Miranda and Caliban(43)

I return to crouch over the basin, my back to the windows. The blood on my thighs is gone, but when I touch the place between them, my fingers come away bloody. With a scrap of cloth, I scrub furiously until the water in the basin is pink and there is no more blood on the cloth. I pray that that is the last of it. I cannot think why my body should bleed thusly, unless it means that the very organs within me are dissolving.

Mayhap what broke inside me years ago never truly healed after all.

I do not know.

My blue robe is in a sorry state. Its threadbare fabric already bears a myriad of faded stains amidst the years’ worth of wear and grime that washing will no longer remove, but there is something deeply shameful about this one. It is blood, only blood, but it seems as shameful to me as though I have soiled myself.

Kneeling naked on the tile floor, I scrub and scrub at the stain with a dollop of Papa’s soap. It lightens, but it is clear it will not go away.

I am weeping as I scrub.

My belly cramps, and I feel a fresh hot trickle of blood on the inside of my left thigh.

I weep harder.

“Miranda!” It is not Caliban’s voice at the door of my chamber, but Papa’s, deep and firm. He knocks, but does not enter unbidden. “Calm yourself, child. I would speak with you.”

“Oh, Papa!” I struggle to suppress my tears, but my voice is ragged. “I fear there’s something terribly wrong with me.”

“I promise you there is not.” Now Papa’s voice is gentle, more gentle than I recall hearing in years. “May I enter?”

I pluck a clean brown robe from my chest and don it in haste, then stand very straight, mindful of the slow blood seeping from the juncture of my thighs. “Yes, Papa. Of course.”

If I had a hundred years to guess, I do not think I would have guessed that Papa would enter my chamber smiling that day, a bundle of something tucked beneath one arm; and yet he does.

“Congratulations, my dearest daughter,” Papa says to me. Cupping my face in his free hand, he leans down to kiss my brow. The amulets around his neck rattle faintly and his long grey beard tickles my nose and chin. “Today at last you are a woman grown.”

I have never felt like aught less.

“I do not understand.” My voice sounds small. “Papa … I am bleeding from inside.”

He nods gravely. “Yes, I know. Caliban told me his concerns. Your woman’s courses are upon you.”

I stare at him in confusion. “I’m not ill?”

“Far from it,” Papa says. “Did you not hear me? You have flowered, Miranda. The day for which you have long yearned has arrived at last.”

“This?” I gesture at the blameless walls of my chamber, at the closed shutters, at the basin full of bloody pink water, at the sodden mass of my stained blue robe lying on the floor. Suddenly, I am outraged at the thought that this mess and discomfort is the harbinger of womanhood for which I’ve waited so long. “This?”

“It is a sign that your body is ready to bring new life into the world,” Papa says. “Your womb, which is the vessel of life within you, does but shed an excess of sanguine humor to make room for the possibility of a child.”

“A child?” I say in wonder and dismay.

Now Papa shakes his head, raising his hand to forestall me. “I speak only of the possibility, Miranda. Of course, you shall remain a virgin until you are wed in the eyes of God.”

I do not know what that means.

Do I?

A memory of Ariel’s voice whispers in the far recesses of my thoughts. She bade me to lie with her as a man lies with a woman … Dost thou know nothing of the ways of the world, and men and women in it?

I do not.

And yet …

Papa is still speaking. “… the first great mystery of womanhood. The second shall be revealed to you on your wedding night, and you shall suffer no man’s touch until your husband claims his rights.”

“My husband!” A startled laugh escapes me; it has never occurred to me to think on such a prospect. “Who am I to wed, Papa? Caliban?”

A thunderous look crosses Papa’s face. “Hold your tongue, child! Heaven forfend. Do you think I would see my only daughter, my own flesh and blood, wed to a monstrosity?”

“Well, I don’t think him monstrous at all,” I say defiantly. “Caliban is kind and good. And if I am to take a husband, I’d sooner wed him than Ariel.”

“Ariel!” Papa takes a sharp breath. “Miranda, you must not even think such thoughts.”

I temper my defiance with humility. “What am I to think, Papa?”

He lays one hand on my shoulder. “I do but ask your trust, child. One day, when my plans come to a head, all shall be revealed.” You keep saying that, I think to myself, but I do not say it aloud. “I promise, the man you wed will be neither a tame savage nor a spirit such as Ariel. But today—” Papa untucks the bundle he carries under his arm and shows me its contents: a number of muslin pouches, a clay jar with a lid, and a lengthy parti-colored sash pieced together from various fabrics. “This is a serious business, Miranda. The menstruum of a virgin possesses powerful magical properties. You must manage it with care.”

I swallow, reminded anew of the vile trickle making its way down my thigh. “How?”

Papa holds up one of the pouches. “Dried sphagnum moss. While your woman’s courses are upon you, you will place one of these pouches beneath your privy parts as necessary to capture the flow, binding it in place with the sash.”