“I can only conjecture, Sir,” Mab replied, “but, I do know something of the nature of demons. Demons are predictable folk; it’s amazing any of you mortals ever fall for their tricks, as they use the same ones over and over. Sowing contention is one of their biggies. My guess is the Three Shadowed Ones’ agenda includes setting you Prosperos at odds with one another. The more time your family spends spatting amongst yourselves, the less efficient you become. You should be suspicious of anything demons say to you.”
I leaned back, suffused by a buoyant sense of gratitude and relief. All my suspicions about Cornelius beguiling Father, enchanting Theo, and orchestrating the death of Gregor were baseless. Of course, my brothers were not at one another’s throats. We were a family. I may not like some of them but that did not mean they were traitors!
I had fallen prey to that most terrible of mental poisons—suspicion. Father’s essay on the effects of demons upon the human soul came to mind again. Had the flute I so loved done this to me? Had I been paving the demon’s way for years—setting myself up as demon bait—by grumbling against those members of my family of whom I disapproved?
I recalled the disappointment I had felt just now when I learned that Cornelius was innocent. Had I wanted to discover that he was disloyal so as to justify my antipathy? If so, perhaps I should consider the possibility that it was my attitude that was unjustified. Perhaps, even Erasmus deserved a second chance—though I found that hard to believe.
Silently, I vowed to remember that my suspicions had turned out to be false and to trust my family, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.
“Do you have any evidence the Three Shadowed Ones were behind this?” Theo asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Mab upended another Ziploc, scattering shards of red and gold crystal onto the table. He pushed one piece with his finger. “Remember I said I found pieces of their incendiary device? Shattered star spark globe. Same thing Seir used when he attacked here at the mansion. Not a weapon the Orbis Suleimani would have access to, Ma’am. Not unless they took one off a demon, anyway.”
“But why frame Cornelius, whom I would never suspect of such a crime? Why not frame . . .”—I gestured randomly—“Erasmus, for instance?”
“They’re demons, Sister Dear,” Theo replied. “What do they know of what you will or will not believe? All they care about is sowing discord and mistrust.”
“Bet they know you don’t like Cornelius,” Mab offered. “Probably thought it would make it easy for you to distrust him. Or maybe they just had one of Cornelius’s men and used what was on hand.”
“A car accident, you said?” There was a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Or a boat accident? Could that body have been Mr. Mustache?”
Mab raised his eyebrow. “That’s what I like about working for you, Miss Miranda. You’re sharp.”
Listening to Mab talk, I suddenly felt like an imbecile. I should have realized Osae was not the real Mab the instance he addressed me as “Miranda.” The real Mab never called me “Miranda.” He always said “Miss Miranda” or “Ma’am.”
Mab pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call. Folding it again, he declared, “Yep. Looks like you may be right, Ma’am. The body in the warehouse could well be that of the man who was piloting the boat that crashed behind us. His face was too damaged to identify him by, but the fellow at the morgue confirmed there was a Seal of Solomon tattoo on his arm. We know the Three Shadowed Ones were in the area at the time. Bet they fished the body out of the crash.”
“Oh, no!” I clutched at the table, nearly spilling my cup of morath-laced tea.
“What?” Mab cried. “What is it, Ma’am?”
“Miranda? Are you all right?” cried Theo.
“I killed an innocent man!” I whispered.
“On purpose?” Theo asked, confused.
I shook my head. “We thought the man chasing us was one of the Three Shadowed Ones’ agents, sent by a spirit who spoke during our information-gathering séance—the one we held at your suggestion. But, all this,” I gestured impatiently at the ring and pins, “confirms that he was a member of the Orbis Suleimani. And if Cornelius is not in cahoots with the Three Shadowed Ones, then . . . !” My voice faltered. “. . . and I killed him.”
“He chose to chase us in the dark, Ma’am.” Mab replied steadily. “He could have turned his boat around.”
“He must have been trying to warn us about something,” I whispered, stricken.
Theo examined the symbols Mab had dumped on the table. “I am sorry, Miranda, but I can’t help pointing out if you had not dabbled in magic, the man who owned these items would still be alive.” He spoke bitterly. “I’m sure his widow will understand when you explain that she now has to raise her children alone because you mistook her husband for a ghoulish spirit.”
“Theo. That’s hardly sporting!” I cried.
I felt terrible about the death of Mr. Mustache, whose moniker now seemed oddly dear to me. If Theo continued to berate me, I feared I might weep. Being caught crying in front of an employee was more shame than I could bear, even if that employee was Mab. I closed my eyes and turned to my Lady for comfort.
Her warmth, like a breath of summer, settled over me. When I opened my eyes again, I still felt sad, but it was a calm gentle sadness, with no threat of waterworks.
Mab, meanwhile, was paging through his notebook. “Too bad we can’t find Mr. Titus,” he said, his finger resting on some note. “Maybe he could shed some light on what happened to his twin.”
Theo and I looked at him blankly. Theo said, “Titus does not have a twin.”
Mab frowned and flipped back and forth between two different pages in his notebook. “My mistake, Logistilla is Gregor’s twin! She even called him ‘Greggie-Poo.’ How could I forget! Apparently, I wrote your brothers’ names down on two different pages, listing two different relationships to each other.” He looked up. “List them again for me, would you, in birth order?”
“I am the eldest,” I replied. “After me comes Mephisto, Theo, and Erasmus, in that order. They were born in fifteenth-century Italy, after Father and I escaped from our island prison and returned to Milan. Their mother was a Medici. Next comes Cornelius and Titus, who were born four years apart.”
“There was a child born between them, a girl, but she did not live past infanthood,” Theo said sadly.
I nodded, recalling Father’s tears at her death, one of the three occasions upon which I had seen him cry. How he loved his children! “Cornelius and Titus were born in Scotland, in the 1550s, just before Queen Elizabeth the First rose to the throne of England.”
“Then, the twins, Gregor and Logistilla,” Theo offered. “They were born in Italy, in 1593.”
“And finally, Ulysses,” I said, “who was born in England, in 1823.”
Mab whistled. “That’s a long gap, 1593 to 1823. Any idea why Mr. Prospero waited so long?”
I shook my head.
Theo said, “Whatever the reason, Father had Ulysses on purpose. He mentioned to me that he had decided to have another child and asked if I would keep my eye out for a promising wife. It was I who introduced him to Priscilla, Ulysses’s mother; she was the daughter of a good friend.”
“Really!” I exclaimed, astonished. “I never knew that. I wonder why he didn’t say anything to me?”
Theo shrugged and shook his head, indicating that the matter was of no interest to him, but his brow darkened, as if his suspicions against Father had been roused again.
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind my asking,” Mab said suddenly, closing his notebook, “what were you and Long-Nose doing in the Vault to begin with?”
Theo looked up. “Long-Nose?”
Mab gave a dismissive wave. “Caurus. Skeiron. Northwesty. Whatever you want to call him.”
“We were on our way to the Wintergarden,” I said. “I wanted to examine Father’s horticultural project. I thought it might shed some light on the events leading
to his disappearance.”
“Did it?” asked Theo.
“Yes.”
“What did ya find?” asked Mab, pulling out his notebook and his stubby pencil. Only this was a different stubby pencil from the last time, still blue, but of a darker shade. Apparently, he was saving the Space Pen he received from Father Christmas for a more perilous situation.
“Father sprouted a piece of the True Cross and made it into a new staff: the Staff of Eternity.” I threw Mab a significant glance. He immediately flipped through his notebook to a list of questions he maintained and began scribbling under the heading: WHAT IS THE STAFF OF ETERNITY. I continued, “When Father disappeared last September, he was in Elgin, Illinois, beside our dead brother’s recently opened grave.” I paused again, until Mab stopped scribbling and looked up. “He was trying to resurrect Gregor!”
Theo nearly shot out of his seat. He had to grab his coffee mug to keep his coffee from spilling.
Mab merely shook his head disparagingly. “Ma’am, it just goes to show. Mortals should not meddle in arcane matters. He should have consulted me before trying such a harebrained scheme. I could have told him no good would come of it.”
“Father thought he could bring Gregor back from the dead?” Theo seemed genuinely shocked.
“He had been investigating the Eleusinian Mysteries, which according to Tybalt, involves getting the goddess Demeter to adopt you, so that Persephone, the wife of Hades, will consider you family and sneak you out of the Land of the Dead without wiping your memory when it comes your time to be reborn.” I met Theo’s gaze squarely. “Apparently, he was trying to save you.”
“Me?”
“As best as I can tell, he wanted to show you the futility of your stance. After all, if he could bring back Gregor, he could bring you back, too.”
“Would not have done him any good,” Theo replied stiffly. “I would have returned to wherever he called me up from.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mab scratched his permanent six-o’clock shadow. “How?”
“Suicide’s a sin!” I reminded him, perhaps more harshly than was warranted. “No matter how you happened to come to be among the living.”
Theo was silent. He sipped his coffee absentmindedly. I began to wonder if he remembered we were here. Finally, he put down his now-empty mug and spoke to Mab.
“This news of yours regarding the warehouse was not so dire—except for the fate of the poor man who was killed. If you knew already Cornelius wasn’t behind the explosion, why did you give us that doom-and-gloom ‘you’re not going to like it’ speech?”
“Oh . . . that wasn’t the bad part.” The animation drained from his face. Mab picked up the folded letter and the photocopies. “This is the bad part.”
Before Mab could continue, we were interrupted, as a silver tray bearing fresh coffee floated through the door. The aroma of deep-roast permeated the drawing room. When the tray reached us, a coffeepot rose into the air and poured a stream of steaming liquid into Theo’s mug. Theo jerked back in his chair, moving away from the scalding liquid.
I turned to Mab, eager for him to continue, but Theo spoke first.
“Ariel, is that you? Stay a moment. I’d like to ask you a question.”
Ariel’s fluting voice replied from midair. “As you wish, Sir.”
“What was Miranda like when she was a girl? Was she well behaved?”
“Theo! Please do not bother Ariel with your conjectures!” I could see where this was leading. Next, Theo would ask whether Ariel could remember a point before which I was a little hellion and after which I suddenly became docile. Then, he would spout accusations about Father and enchantment again. “There is absolutely no evidence that Father has me under a spell!”
Theo leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice, “Is that so? What about back in 1666, when you would not step outside the house for eight months because Father told you to mind the house until he returned?”
I frowned, recalling the year in question, the year Cornelius gave up looking for a cure for his blindness, the year Father gave us our staffs. Minding the house while Father was away had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. I had to admit, though, stated the way Theo put it, it did sound odd.
Ariel answered, “I am a creature of the air. I flit. I fly. I race the very lightning bolt. Of the behavior of men, I know naught. Upon what basis could I judge whether the mistress behaved as other human children do or nay?”
Theo grunted, and I bit into a Danish to hide my smile. Good old Ariel. I turned back to Mab, my sense of uneasiness growing.
“Is there naught else?” asked Ariel. When Theo shook his head, Ariel said, “Mistress, before I depart, there is that which has been promised me but not delivered. Rumor’s tongue brings more talk of Prospero’s death. Will not you relent your harsh stance and set us free to wind our way about the myriad of worlds, eldest child of your father?”
Before I could answer, Theo rounded angrily upon the spot from which Ariel’s voice issued. “Spirit, you overstep yourself! I will not hear such evil spoken of my father!”
“Master Theophrastus, I knew you not at first glance, because you had taken upon yourself a countenance like unto your father’s—that of an aged mortal. Surely, this means that Dread Prospero uses his no longer? If he has perished—” Ariel began.
Theo cut him off. “There will be no talk of ill to Prospero in this house.”
There was a pause. Then Ariel’s fluting voice replied, “As you wish, Young Master.”
“Hmph!” Theo muttered as he sat down. “You should keep a tighter rein on those spirits, Miranda. One would almost think Ariel believes he might sway you with his protestations.”
“No, of course not, why would he think that?” Mab replied sourly, glowering at my brother. “A reasonable argument has never swayed Miss Miranda before.”
“You, too, Spiritling!” Theo spoke as he might have in years past to some infantryman under his command who dared to give orders to his fellow soldiers. “My sister grants you too many liberties. You forget your place.”
“That is enough!” I snapped. Both men looked toward me, startled. Mab was still glowering, but Theo’s face showed only surprise. “Mab is an employee of Prospero, Inc., Theo. He has the same rights and perquisites as all other employees, mortal or otherwise, including the right to his own opinion. What would be the use of a company gumshoe who wasn’t allowed to speak candidly?”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Mab said, mollified. “I was about to tell you to figure this matter out for yourself, but as you have come to my defense, I will proceed. As for you, Mr. Theophrastus. I think you’re a fine fellow for the most part, but it’s a shame you’re such a bigot. So, sit down and buckle your seat belts, because you aren’t going to like the ride.”
Mab took a deep breath. “Here goes. . . . You may remember, Ma’am, while I was checking out what happened to your father, I got into a conversation with the local sheriff who promised to send me a copy of some microfiche reports from the time of Mr. Gregor’s death. Well, I stopped at the post office on my way back from the airport and found this in the mailbox. Miss Miranda . . . I’m afraid your brother Gregor was murdered.”
“Gregor? Murdered?” I cried, surprised. Theo and I exchanged glances. This was news to him, too. “But . . . I thought he was struck down by a stray bullet, during a shoot-out with whiskey runners.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea, Ma’am, but nothing like that happened. He was murdered . . . and it gets worse.”
Theo and I stared at him.
“What could be worse than murder?” asked Theo.
Mab looked pained. “Look, why don’t I read this to you?”
“Please,” I said weakly. I had been enjoying the sweet creamy filling of my cheese Danish. As Mab began to read, I discovered I was no longer hungry, and put the rest aside.
Mab read:
Regarding the murder of the watch factory worker Gregory Prosper: ‘On the first of November,
Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Four, the watch factory worker, Gregory Prosper, was shot point blank in the chest by a stranger.
Gregory Prosper, a Pennsylvania man, had been living in our town of Elgin for about three years. He was a rough-spoken but well-mannered man, never known to be involved in brawling or bootlegging. He was law abiding, attended church on Sunday, and served on the yearly Fourth of July committee.
On the day of his death, Mr. Prosper was walking with Mr. Smythe and Mr. Wickerson near the well by the post office when a stranger approached the group. According to eyewitnesses, Mr. Prosper waved, greeting the stranger in a familiar manner. The stranger reportedly said, “Sorry about this, old chap. Must tie up a few loose ends.” Next, he pulled out a revolver and shot Mr. Prosper twice at point-blank range, once in the chest and once in the head.
“Darnation!” whispered Theo.
“If only we had known!” I cried. “Avenging Gregor was just the cause we needed to draw us back together back then. Even Ulysses would have fought off his wanderlust long enough to avenge his favorite brother.”
Mab continued reading.
Before Mr. Smythe or Mr. Wickerson could react, the stranger leaned forward and took from Mr. Prosper’s fallen body the gold and black knife with the ruby pommel, which Mr. Prosper was known to carry. Misters Smythe and Wickerson gave chase, but the stranger escaped before he could be apprehended.
“That’s the same knife Mephisto had on the boat!” I interrupted. “The one he found at Logistilla’s place.”
“I remember that knife,” said Theo. “Titus made the blade and Mephisto made the hilt. How could Logistilla have a knife that Gregor’s murderer stole?”
“Ma’am, Mr. Theophrastus . . . there’s more,” Mab said gravely.
“Go on, Mab,” I replied softly.
Mab read, “ ‘Misters Smythe and Wickerson described the stranger as a wealthy gentleman, well dressed and distinctive in appearance.’ ”
A cold shiver traveled down my spine. My head felt oddly light. Mab’s words seemed to be coming from far away.
Prospero in Hell Page 15
