“Mercury,” I echo. “Because it is swift.”
“Indeed,” Papa says. “But it is dangerous, too.” His expression darkens, and he glances in the direction of his sanctum on the upper story of the palace, musing to himself. “I fear that many a practitioner of the spagyric art has perished handling it without due respect.”
I do not know what the spagyric art means, but I can follow his gaze. “Do you speak of Caliban’s mother, Papa?”
His grey gaze returns, stormy-eyed. “That is not a fit topic for a young girl to discuss, Miranda.”
I shrink. “I’m sorry! It’s just…” He waits. “I wondered how you were so very sure she perished, Papa,” I say quietly. “Caliban knew it was so. He … he found her. After … after she died, but…” I find myself trembling and swallow hard, cutting my words short. But before we came here, I think.
Papa’s eyebrows raise. “He told you this?”
I nod. “He said you put her in the ground.”
“I saw her remains given a decent burial.” His tone is curt. “Likely it is more than the witch Sycorax deserved.”
I look at the table. “She was his mother.”
“Miranda.” Papa’s voice is like a cord jerking my head upward. “I seek only to protect you,” he says in a gentler tone. “You are too young and innocent to bear the brunt of the world’s unpleasantness. I thought it would trouble your dreams to know that the witch perished beneath our very roof. And I had no way of knowing the lad had found his mother’s body,” he added. “Indeed, until it was confirmed, I could not be certain of his parentage. The witch’s notes mention the boy only in passing.”
I am silent, wondering if Papa’s notes make mention of me.
Papa frowns, but it is a thoughtful frown. “Since it has come to it, mayhap this is an opportune moment to impress upon you the volatile nature of such an element, and the danger of seeking to bend it to one’s will. Based upon my reading of the witch’s journal, yes, I believe that she perished from prolonged inhalation of mercury’s vapors, which are poisonous during certain stages of the work.”
“That couldn’t happen to you, could it, Papa?” I ask in alarm.
“No,” he says firmly. “Because I approach the work with due reverence, and heed every precaution advised by those wise practitioners who trod this path before me. Sycorax, I fear, did not.”
“Why?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “In truth, I cannot say. But in every walk of life, you will find there are those who think to find a shorter path to their goals, and suffer for it in the end.” Reaching across the table, Papa pats my hand. “As in all things, Miranda, patience is a virtue. I bid you cultivate it.”
“I will,” I promise him.
But in my thoughts, the trickster’s grin has turned sly again, and my dreams that night are restless once more.
FIFTEEN
CALIBAN
Hares, hares, hares; hippity hoppity hares!
But oh, how is Caliban to catch one? Yesterday I take the cord Master gives me and go to the place where the hares are. I lie in the long grass and do not move. I watch the hares come and go. There are trails in the long grass.
When there are no hares, I am alone under the blue sky. Free. I do not have to do what Master says. He is not here to see. He is not here to punish me. I think, what if I do not catch a hare?
What if I do not go back to the palace?
My heart goes hippity hoppity like a hare when I think it, but then there are two things, one-two things, I think. One thing is a thing Miranda tells me: If I run away, Master will use his magic to make me come back. Oh, and he will be angry!
The number two thing is: you, Miranda.
So I do not run.
I do not know what Master wants me to do with the cord so I tie it around my waist like the cord of my pants. I dig a hole in one of the hare trails and cover it with long grass. I watch and watch but no more hares come. I think maybe they are afraid because I am here, so I leave and go to the high place where Setebos watches the sea.
I squat in his shadow and watch, too. Setebos makes Miranda afraid. I do not know why. No, that is a lie. It is because Master says Setebos is bad. But I do not understand why.
Set-e-bos, Set-e-bos!
I remember Umm’s voice singing the name, deep and strong like when Master makes his chants. I remember it in my bones like my own name. Setebos smiles at the sky above me.
I wait and wait and go back, but there is no hare in the hole. I think Master will be angry, but he is not.
Then I think maybe in the morning on the tomorrow day, there will be a hare in the hole, but now that day is today and there is no hare, there is only the hole and dead, dry grass that falls in the bottom.
So, so, so.