He waited patiently until she was still. Then he pulled the hand string. The ballerina raised her arms.
Parsefall began to hum the music of the dance, keeping his eyes on the mirror. He was dissatisfied: the puppet jerked with every move. Though she was beautifully balanced, she was rather light; if she were his, he would experiment with adding weight to her hips. He steadied her and relaxed his hands. The slow, supple movements, each melting into the next, required an almost superhuman delicacy and control. He swore under his breath.
“Don’t swear,” said Lizzie Rose automatically. “It’s vulgar.”
“Vulgar be blowed,” countered Parsefall. He knew that Lizzie Rose was only pretending to be shocked. She didn’t think swearing was as sinful as stealing, or thumbing through Grisini’s pictures of naked ladies. “Listen, Foxy-Loxy, would you get the fiddle and play for me?”
“I’m not Foxy-Loxy,” Lizzie Rose said between her teeth. “And I’m busy. I’m going to wash Ruby.”
Parsefall wrinkled his nose at her. The day before, Ruby had discovered the source of the foul smell in Mrs. Pinchbeck’s kitchen. The little spaniel had found a dead rat behind the stove and dragged it forth in triumph. Before eating it — and being extremely sick — Ruby had celebrated by rolling over and over on her prey. The smell was so vile that the dog had been shut in the cellar ever since.
“She’ll ’ate it,” Parsefall predicted.
“She hates being alone in the cellar,” Lizzie Rose countered. “She’s been crying all day, poor thing.”
“I’m tryin’ to
rehearse,
” Parsefall said in an aggrieved tone of voice. “That’s more important than washin’ a dirty dog.”
Lizzie Rose rolled up her sleeves. “You wouldn’t think so if she slept in your bed.”
Parsefall shrugged, giving up. He tugged the string for the dancer’s leg, easing her into an arabesque. The standing leg left the floor. He sighed and started over, humming creakily. By the time Lizzie Rose had the dog in the bath, he was beginning to make progress.
A door slammed downstairs. Parsefall dropped the puppet. The dogs in Mrs. Pinchbeck’s lodgings emitted an earsplitting series of barks and yaps. Ruby leaped out of the basin and raced around the room, spraying the carpet with water.
Parsefall yelped. The dog was headed for his puppet. He snatched up the dancer by one leg, forgetting what he had known since the age of six: a string puppet should always be picked up by its control. The strings tangled. Parsefall shoved the ballerina under a chair so that Grisini would not see.
The door burst open, and Grisini came in.
Parsefall saw at once that something was wrong. There was a sense of heightened alertness about the man, as if he were a predator about to spring. Parsefall kept very still. He fixed his eyes on the carpet so as not to draw attention to himself. He was poised to duck, dodge, or flee.
But there was no need. Grisini passed between the children as if they were invisible. He strode into the bedchamber and slammed shut the door.
Parsefall let out his breath. He set his finger to his lips, cautioning Lizzie Rose to silence. He listened to the sounds in the next room. He heard rustles and thumbs, the rasp of wood scraping wood, the tinny rattle of drawer pulls. He wondered what Grisini was searching for.
Lizzie Rose wiped her wet hands on her skirt and went after Ruby. She knelt down and forced the shivering dog back into the washbasin. Parsefall cocked his head, still listening. Impelled by some instinct, he went to the window and peered between the soot-stained curtains. When he saw the policeman across the street, he nodded. He spoke in a low voice. “Lizzie Rose, there’s a copper out there. ’E’s watchin’ the ’ouse.”
Lizzie Rose lifted her head. He saw the fear come into her eyes — fear and comprehension and a look of guilt. She whispered, “Don’t tell Grisini.”
Parsefall shook his head
Parsefall began to hum the music of the dance, keeping his eyes on the mirror. He was dissatisfied: the puppet jerked with every move. Though she was beautifully balanced, she was rather light; if she were his, he would experiment with adding weight to her hips. He steadied her and relaxed his hands. The slow, supple movements, each melting into the next, required an almost superhuman delicacy and control. He swore under his breath.
“Don’t swear,” said Lizzie Rose automatically. “It’s vulgar.”
“Vulgar be blowed,” countered Parsefall. He knew that Lizzie Rose was only pretending to be shocked. She didn’t think swearing was as sinful as stealing, or thumbing through Grisini’s pictures of naked ladies. “Listen, Foxy-Loxy, would you get the fiddle and play for me?”
“I’m not Foxy-Loxy,” Lizzie Rose said between her teeth. “And I’m busy. I’m going to wash Ruby.”
Parsefall wrinkled his nose at her. The day before, Ruby had discovered the source of the foul smell in Mrs. Pinchbeck’s kitchen. The little spaniel had found a dead rat behind the stove and dragged it forth in triumph. Before eating it — and being extremely sick — Ruby had celebrated by rolling over and over on her prey. The smell was so vile that the dog had been shut in the cellar ever since.
“She’ll ’ate it,” Parsefall predicted.
“She hates being alone in the cellar,” Lizzie Rose countered. “She’s been crying all day, poor thing.”
“I’m tryin’ to
rehearse,
” Parsefall said in an aggrieved tone of voice. “That’s more important than washin’ a dirty dog.”
Lizzie Rose rolled up her sleeves. “You wouldn’t think so if she slept in your bed.”
Parsefall shrugged, giving up. He tugged the string for the dancer’s leg, easing her into an arabesque. The standing leg left the floor. He sighed and started over, humming creakily. By the time Lizzie Rose had the dog in the bath, he was beginning to make progress.
A door slammed downstairs. Parsefall dropped the puppet. The dogs in Mrs. Pinchbeck’s lodgings emitted an earsplitting series of barks and yaps. Ruby leaped out of the basin and raced around the room, spraying the carpet with water.
Parsefall yelped. The dog was headed for his puppet. He snatched up the dancer by one leg, forgetting what he had known since the age of six: a string puppet should always be picked up by its control. The strings tangled. Parsefall shoved the ballerina under a chair so that Grisini would not see.
The door burst open, and Grisini came in.
Parsefall saw at once that something was wrong. There was a sense of heightened alertness about the man, as if he were a predator about to spring. Parsefall kept very still. He fixed his eyes on the carpet so as not to draw attention to himself. He was poised to duck, dodge, or flee.
But there was no need. Grisini passed between the children as if they were invisible. He strode into the bedchamber and slammed shut the door.
Parsefall let out his breath. He set his finger to his lips, cautioning Lizzie Rose to silence. He listened to the sounds in the next room. He heard rustles and thumbs, the rasp of wood scraping wood, the tinny rattle of drawer pulls. He wondered what Grisini was searching for.
Lizzie Rose wiped her wet hands on her skirt and went after Ruby. She knelt down and forced the shivering dog back into the washbasin. Parsefall cocked his head, still listening. Impelled by some instinct, he went to the window and peered between the soot-stained curtains. When he saw the policeman across the street, he nodded. He spoke in a low voice. “Lizzie Rose, there’s a copper out there. ’E’s watchin’ the ’ouse.”
Lizzie Rose lifted her head. He saw the fear come into her eyes — fear and comprehension and a look of guilt. She whispered, “Don’t tell Grisini.”
Parsefall shook his head
Similar Books
