Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  In spite of these luxuries, the days that followed were anxious ones for Lizzie Rose. Her conscience was fretful, and it worried her that she could not make friends with the servants. She spent most of her time in Parsefall’s bedchamber, rehearsing with the puppets.

  The Green Room, which Mrs. Fettle had allotted to Parsefall, was a stately chamber, richly decorated with tapestries, Gothic fretwork, and serpentine marble. It took Parsefall less than twenty-four hours to despoil it. The four-poster, with its curtains of bottle-green velvet, struck him as the perfect place to erect his theatre, so he stripped the bed and piled the blankets on top of the bearskin by the fire. He unpacked the wicker trunk and strewed the carpet with puppets and backdrops, scraps and tools. Lizzie Rose worried that the mess made work for the servants, but Parsefall didn’t care. If he had been a duke, he could not have cared less what the servants thought.

  On their fourth evening at Strachan’s Ghyll, the children were busy with the puppets when the door of the Green Room opened and Mrs. Fettle addressed them. “Madama wishes to see you. You’re to come at once.”

  Lizzie Rose felt her stomach tense. Here was the interview for which she had waited. She scrambled to her feet, wishing she were wearing her own clothes. Parsefall’s clothes had been returned to him two days ago, cleaned, mended, and pressed; Lizzie Rose’s frocks hadn’t. She had been forced to adopt the ermine-trimmed coat as a sort of day dress.

  Mrs. Fettle turned her back, assuming that the children would follow her. Lizzie Rose caught Parsefall’s sleeve. “Let me do the talking,” she whispered. He jerked his head in agreement, and they pursued Mrs. Fettle down the passage. The housekeeper opened a pair of double doors and stood aside to let them pass.

  Lizzie Rose halted in the doorway. The room was radiant with candlelight and lined with crimson damask; the bed hangings were sulphur yellow and blood red. Beneath the smell of coal smoke and wax candles, Lizzie Rose detected another scent, a weird, inhuman odor, like hot metal.

  “The children from London, ma’am. Miss Fawr and Master Hooke.”

  “Close the doors behind you,” commanded a voice from the bed.

  Lizzie Rose obeyed, but not quickly enough. A small red figure darted between the doors and frisked over the carpet. Ruby halted before the high bed, barked impetuously, and launched herself upward.

  Lizzie Rose cried, “Oh, ma’am! I beg your pardon!” and hastened to the bedside.

  She was startled to hear Mrs. Sagredo laugh. It was a jarring sound: creaky and rasping and too low for a woman’s voice. As Lizzie Rose bent under the canopy to retrieve the dog, something caught on her sleeve. She started and looked up. The thing that had touched her was a silken cord, and shinnying up the cord was a brass monkey with a dreadful grin. Lizzie Rose thought she had never seen an uglier ornament, and she gazed warily at the woman who had chosen it.

  She was a thickset woman, with a large head and a wide square brow. Lizzie Rose had expected Cassandra Sagredo to be frail and aristocratic. Instead, she was ruddy and full bosomed, with a nose like the snout of a sow. A close look revealed that her brilliant complexion was unnatural: she was powdered white and painted red. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she breathed unevenly.

  Lizzie Rose reached for Ruby. To her surprise, the dog eluded her, scampering over the invalid’s lap. The spaniel turned in a circle and sat down, wedging her rump against the old woman’s side. Cassandra Sagredo ran her hand down the dog’s spine. “Ah,” she said, and the monosyllable spoke of pure pleasure.

  “I thought you didn’t like dogs,” said Lizzie Rose.

  “Who told you that?” demanded Cassandra Sagredo. “Fettle? Fettle doesn’t know what I like. Perhaps I’ll confound Fettle.” She grinned, looking uncannily like the monkey on the bed cord. “So! You are Elizabeth Rose Fawr, and you are Parsefall Hooke. What have you done with my old friend Grisini?”

  It was the question Lizzie Rose had been dreading, but she was ready for it. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but I have bad news. Back in November, Professor Grisini fell down the steps of our boardinghouse. He hit his head, and I’m afraid he wasn’t quite in his right mind, because he wandered off into the streets and didn’t come back.” She paused for Mrs. Sagredo’s exclamation of dismay, but the old woman scarcely batted an eye. “We couldn’t find out what became of him. And Parsefall and I hadn’t anyone to look after us, and we were in such straits! So when I saw your letter —”

  “You read it,” interrupted Mrs. Sagredo.

  Lizzie Rose flushed. “I did, ma’am.” Unconsciously she assumed the pose of a suppliant, clasping her hands. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am! I know how wrong it is to read other people’s letters —”

  Cassandra interrupted her again. “Oh, fie! Don’t be such a little prig! I always read other people’s letters. The world would be a very dull place if one had nothing to read but one’s own letters. What I want to know is what took you so long. I wrote you weeks ago.”

  “Parsefall takes in the post,” explained Lizzie Rose. “He left the letter in his pocket, and I didn’t find it right away. When I did find it, I hoped it might be from someone who could offer us comfort and advice. Your letter sounded so very kind.” She faltered on the last word, aware that it didn’t ring true. “I’m afraid you must think us very bold to have come —”

  Cassandra cut her off with a flick of the hand. “‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold!’ Do you know that old rhyme? I’ve always liked it. But now you must tell me: Did you really come all this way for comfort and advice? Or were you hoping to inherit my fortune?”

  Lizzie Rose gave a little gasp. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and knew she was red to the roots of her hair.

  “Tell the truth and shame the devil!” mocked Cassandra. “It was the money you came for, wasn’t it? Why not say so? You’re like the cat that wants to catch fish but won’t get its feet wet! Well, come on, girl! Answer my question!”

  Lizzie Rose did not trust herself to speak. To her astonishment, Parsefall came to her rescue. “We got our feet wet.” He stepped forward, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t we take the night train from London? We woz on that train for hours, and there woz a baby in the carriage wiv’us, screaming its bloody ’ead off. Lizzie Rose an’ me wanted to wring its neck, didn’t we, Lizzie Rose? Then after we come, Old Fettle made us bathe in ’ot water, whether we wanted to or not. I call that gettin’ our feet wet.” Scornfully he turned to Lizzie Rose. “I told you it woz all flimflam. We come all this way, and she ain’t going to fork over the stumpy.”

  Lizzie Rose shut her eyes. When she dared to open them, she saw that Mrs. Sagredo was gazing at Parsefall as if he were some exotic animal at the zoo. “What’s that you say, boy? I didn’t catch half of that. Tell me: what’s stumpy?”

  Parsefall did not deign to speak. He removed one hand from his pocket and rubbed his thumb against his forefingers.

  “I see. So stumpy’s money. And I’m to fork it over, am I? Well, my little man, you shan’t be disappointed; I mean to fork over my stumpy, and you shall have your share. Come here and let me look at you! You’re missing a finger. What became of it?”

  “Dunno.”

  The old woman caught hold of his wrist, unfolding his fingers so that she could trace the lines on his palm. “Why, you’re a thief !”

  “He isn’t,” Lizzie Rose said hotly.

  “He is. I can see it in his hands. Quite a nimble one, aren’t you, boy? A pickpocket — and clever with the puppets, just like Gaspare.” Mrs. Sagredo narrowed her eyes at Lizzie Rose “What about you? Are you a thief, too?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not.”

  “Where d’you get the coat you’re wearing?”

  Lizzie Rose lifted her chin, determined to defend herself. “From the wardrobe in the White Room. I borrowed it because I had nothing to wear. Your servants took my frocks away.”

  “Those were my orders,” Mrs. Sagredo said indifferently. “Fettle said your things weren’t worth me
nding. I told her you could have my castoffs. Didn’t you see the other gowns in the wardrobe?”

  “I saw them,” Lizzie Rose said, tight-lipped, “but I didn’t think it proper —”

  “Take any gowns you want and have the servants make them fit you. The house is full of fripperies — gowns, stockings, petticoats. I don’t want them; I’m too ill. Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?”

  Lizzie Rose gritted her teeth. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”

  “I’m all kindness,” the old woman said with a savage grin. “Kindness and stumpy! Do you know what day it is?”

  The sudden change of subject took Lizzie Rose aback. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, mentally counting on her fingers. “Why, it must be nearly Christmas!”

  “Just so. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve. And because I am all kindness, I have thought much about your Christmas presents. You must have gifts from me; I insist upon it. You may choose what you like from the things in this house.”

  Parsefall looked blankly at Lizzie Rose. She shook her head.

  “You may begin now.” Cassandra spread her hands. “Here and now — in this very room. Go to the table before the fire, and take anything you like! Think of it as treasure trove! Go and choose! Be bold!”

  Unwillingly Lizzie Rose turned to face the hearth. There was a table spread with a white cloth and a tempting array of objects: small animals carved from amber and jade; fragments of lace; leather masks and ivory fans; enameled watches; silver penknives; and a wicked-looking pistol with gilded steel mounts. An open jewel box held bracelets and necklaces, all coiled and entwined like serpents in a snake pit.

  “You are suspicious.” Cassandra lingered over the last word, as if it were luscious or delicious. “I don’t blame you. But I assure you: you may explore the entire house and take anything you like — almost anything. The rooms are all unlocked — except the Tower — the Tower isn’t safe. But except for that one room — and except for one thing — you may go wherever you will and take whatever pleases you. And tomorrow evening, Christmas Eve, you must show me what you’ve chosen. That will help me decide what to leave you in my will. Why aren’t you taking anything?” She spoke pettishly: a child on the verge of a tantrum. “Fettle brought those things up just for you. Look — and desire — and take.”

  Lizzie Rose hung back. She was determined not to show any interest in the objects on the table. But Parsefall went forward and dipped his fingers into the jewel box. There was a flash of green and gold. “Catch!”

  Lizzie Rose’s hands opened instinctively. Something hard and metallic stung them, and when she looked down, she was staring at a necklace of heavy gold, set with square green stones.

  “Go ahead. Keep it.” Cassandra Sagredo leaned sideways to watch her. “What use will it be to me in my coffin?” Her voice grew sharp. “What’s the matter? Aren’t my emeralds good enough for you?”

  “It isn’t that, ma’am —”

  “Try them on. And call me Madama, not ma’am. Put on the necklace and look in the glass. There!”

  Lizzie Rose turned to face the tarnished mirror. One of her plaits hung in front of her shoulder. She could not help appreciating the contrast between the glinting green stones and her red hair. Tentatively she touched the gold links.

  “You like that, don’t you, little Vanity?”

  Lizzie Rose made up her mind. She reached behind her neck and undid the clasp. She crossed to the table and returned the necklace to the jewel box. “It’s very kind of you, ma’am, but I think I would rather not.”

  Cassandra mimicked: “‘I think I would rather not.’ Lud, but you are a precious one, aren’t you? Such blushes, such a virtuous air! If Gaspare hadn’t warned me —” Her words caught on a laugh. She choked so violently that Lizzie Rose hastened to the washstand to pour her a glass of water.

  Cassandra took the glass with a shaking hand. She gulped the water and cleared her throat. Under the powder, her skin was a curious shade of gray. The red paint on her cheeks looked pathetic and grotesque.

  “Help me sit up. There is something else I must tell you. I must warn you against the one thing you may not take.” She dropped the empty glass onto the counterpane. “Lift me up.”

  Lizzie Rose slid one arm under the old woman’s shoulders. The hot-metal smell was very strong.

  “Give me another pillow. And take that pitying look off your face — it’s mawkish. Now — I’ll show you.” She raised her voice. “Come here, boy! You must see this, too.”

  From around her neck, she held out a gold chain with a round locket. One yellowed fingernail found the catch, breaking the sphere in two, and releasing a red gemstone. Lizzie Rose was reminded of the cracking of an egg.

  Cassandra scooped up the jewel, holding it in the hollow of her hand. It didn’t glitter but glowed like a red-hot coal. Against the carmine red of the stone, other colors curled and dissolved: peacock shades of blue and green, dim white and pale yellow.

  “Look, but don’t touch. It’s a fire opal. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  Lizzie Rose shook her head.

  “Look at it — its size and depth and sheen! Few fire opals have such play of color. It is extraordinarily rare. The stone is worth more than the whole house and everything in it. But that is only the beginning. There’s magic in it. In your wildest flights of fancy, you could scarcely imagine what it might do for you — but here’s the cruel thing: I will not part with it. Lay even a finger on it, and you will be a thief. And what thief would be bold enough to steal my fire opal?”

  “But we’re not thieves,” protested Lizzie Rose. “We wouldn’t dream of taking it, would we, Parsefall?”

  Cassandra bared her teeth in a crooked smile. “I wouldn’t speak for him, if I were you. He’s a bold one, ain’t you, boy? I wouldn’t put it past him to creep in here while I was asleep. It could be done, you know; I sleep very soundly, and the clasp on the locket is loose.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and spoke directly to Parsefall:

  “Be bold, be bold, but not too bold,

  Lest that your heart’s blood should run cold!

  “Your blood wouldn’t run cold, would it, boy? I like that about you. I like you altogether.” She sounded surprised. “It’s been years since I liked anyone. I wonder what it means.”

  Parsefall said, “Huh,” and scratched his ear.

  Lizzie Rose gazed from one perplexed face to another and felt an unaccustomed pang of jealousy. Unlikely as it might seem, the old woman had taken a fancy to Parsefall. Lizzie Rose told herself that she ought to be glad of it. She was aware that most people preferred her to Parsefall, and it wasn’t fair. Nevertheless, she felt shaken, as if Madama’s partiality had wounded her in some way. She looked down at Ruby, who seemed to be enjoying the comforts of Madama’s bed, and a new lump rose in her throat.

  “I will see you both tomorrow,” said Cassandra. She ran her hand over the spaniel’s back. “You will come in the evening and show me what you chose for Christmas. Now, go.” She closed her eyes. “Take your pretty little dog and go.”

  Clara hung from the gallows, close to Parsefall’s sleeping place. It was eleven o’clock at night, and she was wide awake. Though she could not stir, she was hard at work, straining to cast a spell that would allow her to communicate with Parsefall and Lizzie Rose.

  She was no witch, and she had no idea how to work her spell. But she had devised a ritual, and over and over she practiced it.

  She began by recalling the night Cassandra’s magic had brought her to life. She pictured herself swelling until she was full-size; she envisioned herself crossing the carpet and going out into the passage. She went first to the White Room, where Lizzie Rose slept. Her spell — if spell it was — was hampered by the fact that she had never seen the White Room; Parsefall hadn’t taken her there. Even so, she strove to imagine it, and the name was some help to her.

  She found her way down the dark corridor and stopped before the door. Calling on all her powers of
memory, she thought of what it was like to operate a doorknob. If she could imagine the doorknob, she told herself, she could open the door.

  She worked hard, framing every detail of her vision. She saw her hand go out and her fingers curl around the knob. She twisted her hand clockwise, so that the knuckle of her thumb stood at twelve o’clock; she called to mind the click and creak of the latch. She conjured up the sensations that followed: the swing of the door as she opened it and the carpet brushing the soles of her shoes.

  She imagined the White Room. It was lit by moonlight, as clean and pure as a lily. Lizzie Rose lay sleeping with her red hair loose on the pillow. Clara stood at the end of the bed, grasping the footboard. She tried to remember how it felt to speak: the sensation of air filling her lungs, the play of muscles in her throat. With all the strength she could muster, she thought the words she wanted to say:

  Lizzie Rose! Listen to me! There’s danger! Madama’s a witch, and the fire opal’s evil! Don’t let her trick you into taking it! Whatever you do, don’t take it!

  The figure in the bed never stirred. Clara imagined herself raising her voice: Lizzie Rose, there’s danger here! Take Parsefall and leave Strachan’s Ghyll!

  There was no response. Clara remembered what Cassandra had said: What makes a spell work is passion — fear or desire or rage — Clara prayed that her passion might be strong enough. She thought the words a third time, intensely, trying to convey the urgency of the danger. She turned from Lizzie Rose and retraced her steps.

  Once again, she opened and shut the door. She could almost hear it: the click of the latch and the thud of the door against the wooden frame. I have warned Lizzie Rose, Clara thought, desperately hoping that this was true. Now I must warn Parsefall.