was also deeply bored. Even the puppet theatre failed to amuse him. He was willing to abandon it, and eager to be rid of the two children who worked for him. He knew he would never find a boy who suited him better than Parsefall did — the boy’s hands were wonderfully deft — but he found he didn’t care. He looked forward to a life of idleness, with servants to attend him instead of children.
“Gaspare! Gaspare Grisini!”
He stopped in the middle of the street. It was as if Cassandra had thrown a noose around his neck and yanked it tight. He felt her presence. He even smelled the scent she used to wear: a nauseous blend of myrrh and musk roses.
“Gaspare! I want you!”
He spun like the needle of a compass. If he did not obey her, she could make him bleed. He recalled the night they had parted, when she clawed his face and laid her curse on him. The blood had streamed from him, ounce after precious ounce, pint after pint, not clotting, but flowing in eight crimson streams.
“You come, Gaspare! I summon you!”
He lurched forward as if she had released the halter around his throat. As he stumbled through the streets, pictures swam into his mind. He must go north. He would have to go to a railway station, and he knew which one; in his mind’s eye, he saw the great arches and tunnels of King’s Cross. He glimpsed his destination: a landscape of dark fells and silver lakes. A castle of red sandstone rose before him.
He heard footsteps. He imagined Cassandra tracking him, like Hecate with her pack of hounds, and he panicked. He spied a narrow alley to the left of him and ducked into it, wrapping his arms around his chest as if he could squeeze himself into invisibility. He realized that he was panting and shut his mouth to muffle the sound.
The footsteps passed.
Grisini stifled a gasp of relief. Once again, he touched his cheeks, making sure that the wounds had not opened. All at once he recalled his appointment with Dr. Wintermute, and the ten thousand pounds he was about to lose. Ten thousand pounds! He could have screamed with frustration. Why must Cassandra summon him now? Another night — just one — and he would have ten thousand pounds —
His fingers curled into fists. If he could disobey her — for three hours, three little hours, just long enough to collect Clara’s ransom . . . In the old days, it would not have been possible. But the witch had grown older; the power of her summons was not as strong as it had once been. Perhaps he could manage it.
He felt his pulses quicken. He had always been a gambler, and though his heart raced with fear, the situation was not without its savor. He turned his footsteps homeward and doubled his pace. He was so intent on his purpose that he was nearly home before he saw the man who followed him through the streets.
P arsefall was rehearsing. He was trying to learn the dance of the ballerina puppet, which Grisini had refused to teach him. Grisini was fond of taunting his apprentice; he was willing to admit that Parsefall had mastered the skeleton dance, but the ballet was more difficult, requiring the finesse of a true artist. The insult ate deep into Parsefall’s soul. Whenever Grisini set off for the Juniper Bough, Parsefall took the dancer from her muslin bag and practiced. He was determined to prove Grisini wrong.
He propped a mirror against the side of Lizzie Rose’s bedroom, positioning it so that he could watch the puppet’s movements. He would have liked to practice close to the fire, but Lizzie Rose had laid claim to that territory. She had hauled a basin of water upstairs and was heating a kettle on the hob. Parsefall rolled his eyes at her. Lizzie Rose’s propensity for washing things struck him as insane. He was glad he knew better than to waste time like that.
He stood on a chair — he was shorter than Grisini, and the puppet’s strings were too long for him. He lifted the perch of the little dancer, and she swung like a child on a swing.
“Gaspare! Gaspare Grisini!”
He stopped in the middle of the street. It was as if Cassandra had thrown a noose around his neck and yanked it tight. He felt her presence. He even smelled the scent she used to wear: a nauseous blend of myrrh and musk roses.
“Gaspare! I want you!”
He spun like the needle of a compass. If he did not obey her, she could make him bleed. He recalled the night they had parted, when she clawed his face and laid her curse on him. The blood had streamed from him, ounce after precious ounce, pint after pint, not clotting, but flowing in eight crimson streams.
“You come, Gaspare! I summon you!”
He lurched forward as if she had released the halter around his throat. As he stumbled through the streets, pictures swam into his mind. He must go north. He would have to go to a railway station, and he knew which one; in his mind’s eye, he saw the great arches and tunnels of King’s Cross. He glimpsed his destination: a landscape of dark fells and silver lakes. A castle of red sandstone rose before him.
He heard footsteps. He imagined Cassandra tracking him, like Hecate with her pack of hounds, and he panicked. He spied a narrow alley to the left of him and ducked into it, wrapping his arms around his chest as if he could squeeze himself into invisibility. He realized that he was panting and shut his mouth to muffle the sound.
The footsteps passed.
Grisini stifled a gasp of relief. Once again, he touched his cheeks, making sure that the wounds had not opened. All at once he recalled his appointment with Dr. Wintermute, and the ten thousand pounds he was about to lose. Ten thousand pounds! He could have screamed with frustration. Why must Cassandra summon him now? Another night — just one — and he would have ten thousand pounds —
His fingers curled into fists. If he could disobey her — for three hours, three little hours, just long enough to collect Clara’s ransom . . . In the old days, it would not have been possible. But the witch had grown older; the power of her summons was not as strong as it had once been. Perhaps he could manage it.
He felt his pulses quicken. He had always been a gambler, and though his heart raced with fear, the situation was not without its savor. He turned his footsteps homeward and doubled his pace. He was so intent on his purpose that he was nearly home before he saw the man who followed him through the streets.
P arsefall was rehearsing. He was trying to learn the dance of the ballerina puppet, which Grisini had refused to teach him. Grisini was fond of taunting his apprentice; he was willing to admit that Parsefall had mastered the skeleton dance, but the ballet was more difficult, requiring the finesse of a true artist. The insult ate deep into Parsefall’s soul. Whenever Grisini set off for the Juniper Bough, Parsefall took the dancer from her muslin bag and practiced. He was determined to prove Grisini wrong.
He propped a mirror against the side of Lizzie Rose’s bedroom, positioning it so that he could watch the puppet’s movements. He would have liked to practice close to the fire, but Lizzie Rose had laid claim to that territory. She had hauled a basin of water upstairs and was heating a kettle on the hob. Parsefall rolled his eyes at her. Lizzie Rose’s propensity for washing things struck him as insane. He was glad he knew better than to waste time like that.
He stood on a chair — he was shorter than Grisini, and the puppet’s strings were too long for him. He lifted the perch of the little dancer, and she swung like a child on a swing.
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