I gazed into the fire and considered. If the Ouija board could be trusted, he was who he said he was, and his story was true—at least the part about having been trapped in Hell. Nor did he exude the unpleasant aura of menace I had come to associate with demons. There was a still a mystery here, surely, but it could do no harm to talk with him. It might even be pleasant. I took the chair he had indicated.
“Very well, let us talk.”
We spoke long into the night. He told me tales he had heard from those he met in Hell; witty tales, pathetic tales, tales that wrenched the heart. I told him of our life since Prospero’s Island. Of our triumphant return to Milan, Ferdinand already knew, so I described what had come after; how Father had ruled Milan kindly and well for thirty-five years and how Uncle Antonio betrayed us to Louis XII of France and his French sorcerers. I described our flight to Switzerland, and how we settled in England, our life in the courts of Henry VIII and Queen Bess, and Theophrastus’s friendship with the impetuous Earl of Essex.
I told him the tale of how I had lost my raven hair; how Erasmus and I had quarreled; how he had used his staff upon me, leaving me with the thin and colorless hair of an old hag. I spoke of how I humbled my pride, bent my knee, and begged him to restore it—for the Staff of Withering could bring youth as well as the ravages of time—and of how he had laughed, claiming that my plight amused him. I told of the year-and-a-day journey I had taken to the World’s End, and of how washing my hair in that fountain had restored its life, but not its color, leaving me with the silver-white locks I still bore today.
I spoke of how Mephisto and Cornelius used their magic to create the tulip craze in Holland and of the disastrous crash that followed; of life with Logistilla in Denmark, while my brothers marched against the Spanish with Marlborough; and of Gregor’s second term as pope. I described Erasmus’s and Cornelius’s part in the East India Company; the high life in France under Napoleon III; and the steamer that took Theo and me to America in 1910. Finally, I summed up the tragedy that had befallen us since we arrived in this new land: how Gregor’s death had led to the breakup of my family.
It was well past midnight when I came to the end. Ferdinand laughed happily and leaned back. Between his hands, he held a mug of steaming mulled cider. A silver tray holding fruit and scones rested upon the coffee table, which had once belonged to Louis XIV.
“Ah, Napoleon III, a charming man, yet sad. I know him well. He dwells in the Second Circle and is still much as you described him to be in life. We often played chess, he and I, to while away the long hours,” said Ferdinand. He ran his finger along the coffee table. “Louis XIV, I have known too, though not as intimately, and I have met several of those French sorcerers who drove you from your homeland: Malagigi, his brother Eliaures, and their sister Melusine—the one with the serpent’s tail. How many other prominent, and not-so-prominent men must I have met below who knew you during their life!
“Pity, I never knew to question them about you,” he finished, smiling into my eyes. “The dark and dreary hours would have seemed so very much lighter if I could have spent them being regaled with tales of your wit and beauty. I could have spoken of you as a girl, and of your sweet and innocent charm. They could have told me of you as you grew, perhaps describing the serenity and stately grace you have gained with the passage of time.”
I sat silently, regarding my hands, which were folded in my lap, and listened to the crackle of the burning wood. I was uncertain how to respond to his constant stream of compliments. None of my usual defenses against such behavior seemed to operate. Cool haughtiness availed me nothing, for Ferdinand just laughed and said, “Mia, Miranda, come! You cannot fool me with these arctic blasts. I know you better than that.” Nor did it help to remind myself that I was Miranda Prospero, Handmaiden of the Unicorn, and he but a mortal. For Ferdinand was not a mortal, clearly—as he walked upon the Earth, and yet was older than I.
So long had it been since I had sat comfortably, speaking with an equal, that I could not recall when such an event had last occurred. With the exception of Theo, I had seldom been comfortable with my siblings, and no mortal I had met since we left Milan was truly my peer. Even Theo, whom I dearly loved, was a younger brother to be protected and coddled. With the exception of one fair summer night in 1627, I could not remember a time I had talked with a man I considered an equal, since I last sat with Ferdinand, speaking earnestly of our life and hopes, the night before we were to wed, over five hundred years ago.
As I mused, my gaze must have strayed to the figurine sitting on the mantelpiece, the only memento I owned of that fair summer night. Ferdinand’s gaze followed mine. In the rapid way in which he did everything, he rose and bent close to examine it. He uttered a short exclamation, but his back was to me, and I could not make out what he said.
“What beautiful craftsmanship! Who is it?” He held up the tiny statue of polished beech wood. It was a wonderful likeness of a handsome man with upswept features and tiny sapphires for eyes.
“Oh, that?” I said, smiling. “That’s my elf.”
Ferdinand stood a moment longer with his back to me, but I could see the lines of tension in the muscles of his shoulders. When he turned toward me, his face, normally so vivid and vital, was as blank as a mask. The expression in his eyes, however, appeared almost tortured.
“And what did he mean to you? This elf man?”
I gazed at the little elf figurine. What had he meant? He had meant freedom and exhilaration, and a promise of something wondrous beyond the life I knew. A false promise, I acknowledged with the tiniest tinge of bittersweet regret, but oh, how enchanted I had been by what he had pretended to offer!
I did not say this to Ferdinand, of course. Instead, I laughed gaily.
“Ferdinand! Are you jealous of an elf I met once, three hundred years ago? Oh, that is delightfully amusing.”
Ferdinand would not be distracted. He placed the tiny elf on the coffee table and, putting his foot on the irreplaceable Persian carpet, leaned over to gaze ardently into my eyes.
“You did not answer my question, bella mia—what did he mean to you that you would keep his likeness here on your mantel all these many years?”
“He did not mean anything to me, Ferdinand. I keep it because Mephisto made it for me,” I insisted, gesturing at the little elf. “Mephisto wanted me to marry the elf.”
“He told you that?” Ferdinand asked, shocked.
“Mephisto is always coming up with schemes like that. It is a pretty piece of craftsmanship, though, and I kept it because it reminds me of happier days. Carving this piece was one of the last things Mephisto did before his mind began to go.”
“And the elf? He meant nothing to you?” There was a plaintive quality to his voice, as if my answer to his question mattered enormously.
“Nothing, Ferdinand. Now, please sit down. Surely, you don’t expect me to defend every gift, object, or likeness I might have acquired in five hundred years? Besides, it is no concern of yours.”
Ferdinand sat back in his chair, oddly deflated. It was a moment before he answered.
“You are still my fiancée.” He met my surprised gaze. “Neither you nor I have yet renounced our betrothal. No mortal man you may have met while I was locked in Hell could be a threat to me. Unless you had met him in the past score or so of years, he is now far more trapped in the drab afterworld than ever I was. To learn you were wooed by an immortal, however, and an elf lord at that . . . had you lost your heart to such a one . . .” Ferdinand fell silent. He lifted his steaming mug to his lips and sipped of the warm cider.
After a few moments, he spoke again. His voice seemed altered, almost as if his previous lightheartedness had been an act, and only now did he speak from the heart.
“You must excuse me, Miranda. When you have lived above, and now must dwell below, and your only crime was the chaste love of a virtuous woman, the affections of that woman take on enormous significance. Eventually, when the truth is known about the Qu
ee . . .”
Ferdinand doubled over, coughing. His mug tumbled free, causing him to cry out as the hot cider scorched his thigh. He slipped to the floor, choking. He hands flew to his throat, almost as if he struggled to fend off some invisible attacker.
Startled and frightened, I leapt up and went to him. A glass of water stood upon the tray. I knelt down and offered it to him. He took a sip and smiled at me as best he could. After a couple of swallows, he managed to catch his breath, and began mopping at his soaked thigh with a linen napkin from the tray.
“Thank you, bella mia.”
We knelt close together upon the Persian carpet. The fire hissed and cracked behind us. Ferdinand stared gratefully into my eyes and lifted his hand to touch my cheek. I rose quickly but took his outstretched hand, helping him up. We faced each other, our features lit by the flickering firelight. A foot or two of space separated our bodies, but I was aware his presence. Even with my eyes closed, I felt I would have known exactly where he was; in the same manner that I knew, without needing to look, the location of my own arm.
Ferdinand watched me intently, but his gaze was no longer directed at my eyes. I found myself unaccustomedly aware of the pleasing cut of my tea gown and the narrowness of my waist. The sensation was disturbing.
“You should drink more carefully, unless you are overeager to return to the afterworld,” I said with a twitch of a smile. “You had been saying?”
“Ah, yes. As I had been saying . . . Ah, when the truth is known . . . about your father, I hope it will not be too hard for you to take.”
Ferdinand’s glance disconcerted me, and his words touched upon a subject I had striven to forget these last few days. I turned away to gaze toward the hearth. Even with my back turned, I remained aware of him.
“My family is coming apart at the seams, Ferdinand,” I said, admitting aloud what had been tormenting me. “They desert each other and betray each other. I don’t understand them. I cannot understand how they can ignore their familial duties!”
“Perhaps, they do not know what is expected of them,” Ferdinand offered softly.
“How could they not?” I countered fervently. “How could anything be more clear than what Father expects of us? Father tells us what needs to be done. All we need to do is follow his orders! What could be less obscure?”
“Not everyone is like you, bella mia. What you are saying is . . . unusual.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was watching my face and frowning.
Haltingly, I said, “Theo believes . . . that . . . that Father has cast a spell on me so that I cannot help but obey him.”
Ferdinand nodded slowly. “It may be true. Most immortals do not remain steadfast as you have, remaining loyal for five hundred years to your Lady and your father. Even your father—has he not wandered from his main pursuits at times?”
“But, it is so clear to me!”
“Is it clear, bella mia? Or is it that all other choices have been obscured?”
I turned toward him, tipping my chin up to look into his face. “Do you think I am under a spell?”
Ferdinand stared down into my eyes. “Darling, I cannot say. It may be that you are. However, it may also be that you are more like an angel than other mortals. Angels do not swerve from their duties, for they see no path but the most virtuous one open to them.” His fingers caressed my neck, brushing aside a lock of hair. I jerked, startled by his touch.
“I saw an angel once,” I blurted.
Ferdinand tilted his head and gazed at me, his brows drawing together. “But I thought you would have seen many angels, being the daughter of Prospero, who summons them to do his bidding?”
“Yes, of course I’ve seen many angels. I suppose it was an odd thing for me to say.” I laughed. Then, gazing up at Ferdinand, I added more softly, “But once, I saw an angel that was not summoned by magic. She came for me, entirely on her own. It happened a long time ago, and I have never spoken of her visit to anyone, not even Father.”
“Tell me of it.” His voice was hushed.
“It was during the awful months after . . . our wedding.” I faltered, embarrassed by the blush that rose to my cheeks. Ferdinand took my hand in his, patting it gently. “I was very distressed, then. I thought . . . I thought I might prefer to be dead.”
“No! Bella mia!” Ferdinand squeezed my hand. “Oh, better we had never met than that I should have caused you such pain.”
I continued, “One evening as I wandered aimlessly about Castello Sforzesco—you remember the long reddish-brown corridors—as I walked, a terrible sadness came upon me, and I dropped to my knees and prayed, not to my Lady, but to Heaven, asking for release.
“As I knelt on the cold stone, my head bowed with bitter despair, a warmth came over me. A soft golden light shone down on me, bathing my body and the flagstones.
“When I looked up, I saw an angel. Her garments were of purest green, her waist and sleeves inset with silver and pearls. In her hands, she held a partially-opened scroll, of which I could only make out the first few letters. Her delicate silver slippers did not reach down to the flagstones, but hovered above them. Five pairs of seagull wings sprang from her shoulders; some folded behind her, others spread wide behind her. Five halos floated above her head: a circle of white light above which hovered a ring of ocean spray, and then one of water lilies bejeweled with drops of water like little silver pearls, one of river foam, and the top was a circlet of shining gold. It was from this last that the light came.
“She hovered there above me, a beneficent smile touching her perfect lips. When she spoke, her voice was a sound of inhuman beauty, the sound that music strives to imitate. And she said,” I spoke the words in the original Italian, as they had been spoken to me, long ago, “ ‘Rejoice, my child, do not despair! All joy in Heaven and on Earth awaits you.’
“Awed, I asked her name, and she replied, ‘Muriel Sophia.’ At that moment, I was startled by footsteps in the hall behind me. When I turned again, she was gone. However, the sorrow weighing on my heart began to lift. Over the next few weeks, it broke apart as ice on a mountain pond breaks apart with the thaw, and my life slowly began to take on meaning again.”
Ferdinand said nothing; his eyes were filled with a quiet awe. He stood near to me, holding my hands. I could smell the pleasant musk of his body. Slowly, his gaze not leaving my eyes, he lowered his head toward mine.
Century-long habits are hard to break. Almost without my knowledge, my hand flew to slap his face.
I have, over the years, slapped the faces of a thousand impertinent men, from farmers and scalawags to the nobility and royalty of three continents. I am far older than they, and, with my Lady’s blessing upon me, far swifter. None of them, not even the famed sword fighters of France, ever dodged my blow. Ferdinand, however, casually caught my arm mid-flight. He held it where he had seized it, and his fingers closed tightly about my wrist. Still staring into my eyes, a slight smile playing about his lips, he began to kiss my palm.
As his lips gently caressed my sensitive skin, tremors of bliss shot through my hand, spreading along my arm and through the entire length of my body. I felt transfixed, unable to resist as Ferdinand proceeded to kiss the tip of each of my fingers.
Still grasping my wrist, Ferdinand reached out with his other hand and lightly touched my cheek. His fingers caressed my cheekbone and the line of my nose and chin. He curled his hand behind my neck, drawing me toward him. Of their own volition, my head tilted back, and my eyes half-closed.
Bending, he brushed my mouth with his. My lips parted. I leaned into his kiss, and heard myself moan softly. Then, his arms came tight about me, embracing me, and he crushed me to his chest.
The sensation coursing through me, as he held me, was all the more amazing for its familiarity. It was the same warmth that touched me when I called upon my Lady. Only now, it was as if that warmth had woken up and taken on a life of its own. It coursed through my limbs like a living thing, spreading wildfire. The feeling
was dizzying, and far headier than the finest wines. As Ferdinand raked his hand through my hair and bent to brush his lips against the soft skin of my neck, it occurred to me I had been wrong all these years; there was a pleasure greater than the knowledge of a task well done. My arms snaked about his neck, and I returned his kisses as best I could with my untutored lips.
We stood thus entwined, the fire crackling behind us. He kissed me more deeply, and the hall around me faded. I was aware only of Ferdinand and of myself. My heart raced uncontrollably. I shivered, alarmed by the wild, intoxicating sensations bedazzling me. My fingers trembled against the hard muscles of his back. I feared both that he might continue and that he might stop.
It occurred to me that we were appropriately engaged. We could marry, and I would never need to be farther from him again than this.
Like an icy wind on a pleasant spring day, memory cut through my dazed fantasy, and I recalled who I was and what I was about. Sibyls could marry but not mere Handmaidens. A Handmaiden must remain a virgin if she wished to maintain her position. I would have to choose between Ferdinand and my Lady. The choice was an easy one.
I pulled back my head and said, in as cool a voice as I could muster, “I would like you to leave now.”
I would have sounded calm and dignified, except I was short of breath.
Ferdinand did not object as I half expected, half hoped he would. He stood a moment as if stunned, an indecipherable expression in the depth of his brown eyes. Then, he nodded with a sad smile.
“If that is what you wish, bella mia, then I will go. I know all this is new for you. Alas, it is far past the time I should have left. I am expected elsewhere tomorrow and must be on my way.”
Crossing the room, he slipped into his cashmere overcoat and wrapped a white pilot’s scarf I had not previously seen about his neck. Dressed thus, he looked very much like the cover of a glossy men’s fashion magazine.
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 32
