She turned away from the woman and her own foolish thoughts. Near the bed she saw a chest of drawers and bent to examine its contents. She could take something small, something Agata wouldn’t miss, and be on her way. In the top drawers she found instruments for sewing, several long strings of beads with crosses hanging from them, and a thick sheaf of papers, bound with a cardinal ribbon. Miranda drew the papers out of the drawer and squinted at the looping script. They were letters, she saw. Letters addressed to her.
Miranda stared at the letters, uncomprehending. My dearest Miranda. My beloved Miranda. She flipped fumblingly through the pages, her fingers gone numb. We await you in Naples. We ask your father to send you as soon as he’s able. I remain steadfast, my maiden mistress. My queen. My faithful wife.
The adoring pronouncements, in Ferdinand’s hand, blurred before her eyes. Agata couldn’t have concealed messages from Naples from Prospero. She must have acted at his command. Her father had lied to her, from their very first days in Milan. Her father, who had brought them together. Her father, who kept her in this castle, against Ferdinand’s wishes.
Her father clearly owed no fealty to Naples, or truly feared their king. Why, then, had he brought her here to rot? What did he intend by locking her away behind these walls, by separating her from Ferdinand?
Behind her, the bed creaked as Agata shifted in her sleep. Miranda shut the drawer quietly and left with the letters in hand, not caring if Agata noticed their absence. They were hers. They were proof that she had allies beyond these walls. Though all Milan might be against her, she still had friends in Naples.
Chapter 7
Miranda read the letters until the sun rose, and then for an hour or so after. When the knob of her door rattled, she snatched them up and hid them behind her back but relaxed when she saw that it was Dorothea.
“What have you got there?” Dorothea closed the door behind her, crossing over to Miranda. “Did you take those from Agata’s rooms?”
Miranda nodded, holding the letters out before her. “They’re from Ferdinand. He’s waiting for me. He wants me to come to Naples as soon as I can. My father’s been lying to me ever since I arrived.”
Dorothea took the pages from Miranda’s hands. “So Agata has been intercepting these.”
“Yes.” Miranda crossed her arms, suddenly feeling cold. “He’s keeping me in his fortress, Dorothea. The marriage, the future he promised me, that he promised Ferdinand—it was an illusion. He doesn’t want me to leave this castle.”
Dorothea kept her eyes on the letters, looking through the stack. “It seems so.”
Miranda examined Dorothea’s face. She was not yet adept at reading emotions, but she was coming to know Dorothea’s expressions as intimately as she had once known Caliban’s, who always twisted up his mouth the same way Dorothea was now doing just before he began to excoriate Prospero. “Are you angry? Why are you angry?”
Dorothea turned away, laying the letters on the table. “We have to get you ready. I’m to dress you in the veil and send you to walk in the courtyard while I clean. Agata’s waiting.”
“Dorothea . . .”
Dorothea walked to the wardrobe, pulling out a green garment and bringing it over to Miranda’s bed. “Your prince has sent for you. You should wear your fine gowns if you are to be queen of Naples.” Dorothea’s hands slipped over the folds of the dress as she straightened it out. “As you were meant to be. As you’ve longed to be.”
“I want . . .” Miranda bit her lip. “Dorothea, I don’t know what all of this means. I’m no queen, not yet. But when I am, I can curb my father’s power, if he intends any evil. My time in Milan has been a misery, as you know well. Ferdinand can help me escape, and in Naples, I can make a new life.”
Dorothea laughed, a short, ugly sound. “So you distract yourself from your troubles in Milan with the servant girl.” Her fists tightened around the fabric. “I should have known I was only a new face to you. You’ve seen so few.”
“Dorothea—”
“Get dressed.” Dorothea still did not look at her. “We should not provoke Agata’s anger today. I’ll return at nightfall to perform the spell.”
She helped Miranda dress in silence, her fingers moving over Miranda’s hips and back as though she did not know their shapes. Miranda stared out the window at the gathering clouds, taking in one last view before Dorothea lowered the veil over her eyes.
* * *
That night, rain began to fall. Miranda lay in darkness, waiting for Dorothea. When she heard the thumping against the door from the tunnels, not long after she had gone to bed, she rose slowly, clutching the key in her hand.
They did not speak as she helped Dorothea down. Dorothea carried a small pouch, tied to her skirt, which she laid open on the table and unpacked as Miranda lit a lamp for her to see by. “Mugwort. Vervain. Opium. Do you have the rest?”
Miranda nodded and took the strands of Agata’s hair from where she’d stored them in one of her chests, along with the letters. She brought them to Dorothea, who placed a bottle on the table and began to mix the potent potion together, starting with the black strands of Agata’s hair.
“Take one of these and burn it.” Dorothea gestured to the letters. “We’ll use the ash.”
“What about the ribbon? Can I burn that instead?”
Dorothea’s mouth tightened. “Fine. But work fast.”
Miranda crouched before the fireplace. The ribbon hung limp in her hands. She fed its end into the fire, where it slowly caught flame, and let it burn itself out on the brick. The scorched portion left behind the lingering smell of burning hair and a dark, gritty powder, which she gathered up in her hands and brought to Dorothea.
“Pour it in.” Dorothea held out the bottle, and Miranda added the ashes to the murky mixture. “After we take this, we’ll fall asleep within minutes. As we sleep we’ll be drawn to Agata’s dreams. It may be hard to find our way at first. We’ll have to cross the gulf between this world and the dream realm. But I’ve guided myself through trances before. If we—” She cleared her throat. “If we keep our hands together as we sleep, we’ll walk together. Let me lead, and we will see all that Agata knows.”
Miranda nodded. “Dorothea—thank you. For helping me.”
“I could hardly do otherwise, my lady.”
“Don’t call me—” Miranda drew a breath. “Never mind. Are you finished?”
Dorothea held the potion aloft, its pinkish contents swirling in the half light. “Yes. And the fresher the better, so we should drink it now.” She uncorked the bottle, taking a long sip, and passed it to Miranda. “Mind the hair.”
When the bottle was drained, they made their way to the bed. They lay apart, not touching, until Miranda felt the draught take its effect. The sleep that stole over her was not unlike the dullness that had engulfed her so often at the island, a languor she now knew to be artificial. She risked a glance at Dorothea and saw her eyes were closing. “Dorothea,” she whispered. “Take my hand.”
Dorothea turned her head and stretched her hand out towards Miranda as though reaching across a chasm. Miranda caught her fingers and pulled her close, bringing their bodies together, just before they dropped into black and total sleep.
* * *
Full fathom five thy father lies.
Miranda opened her eyes. She could see nothing, but the voice of the void rang with familiar tones. It sang to her, and she relaxed into its embraces, her formlessness of no concern, her niggling sense of apprehension fading fast as the euphonic song lilted on.
Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes. The voice stopped and then began to speak, no longer singsonging its ghastly rhymes. “I thought of drowning your father many times. I thought of the look on his face as I forced him deeper and deeper down. As the water flowed into his lungs. I thought of his lifeless eyes so often that I saw them whenever I looked into his face, these last few years. His dead eyes, his blue pearl
s. I dreamed of it all the time, girl. Nothing brought me such pleasure as to imagine Prospero dragged down to the seabed, writhing and gasping like a fish on land. I dream of it still, though you both are gone. I dream of it still, and maybe someday my dreams will be real.”
Miranda let the words roll over her, and then the meaning began to penetrate. “You dreamed of drowning him.”
“Yes.”
“You dreamed of drowning him . . . Ariel.”
“Well done, little mortal.” The voice gave a laugh like chimes. “Most who attempt what you are trying forget who they are, and their minds seep out like sand. But you’re used to slipping into the void, aren’t you? Your father made you visit it often. All those little grains of you, lost in the wind. Each time he sent you sleeping I wondered how long you’d last. I wondered when the time would come that you would no longer wake, or when you’d wake but would not see or speak.” Ariel grew louder, his voice encircling her, ringing in her ears. “And so why, why, little mortal, would you bring yourself here? You survived. You stayed intact. Now the blackness will take you, and you will never, ever go back.”
Miranda felt the greedy, gulping darkness tug at her from all sides. Not even darkness: the absence of any color, any light, any form. It would swallow her whole. “Ariel,” she begged. “We wish to walk the dreams of a woman who knew my mother, long ago. We wish to discover why my father was forced from Milan and came to your island. If he has sound reason for his deeds, if he acted without cruelty, I cannot aid you in your revenge. But if my father is what you think he is, if he’s sinned in some way, I’ll help you, I promise. I will be your vassal in vengeance, with all the power of Naples behind me. I swear to you.”
“And the other?” Ariel’s voice snaked through her mind. “This little witch here, holding your hand. You want to keep her, too?”
Miranda’s heart seized up as she realized she could no longer feel Dorothea’s warm touch. “Yes! Please, Ariel. Deliver us into Agata’s dreams, and back again.”
“I can take you into the woman’s mind, but you would have to find your own way back. And these waves are wine-dark and wanting. Demons wait to catch the unwary as they pass through. This is where I wait to pull your father down, should he ever come walking my way. If you say the word now, I’ll take you and your sorceress back to your warm bed instead.”
Miranda’s mind raced. She could return and appeal to her father. Ask to be sent to Naples, with all she now knew. Perhaps she had misunderstood, and he had kept the letters from her for some less sinister reason. Perhaps he had only wanted to surprise her. But even as she tried to convince herself, she knew none of it could be true. She knew Prospero. Better, as Antonio said, than maybe anyone still living, other than Caliban, other than Ariel. She knew him, and she had to know the truth.
“Take us there.”
“You’re certain?”
“Take us there, Ariel.”
“Very well.” The spirit breathed out a sigh. “Humans never listen. It matters not if you tell them lies. They always put the truth aside.”
Miranda felt the darkness shifting. She was moving, or the void was, and a whisper of touch—Ariel, maybe, or the faint press of Dorothea’s fingers, back in the waking world—passed through her. “Wait. I pray you, Ariel, just one last question before I go.”
“Yes?”
“Are you with Caliban?”
“I am. He’s stopped cursing me, for your father has stopped cursing him. The island is peaceful. We live without masters now.”
“That’s good.” Miranda tried to smile but found she had no face. “Tell him . . . tell him I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.”
“I will tell him.” The void churned, and Ariel’s voice slipped farther and farther away from her, echoing in the nothingness. “I will tell him. I will tell him.”
The refrain faded, and Miranda heard no more.
Chapter 8
“Bice!”
Beatrice did not slow. She was far across the hills, and Agata struggled to keep up. Bice’s legs had always been longer, her gait more assured. She strode where Agata straggled, and her strong, tanned limbs carried her across the green expanse easily even with Miranda in her arms, tucked against her bosom as she carried the apples they’d already picked in a swinging basket in her other hand.
Beatrice’s skin freckled brown in the sun, and she would do nothing to protect it, which had caused Agata’s aunt no end of consternation in their youth. The portrait of Beatrice recently hung in the castle’s gallery painted her skin as smooth and creamy as milk. Her true skin was dappled with spots though she had barely reached her twentieth birthday, her face already grooved with lines from lounging about outside and from laughing. She laughed often, Beatrice did. Or at least she had, until these last few months.
It was unfair, Agata thought as she caught up to her cousin, that all these flaws only served Beatrice’s beauty. She had always looked a touch wild, like a mare who couldn’t be broken. Now, as a young mother, she looked like a goddess, her dark hair flowing down her shoulders, her teeth gleaming white as she bit into a crisp red apple.
“Mm.” Beatrice chewed, spitting out seeds as she went. “They’re even better this year! It’s the cold, I think. Made them tastier.”
“We can’t eat them all out here. Giuseppe promised to make an apple tart this evening.”
“We won’t! Well, at least I don’t think we will.” Beatrice slipped a small knife out of the pouch tied to her skirt and cut off a piece of the apple to give to Miranda. Miranda chewed thoughtfully as her mother spoke. “In truth, I don’t wish to return. Can’t we stay here, Agata, and start an orchard of our own? We could live in a simple shack and sell fruit on the road to Como. If I ran away, would you join me?”
Agata sighed. “Don’t be foolish, Bice.” She lifted an apple from her own basket. “Have you spoken to him?”
“We’ve spoken.” Beatrice scraped her teeth over the core. “We’ve spoken, and still he persists. I do not think he hears me anymore, Agata. Truly. I think all he hears are the voices in his head. No one can reach him. Not me, not Antonio. Not even Miranda can persuade him to stop his work.”
Agata looked down at the little girl, who had cocked her head at the sound of her name. Everyone else said that Miranda had Bice’s eyes, her ears, but Agata could only see Prospero in her face, in the defiant jut of the lip, her hooded eyes. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, but Agata couldn’t help but resent her for the change she had brought to their lives, and to the castle. All this trouble began with her conception, three years before.
Prospero and Beatrice had been married a year before the pregnancy, and happily. Bice’s parents were thrilled when the duke of Milan had taken an interest in their last surviving child after coming to tour their famous vineyards and had urged the match on, despite the reservations of their neighbors in Franciacorta, far from the city’s walls. Perhaps the duke was eccentric, as they said, and a touch withdrawn, but on his arm their daughter would be a duchess. No strangeness in his nature could surmount that fact.
They had sent Agata along with her to Milan, to help Beatrice manage the castle and because Bice and Agata had been inseparable their entire lives. Though they were cousins, they called each other “sister,” for Beatrice’s parents had raised Agata after her own parents died in the fire that had claimed her childhood home. Their families had faced far too many tragedies, but now their fortunes were changing. Perhaps, they hinted, Agata would win the heart of the duke’s unmarried younger brother, the dashing Antonio. She was plain, it was true, and growing older, but she favored Bice around the eyes a little, or maybe it was the mouth. “Be charming,” her aunt had told her, “and attentive. Maybe your piety will impress him. They say though he is proud, he is devout, while the duke has not set foot in a church for a decade or more.”
Agata had not needed urging, for she had fallen for Antonio at first glance. He was lean and muscled, stalking the castle like a wildcat, his black hair sh
adowing the sharp lines of his face. When he drank too much, which he did often, his cheeks flushed pink, and he would push his hair back, the shock of his dark unguarded eyes almost too much for Agata to bear. They worked closely together, tending to the many concerns of the castle that Prospero neglected, and talked often, though not nearly as often as Agata would have liked. She shadowed his steps like a younger sister, and he repaid her with all the grudging affection that relationship entailed.
Nothing she did swayed him, for Antonio had eyes for no one but Bice. He had never said it, but he didn’t need to. She’d seen the look before. Countless men looked at Bice that way. And if Prospero ever extracted himself from the spirit world and took note of the way his brother looked upon his wife, he would see it, plain as day. Agata knew that would never happen. Prospero’s blue eyes were clouded with visions from beyond this world. This palace, the people in it, were mist to him. If all of Milan drifted away as he worked, Agata was not certain he would miss it.
“Has Antonio appealed to him?” She turned her attention back to Bice, who was staring out at the first orange rays of the soon-setting sun. “If anyone can stop him, it must be Antonio. Has he tried?”
Beatrice scrunched up her nose. “Antonio will do nothing but what he wants, and he wants Prospero to keep himself locked away, so he can run the dukedom as he pleases. He wants Prospero to remain ensconced in his work and never again attend to matters of state. I know what Antonio wants.”
Not all of what he wants, Agata thought, but she bit her tongue. Beatrice had never understood the power she wielded over men. She had mostly ignored their fervent attentions until the duke came along. She had been fascinated by his stories, his research, and his travels. They had spent hours together that first year, hours poring over the books in his libraries, hours discussing the true aims of alchemy and the building of a better world. It turned Agata’s stomach, for such talk reeked of sacrilege. It was not for man to reshape the world and its workings, but for God alone. She told Bice as much, and Bice rolled her eyes. “It’s hardly an affront to the Father, Agata. He changes metals into other metals and searches for new cures to old ills. There are alchemists with other aims, those seeking immortality, those craving unholy powers, but Prospero is not one of them. His art is harmless.”
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