Papa will not say what has come to pass that has him in such high spirits, only that his great work is progressing in accordance with his hopes, but it is a welcome change. In an expansive gesture of generosity, he even bids Caliban to join us for a grand meal; and somewhat to my surprise, Caliban does so with a modicum of good grace. Although he is quiet and withdrawn throughout the meal, I begin to nurture a spark of hope he has softened toward me.
After we dine on a rare meal of stewed chicken, Papa retires to his sanctum to survey the night sky; and miracle of miracles, for the first time in long months, Caliban does not flee my presence, but asks if he might speak to me, fanning the faint spark within my breast.
I smile at him, or at least in his direction, since he remains loath to meet my eye. “I would like that.”
Alas, I have spoken too swiftly.
Without once looking at me, Caliban tells me how he has been spending his days and what he has observed.
I listen without comment and a growing sense of hurt and anger. In truth, I do not know what to think. Mayhap I should be grateful that Caliban has softened at all, that he cares for me still; and yet I feel betrayed. Betrayed by his spying, yes, and his unexpected collusion with the spirit Ariel, but most of all by the fact that Caliban prefaces his tale by telling me that he saw Papa and me arrive on the isle all those many years ago.
Yes, that is the most painful.
It is quiet in the kitchen. The banked embers in the hearth crackle every now and then, their orange glow shifting beneath their blanket of grey ash. A clay lamp filled with oil pressed from last year’s olives flickers on the table between us and the night breeze carries the scent of pine pollen.
“Why, Caliban?” I say to him at last, and the words come out with an injured passion I cannot suppress. “Why did you never tell me that you saw Papa and me come to the isle?”
It startles him enough that he lifts his head to glance at me, dark eyes glimmering in the hearth-glow. “Miranda…” He looks confused. “I did tell you. Do you not remember?”
“No,” I say and it is true; but now a memory surfaces, a memory of Caliban’s voice divulging a momentous truth beneath the jaws of Setebos casting long shadows over the high crag. “Oh, Caliban! You knew I forgot so many things when I was … afflicted. Why did you not remind me?”
His shoulders rise and tighten. “After Master did hurt you, after you did heal and learn to be Miranda again, we did not speak of before things. But … but I do not think that is the very most important thing I am telling you tonight.”
I raise my voice. “It is to me, Caliban! All I have ever wanted to know is where I came from!”
He looks away. “You were sleeping. That is all I know, Miranda. All the time, you were asleep. I do not know where you and Master came from or how or why. Only that you did.”
I am weary.
The bulky pouch of moss strapped between my thighs feels wet and sodden. Soon it will begin to leak and stain my gown if I do not attend to it. I shall have to change it for a fresh pouch before I may take to my bed; change it and place it in a jar, a jar I must deposit outside the door to Papa’s sanctum.
“Let it be,” I say tiredly to Caliban. “Whatever end Papa works toward, I must accept it is for the best.”
He shakes his head, and the line of his jaw is stubborn. “No. He hurt you. I prayed to Setebos—”
“Setebos!” A jagged laugh escapes me. “Oh, Caliban! Do you know what your Setebos is?” I stand and dash tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. “It is the remains of a whale, Caliban; a great fish trapped in a volcanic eruption and turned to stone long before you or I was born. Nothing more.”
It is a cruel manner in which to deliver such news. Caliban flinches as though I have struck him, yet he persists. “I think they are coming, Miranda. Coming to the isle, whether they want to or not. Not tomorrow, but soon, very soon. The men in Master’s mirror, the men that he is so angry at. My liege, he did say today; and my brother. They are coming. And I do not know what will happen when they do.”
“I don’t care,” I whisper, although it is a lie. “Let them come! Mayhap it is for the best.”
Caliban meets my eyes. “What if it is not? What is it that Master does with your blood, Miranda?”
What, indeed?