Miranda and Caliban(88)
Caliban stares at me. “How?”
I swallow hard. “I shall bargain with him,” I say. “Papa has sworn to renounce his magic if this working succeeds. I shall offer my willing consent to his plans in exchange for your freedom.”
“No.” Caliban sets his jaw. “Do you not understand, Miranda? I would rather die than leave you.”
Dear Lord God, why must he be so stubborn? “Then I should have your death on my conscience.” My voice is shaking, and I rub my burning eyes with the heel of one hand. “Would you be that cruel to me, Caliban?”
He hesitates.
A wild notion seizes me. “I will send for you,” I say recklessly to him. “The prince…” I swallow again. “’Tis a love spell that compels him, Caliban; a potion wrought from the blood of my woman’s courses. Papa said himself that the prince will indulge my every foible. One day … one day when Papa is no longer there to forbid it, I will explain to the prince that you are my dearest friend, that I could not have endured on the isle without you. I will tell him how tenderly and patiently you cared for me when I was afflicted, how you nursed me back to strength and health. I will tell him that you are owed mercy for seeking to commit the self-same crime his own father committed in veritable truth. And I will beg him to send for you, beg him until he accedes.”
The yearning in Caliban’s gaze is terrible to behold. “Do you promise it?”
“I do,” I whisper.
“Then I will go,” he says simply.
Dizzy with relief, I coil my makeshift rope and lead Caliban down the stairs, through the darkened halls of the palace. The king and his men are snoring in the great dining hall, but they have drunk deep of the king’s wine and do not awaken; nor does Papa in his chamber.
It is late; soon the sky will begin to turn grey in the east.
In the garden outside the kitchen where we spent so many hours together, Caliban touches my face with his rough fingertips; oh, ever so gently. “Miranda,” he murmurs. “I do love you, and I will wait for you always.”
I lay my hand over his. “I know.”
And then there is nothing left to say. I lift my hand; Caliban takes his away. We gaze at each other in the fading moonlight. Caliban opens his mouth to speak; I shake my head at him.
No, there is nothing left to say.
He nods in understanding and goes, vanishing into the darkness.
I watch him go and return to my chamber, where I painstakingly untie the knots in my bed-linens, doing my best to smooth out the creases until the linens lie flat on my pallet where I lie sleepless and await the dawn, wondering what I have done.
FIFTY-SIX
“Miranda!”
It seems I slept after all, for I awaken to the thunder of Papa’s voice in full fury and find him looming over my pallet.
“What,” he says in a precise tone, “have you done?”
“Of what am I accused?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Caliban is missing.”
I blink at him. “Oh?”
Papa reaches for the amulets that hang about his neck. “Do not play the innocent with me, child! He couldn’t have escaped his cell without assistance, and no one but you would have aided him. Your wild lad sought to incite my murder. Do you imagine I’ll not summon him back to stand the punishment for his crime?”
I push myself upright. “I do.”
“How so?” Papa asks in a deep, deceptively gentle voice.
I should be afraid of him, and yet, I am not. I have gone somewhere beyond fear. In the secret place inside me, my heart is as cold and hard as steel.
“I will tell you exactly how, Papa,” I say to him. “Would you have me play the doting bride? I will do so. Would you have me say naught of your great working, of the cause of the storm from which the king and his men are so grateful to be saved? I will say naught. Would you have me keep my silence in the matter of a certain homunculus that lies buried in one of the gardens? Of the punishment you inflicted upon me for discovering it? I will keep it, Papa. All that you ask of me, I will do. I ask only one thing in return.”
“Caliban,” he says with distaste.
“Caliban,” I agree. “You did promise to relinquish your magic, Papa. Will you be forsworn?”
Papa lets go of his amulets and raises one hand as though to strike me, his fist trembling in midair. Never, ever has he struck me thusly.
I brace myself for the blow.
It does not fall.
“Our guests are hungry,” he says, lowering his fist to his side. “Empty the larder and feed them as best you might, then attend to me in my sanctum.”
I lower my gaze so that no hint of triumph shows in my eyes. “Yes, Papa.”
There is not much in the larder—a few journey-cakes, a pot of soft cheese, and some early figs—but I set it on the long table in the great hall. Prince Ferdinand pronounces me a very angel of goodness. By their conversation, it seems that the king and his men have no idea yet that Caliban has fled.
I wonder what the prince would think of me if he knew what I have done.
In his sanctum, Papa is dismantling his instruments and packing them into trunks that have stood empty for years. The diligent little gnomes aid him in the task. Many of the shelves have already been stripped of their books and oddments, but the book Picatrix is open on its stand, and I remember that Papa said there would be one last image for me to render. Was that only yesterday? It seems as though an eternity has passed in the course of a single day.