Laura Schlitz - Splendors and Glooms

Lizzie Rose frowned at his language but pointed to the trees surrounding the house. The trees might serve for cover. She squeezed between two large hollies, and Parsefall followed suit. The holly leaves scratched and plucked at him, catching his cap and the puppet bags on his back. The noise was deafening. He found it hard to believe that no one in the house heard it. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the shelter. The space between the house and the shrubbery was like a tunnel: private, dark, and close. Behind him, Lizzie Rose gave a little cry. She had caught one of her plaits on a holly twig. He waited for her to free herself, glad for the moment of rest. He hadn’t realized how much the puppets weighed, and walking was arduous.

“Parsefall,” Lizzie Rose said in a low voice, “we’re at the tower.”

Parsefall opened his mouth to jeer at her. Of course they were at the tower; the curved wall to the side of them could be nothing else. Then he understood her meaning. They had lost themselves in the shrubbery, and they’d circled three-quarters of the way around the house, missing the front drive. Once again they were behind the house, looking down the sloping lawn to the lake.

“We’ll go back,” Parsefall said resolutely. “This time, once we get to the lane, we’ll make a run for it.”

Lizzie Rose gave his hand a quick squeeze. “That’s right. We’ll run when we get to the gatehouse. The snow will muffle our footsteps.”

Parsefall hoped she was right. He tugged his jacket down in front. The weight on his back dragged at his collar, half choking him. He would have liked to unbutton his coat, but Clara was inside, curled up like an embryo against his chest. He could not risk dropping her in the snow.

“This way,” said Lizzie Rose, and they set off at a jog-trot, heading for the lane.

Cassandra stood by her bedroom window, gripping the fire opal in her unbandaged hand. She had awakened quite suddenly, knowing that something was wrong. Something was not only wrong but missing, and she didn’t know what it was. The servant who had been assigned to sit by her all night had deserted her, but that was nothing, Cassandra thought; that would not rouse her from a sound sleep. She sensed that she had suffered a distinct and dangerous loss — and all at once she knew what it was. The children were leaving the house. They were her last hope, and they were leaving. “Don’t leave,” she croaked, as if they could hear her. “Stay. Stay.” She clutched the phoenix-stone until her palm blistered. The pain was so great that she thought she might vomit, or faint. She couldn’t afford that; she must summon all her strength and cast the spell to bring the children back.

She slid her hand between the buttons of her nightdress, pressing the jewel against her heart like a leech. She cried out, not weakly but in strong outrage. The skin between her breasts puckered and shriveled. Numbness followed the pain, and then a steady warmth. The sting and throb became almost comforting.

Her mind was clear again. She thrust the stone back into the locket and peered out the window. She saw three small figures, dark against the snow. As her gaze fell upon them, they changed direction, veering back toward the house. Even from a distance, she could sense their bewilderment, and she almost pitied them. But they must not leave her. No one must ever leave her. She turned her back on the window and lurched forward, moving in a drunken zigzag, grabbing the furniture for balance. First the armchair — then the mantel — then the bedpost — the dressing table — the doorknobs. She wrenched open the doors and staggered out into the corridor.

The candles in the hall were lit. Cassandra rested against the door frame, gathering strength. There was a small table halfway down the hall, and she steered for it, tacking back and forth like a ship. When she reached it, she fell against it. The candlestick on the table rocked; the candle tilted in its socket. The tip of the flame caught the sleeve of her nightdress.

She stared at it, watching the flame swell and the white cloth char. So. It was going to happen, then: the doom she had feared so long. She was going to die by fire. First her nightdress would catch and then the outer layer of her skin, and then the burning agony would possess her whole body. Her mind accepted it and went dead.

But her body, after one moment of frozen horror, was determined to fight. It flung itself against the floor, writhing against the carpet like a dog rolling in carrion. Both hands beat at the flames again and again, long after the last spark had been extinguished. The witch smelled smoke and singed cloth.

The fire was out. She had survived it.

She felt a childish urge to thank God for her deliverance — as if God had anything to do with her. The idea made her laugh a little. She set her palms against the floor and scrabbled until she got her knees under her. She stood up and staggered down the passage to the Tower Room.

She found the door unlocked and went inside. The matches were in the top drawer of the tall cabinet. Cassandra’s hands shook as she lit the candles in the wall sconces. She hadn’t been inside the tower since the day the children came, and with faint surprise she noted the mess that Parsefall had made. The tent shelter was in her way. Cassandra set her whole weight against it and shoved it against the wall, kicking aside Parsefall’s pillows. She dragged the blankets and the bearskin to one side, hating them for being so cumbersome.

She returned to the cabinet and withdrew a dagger with an ebony handle. With one practiced movement, she sliced the blade across her arm, letting the wound gape. The fat under her skin glistened like silver. After several seconds, the blood began to flow: first sullenly, then rapidly. She let it drip onto the knife blade. Then she took out the phoenix-stone, twirling it between her fingers until it was coated with blood.

She shut the stone back in the locket and bent forward, dragging the blade of the dagger along the lines on the floor. She shuffled backward and forward, tracing the pattern, casting the spell. When she finished, she wrapped her fingers around the filigree locket. She shut her eyes. “Clara Wintermute!”

The girl’s face appeared at once. It was as distinct as if it had been painted inside the witch’s eyelids. Cassandra snarled aloud. “Why are they leaving me? How dare they? What made them decide to go? Answer me!”

Clara’s expression was mutinous. Her mouth drew back in a stubborn line. She was fighting, trying to hold back every syllable. But the witch’s power was overwhelming, and at last Clara’s lips parted. Her voice was scarcely audible. Cassandra caught only a single word: Grisini. Then the girl’s face faded, as if it had been painted in watercolor and sponged away.

The witch uttered a shriek of rage. Grisini! Fool that she was, she had forgotten him. Why had she allowed him to stay on in the gatehouse? Why hadn’t she foreseen that he would meddle with the children? Cassandra shut her hand around the gold locket. She spoke his name with murder in her voice: “Gaspare Grisini!”

She saw him, and he was asleep. He looked frail and peaceful: an old man taking his ease in a soft bed. “Gaspare!” she bellowed, and the puppet master opened his eyes.

An idea flashed through Cassandra’s head. She would punish him, and she would make use of him. She would — what was his phrase? — catch two pigeons at the same time. At the thought of what she meant to do, her lips drew back in a yellow-toothed smile, for it was her turn to be the master, and his to play the puppet.

“Parsefall,” Lizzie Rose said, on the verge of tears, “there’s something wrong.”

Parsefall was too weary to answer. It seemed to him that they had been tracking back and forth across the lawn for hours. His feet were icy, and his teeth chattered. The snow had stopped falling. The moon slid out from under a cloud, pouring gray light onto the trampled lawn.