I wish winter would never end.
It does, though.
I do not know when I begin to suspect Caliban is not being wholly truthful with me. It does not come all at once, but creeps into my thoughts. As the days grow longer, he becomes restless; reluctant to return from our ventures, chafing at being confined to his cell at night. When we are afield, I sometimes think that if he did not fear Papa’s magic, he would flee. I often find him glancing toward the rocky crags northwest of the palace, a yearning look on his features; but when at last I ask him what lies yonder, he shakes his head and does not answer.
“Is it your home?” I press him. “Is it where you lived before Papa summoned you to the palace? Is it where you slept and took shelter?”
He affects not to understand. “I do not know.”
I do not wish to disbelieve him, and yet more and more, I do.
Caliban knows more than he is saying; and if that is true of one thing, I fear it may be true of others.
And I wish, oh, I wish that Papa would simply change his mind about freeing the spirit Ariel; that he might grant Caliban his freedom instead, and the three of us might live peacefully together as we did during the winter months.
But no, Papa will not hear of it. I dread the day he loses patience and asks after Caliban’s progress.
Like spring, that, too comes nonetheless.
I do not wish to confess my suspicions to Papa, but in the end, I do. The guilt I feel at betraying Caliban is nothing to the guilt I would feel were I to deliberately deceive Papa.
Papa listens without comment until I have finished. “I fear that I have been too lenient,” he muses. “I’ve given the lad too loose a rein, trusting that his fledgling sense of reason would prevail in this matter, but it seems a greater incentive is required.” He lowers both hands onto the kitchen table with a decisive thump, and the weathered wood rattles. “Well and so. ’Tis time to tighten the reins.”
My stomach clenches. “What do you mean to do, Papa?”
He gives me a grim smile. “You shall hear it on the morrow.”
And so I do.
No matter what his mood the previous night, Caliban leaps up eagerly every morning when his cell is unlocked, ready to embrace the day’s measure of sunlight and freedom. Today is no different; not at first, not until Papa extends one hand palm outward in a forbidding gesture.
“No,” Papa says. His voice is far colder than winter’s worst chill. Caliban halts and cocks his head in confusion, glancing at me. I look away. “You’ve been dishonest with us, lad. You do know the name I seek, do you not?”
When Caliban does not answer, I steal a glance at him and see a familiar sullen look settle over his features.
Papa will have none of it. “Enough with your sulks and grumbles!” He raises his voice to a roar, and Caliban flinches in fear. “Did I not bring you into our home? Have I not bathed and clothed you, fed and sheltered you? Have my daughter and I not taught you the rudiments of language? Have we not transformed you from a filthy, savage beast crawling on all fours to something that bears the semblance of a man, walking upright and capable of rational thought?”
“Please, Master!” Caliban cowers on the floor of his cell, hunkered low with arms wrapped around his head, understanding one word in ten. “Caliban is sorry!” he pleads. “Caliban is good!”
“I have no interest in cringing obsequiousness,” Papa says coldly. “You have abused my generosity. You have abused the patience and tender heart of my daughter Miranda, who has shown you nothing but kindness. Is this how you reward her for it? With lies and deception?”
He awaits an answer, but none is forthcoming. Caliban rocks on his haunches and keens in fear, and my heart shrinks in my chest to see all his progress undone. “Caliban,” I whisper. “Listen to Master! Please, listen.”
Papa gives me a sharp glance. “I’ll handle this, lass.” He turns his attention back to Caliban. “You have three days to think on the matter.” He holds up three fingers. “Three days in your cell. You shall have water, but no food. At the end of three days, I will ask you to tell me the name of the dark deity that your mother Umm worshipped. Do you understand?”
For a long moment, Caliban remains silent.
I am fairly quivering with the desire to put the question to him in simpler words, words I know he will understand, but Papa lays a firm hand on my shoulder and stills me.
At last, Caliban unwinds his arms from his head and nods without raising his gaze. “Master wants the bad name.”
“Ah, so our wild lad does understand!” There is a note of grim satisfaction in Papa’s tone. “You have three days.” With that, Papa steers me out of Caliban’s cell. He locks the door behind us and pockets the key. “You are to have no communication with him during this time, Miranda,” he says sternly. “None. His cell and the gallery above it are forbidden to you. Do you understand?”