“Destroy a book? Do you take me for a madman?” Erasmus asked, running his staff back and forth across the ancient pages. “On second thought, Mephisto is a madman, and even he has the sense not to destroy books.”
I watched his progress, my eyes glued to the crumbling parchment of Father’s journal, as if the force of my gaze alone could preserve the pages. The staff’s hum decreased in pitch, and the air about the tome grew warm and bluish. Before my eyes, the parchment brightened, and the binding grew more supple. Soon, the journal looked as it had in my youth: hale and strong, and filled with endless wisdom.
“You’ll . . . what?” Erasmus asked mockingly, as the whirr of the staff died away. “What could you possibly offer me? Or was that supposed to be a threat?”
“May I examine Father’s journal now?” I crossed my arms.
“With that scowl? A little gratitude might be in order, don’t you think, Sister? Another person might even say: ‘Thank you,’ but not you. That’s the one thing I like about you, Miranda, you’re reliable: selfish to the end!”
I drummed my fingers on my forearm and waited. I was grateful—if grateful is the proper word to describe what one feels when someone goes out of his way to help substantiate a claim against one’s character—but any attempt to express gratitude would be lost in the general storm of malice. Erasmus was a master at interpreting virtuous impulses as vices, and I refused to be drawn into yet another of his pointless games. Mankind could not afford it.
“Be my guest.” He waved expansively at the book, bringing the whirring Staff of Decay dangerously close to my head. I jumped back, startled. He gave a short cruel laugh. “Don’t want to be a child again, eh? Can’t say I blame you. As you are about to learn from Father’s journal, the first time around was unpleasant enough!”
He shook the staff, and the whirling center section slowed until the two distinct colors of white and black could be discerned again. “I shall leave you in peace. Spend as much time investigating your misbegotten childhood as you desire. Yank the bell pull when you want to be let out. Tootle-loo!”
He strode out of the chamber, humming, and locked the door behind him.
Surrounded by the burnished gleam of the sun’s metal, I explored Father’s journal, flipping here and there, examining Father’s sketches, and reading his descriptions of our life on the island. There was much about “Sycorax’s Child” troubling his beloved “A.T.” and numerous complaints about Caliban, but little mention of me by name. The longer I read, the more my heart constricted. Had Father not loved me at all?
When it came to other matters, Father was a meticulous chronicler. With great love and care, he described the flora of our island prison-home, including detailed sketches of palm leaves and orchid blooms. As I read, the mists of memory that hide our childhoods from us thinned, and I could again hear the cry of the storm petrels and smell the brine of the sea.
Turning a page, I came upon a sketch of little me, standing amid the orchids, charming and sweet. Underneath, in Italian, Father had written: LITTLE MIRANDA, THE JOY OF MY LIFE.
Happy tears welled up over my lashes.
As I wiped my face with the back of my hand, I realized, with sinking heart, that this picture had been drawn when I was six; well after my fifth birthday, when I had been consecrated to Eurynome. Perhaps Erasmus was right. Perhaps I had been a hellion, and only after the Unicorn tamed me did I become the joy of Father’s heart.
On the other hand, if it were my service to Eurynome that brought about the change in my youthful character, that hardly counted as the enchantment Theo so feared, any more than one would bewail the loss of wildness in a child who had later been schooled in good manners by nuns. If Father had cast some additional spell upon me to make me pliable, I found no mention of it in his journal.
I would disregard Theo’s theory entirely, if it were not for one disturbing matter. These bizarre moments of sympathy, such as the one that had formed between Cornelius’s young charge and myself, were growing more frequent. In the last two weeks, similar incidents had occurred between me and others: Caurus on the flying carpet; an elf maid in Lady Christmas’s kitchen; a nameless young woman in a plum coat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.; Mephisto in Vermont; and an old lady tottering across an overpass in Chicago. Never before in my over five hundred years of life had I experienced anything like this.
What were these strange experiences? Magic? A spell? A perfectly normal occurrence? If they were perfectly normal, why had they not happened before? Why had they begun almost immediately after I learned of Father’s disappearance?
Had Father cast some spell over me long ago, cutting me off from the normal range of human emotions so that I remained always calm, reserved, and biddable? If so, what else might I expect as this spell wore off? Fits of passion? Bouts of rage? Was my whole notion of myself a sham?
As I paced about the library contemplating these questions, I longed to have someone to discuss it with, but there was no one. I could not talk to Mab. One did not discuss the state of one’s mind with subordinates. My brothers? Obviously not Erasmus! And Cornelius, and Mephisto were out of the question as well.
Theo? Years ago, I would have gone to him first, but now? He seemed old and pained, and even crankier than in his youth. He would worry needlessly, which would do me no good. What I needed was a sympathetic ear, someone who would not jump to conclusions.
Ferdinand Di Napoli.
I glanced at the golden clock standing upon the mirrored table. In roughly six hours, Ferdinand would be arriving for Erasmus’s New Year’s party. The last time we spoke, before the hearth at Prospero’s Mansion, he had proved himself a careful and diligent listener, willing to consider matters objectively and offer sound advice. Perhaps we could sit together in the main chamber of the library, side by side in the deep green overstuffed armchairs, with him smiling thoughtfully as he listened, looking into my eyes, leaning toward me, his eyes aglow . . .
Stopping before I could finish that thought, I sat down, wishing I could leave the hexagonal room and breathe in the outside air. It was stifling here, heavy with the odor of old and musty books. I began to wonder what I would do if I pulled the rope and no one answered. At least I would not be obliged to soil myself. On one of the bottom shelves, Erasmus had squirreled away a solid gold chamber pot.
I returned to the sliding drawer upon which lay Father’s journal. As I continued flipping through the volume, reading snippets here and there, the words “my brother Antonio” caught my eye. I peered closer, striving to make out Father’s looping hand. Roughly translated, he had written:
Already the trap is set. I have learned the necessary spells and taught my spirit-servants their part. All that remains is for M. to arrange matters so that my brother Antonio and his ally in the household of the King of Naples take a journey by sea. This last, M. informs me, may take some years, but this may be for the best, as that way all my plans may come at once to fruition.
“M.”? Who could that be? Not me—I would have been too young, nor had I ever been in a position to make arrangements for the household of the King of Naples. Mab, perhaps? No, Father had not captured him yet, and, besides, back then he was called Cockias.
Reading further, I found another reference to “M.” Here Father wrote: “Lead on, M., My Fair Queen, and I shall follow, even to the ends of the earth.”
My Fair Queen? What queen could possibly have been helping Father in his plot to regain his proper position while we were on the island? I had known he had airy servants helping him, but an ally? By the sound of it, M. was a supernatural ally, not merely a human companion. Someone who was in a position to influence Antonio, and who was powerful enough to inform Father that he must wait years, which no subordinate would have dared do. Who would have been in a position to aid him thus, and why had Father never mentioned such a person?
For a moment, I entertained the idea that “M.” might stand for “Monocerus,” but dismissed it. If
Father had been in such direct contact with Eurynome, he would not have approached me as an intercessor when he had questions for Her, which he did regularly over the years. Besides, I cannot imagine the Unicorn troubling herself with the petty dealings of human princes.
I continued paging through the journal, baffled by the puzzle of Father’s mysterious ally. As I neared the end of the journal, I skimmed the pages to see if this M. put in an appearance during the events recorded in The Tempest, but found no mention of her.
On the very last page, I came upon a sketch of the ship that had taken us home to Milan. In Father’s drawing, I stood upon the deck, a lovely maid of fifteen, laughing, my hands upon one of the lines. Behind me, his arms about me as he guided my hands, Father had drawn a young man, hardly more than a youth, with thick dark brows and a large jutting chin. He was handsome in a rugged boyish way, but not breathtakingly so. I frowned, trying to recall who this youth might be. One of the boat hands, perhaps? Odd that Father had sketched him with me instead of Ferdinand.
Finding nothing further of interest, I closed the journal and reached for the pull rope. To my relief, Erasmus only kept me waiting for ten minutes before he released me.
The New Year’s festivities were held in the grand ballroom of Erasmus’s Victorian mansion. Soft strains of Strauss, issuing from the string quartet seated on the balcony, underscored the hum of the partygoers below. Long tables held ice sculptures, fountains of champagne, and delicacies from many nations of the world. The scent of richly spiced meats caused my mouth to water.
At the far end of the hall towered a huge grandfather clock. Earlier that afternoon, the clock had been synchronized with the digital clock in Times Square. Tonight, the celebrants would watch this clock’s second hand as they counted down to the New Year.
The guests arrived in droves: society women in pearl-trimmed evening gowns, professors in their ceremonial robes, local potentates in fancy tuxes, and students made boisterous and rowdy by their awe at the company they kept. Moving unnoticed among them were a dozen Orbis Suleimani agents. These dapper Italianate gentlemen mingled among the other visitors, all the while keeping an eye out for the slightest sign of trouble, supernatural or otherwise.
There was no sign yet of Ferdinand.
As I mingled with the guests, I noticed many of those present were from charities to which my brother donated money or time. Much as I disliked Erasmus, I felt compelled to acknowledge that, when it came to his devotion to mankind, he shined far above the rest of us. My brother was a philanthropist in the best sense. He cared about improving the everyday lives of ordinary people. Most of all, he cared about extending those lives. Most of my siblings never gave a second thought to the fact that we could not share our immortality with the rest of mankind, but it bothered Erasmus a great deal.
Unable to extend the lives of men through magic, he had turned to science, applying his keen intellect to the problem. He had taken up the study of medicine back in the early seventeenth century, shortly after the births of the twins, and had never given it up. A great many medical improvements in the last hundred and fifty years had been discovered or financed by him.
Erasmus helped implement the concept of military medic units. He was one of the first supporters of Clara Barton’s Red Cross. He had founded and maintained hundreds of hospitals: some in civilized places such as London and Boston, and some in distant and nigh-inaccessible places, such as the interior of Africa or Nepal. He even used to volunteer, in the days before anesthetics, as a guinea pig for untried procedures, figuring that between the Water and his staff, he had a better chance of surviving than an ordinary volunteer. For all that I hated him, I had to grudgingly admire this good he did for others.
As I came down the sweeping staircase, my sister arrived in high style. She was decked out in a tight-fitting gown from the flapper period that rippled sensually as she walked. To the untrained eye, it might resemble a mix of satin and watered silk, but real cloth would never have flowed so naturally. The garment was woven from night’s air and the reflection of moonlight on black water.
Behind her, held by a dainty golden chain, was the eight-foot grizzly bear that had approached me on the beach in front of Logistilla’s house when we visited her island retreat a couple of weeks ago. The bear towered above the other guests, who quickly cleared a path for the creature. It moved slowly and sluggishly, however, as if unaware of its great strength, its head obediently bowed to Logistilla’s whims.
I myself wore a Worth original of violet damask bordered with silver fox. The pointed waist of the bodice directed the eye toward the beaded irises cascading down the length of the skirt. Short puffed sleeves of dotted mousseline de soie under a ruffle of beaded satin framed a square décolleté. A pair of matching gloves covered my arms to the elbows. It was a lovely creation.
Despite its loveliness, I had been loath to wear it. So long as our enemies were at large, I felt safer in my enchanted tea dress. However, Erasmus had personally chosen the Worth ball gown for me earlier in the afternoon, taking it from a collection he kept in the mansion and graciously restoring it, through the gift of his staff, to its pristine Victorian glory. In the interest of family unity, I decided not to spurn his single gesture of kindness. Besides, while the enchantments on my tea dress caused its emerald satin to remain ever clean and presentable, I had been wearing it nearly continuously with all my recent traveling. Ferdinand had yet to see me in anything else.
It was pleasant to don a different garment for a change. The Worth gown had a beautiful line and fit my figure nicely. If only I could have remembered how to manage that flattering faery hair knot, it would be a perfect ensemble. I hoped Ferdinand would find it pleasing.
The motion of the crowds soon brought Logistilla and me together. She complimented my gown, and I hers. I wanted to ask her how she had come to possess Gregor’s knife. After much debate, however, it had been decided that none of us would question Logistilla until after Ulysses had appeared. Since the presence of the knife could mean that she and Ulysses had conspired to murder Gregor together, we did not wish to give her the opportunity to warn Ulysses of our suspicions.
“Quite a gathering this year,” my sister offered, when the exchange of compliments waned. “I see all the usual white-haired professors and wide-eyed coeds are present. Who is here from the family?”
“Myself, Theo, Cornelius, and Mephisto,” I said, “and of course, Erasmus.”
“Theo? The old codger bestirred himself to come and hobnob with the rest of us? Well, that’s a surprise! Is Titus here yet?”
“If so, I haven’t seen him,” I replied.
For some reason, this made Logistilla laugh. “When you do, tell him to look me up. We have some matters to discuss. By the way, do you recall I mentioned being attacked by a shadowy figure? Well, it has happened twice more; the second time was just this afternoon, here in Boston! The bear chased him off, but I suspect it was one of those fellows you and your man were carrying on about back at my island. The Three Shakoes was it?”
“Shadowed Ones,” I replied perfunctorily.
“Ah, of course.” Glancing down, she eyed the silver fox on my gown distastefully, her mouth forming a disapproving moue. She pointed a long tapered finger at the fur trim. “Really, Miranda, no one wears dead animal anymore. How do you manage to always be so horribly out of fashion? Did Erasmus pick that gown? Probably his way of warning his guests to beware the heartless, pitiless monster that is his eldest sister. Clever boy. Well, I’m off to the punch bowl. Do you think Erasmus would mind terribly if I let the bear get drunk?”
I watched her sail off in the direction of the punch bowl with the great ginger beast in tow, led by its dainty gold chain. The poor creature glanced back at me with deep, soulful eyes. I felt sorry for the man it had once been and looked away.
Another turn around the party and I found myself nervously glancing over my shoulder. I told myself not to worry, that apprehending Ulysses would go smoothly, but, in
my heart, I knew it was not Ulysses’s imminent arrival that caused these internal butterflies.
Would Ferdinand’s meeting with my family go well? Erasmus and Cornelius would approve of him, I decided, particularly if I could arrange for him to meet Erasmus before my brother learned who he was—which meant restraining Mephisto from making a scene at his arrival. As for Logistilla, I prayed she would not embarrass herself. She had a way of turning herself into an idiot whenever a good-looking man was present.
Theo, however, was another matter.
Theo’s appearance at my house in Oregon, rifle in hand, suggested that he intended to keep his vow to defend my honor. How I was going to explain to Theo that Ferdinand was now a friend, and yet keep my brother from going back to his farm and giving up on life, I had no idea.
But I felt Theo would like Ferdinand, if they met under the right circumstance. They both were such decent men.
I laughed out loud. What was I, a schoolgirl? Here I was, over five hundred years old, worrying about whether or not my brothers would approve of my beau.
But I did care what they thought, I realized with some astonishment. I loved my family—annoying as they could be—and I cared about their opinions, even Erasmus’s. Much as I also hated him, I knew his judgment was good—in any area not involving me.
It slowly dawned on me that, all this time, I begrudged my siblings going their own way because I missed their company. Why had I not realized it? I had been so busy resenting them and criticizing them, I had not stopped to consider why their absence bothered me so. Oh, sure, Prospero, Inc. was harder to run without them, but, in truth, that was the least of it.
I missed them. True, sometimes they were hard to get along with. In my heart, however, I knew we belonged all together. Each one of us was like a portion of a whole. And something felt empty when any one of us was gone, like ghost pains in a missing limb.
Prospero in Hell Page 19
