Miranda and Caliban(64)

“No, but—” I catch myself short and cast my gaze downward, realizing his comments have afforded me an opening for inquiry. “Forgive me, Papa. It caught me by surprise. Has something of note transpired?”

Papa is silent a moment. I steal a glance toward the mirror, but it is covered. I feel Papa’s stern gaze upon me, as heavy as a touch. “All shall be revealed in the fullness of time, child,” he says. “But although it is drawing near, that time is not yet upon us. Did I not make myself clear in this matter? If you are to serve as my soror mystica in this endeavor, I require your innocence. I require you to act in perfect trust and perfect faith that the working may not be tainted.” He pauses, knitting his brows. “Has your trust in me faltered, Miranda?”

Yes, I whisper in my thoughts. I fear it faltered a long time ago, Papa; when I found the thing you called my mother.

Oh, but the habit of obedience is deeply engrained in me, and I shake my own head, no, no. “Of course not, Papa.” I hesitate. “It is only that Ariel once said to me that it is the fine edge of a blade that divides innocence from ignorance, and I should hate to do harm all unwitting.”

“Ariel!” Papa’s frown deepens. “Meddlesome sprite.”

I say nothing.

Papa strokes his beard. “I shall have a word with him. Meanwhile, I should like you to commence an image of Venus.”

On its stand, the book Picatrix is open to the corresponding page. I study the image of Venus, a woman standing with a red fruit in one hand and a comb in the other. She wears a pale green gown and long tresses of golden hair flow over her shoulders. Despite everything, the chance to paint another one of the seven governors makes my fingers itch to pick up a brush.

“Do not fear that you may err out of ignorance,” Papa says to me in a voice so kind I almost wish it was not a falsehood I told him. “So long as you work at my behest, I promise you that will never come to pass. And do not mourn the loss of your journeyman efforts, Miranda. God has given you a gift, but as with any skill, practice will hone it. You will do better work.”

I cannot deny the truth of it, for I myself could see that my work had improved with each image I rendered over the long winter months. The first face of Aries was looking distinctly lumpish to my eyes. Still, it pains me that it is all simply gone, gone without warning. “Thank you, Papa.”

He lays a hand on my shoulder. “I shall summon Ariel while this business is fresh in my mind and return anon.”

“Yes, Papa.”

It is not the first time that Papa has left me alone in his sanctum, but it is the first time I have been tempted to disobedience; a thing I never should have imagined would happen again. Had I not been so stricken by the unexpected loss of my paintings—indeed, had Papa but thought to warn me—mayhap it would have been different. I do not know, only that today the cloth-covered mirror beckons me as irresistibly as the lamp-flame beckons the moth. It is a piece of folly; oh, I know it is, for like Caliban I have gazed at the mirror and seen naught but my own face, but if there is a chance I might see these strange men of whom Caliban spoke—these men that Papa named my liege and my brother—for myself, I must attempt it.

I creep toward the mirror and reach for a corner of the ragged piece of cloth that is draped over it.

“Foolisssh girl,” a crackling voice behind me says. “It will avail you naught without the ssspell.”

I very nearly leap out of my skin, my heart pounding.

Across the chamber, the fiery salamander in the brazier regards me with its bejeweled eyes.

“You do speak!” I breathe.

It blinks.

I cross the chamber and kneel before the brazier. “Will you teach this spell to me?” I beseech the salamander.

“And sssee you sssuffer for it?” In its nest of bright embers, the salamander flexes delicate claws tipped with nails of molten gold. “No.”

I sit back on my heels. “How is it that you alone among the elementals speak?” I whisper.

It laughs, that sound like a burst of sparks rising. “I lisssten,” it says. “And fire has a thousand tongues.”

“Has Papa spoken of his plans in your presence?” I ask the salamander. It seems my curiosity has not deserted me after all, for now that I have allowed myself to give voice to it, the questions flood forth from my lips. “Do you know what he intends? Can you tell me what it is that he sees in the mirror? Is it his brother? His king? Do you know how we came to this isle and from whence?” I hesitate. “Do you know what he means to do with my blood?”

“Shall I ssspeak and sssuffer for it?” The salamander flicks its tail in a gesture of refusal. “No.”

I am unaccountably disappointed. “And yet you do speak to me,” I say. “Why?”

The salamander is silent for a long moment, so long I begin to wonder if I have lost my wits and imagined the entire business. Patterns of light and shadow shift beneath its glowing skin. “I do not know the whole of your father’s plan,” it says. “Only pieces. But grant me a promissse and I will anssswer one question that you have asssked of me.”

“What promise?” I ask it.

“A promissse that you will not leave the isle without ssseeing me freed from thisss iron prison,” it says in a voice as dry and crackling as kindling.

“Leave the isle?” I echo in startlement. “Why, however in the world should that come to pass?”