Laughter rises in me like a bubble from the deep sea. “Yes,” I whisper to her. “Oh, yes!”
The cloth of the bed-linens is soft under my rough hurting hands and it smells of Miranda’s own self. I pull myself up. The cloth is worn thin and frayed with age, but Miranda did tie strong knots in it. I climb them quick-quick, scrambling up the rope like I have wings on my hands and feet.
I climb over the balcony.
My heart is beating in my chest like a bird, like a bird’s wings fluttering.
Can it be?
Can it be that Miranda loves me yet?
I hold out one hand to her; it is trembling. “Oh, Miranda!”
Her face is pale against the darkness, oh, so very pale. And she is trembling, too. “No.” Miranda takes a step backward, a step away from me, her eyes shadow-holes in her pale face. “No.”
FIFTY-FIVE
MIRANDA
I watch the rising tide of hope ebb from Caliban’s face, confusion and bewilderment replacing it.
“What—” he begins, then halts, his gaze searching mine. “Miranda, why—”
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop myself from shivering. “Caliban, you must go. Leave me!”
He shakes his stubborn head. “No. No!”
Ah, dear God! I do love him, I cannot help it. Not enough to forgive him the attempt on Papa’s life, but far too much to see him hanged, far too much to see him suffer in captivity.
“You must,” I say, low and fierce. “At worst, Papa and the king’s men mean to see you hanged to your death; at best, they will see you clapped in chains and made a thing of coarse mockery for all the days of your life, and that I cannot bear, Caliban.”
Caliban gives one short bark of despair. “Where could I go on the isle that Ariel cannot find me, Miranda?”
“Papa has freed Ariel from his service,” I say.
The news startles him. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
His expression changes. “Prospero means to take you away,” he says in a dark tone. “And you mean to go; to go with him, to go with that prince who did hold your hand and whisper in your ear.”
“What else would you have me do, Caliban?” I ask him wearily. “The thing is done. I daresay my fate was sealed from the beginning, and you set the seal on your own when you sought my father’s life.”
“Oh, Miranda!” A note of anguish enters Caliban’s voice. “I am sorry, I am so very sorry! I will do anything, I will be your father’s servant for always and ever and never complain, only do not send me away from you!”
My eyes burn with tears. “Don’t you understand? It’s too late!”
“No.” He shakes his head again. “Anyway, Prospero does not need Ariel! If I go, he will only summon me.”
“I won’t let him,” I say.
Caliban stares at me. “How?”
I swallow hard. “I shall bargain with him,” I say. “Papa has sworn to renounce his magic if this working succeeds. I shall offer my willing consent to his plans in exchange for your freedom.”
“No.” Caliban sets his jaw. “Do you not understand, Miranda? I would rather die than leave you.”
Dear Lord God, why must he be so stubborn? “Then I should have your death on my conscience.” My voice is shaking, and I rub my burning eyes with the heel of one hand. “Would you be that cruel to me, Caliban?”
He hesitates.
A wild notion seizes me. “I will send for you,” I say recklessly to him. “The prince…” I swallow again. “’Tis a love spell that compels him, Caliban; a potion wrought from the blood of my woman’s courses. Papa said himself that the prince will indulge my every foible. One day … one day when Papa is no longer there to forbid it, I will explain to the prince that you are my dearest friend, that I could not have endured on the isle without you. I will tell him how tenderly and patiently you cared for me when I was afflicted, how you nursed me back to strength and health. I will tell him that you are owed mercy for seeking to commit the self-same crime his own father committed in veritable truth. And I will beg him to send for you, beg him until he accedes.”
The yearning in Caliban’s gaze is terrible to behold. “Do you promise it?”
“I do,” I whisper.
“Then I will go,” he says simply.
Dizzy with relief, I coil my makeshift rope and lead Caliban down the stairs, through the darkened halls of the palace. The king and his men are snoring in the great dining hall, but they have drunk deep of the king’s wine and do not awaken; nor does Papa in his chamber.
It is late; soon the sky will begin to turn grey in the east.
In the garden outside the kitchen where we spent so many hours together, Caliban touches my face with his rough fingertips; oh, ever so gently. “Miranda,” he murmurs. “I do love you, and I will wait for you always.”
I lay my hand over his. “I know.”
And then there is nothing left to say. I lift my hand; Caliban takes his away. We gaze at each other in the fading moonlight. Caliban opens his mouth to speak; I shake my head at him.
No, there is nothing left to say.