“They believe everything to be haunted. This castle, the portrait, my face. On the island we could see the spirits. We didn’t make up stupid stories to scare ourselves.”
Dorothea started to laugh and then grew quiet. “Do you hear that?”
Miranda listened. A scraping sound, slow but ceaseless, echoed down the hall. “We’re close,” she told Dorothea in a low voice. “It must be him.”
They came to the iron door, and Miranda guided Dorothea to the crevice looking into Antonio’s cell. Dorothea angled the torch so that they could both see inside. Her uncle was pulling the chains against the wall, over and over. He lifted one wrist and let it drag down, down, down, scratching against the stone: and then repeated the action with his other hand, in unvarying rhythm. Dorothea knocked her fist against the door, two sharp raps, and he dropped his arm, the chain clattering to the floor.
“Hello, Antonio. We’ve come to talk.” Dorothea stepped back, letting Miranda step forward so that Antonio could see her through the aperture.
Antonio stared. His eyes were as black as stones. Then he laughed, in a rasp that sounded like it pained him to release. “You were just here.” His chest was bare, and she could see the scars etched across his sides. “Don’t tell me there’s more. I can’t help you, and I can’t help her, no matter what you say. Leave me in peace. Please.”
Miranda looked at Dorothea. “He thinks you’re someone else,” Dorothea whispered. “Tell him who you are. Help him remember.”
She turned back to the door, pressing her forehead against it, trying to show Antonio more of her face. “I wasn’t here before. Or, I was, but—several nights ago. I saw you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d seen me. It’s me. Miranda. Prospero’s daughter, whom you found on the island. Remember? With King Alonso and Prince Ferdinand and all the rest?”
“The rest.” His words were slurred. “The rest, the rest. Do you know who was among the rest? Who rests there still?”
“I don’t— Who, Uncle? Who do you mean?”
Antonio pulled on his chain. “I mean my son.” He wound the links around his arm, in a way that it hurt her to watch. “My son, who your father drowned, Miranda. My son, who he forced me to forget until it was too late. Until long after we set sail and left that wretched place behind.”
She glanced towards Dorothea. “Did he have a son?”
Dorothea shook her head. “No, his wife died in childbirth, or so I’ve heard. The baby died, too. His son never lived, Miranda.”
Within his cell, Antonio snorted. “These lies he weaves, complete. He is a spider, and we but tortured flies.”
“But Ferdinand said . . .” Miranda bit her lip. “On the island. When first we met. He told me that they had been shipwrecked, all of his party. The king of Naples, and the duke of Milan, and . . .” Ferdinand’s voice cut through her memory clearly. “His son. Dorothea, Ferdinand spoke of Antonio’s son, I’m sure of it! He said the duke of Milan and his son were both shipwrecked in the storm.”
“He made me forget him.” Antonio tightened the looped chain on his arm. “He made everyone forget him. Only I remember, and only once we returned home. He let me rave like a madman before the castle guards, and then he locked me away in this cell. He robbed me of the chance to save my son, my Alessandro, who my dear wife died to bring into this world, now dead himself and unburied, washed up on the shores of some godforsaken archipelago. It was not enough, to take my dukedom. He had to—” The chain dug into his flesh, and Miranda could see the red welt blooming beneath. “He had to have his revenge, you see? His true vengeance, bitter and dark and known to nearly none. Pay no attention to the play he puts on, to the fine words he speaks, for Prospero hides his devious designs better than any of us. Far, far better than me.”
“Uncle, stop. Stop!” She pounded on the door, and Antonio released the chain. “You must be wrong. My father may be many things, but he is no murderer. He would never be so cruel as to make a father forget his child.”
“What about a child his mother, then?” Antonio’s eyes fixed on hers. “What about that Caliban? What did Prospero do to his mother, the witch?”
Her heart chilled. “Sycorax was . . . that was different. He didn’t kill her. And she was . . .”
“She was what, Miranda?” She felt Dorothea’s breath in her ear. “A witch?”
Miranda shook her head. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Witch or brother or child or beast,” Antonio chanted, “it matters not. If Prospero counts you as his enemy, you are lost.”
“It isn’t true,” Miranda whispered. “He’s not . . . He was good. He was kind to me. He loved me, I know it.”
“Love, in the heart of a man like that, is a terrible, twisted thing. His love warps. His love corrupts.” Antonio got to his feet, chains draping from his arms. “His very love is a sin against God, my girl. The Devil would hand over the keys of Hell to Prospero, should your father offer his hand.”
“You are a liar.” Miranda’s voice shook. “You lie to disguise your treachery.”
“I do not claim to be a good man, child. I deserve my brother, as he deserves me. But my son deserved neither of us.” Antonio looked towards the ceiling of his cell. “And Milan does not deserve Prospero, or the horrors he will wreak.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think: your father had twelve long years alone on that isle to plot, to plan, to test the limits of his art. You know your father, Miranda. Better than any of us. Better than me, for I underestimated his power, fatally. When he did not return the fifth year, or the tenth, I thought myself safe. I thought Milan safe. What do you imagine he has come back here to do? He was never interested in politics or diplomacy. His interests lie in a realm far darker and more dangerous.”
She heard Dorothea’s voice in her ear, quiet but urgent. “We shouldn’t stay much longer, Miranda. Ask him. About the gallery, and the portrait. About why he brought you there.”
Miranda pressed her hands to the door, steadying herself. “Uncle, you came to me at the ball, didn’t you? To show me the portrait of my mother?”
From where he stood, she could no longer see his eyes for the shadows. “Your mother.”
“Yes—in the gallery? Her face looks like mine. Is that what you meant to show me? Is that why you escaped?”
Silence. She met Dorothea’s eyes. “You remember her, don’t you?” Her voice echoed through the lonely cell. “Beatrice? Bice?”
Her uncle made a sound then, a kind of keening. His body contorted, and he folded in on himself, his lank hair falling across his face, his chained arms over his head. “You must not be told. He said—she said—never. Never tell the child. She must never know.”
“Who said I must not know? My father is gone, to Galliate, and then to Lyon. He won’t return for days. You can speak freely, Uncle. Tell me why you brought me there.”
“Miranda—” Dorothea was tugging at her dress.
“I cannot speak. He hears! He hears! Every word, he hears.”
“Miranda, listen. Someone’s coming!”
Underneath her uncle’s moans, she heard it. From the darkness outside the rooms in which they stood. A clicking, like bones on stone. Antonio’s cries grew louder, and he began to shake his chains, collapsing in a heap beneath them.
“It comes! It comes! He sends, and it comes, and we are lost, all lost, for Hell is here! Prospero has plundered Heaven, and its riches rot around us.”
“We must go.” Dorothea pulled Miranda from the door. “He cannot tell us anything. We have to find a different way.”
They turned and ran, the sharp, steady tapping following them down the empty tunnels as they sought the refuge of Miranda’s rooms.
* * *
Back in her chambers, Miranda paced the floor. She dared not reignite the dying fire and so could only see Dorothea’s face by the moonlight that streamed through the windows, giving her skin a ghostly, etiolated sheen. Miranda longed for the comfort of the night before, before t
hey had opened this Pandora’s box and unleashed these mysteries. She did not know how to reconcile Antonio’s wild tales with what she knew of her father.
What frightened her most was one persistent, pernicious thought she could not put out of her mind, one repeating line. Her father was a story he had told her himself. Everything she knew of his deeds and motivations came straight from his own mouth. And now that she knew he had lied about surrendering his magic, a vow as solemn and binding as any she could imagine, she could not help but wonder what other falsehoods he had dressed as truth.
“He won’t talk.” Dorothea’s voice startled her out of her contemplation. “He’s petrified. We need a different way to find things out.”
“How, Dorothea? I cannot ask my father, and no one else will teach me my history or speak of the reasons for our exile. What do they fear? Whence comes such silencing terror?”
“We don’t have to ask.” Dorothea’s eyes gleamed. “I know of magics for walking in minds, Miranda. Dream magics that allow a traveler to slip in and out of nighttime visions, leaving the dreamer none the wiser. I could do it, I think. It’s difficult and a little dangerous. But you need to know what your father and the others are hiding from you.”
“You don’t have to help me, you know.” Miranda formed the words gently on her tongue, for she spoke with real concern, but they left her lips biting. She cleared her throat. “I mean—this is not your burden, Dorothea. My father’s machinations, my mother’s fate: I do not wish these things to consume you. I am born to this dark plot, but you can walk away.”
Dorothea shook her head. “I won’t, Miranda. If what your uncle says is true, it’s not only you in danger. It’s all of Milan, and maybe the world beyond.” She sighed. “Though it’s my feet in the fire if we’re discovered. The authorities would never harm the duke’s daughter, and I believe your father would protect you in the end. But your Moorish accomplice, the heretical witch—”
“I know.” Miranda imagined Agata’s smiting hand, recalled the bruise blossoming on Dorothea’s cheek. “We’ll be careful. And I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”
Dorothea’s lips quirked. “You overestimate your influence with the men of Milan, my Miranda.” She reached out, threading her fingers through Miranda’s own. “But I care about you. I wouldn’t leave your side, not now.”
“Nor I yours.” So it was decided. No matter how treacherous the path, she and Dorothea would see this through. “Tell me more of this magic, then. Surely my father would know at once if we used such a spell on him.”
“He would. And Antonio, too, for his mind is unwilling, and his sleep these nights surely fitful. The spell works best upon an unguarded mind, one at relative peace.” She tapped her finger against her lips. “We need someone who remembers. Someone who knew your mother and saw Prospero expelled from Milan. Someone who knows this castle like the back of their hand. Someone like—”
“Agata.”
“Agata,” Dorothea agreed. “She remembers, I’m sure of it. It has to be her.”
“And you’re certain she will not know that we walk in her dreams? That she will have no reason to suspect?”
“She abhors magic, Miranda. She would attend Mass every hour, if she could, and she believes her piety protects her from all interference. She’ll have no idea. But we will need some of her things. A lock of her hair, and something she keeps near her as she sleeps. I’ll need to gather mugwort and vervain for the potion, too, and a tincture of opium. The ingredients won’t be hard to find, but I’ll need to go outside the castle to get them.”
“How long will it take you?”
Dorothea furrowed her brow. “Two days’ time, should everything go smoothly. We can perform the spell the night after next.”
“We must act as quickly as we can, as my father is due to return in a week. If he uncovers our plan—” Miranda quivered as she thought of the strange drowsiness that often overtook her on the island, of the swift consequences that befell her whenever she interfered with her father’s plans.
“He won’t,” Dorothea promised. “He’ll never know, Miranda. This is the safest way to draw out the truth.” She took Miranda’s other hand, tightening her grip. “But I can’t enter Agata’s rooms. If she discovers me, I’m doomed. She sleeps only three doors down from where we stand. Collecting what we need from her falls to you.”
Shivers ran down Miranda’s arms. “I—” I don’t want to, she wanted to say. I’m afraid. Please do it for me. But she could not ask Dorothea to be her instrument, to risk her own life while Miranda remained ensconced in gilded chambers. She closed her eyes, imagining the journey to Agata’s rooms. It would only be a few steps to Agata’s door, but she would have to walk them exposed and alone.
Once upon a time the task would hardly have daunted her. She had scaled the island’s highest cliffs and delved into the perilous caves in its deepest depths, with their knife-sharp rocks and slippery sides. She had roamed wild, even though her father’s presence hung heavy over the beaches and the forests she traveled, even though she feared he might appear around every new bend on the wooded trails. On the island, though, the sun and stars had guided her; the sea and spirits had murmured around her, and she had felt the world was wider than even her father’s influence, that beyond the edges of his power some greater plan prevailed. Here, in his castle, she could feel no higher law.
“How?” She clutched Dorothea’s palms. “If she finds me, I may not be beaten, but I’ll never again leave these rooms. She’d never let me.”
“I’ll slip a sleeping draught into her evening wine,” Dorothea answered. “That’ll be easy enough. And then tomorrow, as soon as the bells in the tower chime midnight, you’ll go to her rooms and use my key to enter. She’ll sleep as soundly as if she were dead. Take a few strands of her hair and something small from beside her bed. A trinket she won’t notice missing.”
Miranda swallowed. “All right. I’ll do it. But you’re certain it will work? That she will not stir, should I step across her threshold?”
“I’m sure.” Dorothea smiled, though the usual crinkles around her eyes did not appear. “Get some sleep. I’ll take care of everything else we need tomorrow.”
Miranda entwined her fingers in Dorothea’s grasp. “Will you stay? Just for a little while. I don’t think I’ll sleep, should you go.”
“I don’t dare, Miranda. If we’re discovered—”
“We won’t be.” Miranda bent to press a light kiss to Dorothea’s lips. “Stay a little while. No one will know, as long as you leave before the sun rises.”
“I’ll stay an hour,” Dorothea conceded. “An hour, and no more.”
But in the end she stayed until the dawn, slipping out in the eoan light. Their hearts beat too fast from the chase, their bodies pressed too close, and Dorothea’s nearness proved too tempting. After learning all the uses that beds could serve, Miranda wasn’t certain she would ever sleep again.
Chapter 6
Miranda did not see Dorothea at all the next day. As her rooms darkened, night sapping the sunlight from every surface, her dread grew stronger. One of the servants she had seen before, a meek girl with furze-colored hair, came to prepare her chambers for sleeping but scurried off as soon as Miranda tried to speak to her. Miranda meant to discover if the girl knew where Dorothea was tonight, if Agata had taken the customary wine with her evening meal, but there was no way to know.
When the girl was gone, Miranda rose from her bed and changed from her nightclothes into the simplest shift she could find in her wardrobe, a garment that might pass as a servant’s at a glance. She combed her fingers through her long hair so that it hung before her face, hoping that the halls would be almost empty at this hour, and that the shadows might act as her shroud.
Dorothea had tucked the key into the space between Miranda’s wooden bed frame and mattress, and as she reached to retrieve it she felt a now-familiar sensation on her skin, a phantom breeze that raised the fine hair on her arm
s. She turned, half expecting to see the door pushed open and Agata standing there, but it was shut. Her hand closed around cold metal, and she pulled the key from its hiding place. She let it rest for a moment in her palm, taking a deep breath, and then moved towards the door, which opened easily as Miranda inserted the key in its lock.
Outside her chambers, nothing stirred. She stepped gingerly, fearful of her echoing footfalls on the stone floor. As she passed the door to her father’s rooms, she paused mid-step before remembering that his chambers were empty, that he was far from the castle. He had no Ariel to spy for him here, and he would not return from France for days.
She came to Agata’s door and unlocked it before she could think better of it. She eased it open with the barest creaking and crept inside, pulling it shut behind her.
Agata slept in chambers far more austere than Miranda’s own. Her bed was simple and small, and the gilded trinkets and sumptuous touches adorning Miranda’s rooms were absent. In the dim moonlight, Miranda could make out some details of the paintings Agata had hung in place of the grand tapestries she had seen elsewhere in the castle. There was a man with long dark hair and hollow eyes who reminded her a little of Antonio, whose hands bore marks as though the palms had been pierced straight through. She thought that he might be the man on the cross in the Duomo, and the woman in blue in the next portrait his mother. Their gazes seemed to linger on her as she walked towards the bed, where Agata lay on her side, her face turned to the window.
As Dorothea had promised, Agata slept soundly, dead to the world. On her pillow Miranda found a few loose strands of hair and threaded them around her fingers, breathing a sigh of relief. While she trusted Dorothea’s magic, she’d been dreading the thought of plucking hair from Agata’s head, for she could imagine Agata’s thin fingers closing around her wrist, could picture her dark eyes burning as she awoke to find Miranda violating the sanctity of her chambers.
She stood for a moment, watching Agata sleep. In repose, Agata looked happier than Miranda had ever seen her, at far greater peace. The deep lines around her mouth and eyes had smoothed, and she looked ten years younger. Miranda could almost imagine Agata waking and greeting her with kindness, acknowledging Miranda as her kin, for Miranda could see now how much Agata looked like her mother. She longed for Agata to rise and embrace her, to tell her that she had been wrong to treat Miranda with such cruelty, that she and all the citizens of Milan were overjoyed to have Miranda home.
Miranda in Milan Page 6
