forehead.
The short-tempered gypsy sorcerer "bowing and scraping" to these two mystery riders. Why?
Then Alphonse sees, and his puppet teeth clatter. The two black riders are the strikingly pale and elegant Lord Edward and Lady Edward Blackgore .
(YOU'RE NEXT)
Under those black capes they're both dressed to the nines in what appear to be matched evening-out clothes, opera tuxedos even.
White bow-ties -- the scum!
He can't hear what they're saying, but he sees Vesuvio move to kiss Lady Edwarda's hand. She waves him off, scornfully, and Vesuvio bows again.
Lickspittle! thinks puppet Alphonse. Next the obese old fakir will be kissing their riding boots!
But no. Lord Blackgore speaks sharply to the gypsy and gestures toward the cages. Vesuvio bows and shambles off, out of the glaring firelight.
The cages. Lucia.
Alphonse is now thinking, in his hollow and frantic puppet head: Haste. Go steal back your sword-cane already, puppet boy.
Alphonse makes all puppet boy haste, his gangly limbs rattling (cheap pine wood! he thinks) around the clearing edge to the circus wagon daubed with Vesuvio's sweaty, grinning mug.
He tries the latch. Unlocked. He lifts it and enters, shutting the flimsy door.
It's dim inside.
There's a dangling sailor's hammock. Clothing and underwear scattered underfoot.
Trembling, Alphonse knocks against an oil lamp, which rolls but doesn't shatter. He rights it, the oil sloshing.
He finds a box of matches on the same grimy table. Strikes a match. It flares with a hiss. By its light Alphonse sees:
-Boots, lined up regimental style.
-Boot polish.
-Rows of bottled hair-grease. Herbal extracts. Snake oil.
-Wine bottles, mostly empty.
-Dirty plates in a heap, crawling with roaches. (Gross.)
**
E voila: grandfather's Toledo sword cane, stuck in a barrel with some Gypsy junk and a French horn.
Alphonse grabs it. As he turns to go, his match blinks out.
He drops it, fumbles in the box, lights another. Striking it with a rasp on his own forehead.
By this weak light, he glimpses a pair of silver-inlaid dueling pistols hung high up on nails.
Holy Marionettes! Alphonse thinks.
Alphonse leans his sword cane on the wall and clambers cricket-quick onto a grappa cask. He snatches the pistols and shoves them into his Basque-style red sash.
Next, scrabbling in the drawer of a cheap armoire, he finds a bag of powder and shot. This also he stuffs into the sash. He sticks the sword cane there, too.
**
He rolls the grappa cask to the door, pushes it wide. Then he bumps it down the three wooden steps. If we weren't made of wood, our Alphonse would now be sweating like a stevedore.
He rolls the sloshing cask across the wet grass, toward the lurid firelight.
Lucia, he beholds at a glance, is gone from her cage. The bear, gazing straight at Alphonse, lets out a small, sad woof.
Alphonse picks up speed, the cask bouncing as it rolls.
As he approaches the center of the clearing, he sees with pine-sap weeping puppet eyes: LUCIA.
But she isn't a little blonde girl now. She's a bristling-furred, fang-gnashing, foaming at the snout, blazing eyed White Wolf.
Chained to stakes driven into the grassy earth, she's whirling and snapping at the puppet boys stabbing at her with forked sticks.
Nearby stands Vesuvio , his greasy lips pursed in a smile, holding aloft the Blue Orb. No doubt it will play a role in whatever black magical ceremony the Gypsy has planned for Lucia.
He doesn't see Lord and Lady Blackgore anyplace. Maybe the Vampyres have stepped out to get into character, or to change into something more terrifying.
**
But he, Alphonse, has no time for heart stopping terror, nor for so much as a frisson of doubt.
He rolls the grappa barrel, bouncing and jolting, straight at the bonfire.
Dashing aside the clueless puppet boys like
The short-tempered gypsy sorcerer "bowing and scraping" to these two mystery riders. Why?
Then Alphonse sees, and his puppet teeth clatter. The two black riders are the strikingly pale and elegant Lord Edward and Lady Edward Blackgore .
(YOU'RE NEXT)
Under those black capes they're both dressed to the nines in what appear to be matched evening-out clothes, opera tuxedos even.
White bow-ties -- the scum!
He can't hear what they're saying, but he sees Vesuvio move to kiss Lady Edwarda's hand. She waves him off, scornfully, and Vesuvio bows again.
Lickspittle! thinks puppet Alphonse. Next the obese old fakir will be kissing their riding boots!
But no. Lord Blackgore speaks sharply to the gypsy and gestures toward the cages. Vesuvio bows and shambles off, out of the glaring firelight.
The cages. Lucia.
Alphonse is now thinking, in his hollow and frantic puppet head: Haste. Go steal back your sword-cane already, puppet boy.
Alphonse makes all puppet boy haste, his gangly limbs rattling (cheap pine wood! he thinks) around the clearing edge to the circus wagon daubed with Vesuvio's sweaty, grinning mug.
He tries the latch. Unlocked. He lifts it and enters, shutting the flimsy door.
It's dim inside.
There's a dangling sailor's hammock. Clothing and underwear scattered underfoot.
Trembling, Alphonse knocks against an oil lamp, which rolls but doesn't shatter. He rights it, the oil sloshing.
He finds a box of matches on the same grimy table. Strikes a match. It flares with a hiss. By its light Alphonse sees:
-Boots, lined up regimental style.
-Boot polish.
-Rows of bottled hair-grease. Herbal extracts. Snake oil.
-Wine bottles, mostly empty.
-Dirty plates in a heap, crawling with roaches. (Gross.)
**
E voila: grandfather's Toledo sword cane, stuck in a barrel with some Gypsy junk and a French horn.
Alphonse grabs it. As he turns to go, his match blinks out.
He drops it, fumbles in the box, lights another. Striking it with a rasp on his own forehead.
By this weak light, he glimpses a pair of silver-inlaid dueling pistols hung high up on nails.
Holy Marionettes! Alphonse thinks.
Alphonse leans his sword cane on the wall and clambers cricket-quick onto a grappa cask. He snatches the pistols and shoves them into his Basque-style red sash.
Next, scrabbling in the drawer of a cheap armoire, he finds a bag of powder and shot. This also he stuffs into the sash. He sticks the sword cane there, too.
**
He rolls the grappa cask to the door, pushes it wide. Then he bumps it down the three wooden steps. If we weren't made of wood, our Alphonse would now be sweating like a stevedore.
He rolls the sloshing cask across the wet grass, toward the lurid firelight.
Lucia, he beholds at a glance, is gone from her cage. The bear, gazing straight at Alphonse, lets out a small, sad woof.
Alphonse picks up speed, the cask bouncing as it rolls.
As he approaches the center of the clearing, he sees with pine-sap weeping puppet eyes: LUCIA.
But she isn't a little blonde girl now. She's a bristling-furred, fang-gnashing, foaming at the snout, blazing eyed White Wolf.
Chained to stakes driven into the grassy earth, she's whirling and snapping at the puppet boys stabbing at her with forked sticks.
Nearby stands Vesuvio , his greasy lips pursed in a smile, holding aloft the Blue Orb. No doubt it will play a role in whatever black magical ceremony the Gypsy has planned for Lucia.
He doesn't see Lord and Lady Blackgore anyplace. Maybe the Vampyres have stepped out to get into character, or to change into something more terrifying.
**
But he, Alphonse, has no time for heart stopping terror, nor for so much as a frisson of doubt.
He rolls the grappa barrel, bouncing and jolting, straight at the bonfire.
Dashing aside the clueless puppet boys like
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