Agnes left the bed to draw the curtains. "Fine enough to have
your party. Your Mr. What's-his-name'll come with his puppets."
"Grisini," Clara said obligingly. "The Phenomenal Professor
Grisini and His Venetian Fantoccini." She had memorized his
handbill three weeks ago, the day she first saw him.
Agnes made a noise like mffmp. She had once been nursery
maid to the Wintermute children, and she felt it gave her certain
privileges among them, the right to make noises when she felt
Clara was being spoiled.
"I don't see what you want with foreign puppets, Miss Clara.
English Punch and Judy is good enough for most children."
Clara looked meek, but she objected. "The fantoccini are different
from Punch and Judy, Agnes. You'll see when Professor
Grisini gives the show. They work with strings only you don't
see the strings. They're like fairies."
Agnes gave the curtains a final twitch. Clara held out her
comb, appealing for help. Clara's hair was as wild as Clara was
sedate, and only Agnes could subdue it. Armed with skill and
patience, Agnes could turn Clara's thatch of dark curls into
twenty ringlets, ten on either side of a center part.
Agnes accepted the comb and went to work. Clara took her
prayer book from the dressing table and opened to the section for
morning prayers. She locked her knees and held her head still as
Agnes dragged at the knots in her hair. Clara had once heard her
mother's maid say, " There's many a grown-up lady that doesn't
hold still like Miss Clara. Miss Clara's as steady as a rock."
Clara liked that. Most of the time when she eavesdropped,
she heard about how spoiled she was. She supposed it was true.
She made extra work for the servants, and her parents cosseted
her, worrying endlessly about her health. Her father inspected
the nursery weekly, using his pocket handkerchief to check for
drafts, and the nursery fire was kept burning even in summer.
Clara's birthday frock had been made by the finest dressmaker
in London, and she knew her presents would be many and
What she hadn't expected was that her father would allow
Professor Grisini to perform at the party. Since the moment
Clara first saw the puppet caravan and the children who
worked the puppets she had thought of little else. She had
come upon the puppet stage in Hyde Park. It was a tedious
afternoon, gray and chill, with patches of heavy fog. Her governess,
Miss Cameron, had stopped to talk to a nursemaid from the
other side of the square. The two women gossiped for half an
hour. Their conversation was so dull that Clara gave up trying
to follow it. She waited stoically, trying not to fidget. Then she
glimpsed the caravan, shining scarlet though the fog.
She asked Miss Cameron if she could watch the puppet
show, and gained permission. She hurried down to the miniature
stage, only to realize that she was watching the show from the
It was even more interesting than watching from the front.
She was seeing what no one was meant to see. She noted the two
racks set up behind the stage, each hung with puppets, and the
black curtain that covered the puppet workers' heads. At intervals,
the puppet master would reach back with out looking and
nip a new puppet off the rack. The master's apprentice was so
small that he stood on a wooden box. He was skinny and his
trousers were ragged, but he was as deft as his master. Even from
the wrong side of the stage, Clara could sense how skillful he was.
The third member of the party was a girl in her early teens.
She was the only member of the company whose face Clara
could see, and it was an interesting face: pale, pointed, and wistful.
The girl had long red hair and carried herself with the grace
of a dancer. She provided the music for the show, switching back
and forth between a flute, a tambourine, and a small violin. From
time to time she glided up to the backdrop and handled one of
the manikins. The three puppet workers worked together seamlessly.
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