Miranda and Caliban(59)

I am sure of it.

“O la!” the wind whispers in my ear. “Careless, careless! Our master will catch thee a-spying!”

Of course, that Ariel must come trouble me at the worst time. I want to shout at him to go away, but then Master will catch me. I clench my teeth together hard and say nothing, trying not to fall; and Ariel only laughs and goes on his whooshity way. And I think to myself, oh ho! I am right and Ariel spies, too—and he does not want Master to catch him, either.

I am using my wits.

Now I want to run away, but I do not. I climb back and watch, quiet as a mouse. Master puts the sack in a funny-shaped bottle with a bit of water until the water is red and bloody, then he takes the sack out with his tongs and puts it in a different jar. Then he puts the bottle on the metal thing that is like a little hearth, and the little salamander glows and glows, oh, so bright, and the bloody water boils and boils until it is gone, and then Master adds something like grains of sand to the bottle and there is a sharp smell that gets into my nose.

When it is done, Master takes a long spoon and scrapes the bottom of the bottle and there is a dark red powder and this he puts in a little pot.

Why, oh why?

I cannot guess, but I do not like it.

Master boils other bad-smelling things on his hearth, too; but it does not trouble me like Miranda’s blood.

One month when Miranda’s blood-days come, it is very cold, more cold than I ever do remember, and I do not spy on Master. The wind is so cold on my bare skin, I am shaking like a leaf on a tree when I bring the wood that I have gathered for the hearth inside.

Miranda sees this and sews a shirt for me out of the same coarse cloth as my breeches.

She gives it to me in the kitchen the very next day. “I know you no longer reckon me a friend,” she says without looking at me. Her voice is soft, so very soft, and there is oh so much hurting in it. “But I hope you will accept this nonetheless. ’Tis uncommonly cold and I should hate for you to suffer a chill and fall ill for it.”

My throat goes tight.

I take the shirt. “You are my friend, Miranda,” I say to her. “You will always be my friend.”

Miranda does look at me, then.

Her eyes are wide and blue and shining with hope. “Can we not be as we were, Caliban?”

I want to say yes, yes, oh, yes; I want to go back to the days of sharing lessons and chores, sitting side by side. Oh, but we are not children anymore, and there is no innocence in me, only wanting things that are forbidden. Miranda’s pink lips are parted; I would like to put mine on them.

I would like to …

Behind my eyes, I see Ariel’s mocking face; I hear his knife-sharp laughter ringing in my ears.

My rod stiffens.

Rut.

“No.” I back away from Miranda. I pull the shirt over my head, my rough-skinned hands fumbling to find their way into the unaccustomed sleeves. “No, not that, Miranda. Not ever.”

She takes a step toward me. “Caliban—”

I run.





THIRTY-ONE

The shirt is stiff and it scratches, but I wear it all winter because Miranda made it for me, made it with her own hands.

I do not spy on Miranda that month.

But when her blood-days come next, I return to Master’s balcony; and when spring is coming at last I see a new thing.

Oh ho!

Master spies, too; spies in his mirror on the faraway strange men, and now he sees a thing that he likes, a thing that makes him laugh and shout, oh yes, and more. Master leaps and jumps around in his sanctum, kicking up his legs under his robes. All his magic charms go chinkety-chink-chink hanging from his throat and tangle in his beard. It is such a thing I never did think to see that from my hiding place on the balcony I am staring at him with my mouth open wide.

“A most excellent decision, my liege!” Master says. “Oh yes, most wise!” He bows toward the mirror, a mocking bow like Ariel’s bows. “No doubt the wedding shall be a fine spectacle with your beloved son and all your most trusted courtiers in attendance.” Master rubs his hands together like there is a great feast before him and his voice goes low and cold and hard, only just loud enough for me to hear it still. “Oh, my liege! Oh, my brother! You shall reap as you sowed, gentlemen, and after lo, these many long years, the day and hour of your harvest shall soon be upon you.”

He summons a pair of the little gnomes and bids them to cover the walls with a fresh layer of limestone, to cover all of Miranda’s pictures. I think it will sadden her heart, for she has worked so very hard on making them just right, but I do not have time to worry because then Master covers his mirror and leaves his sanctum, leaves it empty in the very middle of the day.

I think … do I dare?

For Miranda, yes.

And so I get off my belly and creep into Master’s big room. My skin is twitchety with knowing that Master might come back at any moment and punish me. I take the cloth from Master’s mirror and look into it.

I see nothing but my own face, low-browed and thick-jawed, coarse hair hanging over my eyes.

“Didst thou expect otherwise?” a light voice inquires. “Thou art no magus, witch’s whelp or not.”

I turn to face Ariel. “What did Master see in the mirror?” I ask him. “You go everywhere, you see everything. What was it?”

Ariel shrugs. “And I am oath-bound not to speak of it. Even were I not, why shouldst I tell thee?”