Papa helps me to my feet. “I confess, I did not foresee this last working manifesting in so literal a manner,” he says dryly, brushing at the sleeves of his robe. “But you may pack your possessions, Miranda, and I shall notify the king that we’re prepared to take our leave of the isle.”
Other than the finery from the pirates’ treasure that Papa bestowed upon me, my possessions are few. There are the kidskin slippers I wore as a small girl, the sewing casket, and the little hand-mirror that once belonged to Caliban’s mother. I gaze at my face in it, and it seems I am looking at a stranger. I remember Caliban and me putting our heads together, thrusting out our tongues at our reflections and laughing like the children we were.
I could weep at the memory of such innocence.
I glance toward the garden, half-imagining that I might catch a glimpse of Caliban watching from the walls, but it is empty. The only sign of Caliban’s existence is a handful of limp trumpet flowers strewn on my window-ledge.
Unpacking my chest, I place one of the trumpet flowers in the bottom of it, then repack my things; all save the mirror.
I place the mirror on the window-ledge.
Do you promise it?
I do.
Caliban’s absence is discovered. The king and his men are indignant; they offer to delay our departure, to scour the isle that the monstrous villain might be found and brought to justice.
“No, leave him,” Papa says in a decisive manner. “Let him pine away his days in lonely misery. I daresay it is as fitting a punishment as any.”
Dear Lord God, I fear Papa is right.
The ship awaits us in the harbor, where the king’s crew have sailed it from the pirates’ cove. We make the long trek to meet it. Little gnomes trot alongside us carrying Papa’s trunks, my humble chest. Sylphs gambol around us in the jasmine-scented breezes. It is a fine, clear afternoon.
The prince is solicitous. He exclaims with horror when he realizes I have no shoes, and offers to carry me to spare my poor, delicate feet. I thank him and manage not to laugh.
He holds my hand.
I let him, because it is easier than explaining my refusal. And it is not so unpleasant, after all.
There is no sign of Caliban, but I do not doubt that he is somewhere near, watching. He knows every inch of the isle and all its secret places.
Thou art the shoals on which Caliban wilt dash his heart to pieces.
It is true.
Oh God help me, it is true.
In the harbor, a rowing-boat has been sent ashore to carry us to the ship. More men accompany it, sailors who rejoice in loud voices to be reunited with King Alonso and his men. The sailors marvel at the gnomes and the sylphs, at Papa’s presence, and most especially at mine. They call me “my lady” and treat me with reverent courtesy, escorting me aboard the boat.
I wonder where Ariel is.
I pray he will not be unduly cruel to Caliban in my absence, until such a day comes that I may fulfill my promise and send for him.
I pray such a day will come, because there is a canker of fear within my heart that warns me it may not. It warns me that the urgency of my promise will fade in this brave new world toward which I venture; a world in which Caliban could never be seen as aught but monstrous. I think of the glimpse of Caliban I saw through the prince’s eyes and shudder.
I will not let that happen.
I will not.
Once the last of Papa’s trunks is stowed on the rowing-boat, he dismisses the elementals. The sailors bend their backs over the oars and row, chanting in their loud voices.
So many, many men.
When we reach the ship, the prince climbs the rope ladder to board it before me so that he might extend a hand when I follow. The worn, sun-warmed planks of the ship are smooth beneath my bare feet.
Standing at the railing, I gaze across the sea at the isle that is the only home that I have ever known.
Orders are shouted; trunks are stowed. The rowing-boat is hauled aboard, the sea-anchor is lifted.
Ropes sing; sheets of canvas belly and snap.
The ship sets sail.
As the ship’s prow slides westward through the rippling waves, I see the twin curved arcs of Setebos’s jaws silhouetted against the sky. That is where Caliban will be, watching atop his high crag.
I raise my hand in farewell.
A warm hand comes to rest in the small of my back; it is Prince Ferdinand’s. He smiles at me, slanting afternoon sunlight brightening his brown eyes. “Whom do you salute, my lady?” he asks me.
One day I will tell him the truth, I will; but not today.
“No one,” I say to him. “No one.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
CALIBAN
I watch the ship go until I cannot see it. There is only the empty blue sky and the sun shining on the sea.
Miranda is gone.
She is gone.
Gone.
There is an emptiness inside my heart as big as the sky. Miranda is gone.
But she will send for me.
She did promise.
I go to the palace. It is empty, too. The gardens seem quiet, and I cannot think why until I do see that the fountains are stopped.
Quiet.
So quiet.
Master is gone; the little undines are free. No more splish-splashing fountains. The little gnomes are free; no more emptying chamber-pots and digging in the garden.
I am free.
Oh, but Miranda is gone.
In the kitchen, the larder is empty, but outside I see they did leave the chickens and the nanny-goat behind. “Hello!” I say to the chickens that do peck and scritchety-scratch in the dirt, to the nanny-goat with her full udder who looks at me with her yellow eyes. “Hello, hello! Do not worry, I will take care of you.”
They do not say anything, the poor dumb animals. But I will take care of them until Miranda does send for me. I milk the nanny-goat and scratch her ears the way she does like.
In the hearth, there is only grey ashes, but I dig in them and find embers underneath the grey. I bring kindling from the woodpile and blow on the embers until they do glow and catch fire.
I will tend the fire.
I will take care of the animals.
All until you do send for me, Miranda; only I wonder how long it will be. But you did promise.
(Oh, but he held your hand in his and you did let him, Miranda.)
No.
No, I will not think thoughts that will make my poor empty heart sick with hatred and badness.
I look through the palace to see what else they did leave behind, and waah! In Master’s sanctum—no Prospero’s sanctum, I am free and I will not think that servant-word anymore—the walls are black with soot. All of Miranda’s paintings that were so beautiful are gone.
I wish they were not gone. I would have looked at them every day and thought about Miranda painting them.
Oh, but I go to Miranda’s chamber, and what do I find on the window-ledge? There is Umm’s mirror that I did give to Miranda so long ago, bright and shiny. I know Miranda did leave it here for me to find, and I am glad; only I do not want to look into it and see my face anymore.
No, I do not.
That night I sleep in Miranda’s bed. They did take the linens, but not the pallet that smells of her and the dried grass it is stuffed with.
There is no one to greet the dawn.
It is so quiet.
I gather eggs and milk the goat.
I tend to the fire.
Then I go to the high place.
I am not so foolish that I think there will be anything to see, no. I know that it will be a long time, a very long time. It is only that I do not know what else to do.
Setebos watches.
I watch, too.
“La!” Ariel’s voice says behind me. “Dost thou imagine they’ll return for thee? Surely not!”
I do not turn to look at him. “Go away.”
Ariel steps around in front of me. “Thou ar
t a guileless fool and a dreamer,” he says with pity. “And ’tis only by the grace of God that thou art not a murderer.”
I do look at him then; I look at him and think how much I hate him. “I wish I had never given Setebos’s name to Master,” I say in a hard voice. “None of this would have happened if he had not freed you.”
“Nor would it if thy mother had not imprisoned me in the first place,” Ariel says. “And Prospero would have had the name from thee one way or another. Still, I suppose I do owe thee for it.”
“I want nothing from you,” I say.
“And yet thou shalt have it,” Ariel says. “Do thyself a kindness and heed my counsel: Forget the maiden and put her out of thy thoughts, for she will surely do the same.”
I shake my head. “No. Miranda will send for me. She did promise. One day, she will send for me.”
There is oh, such pity in Ariel’s gaze that I look away again. “As thou wilt, Caliban,” he murmurs. “On thy head be it.”
When I look back, he is gone.
I watch the sea.
Behind me, Setebos laughs at the sky.
Oh, Miranda! I do love you and I will wait for you always. One day, you will send for me.
Until then, I will think of you and remember.
You in the sunlight.
You on the grass.
You with the yellow flowers.
TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
Kushiel’s Dart
Kushiel’s Chosen
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Banewreaker
Godslayer
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JACQUELINE CAREY is the author of the New York Times bestselling Kushiel’s Legacy series of historical fantasy novels, the Sundering epic fantasy duology, postmodern fables Santa Olivia and Saints Astray, and the Agent of Hel contemporary fantasy series. Carey lives in western Michigan. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Tor Books by Jacqueline Carey
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MIRANDA AND CALIBAN
Copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline Carey
All rights reserved.
Design by Greg Collins
Cover art by Tran Nguyen
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Carey, Jacqueline, 1964– author.
Title: Miranda and Caliban / Jacqueline Carey.
Description: First edition. | New York: Tom Doherty Associates, 2017. | “A Tor book.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2016043546 (print) | LCCN 2016051787 (e-book) | ISBN 978-0-7653-8679-3 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-7653-8680-9 (e-book)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.A74 M57 2017 (print) | LCC PS3603.A74 (e-book) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016043546
e-ISBN 9780765386809
ISBN 978-0-7653-9704-1 (international edition)
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: February 2017
Miranda and Caliban Page 28
