Miranda in Milan

by Katharine Duckett

  “Trickery. Treachery.” Antonio had coveted the dukedom and forced her father out. There was no mystery there. Only the deception of kin.

  “Yes, but how? What did your uncle tell them, to make them send their duke away? Hmm? Even if he gave them a pack of lies—don’t you wonder what those lies were, and why they rang with truth?”

  Miranda felt herself slipping, like she was standing on crumbling soil at a cliff’s edge. “The rumors.” Her throat was dry. “What else do they say, about my father? About me?”

  Dorothea hesitated. Miranda tightened her grip on the other girl’s hand. “Dorothea. Please. Tell me. What do they say I am?”

  “A ghost.”

  “A ghost? What do you mean, a ghost?”

  “I don’t know what it means.” Miranda started to protest, but Dorothea stopped her. “I swear to you, I don’t. The other girls don’t talk to me much. I’m a witch from foreign lands, remember? But I overhear things. I heard them talk about Caliban. And about you. And they called you—they said you were—”

  “A ghost.” She swallowed. Her father was capable of unimaginable feats: Had he crafted himself a daughter? A filial spirit, docile and deferential? Was that the crime Milan had banished him for? Her free hand ran along her thigh, finding reassurance that she was there, that this body held firm.

  “They’re afraid to talk too much about your father. They never say his name. And the older ones, the ones who remember when you left, they never talk about him at all. They slap the girls if they hear them gossiping. But when they first brought you to the castle, I kept hearing one word, whispered when they thought no one could hear. In the streets, in the servants’ quarters: everywhere I went. Over and over: Bice. Bice.”

  “Bice.” Miranda tried out the unfamiliar word on her tongue. “But what does it mean? Is it a name?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  Miranda growled, snatching back her hand. “Of course I don’t know! I don’t know anything about your stupid city, these terrible lands. I don’t want to know what lies they tell about me in this hellish place. I only want—” Her breath caught in her throat as tears welled in her eyes. “I only want to go home.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” Dorothea watched her with wide eyes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t calling you a fool. It’s only . . . I thought you knew. Bice . . . it’s an eke-name. For your mother’s name, Beatrice.”

  “My . . . mother?”

  “You don’t remember her?”

  “No.” Her early memories of Milan were locked away in some shadowed corner of her mind, lost to time, save for a few random glimmers. And her mother—she never thought of her mother. She knew, of course, she must have had one, but she had always been incurious about the woman who gave her birth, the woman who must have died before they departed Italy’s shores. “Why . . . why haven’t I thought of her? I never asked my father about her, Dorothea. Doesn’t that seem strange? Why would I forget my mother?”

  “Maybe he wanted you to.”

  They sat in silence a long time, those words ringing in Miranda’s head. Her father, who could reshape the world to his whims, would not hesitate to reshape her mind. She could hear that truth as Dorothea spoke it. She felt she was stepping outside of herself, seeing the world in a way she never had before. It terrified her. If her mind was not her own—her body, maybe someone else’s too—

  “Miranda.” Dorothea’s voice, soft as a lute, slid through her panic. “Look at me, Miranda.”

  She did. She saw Dorothea’s open face, her brown-green eyes, the color of a vernal pond as sunlight played over its surface. She anchored herself in those eyes and calmed her heaving breath. “Good.” The other girl placed both of her hands on Miranda’s wrists. “Breathe deep. I don’t know what your father has done, but it’s in the past. You’re here. You’re alive.” She pressed the spot where Miranda’s heartbeat pulsed. “I can feel it. You’re no ghost, Miranda. Though if you stay locked up in this room, you may become one.”

  Miranda let out a hoarse laugh, something like a sob. Dorothea smiled. “Let’s leave here, eh? Go for a walk. Only down the corridor: only so that you can see past these walls. It will make you feel better, I think.” She stood, extending a hand. “Come on. Let me dress you.”

  Miranda obeyed. Obedience, so far in life, had been her only virtue. And she longed to trust Dorothea, though some part of her still urged caution. Some part of her—the future wife of Ferdinand, the proud daughter of Prospero—compelled her to send Dorothea away, to tell her keepers of the girl’s calumny, of the seeds of doubt she had sown in Miranda’s mind. But though they had not known each other long, it pained Miranda to think of the betrayal she would see on Dorothea’s guileless face. As they stood this close, with Dorothea wrapping the brocaded silk around her waist, slipping her fingers down Miranda’s spine as she fastened and smoothed, Miranda could not fathom banishing her.

  Dorothea, at last, placed the veil over Miranda’s face, and then they walked into the cool of the castle’s halls, where torches flickered to light their way. “Have you seen the portraits?” Dorothea asked, threading her arm through Miranda’s. Miranda shook her head. “Let’s go and see them. I’m sure there were no painters on your isle.”

  Dorothea pulled her along, telling Miranda of a room they should see, one painted by a famous artist to look like a garden, flowering indoors. Miranda followed in a trance, trying to make sense of her surroundings. This was meant to be her castle, she knew. Meant to be her home. But every time she walked its floors, she felt as though she were walking into a new world, frigid and alien, one she would never understand.

  They came to the portrait gallery, which stretched into the darkness of the encroaching night. Old men and women stared out at Miranda from the walls: men and women who looked like her father, with his aquiline nose, his leonine features. She thought of what Caliban would say about these staid, unhappy figures, what epithets he would hurl as he slandered their ostentatious garb, their snobbish expressions.

  Dorothea was looking at her, bemused: Miranda didn’t realize she’d been laughing out loud. “What is it?”

  She released Dorothea’s arm, moving closer to the portraits. “Oh, it’s nothing. Only . . . I thought of what Caliban might say. He wouldn’t understand this at all. These people, their faces: he would hate them on sight.”

  Dorothea laughed too. “They do look pompous, don’t they? This one”—she moved towards the painting of a balding man with the countenance and bearing of a toad—“looks like he must have terrible piles.” Miranda burst into giggles, scandalized. “What? I know an ointment that could help him. Very effective.”

  They walked the length of the hall, and Miranda got as close as she could to the lifelike images, luxuriating in the ability to examine each small wrinkle and curve of the painted faces, to stare as she could not with living people. At the hall’s end, she came to a portrait of her father with a beard brown rather than gray, his hand resting on a silver-tipped cane, his hawkish eyes monitoring the empty corridor in which she stood. It did not startle her, for Miranda was used to her father appearing at unexpected moments, surfacing at one end of the island when she had thought him at the other, catching her in the midst of conversation with Caliban or the island spirits. What caught her attention was the portrait beside his, of which she could only see the corner of a thick golden frame: the picture was draped with a shroud, its material not unlike her own black veil.

  She glanced at Dorothea. “Do you know why they keep this one covered?”

  Dorothea shook her head. “It’s always been that way. I’ve never looked beneath.”

  Distant footsteps echoed down the hall. Miranda moved towards the portrait as if mesmerized, taking hold of the cloth. Why had they covered it? She lifted it one inch, and then another. There was a shoulder, in a scarlet garment, and then a collarbone. The curve of a jaw. Rose-colored lips. And then—

  “You, girls! What do you think you’re doing?” Miranda dr
opped the cloth and turned to see a woman she recognized, though the woman had never deigned to introduce herself, a woman who looked a little like her and might be a cousin or an aunt. “Get away from there.” She strode across the gallery and seized Miranda by the wrist, pulling her back towards her rooms. Miranda caught Dorothea’s eye, but Dorothea looked even more frightened than her.

  Miranda was dragged through the halls back to her chambers and thrust inside. She heard the locks tumble into place: and then, silence. She fell upon her bed and wept.

  Towards midnight, as she counted the chimes of the church bells, she heard a scratching at the door. She ran to press her face against it, to peer into the crack at its base. “Dorothea?” she whispered, placing her fingers beneath. She felt the pressure of a hand on her own, an almost phantom touch, cold and fleeting as the castle’s drafts: then it vanished, without reply, and she heard no more until morning.

  Chapter 3

  She received no word from Ferdinand or his royal father as the days stretched on into weeks. She’d given up asking if there were any letters, any missive that meant her exit from Milan was near. Her heart still leapt whenever she heard a knock upon her door, but the servants brought her only the same heavy, doughy meals, the same bland pastas and meaty stews. She missed the fruits and leafy greens of the isle, and she was unused to eating animal flesh. Caliban killed rabbits on the island, sometimes, and her father had taught her how to catch fish to roast over the fire, but she seldom used the skill. As she pulled the creatures from their safe waters they twisted in torment, their fragile bodies shivering in the sun. The memory of their anguish flavored her palate, draining all pleasure from the taste.

  Dorothea did not return for five days, and when she did she bore a bruise on her cheek, an ugly green splotch, which Miranda ran her fingers over, aghast, when the other girl came into the room. “It’s nothing. I would heal it faster, but then they’d whisper black magic, and I’d be in more trouble than I am.”

  Miranda embraced her, whispering in her ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I should have known they’d hurt you more than me.”

  Dorothea pulled back, wiping her eyes. “Stop all that. I’m used to a little trouble, eh? But that woman—Agata.” She said her name like she was spitting. “She’s a menace. Treats the servants like animals. Treats animals even worse, probably. Antonio never liked her, but your father has given her run of the place.”

  Miranda thought of imperious Ariel, who made her blood run cold. “I’m not surprised. My father has rarely valued kindness in his deputies.” She beckoned towards the table by the window. “But come, sit. We haven’t seen each other in so long! Can’t you stay awhile and talk?”

  “They still don’t trust me.” Dorothea began to move about the room, pushing things into place. “I’m only here because two of the other girls fell ill, and they needed someone to clean.”

  Something in her tone aroused Miranda’s suspicion. “‘Fell ill’? Your potions or ointments wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would they?”

  Dorothea smirked, turning her attention to Miranda’s wardrobe. “Some small stomach pains, nothing more.” She winked at Miranda. “They’ll be fine! And if they’re not, I have the antidote cooked up already.” She began to dust and scrub, and she and Miranda talked for a time of nothing, of anything but their troubles, relishing each other’s presence. What a thing it would be, Miranda thought, to see each other freely. To speak as they liked, whenever they pleased.

  Dorothea concluded her chores and took Miranda’s hand before saying goodbye. “Your father is putting on a ball in two days’ time, and you’re to attend. To show all of Milan how beautiful the duke’s daughter is, even if they still hide her face beneath a mask. They’ll let me come back then.” She grinned. “And I may have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise? What do you mean?”

  Dorothea placed a finger to her lips, shushing her. “No more questions. I only hope someone taught you to dance on that island of yours.”

  “Dance?” She’d seen the spirits dance, but she had not joined in with their revels for years. “I’m expected to dance?”

  Dorothea laughed. “Yes, dance, and twirl, and do all that the finest young Milanese ladies do.” She gave Miranda a kiss, this time on the cheek. “Don’t worry. It won’t be so bad. Everyone will be drunk within the first hour, anyway. They’ll hardly pay attention to you.”

  She departed with a farewell, and it was only minutes after that Miranda realized that she’d forgotten to ask about that night, about Dorothea coming to her door, and about that fleeting touch, the one that now seemed like a distant dream.

  * * *

  Dorothea and two other girls came to her rooms to wrap her in layers of finery on the afternoon of the masquerade. Agata followed, and Miranda seethed as she stalked around the room, giving orders, examining every inch of Miranda’s form. The girls tittered behind their hands at the sight of Miranda’s bare face, whispering to each other, until Dorothea silenced them with a look.

  Miranda stood in the center of the room, an ungainly doll, as they tied and straightened and cinched, preparing her for whatever new ritual came next. The girls worked behind her, intent on some complicated task involving Miranda’s lower back, as Agata gave her commands. “Make your conversation lively and your replies gracious. Talk not of . . . where you’ve been. Speak of Prince Ferdinand and your happiness at being home. Remember every name, for I will ask you for them later.” She tapped Miranda’s waist. “There. Turn to the mirror, so you can see the lady you’re meant to be.”

  Miranda made a stiff quarter-turn to the long, gilded mirror and saw they had made her into one of the pale women in the portraits. She was still not used to seeing her reflection in mirrors, having seen herself for so long only in ponds and puddles, and the image seemed uncanny. She almost imagined her arm left a ghost trail as she raised the sleeve of the rose-colored gown, trying to understand the relationship of this binding fabric to her body.

  Dorothea interceded between Miranda and her double, holding a hinged wooden box in her hands. “Your father has sent a gift. From Venice.” She lifted the lid of the box, and Miranda saw that it contained a full-face mask, the color of ivory, with gold and black ornaments around the eyes and a carmine moue on the lips.

  Miranda lifted it from its box, and its black ribbons tumbled down. She held it before her face, and Agata nodded. “Keep it on all night. Do not remove it until you come back to these rooms.”

  “Why not?”

  Agata’s eyes flared. “Do as I say, girl. I know this castle far better than you.”

  Miranda slipped on the mask, accepting her fate. It allowed her more clarity than the veil, not covering her eyes, and she was grateful for that. Tonight she would watch, and meet the eyes of all those figures she had only witnessed as shadowy shapes, their faces sour with distaste. Perhaps she could make this mask her face; perhaps they would fall for her now, as Ferdinand had, and treat her like a human being.

  Dorothea and the girls departed, though Dorothea threw Miranda one of her familiar winks as she slipped out of the room. Miranda and Agata sat in silence until Agata deemed it was time to go down to the celebrations.

  The carnival ball splashed out across the courtyard of the ducal court, spilling into the surrounding halls and loggias. Men and women in masks darted in between the columns, shivering in the late-winter air, looking like fairies as the firelight played over their disguises, the greens and purples of their false faces glittering as if crafted from beetle wings.

  Miranda stood above, looking out from the landing of the ducal apartments, afraid, suddenly, to descend into the festivities. They looked happier than she had ever seen them, the people of Milan, and she could not help thinking it was because she was not yet among them. She seemed to bring darkness here, no matter what she did: she oozed it, like pond mud.

  “Well, come on.” Agata took her arm, leading her down the stairs to where her father, maskle
ss and clad in a long emerald coat, stood with several puffy-faced men. They nodded as she approached, and her father embraced her, introducing her to the counts of somewhere and some other place, who muttered to each other about this and that as she stood there, silent. They talked of plots in Pavia, of scandal in Savoy, of treachery in the Vatican, a place Miranda did not know but seemed, from what she could make out, to be filled entirely with old men who hated one another. She yearned for news of Naples, and of Ferdinand, but did not dare turn the conversation to the longed-for south. She did not ache to return to Ferdinand so much as to the sea: if only she could gaze upon its blueness, feel its briny breeze, she would be restored. She could live among these unfamiliar men for years, she felt, if only she could see the sea.

  “Come, Miranda. Let us walk the courtyard. I leave for Galliate tonight before traveling to Lyon and have seen you so seldom since I regained my dukedom.” Her father always spoke as if he were performing: it hadn’t jarred Miranda when it was only the two of them, but now it seemed odd, an eccentricity she had not before registered. Prospero was triumphant tonight, taking no notice of the way the crowds parted around them, of the eyes boring holes through fine Venetian masks.

  “Father, have you received word from Naples? From Ferdinand?”

  “The Neapolitans dither over details, but they’ve promised to send word within the week. Don’t fret, my child. The deed is done! You are restored to your castle, and I to my rightful place of power.” He made an expansive gesture, taking in the carousal around them. “And how has it been? To be back among those who adore you so?”