“Are you frightened?” the prince asks me gently, touching my arm. “Do not be afraid, my lady. I promise you, whatever the sullen brute has done, he cannot harm you.”
I think of the trumpet flowers withering on my window-ledge and very nearly burst into hysterical laughter.
Caliban.
Oh, Caliban!
Why, I should like to scream at him, why?
But in the secret place inside me where I once contemplated the possibility of Papa’s demise, I know why.
There is a feast that evening. It takes place in the great dining hall that Papa and I never use, for it is far too vast a space for our modest stores of oil-lamps and beeswax candles to light.
But tonight, Papa is profligate; profligate with our stores, profligate with his magic, profligate with his magnanimity. Air elementals have driven the dust from the tiled floor, water elementals have washed it clean. The earth elementals have scoured the fixtures, and never-before-used sconces gleam beneath candlelight; the platters and chalices of the pirates’ treasure gleam atop the long, moldering trestle table that stretches the length of the hall.
Papa has dispatched Ariel to bear the good tidings of the survival of the king and his retinue to the sailors in the pirates’ cove; and to return with a barrel of wine from the ship’s stores that all might celebrate on this joyous occasion of reunion, forgiveness, and reconciliation.
The barrel is tapped, wine is poured.
“To the betrothal of Ferdinand and Miranda!” the king proclaims, hoisting his chalice.
Everyone follows suit and drinks.
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.
I try not to choke.
Papa’s cold gaze rests on me. I sip my wine, smile and blush, and hold my tongue lest I say aught to spoil the moment.
Ferdinand raises my hand to his lips and kisses it chastely, regarding me over the rim of his chalice with his besotted gaze.
There are things, so many things, I should like to say.
Do you not think it passing strange that you should love me so, when you scarce know me?
My liege, do you not think it strange?
My lords, do you not think it strange? This storm that sprang out of nowhere, do you not think it passing strange?
But I say nothing. There are too many men; their presence stifles me, their voices crash over me like the waves of the ocean. Dear God, how shall I endure on a ship filled with dozens of such men in close quarters? How shall I endure in a city filled with hundreds or even thousands? I fear I shall go mad.
The goat is carved; our platters are heaped high with slabs of roasted meat. I poke listlessly at mine.
The men eat their fill, belch into their beards, stretch their booted legs out beneath the long table, and compare tales of the storm.
I learn that the purpose of their journey was to see the king of Naples’s daughter wed to the king of Tunis, and that this was accomplished ere the storm separated them from the royal fleet and drove them hence.
I understand that these are the specific set of circumstances Papa has sought to influence with my aid, the work of long years of intrigue and negotiations.
I learn that the king—Alonso is his name—and Papa’s brother, who is called Antonio, repented of their wickedness and wept in the innermost courtyard; the former promising to restore Papa’s title as Duke of Milan, the latter vowing to relinquish all claim to it.
I do not care.
Do I?
“Surely God is good to bring us together, Miranda!” the prince says fervently to me, squeezing my hand.
His heart, I think, is kind.
I am not sure mine is.
The men speak of Caliban and his wickedness. It is a wickedness, it seems, distinct from their own sins. It is a wickedness owing to savagery and ingratitude; a wickedness beyond redemption. The men speak at first of hanging Caliban for the crime to which he has confessed, and then of clapping him in chains and putting him on display when we return to the mainland so that all the world might mock him and jeer at him.
I am heartsick at the prospects, and yet how can I plead for clemency? Caliban is guilty, and he has shown himself lacking in all remorse. I should have known; I should have guessed what darkness was in his heart and dissuaded him from attempting such a mad, wicked thing.
But how was I to do so when Papa forbade all communication between us?
Oh, dear Lord God, if only I had not sought out Caliban at the stream that day, if only I had not insisted on following him, if only I had not lost my footing and fallen … if only so many things had gone differently.
If only Papa had fed Caliban a few more miserly crumbs of kindness; if only I had heeded Ariel’s advice and understood that there was a measure of cruelty in my own kindness to him.
Ariel.
The night is late and the candles are burning low when the spirit enters the hall unbidden, the deceptively gentle breeze that accompanies him causing the guttering candles to flicker.
The men fall silent upon his entrance.
Ariel bows. “Master.”