Miranda and Caliban(49)

“I do not know,” I murmur. “He will not speak of it.”

Papa waves one hand in dismissal. “Then let us pay him no heed. He does but seek attention.”

I do not think that is true. Something is troubling Caliban; something greater than my own burst of fear and temper, and something other than the uncleanliness of my woman’s courses, since they have passed for now. But I do not know what it is, and I cannot force Caliban to confide in me. I can only hope that he will choose to do so in his own time.

Papa and I break our fast together. My heart is beating too quickly in my chest. At first I wish that the meal would never end, then I wish it were over so that I might confront my fear of entering Papa’s sanctum and be done with it. I gobble my food in unseemly haste and must sit and wait while Papa eats.

“Come,” he says when at last he has finished. “You may tidy the dishes later. Today, you are to assist me.”

I follow him through the palace and up the stairway, down the long hallway to the door of Papa’s sanctum. My chest feels tight, my heart continuing to flutter like a trapped butterfly inside it. There are spots behind my eyes and the walls seem to pulse in my vision, the Moorish writing etched on them wriggling. I tell myself that I am being foolish. I have walked this very hallway several times a day during the past five days, carrying my jar of menstruum. I have knocked upon this very door.

But there was no question of entering the sanctum itself.

Papa reaches for the handle of the door and pauses. “Your face is so very white, child,” he says. “Why?”

I swallow. “I am afraid.”

“You are here today with my blessing,” he says gently. “And I promise you, there is naught to fear.”

He opens the door.

For a moment, I am paralyzed once more, bolts of pain shrieking in my skull; but no, there is no pain, only the memory of it.

I peer past Papa.

It is as I remember, and yet it is different, too. There are the gleaming instruments, there are the shelves of books, there are the cases filled with curiosities and the strange glass vessels, the neatly labeled jars and drawers. There is the glowing brazier with the red-gold salamander lying curled in its nest of flame; but its gemlike eyes are closed. There is no glass jar of clear liquid with a pale, floating thing in it.

I let out my breath slowly and follow Papa into his sanctum. There are no strange drawings or symbols on the walls. The walls are clean and white with a fresh coating of lime.

A breeze blows through the open windows and a pair of sylphs chase each other through its eddies. One of the earth elementals squats expectantly before a table that contains various stone pots and clay bottles and implements, rubbing his spade-shaped hands together, a broad grin on his rough-hewn face.

Papa gestures toward the table. “That is for you, Miranda.”

I approach it, and the little gnome scampers out of my way. With tentative hands, I open the lidded pots. The pots; oh, the pots contain colors! Pigments such as I never dreamed existed—a blue as deep and vibrant as the distant sea under an August sky, a green as rich and verdant as palm leaves, a yellow as bright and sunny as a fresh egg yolk, a red as crimson as blood. There is black as black as a moonless night and white as pure as a cloud.

My mouth waters to behold such colors.

There is an array of long-handled brushes, finely hewn spindles of wood to which goat’s hair has been cunningly affixed; some in pointed tufts, some in broad fans. I examine them one by one.

“You have a gift for illustration, Miranda,” Papa says. “One that surpasses my own.”

There is a tall book-stand beside the table, a book open upon it. I peek at it. I cannot read the language in which it is written, but there are colorful drawings inked upon its pages.

“That is the Picatrix,” Papa says in a reverent voice. “That book which Moorish sages of ere named the Ghāyat al-?akīm, or the Goal of the Wise. It is an illustrated Latin translation and it is worth far, far more than its weight in gold. You are not to lay hands upon it.”

“I won’t,” I murmur, gazing spellbound at the image of a dark-faced man in white clothing, a rope tied about his waist. The dark-faced man’s expression is fierce and ruthless, haughty and commanding. He holds an axe upraised in one hand and his red eyes glower from the page.

“Do you know the image?” Papa inquires.

I glance over my shoulder at him and nod. “It is the first face of Aries, is it not?”

He bestows a proud smile upon me. “Indeed.”

No mistake, it is a powerful image. I look back at it. The thought of re-creating it, of bringing the image of this man to life, writ large upon the white-washed walls of Papa’s sanctum in vivid hues, fills me with a strange eagerness. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to take up one of the long-handled brushes and begin limning the outline of the dark-faced man’s figure. I clasp my hands behind my back to be safe. “Do you wish me to render it for you, Papa?”

“In time. I have prayed long on this matter, Miranda.” Papa puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him. “You are the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. It is my belief that the Lord God has given you this gift for the purpose of aiding me in my arts.” A wondrous light suffuses his face. “You shall be my right hand, my soror mystica, in our great working.” Unexpectedly, he gives me a little shake and his expression turns stern. “But within these walls, you must never, ever seek to render any image save those I have explicitly bidden you to execute; nor at any time save that I have specified. To do so without understanding the conjunctions of the stars and planets is to jeopardize the working itself. Do you understand?”