Laura Schlitz - Splendors and Glooms

“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 his 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.

What had the witch said to her, that first night at Strachan’s Ghyll? You need only wish for the stone, and you will be yourself again. If your wish is strong enough, your strings will snap and Grisini’s spell will be broken. If Clara wished, she might save Parsefall; she could save him if she stole the stone herself. The curse would fall upon her. Clara shut her eyes in terror.

The room went dark.

She opened her eyes and the room reappeared. She blinked, unable to believe that she could open and close her eyes. Her chest hurt, as if her heart were struggling to beat in a space too small for it. I will, thought Clara. I will steal the stone. I will wish for it with all my heart.

An unseen hand plucked her strings. Clara felt them, taut against the holes in her flesh. She swayed and twisted, shifting her weight as if she were on a swing. There was a soft pfffft as a head string snapped. Clara’s head flopped sideways. Then she raised her chin. She could do that; she could lift her head, and clench her fists. She curled her fingers and wrapped her thumbs around them. Fiercely, joyfully, she hammered the air, yanking the threads that ran through her palms. Her left knee stung as a leg string gave way. Another string twanged, then another. There was a rush of air — a sensation of falling — and a hard landing, one that rattled every bone in her body.

Clara stumbled to her feet and ran to the witch’s bed. Cassandra was as pale as death, but her eyes glittered. “I caught you, I trapped you!” she panted. “I knew I could do it! I saw into your mind, and I knew you loved the boy. Love is always a trap!” She bit off the last word so fiercely that spittle shot from her mouth.

Clara plunged under the bed canopy. The witch hissed and retreated, protecting the filigree locket with both hands. Clara wedged her thumbs into the hollows of the old woman’s fists, prying open the gnarled fingers. She snatched the locket with such force that the gold chain gave way. Once the locket was in her hands, Clara leaped back. She cried out in pain. “It’s burning me!”

Cassandra gasped like a fish out of water. “Yes, it’ll burn you,” she panted. “It’s burned me for years. It’s more powerful — if you let it hurt you.”

Clara stared at her reddened palm. She had cherished a hope that she might destroy the stone by consigning it to the flames. Now she saw that she could not fight fire with fire. A weird fancy swept into her mind. “Wait,” she whispered. She flew to the window and opened the casement. The frigid air came in like a blessing.