IN the end, we stayed for the feast. We did inquire about leaving, only to discover a terrible blizzard raged outside. Even the reindeer with the nose-light refused to guide us through this storm. I offered to dispel the blizzard with my flute, but our host asked that it be allowed to run its course as he had already requested it to hold off until after Christmas Eve. As this left us with no way to depart before the weather cleared, our choice was to sit in our rooms or attend the feast.
The feast was not until late in the evening, so Mab and I decided to join Mephisto in the sauna-pool. I do not approve of the modern swimming suits—they reveal more flesh than they cover, but an elf maid had provided me with a proper bathing outfit, one that covered the shoulders and thighs while leaving the limbs free to enjoy the water. They had even gone to the trouble of providing me with one in emerald green. Garbed in this, and toting the huge shaggy lime-colored towel that I found folded beside my new swimsuit, I hurried down to join the men.
I walked into the steam-filled chamber and breathed in the moist sandalwood-scented air. It was like nothing I had seen elsewhere. The room was like a sauna, with cedar walls and ceiling, but much larger than any public sauna I knew. Hot rocks, over which water poured occasionally, formed a ring around a medium-sized swimming pool, filling the chamber with steam. Its heated waters bubbled from the pressure of air jets. The setup looked simple enough, but whether or not it required magic to keep up the thick steamy atmosphere, I could not tell.
The water was very warm. I luxuriated in the hot bubbling water, floating pleasantly in its relaxing warmth. Nearby, Mab, dressed in a pair of black bathing shorts, hung just beneath the surface with only his eyes and nose above the water. Farther along, Mephisto played with a large colorful beach ball. He leapt and splashed about, trying to interest us in his games, but Mab and I were both content merely to soak up the warmth.
As he floated, Mab pulled out his new Space Pen and began scribbling happily upon the pages of his waterproof notebook, underneath the water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cedar-scented air, thinking back upon previous Christmases spent in exotic places, or with my family, in happier days. Christmas, to me, brought to mind the ringing of bells, exchanging presents, scrumptious feasts, and, in the earlier days, attending Mass. In later years, my siblings became less religious, and we stopped going as a family, though Father never missed attending church on Christmas Day—not until this year, anyway.
Even after Father retired, we still spent Christmas together. I would fly out to Prospero’s Island to collect him, and we would attend mass in Notre Dame, or the Sistine chapel, or at one of the great Protestant Churches. We had talked about spending this next Christmas at the Duomo in Milan. Neither of us had been home in ages. It was to have been a special outing, just the two of us.
How terribly sad to know that while I basked in warmth and luxury, my father suffered the torments of Hell.
I splashed my face with hot water, so as to conceal any tell-tale tears, and recalled another Christmas when I had feared I would not see Father, though that occasion came to a happy conclusion. It had been a cold December, about forty years after our raid on the Vatican. After barely escaping the Roundheads with our lives, we had fled England. Returning ten years later, we found Cromwell dead, and the nation ruled by tolerant King Charles II. Father and Erasmus quickly made themselves useful to the new regime, and we were again the darlings of a British court.
Christmas of 1666, however, promised to be a lonely one, as only Mephisto, Erasmus, Logistilla, and I were home. Father and the rest of our brothers had left months before, chasing yet another meager hope of curing Cornelius’s blindness by visiting some hot bath or holy relic. They had been expected for weeks, but there had been no sign or word.
The four of us who remained were an incongruous lot; yet, as the holidays approached, our spirits rose. Carolers knocked at our door, singing “As It Fell on a Holie Eve” and “Angels, From the Realms of Glory.” We filled their hands with coins and steaming mugs of a strong ale called “nog,” for everyone believed it was bad luck to send carolers away empty-handed. We had no Christmas tree—that tradition had not yet been brought over from Germany—but we did have a nativity scene Mephisto had carved many years before. Mary and Joseph were a bit the worse for wear when we first took them out, but after Erasmus gave them a fresh coat of paint and a touch of gilt, they looked quite festive.
After the others returned from church, we gathered in our finery for Christmas supper. Ribbons were newly in fashion, and Logistilla dripped from crown to sole with brightly colored “ribands of the finest satin.” Erasmus and Mephisto (who no longer showed any concern for what he wore and thus had been clothed by Erasmus) were dressed in the new “English style” made popular by the king, who hoped to rival the French as an instigator of fashion. I thought they looked quite handsome in their long black cassocks lined with pink-and-white silk, though Logistilla insisted they looked like giant magpies. Less concerned with the dictates of fashion myself, I wore a gown of severe dark green with a falling lace collar of the sort popular during the reign of the current king’s grandfather.
Just as we sat down to our Christmas supper, the door burst opened and in came Father, along with Theo, Titus, Cornelius, and Gregor. Returning from the Continent, they were decked out in the latest French style, wearing long justaucorps and handsome dark periwigs of wavy curls, except for Gregor, who wore his cardinal’s robes, despite the danger to Catholics in England. Entering the house, they swept off Cavalier hats festooned with jaunty ostrich feathers—much like the one Mephisto had just received, which might have been what recalled this scene to me—and came forward, smiling, to embrace us.
Titus burst into laughter when he saw Mephisto’s and Erasmus’s attire, and informed them that the French king had recently taken to dressing his footmen and servants in this “English” manner. That was the last time I saw either Erasmus or Mephisto wear their magpie coats. There was much anger against the French king for this slight, especially among the English noblemen, who muttered that such indignity would incite even a stone to seek revenge. Yet, soon the whole court, including King Charles himself, were again garbed as French fashion dictated.
We all sat down together around our Christmas dinner, though what was to have been a large feast for four looked somewhat meager when shared among nine. Still, despite Cornelius’s most recent disappointment, there was an air of festivity and joy.
“You missed a horrendous fire,” Erasmus explained as Father began carving the shoulder of mutton. “Near all the city was destroyed. I did hear it called the new Great Fire of London.”
“ ’Twas worse than the fire of 1212?” asked Father.
“Over thirteen thousand houses lost. True, some of these fell to the Duke of York’s gunpowder. Buckingham claims York was overzealous in his efforts to stop the conflagration, but the number remains.”
Theo whistled. “How many killed?”
“Six!” Erasmus grinned.
Father’s white bushy eyebrows shot up. “All those houses lost and only six souls died? Surely, the Hand of God rested upon London.”
“Or the hand of Prospero!” Erasmus chuckled. “Mephisto and I ensnared the Sovereign of the Salamanders early the first day. Lacking our staffs, we had not the strength to compel him to stop his inferno, but we offered what we could. We promised if his minions curbed their taste for the living, restricting their diet to inanimate materials and beasts, we would reward him with a droplet of Water of Life. He did as we requested, and we paid the toll.” The laughter drained out of Erasmus’s face. “Sir, if we had but had our staffs! Thousands of men are destitute, camped in tents at St. George’s Fields, and Moorfields, or as far out as Highgate. All of which could have been avoided.”
“In their despair, many have turned to dishonest means. Our prisons are frightfully overcrowded,” huffed Logistilla, who often visited the prisons as part of her charity work.
“And this after the B
lack Death claimed nearly twenty thousand souls only last year.” Gregor bowed his head in prayer. “O Accursed City! The men of England suffer for the sins of their libertine Protestant king!”
Father looked up from his mince pie, frowning. “From whence came the Water of Life you proffered this monster?”
“From my personal reserve. I mind not forgoing one year’s drop in return for the lives saved,” replied Erasmus.
“Would not Miranda help you?” Father voice rose sharply. I opened my mouth to explain that my brothers had never approached me, but Erasmus cut me off with a snort of derision.
“That miser? A lamentable proposition, sir! She would rather all Londoners cook than waste one drop of her pearly riches! She would not even come out and help us.”
Again, I wanted to object—the day Father departed, he had asked me to mind the house, and so I had done so. As I opened my mouth to explain, however, Theo threw me a pleading glance, indicating he would be grateful if Christmas dinner did not turn into a quarrel. I was so happy to have him home! As a favor to him, I held my tongue.
We ate, accompanied by animated descriptions of the travelers’ adventures. The fare was excellent, and every time one of us raised an empty glass, a wine bottle would float up and fill it, as Aerie Ones rushed to do our bidding. Logistilla was commended by all for her choice of dishes, Mephisto roused himself from his morose stupor—his malady was much worse in those days—to juggle jam tarts for our amusement, and even Gregor allowed himself a smile.
As the last dish was being cleared away, Cornelius spoke up in his soft voice.
“Father, I would speak.”
Father held up his hand, and the rest of us fell silent. Cornelius stood. The dusty-blue silk covering his eyes matched the shade of his justaucorps. “All this rushing to and fro, pursuing will-o-the-wisps, achieves nothing but to raise and dash our expectations. By the Grace of God was I blinded, and only by the Grace of God will my sight be restored. Let us abandon our attempts to find a cure and turn our efforts to more useful ends.”
He sat down. The rest of us gaped at him in astonishment. Curing Cornelius’s blindness had been our main effort for four decades, that and Mephisto’s madness. We were not sure how to respond.
Father finally broke the silence. “This news brings me sorrow, and yet I think it wise. I would reward you for your noble sacrifice. What gift do you desire? Name it!”
“Nothing for myself.” He bowed his head. “Grant this boon instead to Erasmus.”
A furrow formed between Father’s brow, but he said only, “As you wish.”
Erasmus laughed. “You know already what I desire. Our staffs! Had they been with us, instead of moldering away at our mansion in Scotland, we could have forced the salamanders to retreat. We could have saved the London we have known and loved these many years!”
“So be it.” Father inclined his head gravely. “I retain the right to collect them again when I deem fit, but they shall be yours for a time.”
We children gave a resounding cheer, and finished our Christmas feast in high spirits. As it turned out, Father would only let us keep the staffs for a decade before he collected them again, but we did not know this at the time. So the rest of the evening rang with comradery and good cheer.
In retrospect, the memory of this joyful Christmas was accompanied by a sense of bittersweet sorrow. At all Christmases after this one, either one of us was not present or some members of the family were feuding. The year 1666 was the last happy Christmas we all spent together.
THE door at the far end of the sauna opened, dispelling the ghosts of Christmas past. Three tall dark-haired men strode into the chamber. As my gaze penetrated the obscuring steam, I sat up, startled. We were being joined by three of the lords of the High Council: the elf lords Vandel, Carbonel, and Delling.
The stately elves did not glance in our direction. They spoke to each other in their soft lilting tongue while they unbelted their long black robes and let them drop to the floor, revealing lithe golden bodies which were . . . entirely unclad.
I glanced away and kept my eyes averted until the elven lords were safely immersed in the water at the far side of the pool. Mab had inched closer to me, as had a subdued Mephisto. The three of us huddled on the drowned steps set into the pool wall and wondered whether the elven lords realized we were present.
I peered through the steam to get a better look at the wet elves. Lord Vandel’s back was to me. Along his golden shoulder blades ran identical scars, the shape of upside down teardrops. As Lord Carbonel fell back to dunk his head beneath the water and rose again, shaking a spray of drops from his long hair with catlike grace, I saw a similar set of scars marred his otherwise perfect back.
“Mab,” I whispered softly, “those scars. What are they?”
Mab looked, then turned away, grief stricken. “That’s where their wings were cut off, Ma’am . . . when they fell.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
The Feast of Christmas
We were to feast with elves!
The great hall was even more splendidly arrayed than it had been in the morning. Holly decked the doorways, and garlands of pine boughs, bound with red ribbons and hung with silver bells, decorated the walls and snaked their way about the back of each chair. Red-and-green-leaved poinsettias, as tall as small trees, stood here and there in giant pots covered in red foil. In the center of the hall, between the tables, stood a fifteen-foot blue spruce draped with tinsel and colored ornaments. Amidst its branches, a hundred shell-shaped oil lamps burned brightly, their lights twinkling against the glass of the ornaments.
The long oak tables were laden with delicacies. Tall green candles in gold candelabra burned brightly amidst overflowing dishes of roast beef, turkey, venison, wild boar, grilled salmon, and hunks of juicy baked ham. Mince pies and steaming bowls of candied sweet potato surrounded the meats, along with platters of breads, various cheeses, fresh fruit, and an array of unfamiliar elvish delicacies. Wooden troughs held large salads of fresh vegetables and herbs, and armies of porcelain pitchers offered a variety of dressings.
The merry company was decked out in their finest furs and satins, as was our little party of three. Mab, who had not brought any finery with him, was garbed in a handsome outfit of green and black velvet that had been loaned to him by some helpful elf. He wore it now, despite his complaints that he would feel more comfortable in his trench coat and fedora, and it suited him well. As for Mephisto, he was dressed in a splendid doublet and hose of blacks, greens, and rich earthy browns. Where he had gotten it, or what denizen of what supernatural abode had helped him to don it, I did not ask.
Garments had also been left for me: a Victorian gown with a dark green velvet bodice trimmed with silver satin, velvet panniers, and a skirt of jade green crêpe de Chine. A lovely concoction, and I longed to wear it. Were events to go awry, however, I would never have forgiven myself for having put aside the protections of my enchanted tea-dress while dining with elves. Reluctantly, I declined it. I did, however, put on the jewelry that had been provided: drooping emerald earrings, a matching necklace, and a set of jade hair combs.
A lovely elf maiden led us through the labyrinth of scents and noises to our seats at Father Christmas’s table. I was amazed, considering the august company present, when she placed us just to the right of our host—until I recalled that in elven protocol the most important figures sat at the center of the table, across from each other, while individuals of lesser worth spread out to either side, according to their station. By elven standards, the three of us were relegated to the table edge, a position of obscurity. Still, by Europe an standards, sitting just beside our host put us at the head of the table. Determined to have a pleasant evening, I interpreted our position in the more favorable light.
Father Christmas wore an even more ornate version of the red and green velvet robes we had seen him in earlier that afternoon. At the far end of the table sat his wife, her jolly red face beaming wit
h smiles, and a gown of autumn colors garbing her plump body. She waved to Mab and me as we took our seats, welcoming us cheerfully.
At the center of our table sat Alastor, the elf king, his antlers towering above the crowns of his lords. To either side of him sat the lords of the High Council. Lesser elves of note filled in the rest of the seats, save for ours and six seats across from the king, which had been left empty for the queen and her attendants. I noted with uncomfortable dismay that no place had been saved for Astreus. Apparently, he was not expected.
It disturbed me to sup with elves, so firmly had I been schooled in the evils of accepting fairy food. I knew the fare came from our host and hostess, and even Mab did not fear accepting food from Father Christmas. Yet I found the company so unnerving, I almost requested we be allowed to sit at the next table with the ice sprites and gnomes, both creatures whose natures I comprehended better than that of the cruel, quixotic, whimsical elves. But that would place us below the salt, a position inappropriate for our rank and station. Besides, the elves had been such pleasant company during the one occasion we had encountered them previously. Perhaps I worried needlessly.
Mab inclined his head toward me to make some comment, but his words were lost beneath a fanfare of trumpets. The queen of the elves and her ladies had arrived.
The elven queen glided between the tables. Layers of chestnut, white, and cream gossamer draped her lithe body, forming a high-waisted gown with long flowing sleeves and skirts which rustled as she moved. Her bearing was elegant and regal, but her face was that of a sixteen-year-old girl-child, delicate and fresh. Strings of diamonds, glittering like dew, decorated her auburn hair—or perhaps they were strings of dew that sparkled like diamonds. A golden tiara framed her lovely childlike face and glittered in the candlelight.
Behind her came her ladies, each fairer than the last. Fragile layers of moss green and sea blue draped Undine’s slender form, and lilies adorned her blue-green hair. Behind her came graceful Sylvie, living butterflies perched upon her silvery locks. Lengths of sky blue, ice blue, and the purple of a brewing storm fluttered around her svelte body as she flowed forward. Floramel followed her, in a gown the color of orange blossoms, rose petals, and lilacs. Her dark locks were woven with exotic orchids. Gloriana’s gown imitated living fire, as tissue-thin layers of red, orange, and candle-flame yellow flickered around her fair form. Her crimson hair was arrayed with columbines, bird-of-paradise flowers, and wine-red roses. Last came the incomparable Iolantha, the gentlest and most compassionate of the elf queen’s ladies, dressed in gossamer of white and gold, her chestnut hair adorned with dogwood flowers.
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 38
