Miranda in Milan

by Katharine Duckett

  Miranda was glad of the mask, for her mouth twisted beneath it. “They do not act as though they adore me, Father. They gawk, and they talk, and they hate the sight of my face.”

  That stopped him: he paused, drawing her close, turning away from the crowd. “It will take them time, Miranda. But you are their lady. Do not doubt it.”

  “But why do they ask me to cover my face, Father? And why do they speak of my mother to one another, but never to me?”

  “Do not speak to anyone else of your mother.” The command resonated, like a spell, and Miranda wondered if that was what his words were. He softened his tone, his hand on her arm. “If you have questions about your mother, come to me. I knew her much better than any of these others could. And I have talked to you of her often enough.”

  Once, Miranda thought. You spoke of her once, and only to unveil the grandeur of your own plans. But she drew a breath, said evenly, “Of course, Father. You knew her best, I’m sure.”

  He studied her with ice-blue eyes, and she feared that he would take offense and castigate her before the crowd. But he relented, saying only, “Heed not the words of lesser men. They envy your royal line and the wonder of your impossible return, as Caliban envied us our wisdom and wit, that inborn intelligence his sullied blood deprived him of.” He guided her back into the crowd, presenting her to a clutch of well-dressed ladies with a flourish before bowing his way out of their company. “Forgive me, ladies. I must speak with the Spanish ambassador.”

  The ladies looked out at her from behind birdlike masks, and Miranda tried to embody her own mask’s painted pout, to talk prettily of court intrigue and hunting seasons. But she faltered every time she went to speak and found herself moved from cluster to cluster, always on the outside of the circles, always watching the scene as though it were a shadow play.

  Her mask felt tight on her face, and the heavy velvet and satin of her dress chafed and pinched. She felt like the phantom Milan treated her as, forced to witness the joy of the living but never to claim it as her own. She found herself pushed to the very edge of the crowd and took refuge in the quiet of a loggia, watching pairs of young lovers dash beneath its shelter to exchange fervid kisses before laughing their way into the crowds again.

  A hand descended upon her shoulder. She turned, expecting Agata, maybe even Dorothea: but the figure she saw resembled neither. It was tall, draped in black, and seemed neither man nor woman, its clothes shabbier than most of the court regalia. Upon its face, it wore a full mask: one that almost seemed to have been crafted from iron, thick and impenetrable.

  She thought that perhaps she should be frightened, but she was used to strange sights, and though the stranger was a touch spectral, it emanated no menace. It stepped back from her, crooking a glove-covered finger, motioning for her to move down the hall, back into the interior of the castle.

  Miranda followed, glancing back towards the party as she went. Had Dorothea, perhaps, prepared some surprise for her and enlisted the help of a friend to guide Miranda to it? The person kept looking back at her, and though she could not see its features, she felt it emanating concern, an attention to Miranda’s presence she could feel from a few feet away.

  “Who are you?” Miranda called quietly as they walked the halls. “Did Dorothea send you?”

  The figure made no reply. It was leading her, Miranda realized, to the portrait gallery. She trailed the figure up the steps, into the hall, where the old royals of Milan glowered in the half dark. Miranda stopped as the figure lumbered on, unwilling to get any closer to the shrouded portrait that had caused Dorothea pain. But the figure moved closer to the shroud, and then turned to Miranda, waving her forward. “I can’t,” Miranda pleaded, and she heard the stranger sigh: a rusty exhalation of breath, yet somehow light, familiar. It raised its thin arm, its hand hovering over the veil covering the portrait, and clutched its bony fingers around the fabric. She saw the shadow lift, and beneath, in the dim light, the shape of a face.

  Her own face.

  Miranda stood too far away to see the detail, ready at any moment to run, but there was no mistaking the pale woman captured in the painting’s frame. Preserved in shades of coral and pearl, her own countenance looked out upon the portrait hall. She felt as though she were looking at her soul, stolen from her body and put up on the wall. She staggered back, closing her eyes to drive the vision from her mind.

  “Miranda!”

  Her name echoed bright and cheery down the hall, like a summons from another world. A young man, dressed in a crimson suit and half-mask, emerged from around the corner. “I thought I saw you come this way. Come back to the ball! We don’t want to be caught here again.”

  Miranda moved towards the dashing young man, who was not a man at all, but Dorothea a foot taller, her hair pulled back with a ribbon, her jawline heavier, a fine beard across her cheeks. “Dorothea? But . . . how?”

  Dorothea pulled off her mask. “A glamour, of course. Your father must have used them, I’m sure. I wanted to dance with you at the ball! And while everyone fusses over the locations of young ladies, young men rove about as they please. I could be anyone’s nephew from Orvieto, somebody’s so-and-so from Verona. No one will question such a charming, lively young lad.”

  Miranda let out a laugh, and then caught herself, spinning back to peer into the gallery. The figure was gone. “Did you . . . send someone? To bring me here, so that we could meet?”

  Dorothea scrunched up her nose. “Up here? No. In fact, I think we should get as far away from here as we can.”

  “But there was someone here, Dorothea. They showed me the portrait. The face that lies underneath the shroud—it’s mine.”

  Dorothea’s eyes went wide. “It can’t be. It’s been there since I came to this castle, Miranda. No one in Milan, in all of Italy, had seen your face since you were three.”

  “I promise you.” She moved back towards the portrait, but Dorothea took Miranda’s hand, pulling her back towards the ball.

  “We need to leave this place,” Dorothea urged. “And the portrait—” She stopped, squeezing Miranda’s hand. “It can’t be you, Miranda. It must be your mother.”

  “My mother?” She thought of the contours of the face, obscured by darkness. Perhaps the hair was a touch darker, the cheeks a bit thinner. Perhaps the face was not Miranda’s own, but that of someone only a little older. “My mother.”

  “It makes sense. They say Beatrice was much beloved, and died too young, just before you and your father were banished from Milan. Twelve years later you appear again, looking exactly like she did when she was taken from this world. No wonder they call you a ghost.”

  “But why do they cover her face?” Here, in this castle she was meant to call her own, an image of her mother hung only steps from her rooms, and no one had told her. No one had taken her to look upon the face of the woman who had given her birth, who Miranda had lost before she knew the word “mother.” Not even her father. Her eyes grew hot with tears, and she dropped Dorothea’s hand, turning away.

  “Miranda . . .” She felt Dorothea’s hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I am. I wish I could tell you why.” Miranda let herself turn and accepted Dorothea’s embrace. They stood, forehead to forehead, as Dorothea held her. “We must return to the ball. Agata will notice if you don’t join the dancing.”

  “I don’t feel much like dancing.”

  “I know.” Dorothea rubbed small circles along her back. “But you can’t stay here in the dark. You deserve a little joy, Miranda. Both of us do. Leave your worries for a moment and come dance with me. Please?”

  Dorothea’s new form was strong and radiated warmth. Miranda longed to stay in her arms, but she pulled back, accepting Dorothea’s hand and letting herself be led away from the gallery. As they walked, she took a sidelong glance at Dorothea, at the handsome profile of her face. “Why did you change your sex? Do ladies not dance together?”

  Dorothea tossed back her head, laughing. “Maybe in certain qu
arters of the city they do. But not in the ducal court.” They were approaching the ball, the roar of the crowd reaching them as they walked towards the courtyard. “There are some courtly dances where it wouldn’t seem amiss for two ladies—noblewomen, mind you, not foreign serving girls like me—to dance hand in hand in a group. But the first dance is for partners, and I want you to be mine.”

  They came to a landing overlooking the courtyard. Dancers were taking their places, and as the music began they moved in unison, their steps perfect, their every turn and twist precisely matched. Miranda clutched Dorothea’s hand. “I can’t do that! Dorothea, I’ve almost never danced before, much less danced like this. They’re beauteous! They’re marvelous! They’re—”

  “Stop, stop.” Dorothea was laughing again, covering her mouth with her other hand. “These are the entertainers, Miranda. They’ve been practicing for weeks. Well, some of them are nobles, here to show off, though they pretend no one recognizes them behind their masks. See that man there?” She pointed to a young man in gold and blue, as tall and graceful as a swan. “He’s the marquis of Mantua. He lives for this. The girls say he never does anything but dance, drink, and sleep. Not a bad life, eh? They’ll dance for a while, and then they’ll open up the floor for the rest of us. Don’t fret, my lady.” She raised their linked hands, motioning for Miranda to turn. “Let me show you the steps.”

  They went through the dance as best they could, with Dorothea telling her where the other couples would stand, and on which beat they would come together, and when they would break apart. Miranda tripped over her own feet once or twice, but with Dorothea’s hand in hers she felt she could follow the rhythm, the little hops and circling steps. She thought of the spirits of the isle, of the way they pranced and strutted, and mimicked their movements as she clasped her hands behind her back, kicking lightly on her feet.

  Dorothea grinned. “You see? I knew you could dance. I’m never wrong about these things.” She glanced over the balcony and then extended her hand to Miranda. “And it’s time for us to join the crowd. Are you ready?”

  Miranda accepted Dorothea’s hand. “As ready as I will be.”

  They plunged into the revelry and took their places in the square. Miranda swallowed, afraid of the eyes on them, afraid they would see Dorothea for who she was, but around them the crowd clapped and carried on, caught up in its own exuberance.

  The musicians started up, and Miranda swung her way into the song, following the patter of Dorothea’s feet, pinching her skirts and spinning, as the other ladies did. She and Dorothea circled each other, eyes shining through their masks, and Miranda felt her breath pick up, her heartbeat excited by the dancing. By the dancing, and by Dorothea, so near. Her smiling face was the center Miranda orbited as she let the music carry her, feeling free for the first time since she came to Milan.

  They came together, holding their clasped hands aloft, and another couple passed beneath the bridge they’d made. The music pounded on, and on, and on, and Miranda felt her temperature rise, sweating against the cool winter air.

  Giddiness rose in her, and she fell into Dorothea’s arms at the end of the dance, the crowd erupting in joy. “Not bad for your first time,” Dorothea whispered, grinning wide, and Miranda pushed herself up, the heat in her limbs suddenly unbearable. She pulled up her mask, drawing her hand across her brow in relief; and then she stopped, hearing the chatter around her falter.

  A nearby clutch of gray-haired ladies fixed their glittering eyes on her naked face. One covered her masked mouth with her hands; the others, barefaced, let their jaws hang open, eyeing her with a hungry, fearful awe. She heard a gasp, from one of the women: “Bice.” And then repeated, like an incantation, an avowal, passed from tongue to tongue: “Bice. Bice.”

  Miranda stood frozen, pinned beneath the women’s gazes like a shrew sighted by birds of prey. Dorothea grasped her elbow, forcing her into motion, and she recovered enough of her sense to pull the mask back down. She looked past Dorothea’s shoulder towards the staircase leading to the ducal apartments and saw Agata standing atop it, her eyes glinting silver as she watched the crowd. “Not that way.” She swerved, steering Dorothea with a hand on her back. “I know another route.”

  “You found the tunnels!”

  “I found the tunnels.”

  They moved swiftly, trying not to run, until Dorothea halted, nearly toppling Miranda to the ground. “Wait, take my mask,” she urged, pulling off her own and handing it to Miranda. “Give me yours.”

  Miranda did as she asked. Dorothea grabbed the arm of a young woman they’d just passed, the cut of whose dress almost exactly matched Miranda’s. The color was several shades lighter, but by candlelight it was hard to tell the two apart.

  Dorothea thrust Miranda’s mask into the lady’s hands. “Marco told me it’s your turn! We’re all pretending to be the duke’s daughter—this mask looks just like hers.”

  “The duke’s daughter? The feral girl?” The woman began to laugh. She took the mask and traded it for her own, gurning at her companions. “Look, I was raised by wolves!”

  “There are no wolves on—”

  But Dorothea dragged Miranda away before she could expose herself. “Not now. Take shelter in the prejudice of these spoiled children and run.”

  “Who’s Marco?”

  “Who knows?” Dorothea winked. “But it’ll keep Agata from searching for you. For a while, anyway.”

  They dashed on, weaving and winding through the ball until they reached the statue in the long deserted hall off the courtyard. Miranda glanced around and then ducked behind the base.

  “Ready?” she whispered to Dorothea.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  She pulled up the handle of the portal, and Dorothea followed her into the dark.

  Chapter 4

  They tumbled out of the tunnels into Miranda’s rooms, letting themselves down onto the floor with as little injury as they could, for Miranda had not left a chair to catch them. “Can you do something to the door?” she asked Dorothea as they got to their feet. “A spell, in case Agata comes?”

  “Even easier than that.” Dorothea removed a slender key from the lining of her red jacket. Its edges had all been filed off, save for the hook at its end. “As good luck would have it, I borrowed this from the blacksmith just yesterday in exchange for brewing him a potion to provoke his performance.”

  Miranda wrinkled her nose. “He’s in the theater?”

  Dorothea laughed as she darted over to the door. “If so he’s a poor player. But my concoction will soon have him strutting the stage.”

  Miranda watched her slide the skeleton key into the lock. “So it works on any door in the castle?”

  “Most of them. I needed garments for the ball, and there’s a heap of them stored away in this place.” Dorothea placed the key back in her inner pocket. “There. That’ll keep Agata out, for a time.”

  They had been breathless with laughter and fear during their escape. Now, as they stood back in her prison, Miranda remembered the looks of the ladies at the dance who had seen her true visage. She knew now that her face matched her mother’s, and she knew that this likeness was the cause of the whispers, the claims that she was no girl at all, but some wight brought to life by Prospero. Yet she still could not understand the revulsion this face alone inspired.

  Though the mirror in Miranda’s room unnerved her, she had spent an afternoon a few days past examining her face in its glass, trying to make out in the dim winter light whether her features matched those of the people she’d seen in Milan, in Naples, on the roads of Italy. Was she deformed in a way she had not perceived, as Caliban was? Yet thinking back on Caliban’s face, she could not remember why his form held such repugnance: he limped, yes, but she had seen men here on land who limped, who held bronze-handled canes and carried their heads high. He was dark, but she did not see why darkness should signify corruption, now that she had beheld the wide range of human hues; broad-nosed, but she knew
now that the faces of men were made of clay that could be sculpted into any shape. What had caused her to think Caliban so ugly a man, when, as she gazed upon her own reflection, it seemed to warp and waver, unsettling her so profoundly that she had to look away?

  She pulled off Dorothea’s mask, set it aside, and sat on the edge of the bed. Dorothea settled beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “Dorothea, you’ve shown me such kindness. Kindness no one else has. But I think you’ve been less than honest with me. I ask you now, if you are my friend, to give me the truth as plain as you can. The way the others look upon my face—” She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She did not cry often, but she could feel the tears building now. “Dorothea, there can be no other reason. I must be hideous, and terrible to look upon. Is there something wrong with my face, Dorothea? Something all of Milan can see, but I cannot?”

  “Of course there isn’t.”

  “Please don’t lie to me, Dorothea. I cannot bear it.”

  Dorothea took both of Miranda’s hands in hers, dipping her head to meet Miranda’s downcast eyes. “Miranda, you’re beautiful.” When Miranda did not lift her gaze, Dorothea cupped her cheek gently. Their eyes locked, and Miranda trembled, her skin still cool from the winter air. “You don’t know that, truly? You’re a beauty to inspire sonnets. You’re a beauty fit for a prince. Didn’t Ferdinand fall in love with you at first sight?”

  “But then he cast me aside. Maybe he was only under a spell. Maybe Father made him think—”

  Dorothea pressed a finger to Miranda’s lips. “No sorcerer could weave a spell this complete. I work with magic of just this kind: you’ve seen me change my face. No mage crafted this countenance, Miranda.” Miranda felt a flush spread over her skin. “Eyes like this, dark and sparkling jewels, are rare enough that painters and sculptors both would struggle their whole lives to capture their reflection, were they lucky enough to glimpse them even once. And coming so close as this, drawn into your orbit, they would lose all ability to remember, to reason, to pick up the brush, to reach for the clay. Men would lose their art, for you.” She ran her thumb lightly over Miranda’s cheekbone. “If there is anything I find wanting about your face, Miranda, it is only that I long to gaze upon it in the sun, where it belongs.”