“Only simple earth elementals bound to Papa’s service,” I say. “They will tend to the goat’s cooking.”
“Such marvelous creatures!” he says as the gnomes set about spitting the goat.
“Are there no spirits to assist with the chores of the household from whence you come?” I ask.
Prince Ferdinand laughs. “No, to be sure! But you will find willing mortal hands a-plenty, my lady.” I draw a bucket of water from the well to sluice the dust from the goat’s flesh, and he takes it from me with alacrity. “Your father set me this task, my lady! You must allow me to complete it. Only…” He pauses. “Might I beseech the boon of your name as my reward?”
My name.
It seems to me there is a power in names. It was the gift of my name that allowed Caliban to remember his own, the first step on the road to regaining human speech. When I first awoke from my affliction, uncomprehending and terror-stricken, Caliban returned the gift to me, and thus began the long road of restoring me to myself.
If Caliban had not surrendered the name of Setebos to Papa, Ariel would still be howling in his pine tree.
Papa calls upon the arcane and numerous names of the seven governors to draw down their influence each and every day, and today, he summoned the raging wind by calling its secret names.
I am not sure I wish to give the prince my name.
Oh, but that is foolish, for he will learn it sooner or later; and since I am in large part responsible for his ensorcellment, mayhap ’tis only meet I should offer it to him as a gift.
“Miranda,” I say. “I am Miranda.”
Something in my heart twinges at the words.
Prince Ferdinand only smiles at me. “Miranda,” he says. “It is a name as beautiful as its bearer.”
I find myself loathing him a measure less, but oh, dear Lord God, I wish he was not bespelled.
Elsewhere in the palace—in the innermost courtyard, I trust—Ariel’s voice has fallen silent. I can hear only piteous moans and low utterances muffled by distance and the crumbling walls. There the fate of dukes and kings and nations is being decided; and I have not the slightest say in the matter, nor even the chance to bear witness to it.
Outside, the sun is shining as though the storm never was.
It shines upon me.
It shines upon the prince.
Somewhere it shines upon Caliban, but I do not know to whence he has fled. I am alone in the garden with the dead goat and the live prince, two grinning gnomes shouldering the spit, a handful of chickens pecking and scratching in the dust, and in the far corner, the nameless nanny-goat scratching her ear with one hind foot, careless of the fate of one of her kind.
FIFTY
CALIBAN
The palace is in sight.
One two three four five six seven eight, I count my steps. Miranda did teach me to count, oh, so long ago.
The men’s steps stumble and drag. They are tired, so tired! Still, one clutches his rock; the other his heavy stick.
The sun is hot.
My skin itches, blood and rain and mud salt-spray dried on it. I scratch at it with my ragged nails.
The men complain; the men wish they had a flask of the sweet red claret to carry with them.
I lie.
I tell them there are fountains of sweet red claret playing in every courtyard of the palace. I promise them everything that they do want; everything, everything.
They are cheered and pick up their feet a little faster.
There are footprints in the packed sand and scattered little pebbles of the path; footprints of men wearing boots. Other men have come this way. I hope that they are Master’s enemies.
I do not hear Ariel’s voice singing anymore.
Bees are buzz-buzzing in the wild lavender. I could follow them, I think; leave these men and follow the bees to find where their honey is hid, gather it and fetch it for Miranda.
I wish it were yesterday.
I wish it were a thousand yesterdays ago, long before I ever did see Miranda naked at her wash-basin.
But it is not; and there is hatred in my heart. I will not follow the buzzing bees. Even if it is too late, I will not turn back.
No, I will do whatever I can.
I count my steps and think of you.
Miranda.
FIFTY-ONE
MIRANDA
The goat is roasting in the hearth, and the rack is filled with firewood. The gnomes turn the spit, and fat and juices drip down to sizzle in the embers.
I fetch my wooden comb and little pot of soap from my chamber and draw water from the well so that the prince may wash away the gore and grime of his labors. He scrubs his hands and his arms to the elbow, splashes his face with cool, clean water, rakes the sea-tangles from his hair with my comb. I reckon that’s as presentable as I can make him without fresh attire, and that I do not have.
Shadows creep across the dusty ground.
At last Ariel comes to summon us; and the spirit’s presence is a new marvel over which the prince must exclaim, for he caught no glimpse of his ethereal rescuer amidst the storm’s fury.