Miranda and Caliban(13)

He claps too, and jumps up and down.

“Miranda!” Papa’s voice calls from the gallery, sharp and stern. Once again, he has emerged from his sanctum to appear above us unexpected and unnoticed. “What manner of nonsense is this?”

Chastened, I cease. “I was only praising him, Papa. He has learned to use the chamber-pot.”

Caliban rests on his haunches and lifts his bright, hopeful gaze to the gallery.

Papa hesitates, then nods in approval. “Is it so? Well done, lad,” he says in a kind voice. “’Twas time and more for that revelation, but I daresay we shall all breathe the easier for it.”

Caliban basks in his praise.

I wish Papa would praise me, too, but he does not; only summons a gnome to empty the chamber-pot and returns to his studies.

Nonetheless, I am inspired by my success.

It seems to me that making a game of things is a key, and so I decide to make a game of cleanliness. First, I rub my arms with soil in the kitchen garden until my skin is dark with grime. Then I bring an additional basin of water and a little pot of soap into Caliban’s cell. I show him my arms. “Dirty,” I say, drawing one fingertip through the grime. “Dirty is bad.” Then I unstopper the pot of soap and make a show of smelling it.

Caliban sniffs it, too. “Sun!”

I smile. “Soap.” In a way he is right, though. Papa makes the soap from wood ash gathered from the kitchen hearth and olive oil pressed from the grove outside the palace, and when the jasmine is in bloom, he gathers its blossoms and steeps them in the mixture to perfume it. The scent is very like unto the gardens in summer sunlight. I plunge one arm into the basin, then take a dollop of soap and scrub away the grime. “Clean!” I rinse and show him. “Clean is good.” Caliban is delighted by this new game, and we play it until I daresay he’s cleaner than he’s ever been in his life. I have to call a halt to it lest we use too much precious soap.

Papa is pleased, too; so pleased that he decides Caliban is ready for more civilized clothing. I am not as certain, but to my surprise, Caliban is proud to don a pair of Papa’s breeches cut down to size. Papa even succeeds in teaching him to knot them around his waist.

“The lad’s dexterity has improved,” Papa says to me at supper that evening. “Note it well, child! As the higher functions of speech and reason grow stronger, so do the lesser faculties follow suit.”

I nod.

“Miranda.” Papa’s voice is gentle. I look up at him. “You have made wonderful progress with our wild boy. Wonderful progress. Do not think I am unaware that it is your tender heart that first stirred sympathies in his savage breast, and that it is your diligent efforts that have borne fruit. I am tremendously impressed with your achievements, my daughter.”

My cheeks flush and my heart swells with pride. “Thank you, Papa.”

Mayhap it is pride that makes me careless. I conceive a new game, a counting game wherein Caliban and I promenade around his cell and count the tiles on the walls, chanting the count aloud.

I think it will be a good way to increase his understanding of numbers.

But I forget about the door.

No, I do not forget, exactly. I reckon it in our counting. Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, door—and then we begin our count anew. The first few times we play this game, Caliban simply echoes me. He understands the idea of the counting game, but he has not memorized the names of numbers beyond seven yet. That is all I am thinking about when he hesitates on the fourth or fifth time, his hand splayed on the weathered planks, and questions the notion of the word. “Door?”

“Yes.” I knock on the wood. “Door.”

“Door.” Before I can think to stop him, Caliban gives the handle an experimental tug.

Both of us freeze when the door creaks ajar. For the space of a heartbeat, I curse my folly. In all the hours I’ve spent with Caliban, it has never occurred to him to try the door in my presence, never occurred to him that it might prove yielding. I put too much trust in his ignorance.

Caliban’s eyes take on a wild shine. He yanks at the door, looking much like Oriana used to look when she’d slipped her tether and was preparing to bolt.

“No!” I catch his arm. “You mustn’t!” He shakes me off, and I grab at him again with both hands. This time, he bares his teeth at me and shoves me away. I stumble backward and fall. With a sharp yelp of agony, Caliban falls too, his muscles twitching and cramping.

Papa’s spell has been invoked.

“Bad!” Caliban moans, curling onto his side. “Bad, bad, bad! Caliban is bad! Caliban is sorry!”

“No, no!” My heart feels like it is beating in my throat. “It’s not your fault! It’s my fault!” I scramble to his side and tug at him, praying I can shift him enough to close the door before Papa hears, but he is too heavy for me to move. “Caliban is good! Miranda is bad.”

“No!” He curls into a tighter ball.

“Yes!” Desperate, I manage to roll him out of the way and shove the door closed. I sit down hard beside him and stroke his flinching skin. “Miranda is sorry,” I whisper. “I am sorry. I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

Caliban grits his teeth against the pain and hisses, but he doesn’t howl. “Master is come?”

I look up toward the gallery. “No.”