dance?”

  Parsefall didn’t answer. His eyes were bleak. After a moment, he bared his teeth in a joyless smile.

  “One can develop an appetite for such things. Would you like to have that power over Grisini?” Cassandra pried open the filigree locket. “You hate him, don’t you? After what he did to you —”

  “I don’t remember,” Parsefall interrupted loudly. “I don’t remember! It were something bad, but I dunno wot it was.”

  “Don’t you? Even now? Your sister understood; that’s why she was weeping. Do you remember nothing?”

  “No. There’s a black place — inside my mind.”

  “Then I bid you remember.” Cassandra lowered her voice to a whisper. “That is your task. Change into your nightshirt and climb into bed and dream — at once, at once.” She touched the fire opal to his cheek; it was the most delicate of caresses. “When you dream, you will remember.”

  He doesn’t want to remember, Clara wanted to scream. Leave him alone! She watched as Parsefall walked to the door. He moved like a clockwork figure.

  “I had to,” Cassandra said aloud after the boy left the room. She wasn’t talking to Clara but to herself. “I had to.” Wearily she returned the stone to its cage and shut the locket with a small sharp click.

  Outside the witch’s bedchamber, Parsefall headed for the Tower Room. A figure at the far end of the hall beckoned to him, and for a moment, his heart stood still, because he thought it was Grisini. Then he recognized Lizzie Rose. She beckoned again, holding her finger to her lips.

  Parsefall hesitated. His orders from Madama were clear. He was to put on his nightshirt, to dream, to remember — but she had not told him where to sleep. At the back of his mind was a shadowy conviction that he would be better off close to Lizzie Rose. He tiptoed down the hall toward her.

  Lizzie Rose led him into her bedroom and shut the door. The White Room, with its pale wool hangings and rose-colored curtains, looked safe and inviting. The bed had been turned down, and there was a good fire on the hearth. Parsefall began to undress. As if from a great distance, he heard Lizzie Rose questioning him, asking if he was quite well. He answered her curtly, without knowing what he said.

  The witch had told him to put on his nightshirt; she hadn’t known that he was wearing it next to his skin. He kicked off his boots and removed his outer clothes. When he had finished undressing, he saw that Lizzie Rose had stripped the blankets off her bed, so that he could have his usual nest beside the fire. She was watching him through tears. A wave of fatigue washed over him, and he turned away and crawled between the blankets.

  He fell asleep, not by stages but immediately, as if he were falling off a cliff. His body had no time to relax, and his muscles knotted and twitched. The dream claimed him at once. The floor beneath him tilted, like the board of a seesaw. Then he heard a creaking sound, the sound of the rocking chair.

  “Parsefall.” It was a girl’s voice, not Grisini’s. She stood beside him in the darkness. “Parsefall, I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”

  Who are you? Before he was able to shape the question, he sank deeper into his dream.

  His eyelids fluttered. He was no longer in the White Room, but in a third-rate lodging house. A dingy light made its way through streaked windows. He saw the curved arm of a rocking chair, grotesquely enlarged, and the frayed sleeve of Grisini’s frock coat. Grisini was sitting in the rocking chair, and he — Parsefall flinched in his sleep — was sprawled across Grisini’s lap. He was very small. Too small: Grisini could cup his fingers around Parsefall’s skull.

  But it was not Parsefall’s skull that Grisini was holding; it was Parsefall’s right hand. Grisini held it between his thumb and forefinger. As the chair rocked, Parsefall’s head lolled back, and his left arm swung like a pendulum.

  “You see what happens when you are disobedient,” Grisini murmured. His voice was as soft as the hum of a contented bee. “You become a puppet — my puppet — but you have too many fingers for a puppet, so”— he picked up a file —“I shall shave them off.” He began to rub the file against the outside of Parsefall’s hand. There was no pain, but Parsefall could see tiny pieces of flesh breaking off. His finger was being filed away.

  Parsefall wanted to weep. He wanted to beg Grisini to stop; he wanted to promise never to disobey again; he wanted to howl with outrage. But his face was as stiff as rawhide, and he could not draw breath. He lay limp in Grisini’s lap, one knee twisted backward and the left arm swinging.

  “Nine fingers left,” said Grisini. He sounded pleased. “Most puppets only have eight. Shall I take off one on the other hand, for the sake of symmetry? Or are you prepared to obey me from now on?”

  Parsefall could not answer. He felt Grisini pinch his other hand between two giant fingers, and again he longed to speak, so that he might promise perpetual obedience. The chair rocked, and his body tilted dizzily. If only Grisini would drop him; if only he could slide to the floor, away from Grisini; if he could get away from Grisini for even a second —

  “Parsefall!” It was the girl’s voice again; in some unfathomable way, she was following him through the nightmare. “Parsefall, you’re dreaming! Wake up and you’ll escape from it — wake up!”

  The rocking chair slid out from beneath him. Grisini disappeared. Parsefall turned and saw Clara. Her white dress shone in the dimness; her eyes were wide with shock and compassion. “Wake up!”

  He tried to kick, to open his mouth and scream himself awake. The sound that came from him was hoarse and strained, scarcely a whisper. He made another sound, louder than the first, and at last he drew breath and shrieked as he had never shrieked in his life.

  The scream was good. It separated him from the nightmare in which he was mute. In a moment, Lizzie Rose was at his side, holding him tight. “Parsefall, it was a bad dream, only a bad dream —” Ruby was whining and pawing at him, trying to climb into his lap. “Shh, Parse. It’s all right, you’re safe now. I’m here —”

  He held up hi
s hand, inches from her eyes. “It woz Grisini,” he gasped. “He shaved off me finger. Grisini did. I’m going to kill ’im.”

  Lizzie Rose’s arms tightened. She rocked him back and forth. “Shh, now, Parse —”

  Parsefall wouldn’t let her finish.“’E did it, he did. You know it, Lizzie Rose. He changed me like he did Clara. An’ he took off me finger. You know how puppets only ’ave eight of ’em —’e did it on purpose — and I’m going to do the same to ’im — change ’im and file off his little finger, all ’is fingers, one by one, and I’ll take a knife an’ gouge out his eyes —”

  “Shhh,” Lizzie Rose whispered, “hush, Parse; hush, you can’t —”

  “I can,” Parsefall shot back at her. He pulled himself free. “Just like Madama did. I can do anyfink I want to, if I get that magic stone. I’m going to steal it.”

  I’m going to steal it. From her high perch in Cassandra’s room, Clara heard Parsefall’s words and knew that he meant them. Any moment now, he would enter the double doors and steal the fire opal. The stone would be his doom: he would inherit both the witch’s power and her despair.

  And Clara could do nothing to stop him. She couldn’t bar the doors against him; she couldn’t even shout out a warning. She was as helpless as she had been when she was little and cholera struck the Wintermute house.

  Her mind flashed back to those desolate days. The Others had fallen ill, and she alone had been spared. Her papa had quarantined her in the attic; her mamma had given her a china doll and told her that she must play very quietly, or her brothers and sisters would not get well. Clara remembered crouching in the narrow space between the wall and the bed, hugging her doll, afraid even to whisper. But her silence had not saved the Others. Now she was silent again.