Miranda’s heart was pounding. Her body ached like it used to when she would stand at the edge of the eastern cliffs, daring herself to jump into the sea. She longed for Dorothea to keep speaking, for her words to rush on in their wonderful way. She longed for a reason to leap. “What else? Dorothea—what else?”
Dorothea’s lips quirked into a smile. She was close now, close enough that Miranda could count the flecks of gold in her eyes. “They wouldn’t write sonnets, now that I think about it. Poets would sooner abandon their pens, for your beauty defies all verse. I cannot honor the perfection of your form with poetry, but with touch alone.” She ran her fingertips over Miranda’s ear. “I honor this nape of your neck, the curve of which would drive all artists mad. The silken strands of your hair. And your lips . . .”
“Yes?”
“Your lips . . .”
“Dorothea . . .”
“To honor your lips, my only tribute can be this.”
Their mouths came together softly, sweetly. This was nothing like kissing Ferdinand. He and Miranda had exchanged a few furtive kisses, but no more. At the castle in Naples, they had been kept in separate rooms, and always their families were near. Here, for these moments, she and Dorothea were alone in the world. Miranda drank Dorothea in, reveling in the smell of sweat on her skin, the tug of her teeth on Miranda’s lower lip. Dorothea was sand and sea, Miranda thought dizzily. She was wind and water and heat all at once, a tempest of her own making.
She brought her hand to Dorothea’s cheek and felt it growing smooth beneath her touch. Dorothea was changing back, her glamour fading. Miranda’s desire quickened as Dorothea’s long hair tumbled from the ribbon that held it back, her lips regaining their rosy plumpness. Dorothea guided her back onto the bed, pressing Miranda into the pillows as she kissed her way down her neck, and Miranda gave herself over to her skilled hands. How good it felt, to stretch her body again. To use it the way she wanted.
Dorothea’s hands traveled to Miranda’s hips, tracing their outlines beneath her dress. Miranda shivered. Dorothea released her mouth from Miranda’s collarbone and sank back onto her heels, straddling Miranda with a grin. Miranda blushed as their eyes met. “Dorothea, I don’t know . . . that is, I’m not certain what—”
“Don’t fret, my lady.” Dorothea gave her one last lingering kiss before slinking down to lift Miranda’s skirts. “Let me show you the steps.”
* * *
Lying in Dorothea’s arms afterwards, Miranda could hear the carrying on of the court. She could hear the music, as pleasing as birdsong. She could hear the cries and shouts, the effervescent clamor bubbling up through stone walls, a sign that the world outside spun on, not knowing how it had changed within this room. No longer did it vex her, for she felt part of the world now.
She could feel Dorothea’s breath lagging, coming even and slow, but Miranda had no wish to sleep. She felt like she did after a long evening swimming at the beach, falling onto the dunes, sated and salty and spent, but still eager to watch the stars spin, to stay awake as long as she could. She nudged her nose into Dorothea’s neck. “You may claim that poets go mute before me, but you’re one yourself, you know. You charm with your words as well as with your spells.”
Dorothea stroked Miranda’s hair. “My mother wrote poetry. I used to translate it, to teach myself languages. From Arabic to Spanish to Italian and back again. ‘Learn a language’s poetry and you will know its soul.’ That’s what my mother always told us.”
“I’d like to read her poems.”
“Maybe I’ll write them back down someday. But the original poems are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Destroyed. The Spanish authorities heaped my mother’s books on bonfires, along with all the Arabic writings they could find. When we came to Italy, we lost many more things, things we had to sell or things that others stole. And we kept losing them. When your home is not your own, it’s hard to keep much. They were only parchment, anyway. I have them all memorized by heart, in three languages. She used to recite them to us at night, teaching us the verses. That, I cannot lose.”
Miranda considered this. She knew so little of Dorothea’s life before Milan, of the journey that had brought her to this castle, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to know all her stories at once. “You told me that you changed your name.”
“Hmm?”
“When you came here, to Italy. You said that you changed your name.”
“I did.”
“What’s your real name, then?”
Dorothea was silent a long time. Then she sat up a little, dropping her hand from Miranda’s head. “Duriya.”
“Duriya.” Miranda savored the sound. The taste of Dorothea on her tongue still flavored every word, coating it in honey. “It’s pretty. Why did you change it?”
“Because it marks me as a Moor.”
“What’s a Moor?”
“The meaning changes as you move through the world. In some cities it’s used for followers of Mohammed, in others a person from the northern reaches of Africa, settled now in Spain. Here it means almost anyone with skin darker than your own, with a name you can’t pronounce.”
“And it’s a bad thing, to be a Moor?”
“It’s a dangerous thing in this part of the world. To be a Moorish woman—well, that’s worse. The men try to get you with a Christian child and tell you it’s to save your own soul. The women might employ you for a time, but they’ll throw you to the dogs to save their own skins if the inquisitors come knocking. I’m safest in these castle walls, where my skin’s never too long in the sun.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you? Unless your Caliban was a Moor.”
“He . . .” Miranda cast her mind back. “His mother was from Algiers, and his skin was dark. Much darker than yours. So I suppose he may have been. But like me, he knew little of where he came from. We were both of the island. It was all we could remember.”
“I see.”
Dorothea’s hand lay limp on the bed from where it had fallen from Miranda’s hair. Miranda took it, tracing lines over the palm. “Would you prefer I call you Duriya?”
“No.” Dorothea’s lips were tight. She took a breath and then curled her fingers over Miranda’s hand. “Call me Dorothea. For now. When others call me by my old name . . . it reminds me of my sister and brother. And my mother. It’s painful, to know I’ll never again hear it from her mouth. No one here can say it quite right, anyway. It hurts to hear your name said wrong, again and again. To be called something other than what you are, by people who don’t even know what it is they’re saying.”
Miranda bit her lip. “I’m sorry.” She felt as though she were walking through treacherous woods, unsure of her steps. “Why do you stay, then? Or why not wear the glamour? If it’s easier to be a man, you could make yourself one.”
“Where would I go? I don’t wish to travel alone, disguised as a boy for the rest of my life. There is no place I know that seems much better, and there are many more I know to be worse. I don’t wish to change my skin, and I cannot change my blood. And I can’t go back to Marrakech. I don’t want to marry, or struggle as my mother did.”
“But surely, with your powers, you can live a different way? No one could stop you, could they, from living the life you choose?”
Dorothea pulled her hand from Miranda’s grip. “I still need to eat. No witch can make bread from rocks alone. You may be heiress to riches untold, but all I have, I’ve gained for myself. I don’t want to live in a cave, or only walk the world in darkness. I want to be in it. Part of it.” She looked away. “I know you don’t understand this yet, Miranda. I know it’s all new. But to be in this world, you must always be a little less than yourself. With every day that passes, you must give up a little more. And . . . it hurts. If you dwell on it, it sometimes hurts too much to bear.”
With that, the door to Miranda’s prison seemed to swing shut once more. She swallowed the lump in her thr
oat, turning onto her back to stare at the celestial beings on the ceiling above. She was still unused to people, to their moods and their depths and their secrets. The spirits of the island were mercurial, but to them everything was a game. They acted because they were bound or bored, not because of their histories or their passions. Miranda had been treating Dorothea as though she were a fairy guide, come to release her from her friendless exile. But these were people. Real people. And she had no idea what to do with them.
Ferdinand was a real person, too. He had flitted through her mind at that first kiss but vanished quickly as she became caught up in Dorothea. Now his face reappeared in her mind, and with it the expression he might wear, were he to stumble upon this scene. The sweetness in her mouth turned to ashes. Was this the tang of betrayal on her tongue? Had she betrayed Ferdinand? She could tell now, with the tension gone from her hands, her hips, how angry she had been with him. Angry for his silence, for his failure to send for her. Angry for the promises he’d made and broken, and for her own naïveté, for the way she had fawned over him when first he came to her isle. Still, they were betrothed, and while she still failed to understand exactly what that entailed, she was certain this night with Dorothea did not fall within its boundaries. She had wanted Dorothea, deeply, but she had wanted to hurt Ferdinand, too, even if he never learned what had transpired. She wanted all these things, these contradictions, and she knew not which kind of wanting was right.
Guilt roiled in her gut. She could see Dorothea didn’t care to talk further, but she had no one else to ask. She turned back onto her side. “Dorothea, do you think we—”
But her words were swallowed by the sound that came cascading through the room. A voice, filling every inch of the chambers. She and Dorothea locked eyes as Prospero began to address his subjects and his noble peers in the courtyard below.
“Heed me, people of Italy, for the false reign is ended. The righteous ruler is restored, bringing you a world glorious and renewed.” The windows rattled with proclamation. “Though I have been a king in distant climes, I returned for you, Milan. Though I have been a god in exile, I yearned for you, Milan. I built paradise from an island untamed, but this country is my body, the love of my people is the blood in its veins, and I am its beating heart.”
Dorothea had been wrong: Prospero’s power was not contained in books alone. Miranda had heard that voice quake through the ground. She had seen it shake forests of aspen and rend groves of oak, and now it rang around them as though he stood in this very room, at the foot of their bed.
She sat bolt upright. Dorothea grabbed her hand.
“He kept it.” Miranda’s panic rose like a wave. “The power, Dorothea. The power he said that he renounced when we left. He has it still.”
“Why, Miranda? Why does he cause his voice to echo that way?”
“To be heard throughout the castle.” She closed her eyes. Her father’s voice thundered on, promising an age of prosperity never before known in Milan, in all of Italy—nay, even the globe. “To be heard in its deepest tunnels.”
“Why there?”
“He keeps my uncle there. Antonio.” Dorothea’s hold on her hand tightened. “He has him locked away, and he wants him to hear every word of this. There must be a reason, Dorothea. He must have plans unknown, plans beyond even taking back his dukedom.” Her old fears, cast aside since she had come to the mainland, surged back as her father’s speech came to a roaring, riotous close, the crowd bursting into applause that he amplified throughout the halls. He could appear at any moment. He could even catch her here, half-naked, tangled up in sheets with Dorothea. He could control her, and anyone in his reach, as easily as he once enslaved Ariel.
“Breathe.” Dorothea’s hand was on her chest. “Breathe deep, Miranda. You’ll faint if you do not.” She calmed a little beneath Dorothea’s touch, though she still struggled to bring air into her lungs. “You must tell me what you know. You said someone brought you to the gallery, yes? What did they look like?”
“They were tall.” She steadied her voice. “Thin. Far too thin.”
“Starved.”
“I couldn’t tell. They wore a mask and covered every inch of their skin. I could not even tell if they were man, woman, or spirit beneath those clothes.”
“I think it was your uncle, Miranda.”
Miranda shook her head. “He’s locked away. My father has him in a cell smaller than this bed.”
“This castle has strange ways. A mind of its own, some say. Doors open when they shouldn’t, and shut and lock, too. And your uncle was the duke a dozen years, ruling in peace. There are still those loyal to him, you know. If they’ve discovered where he’s kept, he has friends in the castle who would aid his escape.”
“If he was able to escape, why come to me?”
“Maybe there’s something he needs you to know before he escapes for good. He wouldn’t expect you to trust him.” Dorothea’s mouth pursed. “For some reason, he needed to show you the portrait of your mother.”
“What could she have to do with this, Dorothea? She died long ago.”
“But how did she die? What happened to her? Why do all the servants whisper her name? There is more to know, Miranda, and your uncle has the answers. Can you find your way back to where your father is keeping him?”
“Yes, but—” They froze at the knocking at the door. Miranda grasped Dorothea’s hand. “Agata. It must be Agata.”
Dorothea sprung up, gathering her clothes. She pulled the skeleton key out of her jacket and pressed it into Miranda’s hands. “Wait a few moments and then let her in. Don’t let her see the key. I’ll come back through the tunnels tomorrow, as soon as night falls.”
Together they ran to the tapestry, and Dorothea pressed a hasty kiss to Miranda’s lips before Miranda helped hoist her into the portal.
“Miranda, open this door!” she heard Agata demand just as Dorothea’s legs disappeared. Miranda steadied the tapestry and ran back to her bed, tugging on as many of her rumpled garments as she could manage. With trembling hands, she managed to unlock the door, slipping the key into her sleeve and backing away as quickly as she could.
Agata burst into the room. “I found the baroness of Carini climbing the terrace, making obscene animal noises, and wearing this.” She thrust Miranda’s mask onto the bed, advancing on Miranda. “Did I not tell you, above all else, to keep your face covered? For one night and one night alone, can you not pretend to be half the lady that your mother was?”
“And what kind of lady was she?” Miranda retorted.
Agata halted. “What did you say?”
“You knew her, didn’t you? Tell me about her. Please. I don’t remember her, and no one will tell me how she died. What happened to her, Agata?”
Pallor crept over Agata’s face. “You will not ask.” She turned on her heel and then spun back to snatch up the mask. “And you will wear the veil. Count yourself lucky that I allow you to go without it in your rooms. Try anything like this again, and I will fasten it to your scalp, I promise you. You may have lived like a pagan in your father’s house, but you will not shame this castle.”
She left Miranda shaking as the heavy lock fell into place on the door.
Chapter 5
The next day passed with agonizing lethargy. Miranda watched the weak rays of the sun slip across the floor, willing the shadows to lengthen, black night to fall once more. When it did, after the last of the servants left her alone in her rooms and the castle lay silent, Dorothea did not appear. Miranda waited in the dark. Had some task delayed her, or had Agata discovered Dorothea’s role in last night’s events and punished her? She knew nothing of the schedules of servants: How late did Agata make them work? How early were they required to wake, to do the whole day’s labor all over again?
She had nearly given up hope when she heard a thumping at the portal. She leapt up and grabbed a chair, bringing it to the tapestry to aid Dorothea’s descent. Dorothea’s black hair had come loose from her b
un in thick strands, and her face was smeared with dirt. “You must be careful that Agata doesn’t discover you know of this portal, Miranda. I think she suspects. She set someone to wait by the statue of Virgil.”
“How? And how did you get here?”
Dorothea dusted herself off. “She knows about the tunnels, of course. But she can’t forbid you from using them, because that would acknowledge their existence, you see? She can’t accuse you without revealing them. She must have guessed that you left the ball via Virgil’s portal, since that’s the entrance nearest to the courtyard. But the tunnels are deep, and they lead out of the castle itself. I got back in by taking the path that lets out in the woods, and I’ve explored as much as I could these last few hours. I wanted to make sure we had other ways to come and go.”
“Did you see my uncle?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s go. I can lead us there, and now’s as safe a time as any.”
Dorothea looked wistfully towards the bed. “All right. But I much prefer how we spent last night.”
Together they made their way through the tunnels, trading little touches to reassure themselves in the dark. They came to the covered road, and Dorothea pointed. “There. If you keep going, you reach the exit. It brings you up in a ditch outside of the castle.” Miranda could make out her wry smile in the torchlight as Dorothea took a flambeau from the wall. “Keep that in mind for the inevitable rebellion.”
“Antonio’s cell is this way.” Miranda led her down the passage. “Do you know what used to be down here? The rooms in which he’s kept look as though they haven’t been used for years.”
“Most people I know avoid the eastern part of the castle altogether, if they can.” Dorothea shrugged. “Ghost stories. The girls say it’s haunted.”
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