I think of one I have only just finished, one I was proud to complete before the onset of my courses; the first face of Libra, an image of a man with a lance in one hand holding a bird dangling by its feet, an image which Papa deigned to tell me ruled over matters of justice.
I think Caliban is right. As more bits and pieces of knowledge settle into place inside me alongside Papa’s name—Prospero!—it is like painting the outline of an image. I begin to see the picture that they form. The dim remnants of my memories are true. Papa and I came from elsewhere, a place where the kind ladies with gentle hands who sang me to sleep dwelled; and yet somehow we were betrayed and cast out.
Mayhap, like Caliban’s mother, Sycorax, we were exiled to this isle because of Papa’s magic. Can it be?
My mind shies away from the thought. No, I will not think it. Papa worships the good Lord God in His heaven, and the influence that he draws down from the celestial spheres originates in the very Empyrean where God dwells. I have felt the sacred power of the Spiritus Mundi flow through me when I paint at Papa’s bidding, and I cannot believe it is anything but holy. No, there can be no comparison between Papa’s art and the dark sorcery practiced by Caliban’s mother in the name of a demonic spirit. Even the spirit Ariel, as much as he loathes the servitude to which Papa has bound him, has never suggested such a thing.
Ariel …
It comes to me now that Ariel knew of Caliban’s feelings. He is set against himself, Ariel told me, and thou art the cause of it.
Too much.
But what does it mean to love too much? How can there be such a thing as too much love?
All my life I have yearned for nothing more. I think of the profound ache of loneliness that filled my childhood days before Papa summoned Caliban; and oh, I do love Caliban! I love him fiercely. I should not have been so angry at the notion that he kept a secret from me did I not love him so.
How can it be too much?
And yet another memory slides through my thoughts, one I have sought to suppress; glass shattered on the tile floor, the pale thing gasping amidst the bright, broken shards, and Papa’s voice, soft and terrible. You’ve killed your mother all over again, Miranda.
The homunculus.
It was a thing that should never have been made, Ariel said; so Caliban told me. But Papa did make it. I think of the braided circlet of dark gold hair tied around its ankle like a tether.
My mother’s hair?
Is that why Papa made the homunculus? Because he loved my mother too much to let her go, so much so that he sought to restore her in defiance of the Lord God’s divine order? If that is so, then I cannot be sure that whatever great working Papa undertakes now is truly in the service of all that is good and holy.
Although it is not cold, I shiver under my bed-linens, my skin prickling with apprehension. I cannot bear to think these thoughts any longer. Too much—yes, it is altogether too much indeed. In the harsh light of so many possible revelations, I feel as fragile and exposed as a newly hatched chick. I pull the linens over my head, curling my body around the dull ache in my lower belly that accompanies the flow of my woman’s courses, and pray for the merciful comfort of sleep. It comes in time, although it does not come swiftly nor does it come without a final worrisome thought, one that chases me down the well of oblivion to haunt my dreams.
Caliban spoke truly when he said I failed to grasp the most important thing he told me this evening.
If he is right, Papa’s enemies, whomever they may be—brother, uncle, king—are coming to the isle.
And they are coming soon.
THIRTY-THREE
CALIBAN
I go to my high place.
It is dark, but there are no clouds and the moon is only a few days past its full roundness. It is enough light to see if I am careful and slow. I do not like to leave Miranda alone after what I did tell her about Master’s plans, but whatever thing is going to happen, it is not going to happen tonight.
And there is the other thing I did tell her.
I need to think about it.
Atop the crag, Setebos laughs at the night sky. I see the shape of his big head and jaws as darkness against the stars. The faraway stars look so little, like they are little silvery fish for Setebos to swallow, gulpity-gulp-gulp.
In his sanctum in the palace, Master is looking at those very stars through the shining tube on the balcony—the balcony where I did promise I would not hide and spy—and making notes on his charts.
(What do you see in the stars, Master? Not fish.) Miranda says Setebos is a fish, a great fish turned to stone. She did say it because she was angry, but I think she believes it is true. Maybe it is true. But why can it not be Setebos, too? If Miranda’s painting of the bright-faced man standing on a winged serpent is the sun, maybe my Setebos-the-fish is also Setebos in the same way.