It is three full days before Papa can bring himself to speak to me, and I spend them in a state of suspended terror, awaiting his judgment. I do not stir from my chamber, not even to venture into my garden. Although I have no food to eat, there is water in my wash-basin that I might drink.
One of the silent little gnomes comes every morning to empty my chamber-pot and for once, I am glad they do not speak.
Still, it is a long time to be alone with my thoughts.
I mend my torn bodice, which I am forced to do with red thread that is all that is left in the sewing casket Papa gave me so long ago. Although I try to make my stitches as small as possible, when I have finished a ragged red line of mending meanders down the front of my bodice.
Caliban.
Oh, dear Lord God, how could I have done such a wanton, immodest thing?
Betimes the shame of it flushes my entire body until I feel hot and sick and feverish, my empty stomach heaving in a vain effort to expel the food it does not contain, only the bitter taste of bile in my mouth.
But betimes I think of the longing and hope in Caliban’s eyes; I think of the kisses we traded back and forth like gifts, I think of his mouth on my breast, and it seems to me that there is a curious innocence in it.
A bird sang.
Did a bird sing in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve first discovered what it was to love as man and woman, naked and unashamed together beneath the blue skies of heaven?
I do not know.
I do not know.
On the evening of the third day, Papa comes to my bed-chamber. I sit on the edge of my pallet, head bowed, hands clasped before me in a pose of supplication. My body tenses in anticipation of the long-awaited punishment; and yet I think I shall be glad to have done with it. Although I am light-headed with hunger, I am grateful that Papa chose to wait rather than act in anger.
“I have considered,” Papa says without looking at me. It is a cruel irony that now that Caliban can bear the sight of me, Papa cannot. “And I shall not punish you further, child.”
My breath catches in my throat; I am not sure whether it is due to relief or fresh apprehension, for I do not even for a single heartbeat’s worth of time imagine that Papa has forgiven me.
Papa gives me a sideways glinting glance, nostrils flaring with distaste. His grey eyes are stormy and beneath his beard, the line of his jaw is set and hard. “Women are weak, perfidious creatures,” he says. “Even the best of them may fall victim to their lesser natures. Your mother had the appearance of a virtuous woman during our lives together, Miranda, but after…” He pauses for a moment, scowling at his own dark thoughts. “Would you know why I sought to create a homunculus endowed with her very soul’s memories?”
It is the first time he has spoken of my mother since the incident. “If you would have me know, Papa,” I whisper.
“Suffice it that you understand it is because there came a day when I was given cause to doubt the loyalty and trustworthiness of everyone I knew.” Papa begins pacing the room with such vigor that the amulets strung around his neck rustle and clink. “Some were proven to be traitors indeed; some proven faithful, yet powerless. But your mother … your mother’s true nature, I could not know, for she died in the bearing of you. I could not ask her if she was a faithful and true wife, or if she pinned a cuckold’s horns upon me. Did I have cause to suspect her?” He shakes his head. “No. And yet, I suspected naught of those who took everything from me until the very moment that it came to pass. How could I not suspect her in turn?”
I fix my gaze on my clasped hands and say nothing.
“’Twas not a thought that came to me at the outset,” Papa muses, and I realize he is talking more to himself than to me, as he was wont to do when I was a child. “And yet, here on the isle, betimes I came to wonder: Were you in truth the daughter of my blood and the fruit of my loins, Miranda? Or did your mother betray me, too?”
I glance up with a sharp gasp. “Oh, Papa! Do not say so!”
“Hold your tongue!” he reprimands me, one hand rising to grasp my amulet. I obey. “I made the homunculus with my own seed and a lock of your mother’s hair that I might ask her from beyond the grave if she was a faithful wife and you were, in truth, my daughter.”
He falls silent.
I think of the pale thing floating in its jar, its lips moving as though to speak. In the world beyond my windows, dusk is descending. I can hear swallows twittering in concert and the faint splash of a fountain. In my bed-chamber, the silence stretches until it grows unbearable.
“Am I?” I ask at last.
“You are,” Papa says in a tone that makes it clear he takes no pleasure in the fact; not today, mayhap never again. “Appearances did not lie; your mother was a virtuous woman, Miranda. Virtuous and true. And I tell you, you have shamed her memory most grievously.”