Miranda and Caliban(61)

It is a cruel manner in which to deliver such news. Caliban flinches as though I have struck him, yet he persists. “I think they are coming, Miranda. Coming to the isle, whether they want to or not. Not tomorrow, but soon, very soon. The men in Master’s mirror, the men that he is so angry at. My liege, he did say today; and my brother. They are coming. And I do not know what will happen when they do.”

“I don’t care,” I whisper, although it is a lie. “Let them come! Mayhap it is for the best.”

Caliban meets my eyes. “What if it is not? What is it that Master does with your blood, Miranda?”

What, indeed?

I should like to know; as I should like to know a great many things. But not now, not tonight; mayhap not ever. I do not have the heart for it. I have paid a great price for the desire to know, and my curiosity is not what it once was. Tonight, I wish only for the solace of a warm pallet and a dry pouch between my thighs. I take the oil-lamp from the table. “Ariel goads you,” I say to Caliban with as much gentleness as I can muster. “The spirit is ruled by Mercury and ’tis in his nature to stir trouble. Pay him no heed, or you will suffer for his mischief as I did.”

I think that shall be the last word on the matter and turn to go, but Caliban surprises me again. “I know,” he says. “That Ariel even did say I should not trust him, and I do not, not even when he is kind and not cruel. But he did say one other thing, too. I think it is a true thing. I think … I think he said Master’s name.”

I pause. “What is it?”

“Prospero.”

Prospero.

Why, in all my years, did I never think to wonder what Papa’s given name was? I cannot say, yet I did not, not even when I realized that Caliban mistook the word Master for Papa’s name. It is a piece of knowledge that settles into me, filling a gap I had not realized existed until this very moment.

And yet, does it matter?

No.

Of all the knowledge that Papa has withheld from me, that is a thing for which I cannot blame him, for it never occurred to me to ask.

“Thank you,” I say to Caliban. “I am … I am grateful for your concern. And I wish we had spoken of the matter of your memory of our arrival on the isle sooner.”

Caliban stands with his head bowed, ragged forelock obscuring his eyes. “I am sorry, Miranda,” he murmurs. “I did not know.”

I fight the urge to reach for his hand, my throat tightening. “Oh, Caliban! Of course you didn’t. You meant it as a kindness, and I am sorry to have thought otherwise. But you say we are friends still and always; if it is true, there should be no secrets between us.” A bitter note creeps into my voice. “The Lord God in His heaven knows there are enough secrets in our lives! You and I, we should be different, as we have always been to each other. But you must promise me that you’ll not spy on Papa again. It’s not worth the risk.” He says nothing, but his shoulders hunch again. “Caliban, please! Will you not promise me? I should be heartsick if Papa were to catch you and punish you for it, to hurt you as badly as he hurt me. You are dearer than a friend, as dear as a brother to me. Is it so great a boon to ask?” Still his silence continues, and at once I am hurt and angry again. “Do you love me so little that you will not grant me this one small kindness?”

“So little!” Caliban utters a bark of laughter, a harsh grating sound. “No, Miranda. Too much.”

I stare at him. “Then why—”

He interrupts me. “Is it truly what you wish?”

I swallow, only just beginning to understand what he has said to me. “I … yes. Caliban, it’s too dangerous, and you’re no match for Papa’s magic. But—”

“Then I will do as you wish.” He backs away from me, avoiding my gaze. “Good night, Miranda.”

I am left alone in the kitchen.

I make my way to my bed-chamber, then tend to the business of my woman’s courses. The Moorish writing on the walls of the palace wavers in the flickering light of my oil-lamp as I creep upstairs to deposit the clay jar with the latest blood-sodden pouch outside the door of Papa’s sanctum, then return to my bed-chamber. Although I lie on my pallet, my thoughts are reeling. The solace and the promise of sleep that I had craved only a short time ago now seems as distant and unattainable as the moon.

Caliban’s declaration has cracked open the wall of weariness with which I sought to protect myself, and now the evening’s revelations cascade through my thoughts.

Prospero.

Papa’s name is Prospero, and Ariel has known it all along. Caliban saw Papa and me arrive on the isle and surmised that Papa has enemies somewhere across the wide sea, and he has known it all along; and oh, I cannot help but feel a sting of betrayal in it still.

And yet Caliban has only ever sought to protect me. It is not his fault that he did not realize the memory was lost to me.

Caliban loves me.

Too much, he said; and I do not think he meant as a dear friend, as a sister. No, this is different. It is a thought that makes my heart feel wild and tender and strange, and yet it frightens me, too.

Oh, but Papa! My thoughts circle back to him. Can it be true that his great working is an undertaking of vengeance? Against whom? My liege, my brother, Caliban said.

My brother.

If it is true, Papa has a brother; a brother who betrayed him. Somewhere, I have an uncle.