Splendors and Glooms (43 page)

Afterward she had no idea what she said. Her sins were too numerous to name, and halfway through the telling of one, she thought of another. Often she broke off to explain that she had been tempted beyond her strength; what she had done wasn’t entirely her fault. She told how she had stolen the jewel from Marguerite, and sobbed with anguish for her lost friend. She tried to recount the spells she had cast, but the priest shook his head in bewilderment, and she knew he didn’t believe her. She could not tell if what she felt was remorse or only sorrow, but she went on confessing until her voice gave out. As she drifted into sleep, she felt the soothing touch of holy oil on her eyelids. She thought,
Now the Angel of Death will come down from the ceiling and carry me away.
But she was wrong. The next day she was better, and the doctor said she had rallied.

The dog Ruby seldom left her bed. Even when Cassandra was too weak to raise her head, she heard the spaniel snoring, and was comforted by its animal presence. The aroma of food sickened her, but she enjoyed the smell of the dog: a rank and earthy odor, like Stilton cheese. Having the dog on her bed helped to keep the Thing at bay.

Often when she awakened, the children were in the room. Lizzie Rose visited her faithfully, and so did Clara. Parsefall came seldom, and never alone. Cassandra thought that he was more intuitive than the others; he sensed the presence of the Thing on the ceiling, and he didn’t like it. Unlike the girls, he didn’t know how to behave in the sickroom: he paced, fidgeted, and swore, forgetting to lower his voice. “P’raps she’d like to see the puppets,” he suggested one afternoon.

Cassandra had been half asleep, but his words brought her out of her stupor. She blinked and concentrated until the room came into focus. The children were lounging before the fire. They were warmly and handsomely dressed. Cassandra supposed that the new clothes, like the servants, had been sent up from London.

Parsefall persisted. “She ’asn’t anyfink to do,” he pointed out, “and it’s dull for ’er, just lyin’ there. She might like to see the puppets.”

Cassandra sucked the saliva in her mouth, running her tongue over her gums. “The puppets,” she said hoarsely. “They dance, don’t they? I want to see them dance.”

Parsefall scrambled to his feet. “There, di’n’t I tell you? She wants ’em. There’s an ’ornpipe, and a skeleton dance, and a ballet —” He stopped. “’Cept there’s no ballet, ’cos I don’t ’ave the puppet for it. But we could give you the ’ornpipe or the Magnetic Skeleton. Which do you want? The skeleton’s better.”

Lizzie Rose demurred. “I don’t think the skeleton dance —”

“But the skeleton dance
is
better than the ’ornpipe,” Parsefall insisted. “She won’t mind a graveyard and a few bones.”

“Bones,” echoed Cassandra. “I don’t mind bones.” She shut her eyes, and sleep overwhelmed her. The children’s voices seemed to swell in volume, and then diminish. She slept.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that the children had erected a stage opposite the bed. There was a backdrop painted with tombstones, and Lizzie Rose was tuning the strings of a small violin. Parsefall pointed to Cassandra. “See? She’s awake. She woz just resting ’er eyes.”

“She won’t be able to see lying down,” said Clara. “We’ll have to prop her up.”

Cassandra moaned in anticipation. It hurt her to be moved, especially by the children, who lacked the strength to lift her easily. But neither Clara nor Lizzie Rose understood that the groan was a protest. They yanked and shoved her into a sitting position, wedging a mountain of pillows behind her back.

The children took their places. Lizzie Rose slipped her fiddle under her chin and lifted the bow. Parsefall ducked behind the canvas. The Magnetic Skeleton capered onto the stage: a grotesque little figure with an insinuating grin. Cassandra found herself grinning back. It tickled her that the boy dared to make fun of the Thing on the ceiling. When the skeleton’s legs broke away from the torso and began to jig alone, her grin broadened; when the skull munched the air, she clacked her teeth in sympathy. As the dance came to an end, she cried, “Encore!” but before the dance began again, her attention shifted to Clara.

The girl was clapping enthusiastically. Her back was straight, and there was a smile on her lips. Nevertheless, she was miserable: Cassandra had not the slightest doubt of that. She snapped, “What’s the matter with you?”

Clara gave a little jump. She responded, “Nothing, ma’am,” but Cassandra contradicted her.

“You’re envious — that’s what ails you.” She felt a childish triumph in being able to pinpoint the problem. “I know envy when I see it! You miss being part of the show. I remember now; you want to be a dancer. Lud, child, if that’s what you want, don’t sit with your hands in your lap! Go and dance for me!”

“I can’t.” A flush of mortification rose to Clara’s cheeks. “I could only dance when I was a puppet. I never had lessons — we were always in mourning. Mamma said it wouldn’t be proper.”

Cassandra mimicked her. “‘Mamma said it wouldn’t be proper!’ Lud, child, your mother’s so glad to have you back, she’d let you dance naked if you chose. Don’t hide your face in your mother’s skirts! And for God’s sake, don’t blush!” Her voice sharpened. “You’re not a mouse! A mouse wouldn’t have shattered my fire opal. Go and dance!”

“I’m clumsy,” faltered Clara. “You know I am — you said so yourself, that night in the tower —”

Cassandra cast her mind back to that night. She recalled the puppet-child darting from mirror to mirror like a white moth. “You’re not clumsy.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re ashamed. That’s why you can’t dance; that’s what trips you up! You’re holding on to a secret, aren’t you, Clara Wintermute? I almost saw it when you walked the labyrinth. Then you stopped me. There’s something you did — something that shuts you up and turns your limbs to lead. What was it?”

Lizzie Rose put down her fiddle. Parsefall came from behind the stage, still holding the Magnetic Skeleton. They moved toward Clara, one on either side. But Clara didn’t seem to know they were there. She stared at Cassandra: a bird hypnotized by a snake.

“What is it?” Cassandra repeated. “Whatever it is, you ought to tell me.” Her mouth twisted in an upside-down smile. “In fact, there’s no one better you could tell. Whatever you’ve done, I’ve done worse. Out with it!”

Clara opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her pupils were dilated.

“Did you tell a lie? Steal something? Murder anyone?”

“I took my brother’s life.”

Cassandra let out her breath. She knew that she must be careful what she said next. She racked her brains for something wise and kind. But the words that escaped her were callous. “That’s a clever trick, if you can manage it. How did you take his life?”

The room was utterly silent. Clara blinked the tears out of her eyes. “It was in the watercress. The cholera. I didn’t know that, of course. I only knew that I hated eating green things. And Agnes said that if I didn’t eat the watercress, I shouldn’t have any pudding. There was chestnut pudding that day, and I wanted some dreadfully.”

“Go on.”

“There were five of us children. So there were two trays at nursery tea, and Agnes had to help the maid carry the trays back to the kitchen. That meant we children were alone for a few minutes. I still had my plate in front of me, because I was supposed to eat the watercress, and Addie and Selina were playing with the doll’s house. So I asked Charles Augustus — he was my twin — if he’d eat the watercress for me, so that I could have pudding. And he did. He never minded what he ate.”

“Go on.”

“But the sickness was in the watercress.” The words spilled out faster now. Clara was trembling. “I heard Papa talking about it. Not right after they died, but years later, when I was old enough to understand. He said there was a doctor who had studied — who had
proved
— that cholera came from filthy water. The watercress must have grown by a dirty stream. But of course, I didn’t eat any of it. Charles Augustus ate it for me.”

Cassandra waited to make sure that Clara had finished. Then, deliberately, she opened her mouth and laughed. She cackled until the bed shook and the walls echoed.

Clara got to her feet. She looked as if she wanted to run away, but could not make up her mind to do so. She pressed her fingers over her mouth.

“Is that all?” retorted Cassandra. “Is that the secret you’ve been clutching to your heart all these years? That you wanted a dish of chestnut pudding? God save you, you poor, innocent little fool — everyone wants his share of chestnut pudding —”

“You don’t understand,” Clara said desperately. “He ate the watercress for me — I killed him —”

“Cholera killed him,” Cassandra said sharply. “You stupid, stupid girl! Don’t you know that killing is a decision? You never chose to poison your brother. You chose chestnut pudding over watercress. By the by, when the pudding came, did you eat his share? Did you steal his pudding, you naughty girl?”

“No,” Clara answered indignantly. A little color came into her cheeks; against this charge she could defend herself.

“Neither did you steal his life,” Cassandra said. She beckoned with one limp hand. “My dear stupid child, you must set aside your gloomy conscience. You killed no one. You survived. If you’d eaten the watercress, your parents would have lost five children instead of four — did you ever think of that? I tell you, leave it alone. And now you must dance. I am on my deathbed, and I command you.” Cassandra twisted toward Lizzie Rose. “Play your fiddle, girl. I want to see her dance.”

Lizzie Rose looked uncertain. But Parsefall nodded, so she lifted her bow and placed the violin under her chin. Clara opened her mouth to protest. Cassandra felt a great fatigue — the laughter she had forced out of her body had drained her to the dregs. But she rapped out one last syllable,
“Dance!”
and Clara raised herself on half-pointe in order to begin.

It was silly to dance in a wool frock and cashmere stockings. Clara knew that she was doomed to make a fool of herself. She remembered the steps of the ballet — she had rehearsed them a hundred times — but she couldn’t dance, not really. Madama was going to laugh at her, and so would Parsefall. Even Lizzie Rose would laugh, though she would try not to.

The voice of the fiddle was meltingly sweet. Clara brought her arms together, crossing her wrists. She shifted her weight to her right leg and swung her left foot forward, toes pointed so hard they hurt. She arched her back, following the movement of her hand with her eyes — her hand, which had no string passing through it. Her hand was her own, to move as she liked. Whether to dance or not was her choice.

And she chose to dance. It was harder than it had been when she was a puppet. Gravity fought against her, and her muscles were tight. But she was dancing, not being danced, and at that thought, she glided forward, not one stride, but three. As a puppet, she had been forced to stay within the compass of Parsefall’s arm. Now she could skip and spin over every inch of the room.

She quickened her steps and tried a
cabriole,
remembering how it felt to soar through the air. No one laughed, so she tried another, her arms opening as if to embrace the room. She glided and swayed, leaped and spun, until she was breathless.

The dance concluded with an
arabesque.
Clara concentrated, pulling herself into stillness. She couldn’t raise her leg as high as she had when she was a puppet. But she kept her balance, sustaining the pose by sheer willpower, following the music —
one, two, three, off!
As she dropped into a curtsy, Lizzie Rose and Parsefall applauded, smacking their hands together with all their might.

Cassandra wanted to applaud, too. She tried to move her right hand, but it stayed where it was, limp against the bedclothes. She endeavored to speak. “That was one good —” Her words were slurred. She wanted to tell the children that at her eleventh hour, she had done one good thing; she had released Clara from her secret, and set her free to dance. But all at once, there were no words. The sound that came from her was fearsome and strangled. It made the children rush to her side.

They looked dreadfully frightened. Clara shouted at Parsefall to fetch her father, but he stayed where he was, frozen and aghast. Ruby was barking, her hackles raised. Lizzie Rose caught hold of Cassandra’s right hand, and Clara seized the left. Cassandra would have liked to grip their fingers in gratitude, but there was no strength left in her. She felt herself jerk as if some great beast were shaking her between its jaws. The world darkened, and the Thing swooped down. There was a moment of frantic struggle before she understood that the Thing was holy. Then the thread that fastened her soul to her body was broken, and she died before the children let go of her hands.

T
he funeral was endless. Parsefall stood in the Strachan family cemetery, mentally cursing the priest. He scuffed the melting snow with the toe of his boots, watching the white crystals turn pewter gray. It astonished him how waterproof his new boots were; with wool socks and good boots, he could wade through the slush with warm, dry feet.