Miranda and Caliban(89)

“What would you have me paint, Papa?” I inquire, careful to keep my tone respectful.

“The third face of Capricorn.” He comes over to point at an illustration depicting a man holding an open book in one hand, and in the other, a fish by its tail. “’Tis an image to erase the influence of all images that preceded it.”

I peer at it. “Will it not undo your working, Papa?”

“No, child.” He shakes his head. “What is done is done; there is no more need for such influences. I do but fulfill my pledge to the Lord God in His heaven as you reminded me. With this final rendering, I surrender my arts and such influence as they have afforded me.”

I pray that it is true, though I am not entirely sure that I believe Papa.

“Work swiftly,” he adds. “The image must be finished in a matter of hours, for we set sail this very day.”

My belly clenches at the thought, but I say nothing. I have won a great victory this morning; I dare not press him further.

A man, a book, a fish. It is a simple enough image, and I am familiar with all the components of it. The man I paint has Papa’s likeness; Papa as I wish to see him, wise and noble and grave.

Papa, I think, is flattered by the likeness.

I paint the Picatrix laying open in the palm of his hand, and if I had more time, I should like to have painted an image in miniature on its pages of the very illustration I am rendering. Across the chamber, the salamander watches me from the glowing brazier, its bejeweled eyes reminding me of the promise I made it in exchange for a secret I learned to no avail.

Oh, dear Lord God, I do not want to think about promises.

I paint the fish that dangles from the man’s other hand, using subtle curves to suggest that the fish is yet alive and wriggling in his grasp. I take more time than I ought rendering its fins and gills and scales in exacting detail, for I do not want this moment to end.

When it does, my life as I have known it will be over.

“Miranda.” Papa’s voice summons me from my trance. “’Tis done, and done well. Your work is finished.”

I step down from my stool, set down my brush and pigments. Flexing my cramped fingers, I begin cleaning my brushes.

“There is no need for that, child,” Papa says.

“Oh, but—”

“Leave them,” he says. “You’ll have finer in Naples.”

Save for the pantheon of figures gazing down from the walls and the laden trunks, Papa’s sanctum is empty. Even the Picatrix has been packed away while I finished painting the fish. The little gnomes grin silently and await Papa’s orders. The brazier glows, flames hissing softly. At their heart, the salamander regards me.

I take a deep breath. “Will you give the elementals their freedom as you did Ariel, Papa?”

He smiles and pats one of the gnomes on its stony head. “To be sure, once they’ve carried our belongings to the ship.”

“What of the salamander?” I ask.

“Ah.” Papa glances at it. “For the fire spirit, I have one final task.” With ceremony, he removes the amulets from around his neck one chain at a time, untangling each carefully. Cunningly wrought charms of silver and gold entwined with hair glint in the light of the brazier; my hair, Caliban’s hair, the nameless nanny-goat’s hair, the hair of the king and his men.

I hold my breath.

One by one, Papa consigns them to the fire. The flames burn brighter and there is a smell of burnt hair and hot metal. Gold and silver melt, puddling beneath the salamander’s delicate claws and its pulsing belly. One, two, three … All of them? I am not sure, not entirely sure. It seems to me I caught a glimpse of something shining vanishing up Papa’s sleeve.

I do not trust my father.

And yet … do I trust the king, this Alonso who sought our lives? Do I trust my treacherous uncle the usurper? Do I trust their squabbling courtiers? Do I trust this kind prince with the tender mouth whose affection for me is compelled solely by the artifice of Papa’s magic?

No.

There is only one person on the isle whom I trust, and I sent him away.

I wish Caliban were here.

And yet I am grateful he is not; grateful that I succeeded in bargaining for his freedom.

Papa dusts his hands together. “It is done.”

“And the salamander?” I say.

He spares it another careless glance and a gesture, speaks a word in an unfamiliar tongue.

Fire roars through the grate of the brazier, roars up to scorch the walls of Papa’s sanctum. Papa flings a protective arm around me, bearing us both to the floor. A circle of flame races around the chamber, and the figures I have rendered with such care are darkened to soot. Flames stream through the window of the balcony, dispersing and vanishing beneath the sky. The finality of the destruction is sudden and shocking, and yet it seems fitting, too. It is as though God in His heaven has spoken through the salamander, unleashing a purging fire.

For the first time, I find myself well and truly understanding that this is happening, that I can no more stop it than I can hold back the tide. My life already has changed forever.

Papa helps me to my feet. “I confess, I did not foresee this last working manifesting in so literal a manner,” he says dryly, brushing at the sleeves of his robe. “But you may pack your possessions, Miranda, and I shall notify the king that we’re prepared to take our leave of the isle.”