It is why I stay.
So I put my anger aside, just like Master raking the coals in the hearth and covering them with ashes.
I will be a good servant.
I will smile and say the word Master.
EIGHTEEN
MIRANDA
Now that the spirit Ariel is free from the great pine and sworn to Papa’s service, our lives are different.
In some ways, that is no bad thing. Ariel knows every nook and cranny, every crag and crevasse, every meadow and wood of the isle, and he can traverse it in a trice, as swift and blithe as the wind itself. Every herb and flowering plant that Papa bids him fetch that can be found, he brings. The little gnomes till the earth and tend the plantings industriously, and soon our kitchen garden doubles, then trebles in size. Papa sets me to memorizing the qualities and the correspondences of each new planting.
At Ariel’s behest, the gnomes delve into the earth and bring forth metal-flecked ore and stones sparkling with quartz, and the undines plunge into the depths of the ocean and bring forth oysters with shimmering pearls nestled on their beds of soft briny flesh.
Save for the oysters, which are roasted and eaten, these things vanish into Papa’s sanctum.
It is not only the natural bounty of the isle that Ariel provides. When he has accomplished all the tasks that Papa has given him, Ariel reveals knowledge of a hidden trove of pirates’ treasure buried in a small cove along the shore.
“You scoundrel of a sprite!” Papa says, but he is too gladdened by the news to be truly grieved. “Did you not think to tell me sooner?”
Ariel gazes at him with blue-green eyes as clear and innocent as a calm sea. “Why, didst say naught of treasure, Master! Does it please thee?”
Papa smiles at him like dawn breaking. “Indeed, it does.”
And so there is treasure, trunks of it brought forth from its resting place buried deep beneath the sands. There is jewelry set with precious stones, a round mirror in a gilded frame, a checkered game-board accompanied by cunning little figures wrought in silver and gold, a set of chased silver dishes, and an entire trunk filled with once-fine gowns and other garments encrusted with gold and silver embroidery and seed pearls, wrapped in coarse oiled sailcloth to protect them. Papa supposes that it was plundered from a ship bearing a noblewoman’s dowry some years ago; after the Moors abandoned the isle, but before Caliban’s mother Sycorax laid claim to it.
Some of the more delicate fabric has rotted beyond the point of salvage, but some of the sturdier stuff is merely spotted with mold and mildew. I yearn to see what I might make of it with my sewing casket, but it is not to be.
“Such garments are meant for a woman grown, Miranda,” Papa says to me. “One day, such things and finer shall be yours, but not for many years yet.”
Instead, he gives me the remnants of a handful of garments made for a babe or a small child on which to ply my fledgling skills. The rest of the fine attire, along with the jewelry, the game-board, and the mirror—an item which seems to please Papa more than all the rest, and makes me feel not a little guilty for failing to tell him about the mirror Caliban gave me—vanish into his sanctum.
Not the dishes, though. The silver dishes etched around the edges with scenes of what Papa says is a hunting party, complete with wondrous images of a hart crowned with antlers, replace our worn wooden trenchers.
I feel like a very fine young lady indeed dining on silver.
Those are the ways in which Ariel’s presence in our midst has changed our lives for the better.
There are ways in which our lives have changed for the worse, too.
I do not trust Ariel.
Oh, he conducts himself well enough while Papa has him busy combing the isle, but once he is idle and Papa is immersed in his sanctum, it is another matter. I know that Ariel had no fondness for Caliban, but one pleasant afternoon, while Caliban and I are picking sour oranges in the walled orchard, I learn how deeply his hatred runs.
A gust of wind announces Ariel’s presence.
“See how he climbs, agile as a monkey!” he exclaims as Caliban hangs from the branches and tosses oranges down to me. “Mayhap there is a measure of truth in the rumors. What thinkest thou, fair Miranda?”