“Yes, Papa,” I murmur.
“Good lass.” He pats my head. “I know it seems harsh, but I promise you, it is a kindness. If this tendency toward surliness and deceit were to go unchecked, it would fester in him. Speech alone does not serve to make us civilized, nor clothing, nor courtesies; nay, not even reason. It is a matter of virtues—the virtues of honesty, of loyalty, of integrity, of obedience to a higher order. These are the qualities I yet hope to instill in Caliban, although I fear that hope dwindles.”
It is a long three days.
I think about what Papa said. In truth, I am angry at Caliban. I am angry at him for lying to me. Did he think I would not suspect, when I have come to know him so well? Did he think of me at all?
Mayhap it is asking too much to wonder such a thing, for I doubt Caliban understands the nature of lying. It is not a thing we have discussed, and it is unfair to blame him for not knowing things that no one has taught him.
Still, I cannot help it. I am angry.
And I am lonely, all the more so for having known companionship these many months. Papa spends the days in his sanctum as always, immersed in his studies. I go about my chores, though I do not forage afield. Without Caliban’s guidance, I do not know where to find the spring mushrooms that are beginning to sprout. I cannot climb trees. I cannot catch fish. I milk listless Oriana and gather eggs from the cote and greens from the garden.
Caliban in his cell is silent.
By the second day, my anger has given way to sympathy. He must be hungry, but he neither pleads nor complains nor rages.
I wonder what he is thinking.
And then I begin to wonder what Papa will do if Caliban refuses to tell him the name at the end of three days, and I begin to fear, because I am quite sure I know: Papa will work a deeper spell of binding on him.
At supper on the evening of the third day, Papa confirms it. “If it comes to it, mayhap it is for the best, child,” he says gently to me. “I know you’re fond of the lad, and he’s made great strides under your tutelage, but I fear there may be a limit to how far he might progress. It is a surety that there is a limit to the amount of time I can wait on his willing obedience. The day is fast approaching when the stars will be favorable to make an attempt to free the spirit Ariel. Caliban would still be a useful servant,” he adds. “There is no reason that should change.”
I think of Oriana. “He would not be the same, though.”
“No.”
It seems cruel when I have worked so hard, and made progress that even Papa praises, to return to the very place we began. “But you won’t do it if Caliban is good, will you?” I ask. “If Caliban tells you the name, you’ll grant him his freedom?” Papa hesitates, and tears prick my eyes. “You promised!”
Papa’s expression turns stern. “No, lass. The offer was made in the assumption that Caliban would obey gladly once he understood, not engage in deception and sullen evasion.”
“I took it to be a promise,” I whisper.
“Ah, Miranda!” All at once, Papa’s expression softens into something more complicated, filled with sorrow and regret. “Sweet child, you are the very angel of my better nature, descended straight from the Empyrean. You should not have to plead for the companionship of this poor rough brute of a boy. You should have maids of your—” He halts and shakes his head. “No mind. What’s done is done, and the time to remedy it lies far in the offing. Very well. If Caliban obeys on the morrow and divulges the name, I shall grant him his freedom.” He raises one finger. “However, if he fails to obey, I shall be left with no choice.”
“I understand, Papa.” I dash at my tears. “Must it … must it ever be thus? Shall he forever be ruled by this threat?”
“I doubt that the threat of losing his reason is one our wild lad understands,” Papa says dryly. “’Tis your tender heart begs an answer.” I look down at the table and say nothing, feeling the weight of Papa’s gaze upon me. “Does it truly mean so much to you, child?”
“It is only that I am weary of being fearful.” I dare a swift upward glance. “And I have worked so very hard.”
“Very well.” Papa nods. “I shall make you this promise, Miranda. If tomorrow’s proceedings result in my freeing the spirit Ariel at such a time when the heavens are propitious, I give you my word that Caliban’s will—poor surly, grudging thing that it may be—shall henceforth remain his own.”
A sense of gratitude fills me like sunlight. “Do you mean it?”
“I have said it, have I not?” Papa says, but his voice is mild. “I pray you do not doubt my word when I give it. Mind you, it does not mean that bad behavior will not be punished.”
“No,” I agree. “Of course not.”
He lifts one finger again. “And it is contingent on the spirit Ariel gaining its freedom. Do I make my meaning clear?”