He nods in understanding and goes, vanishing into the darkness.
I watch him go and return to my chamber, where I painstakingly untie the knots in my bed-linens, doing my best to smooth out the creases until the linens lie flat on my pallet where I lie sleepless and await the dawn, wondering what I have done.
FIFTY-SIX
“Miranda!”
It seems I slept after all, for I awaken to the thunder of Papa’s voice in full fury and find him looming over my pallet.
“What,” he says in a precise tone, “have you done?”
“Of what am I accused?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Caliban is missing.”
I blink at him. “Oh?”
Papa reaches for the amulets that hang about his neck. “Do not play the innocent with me, child! He couldn’t have escaped his cell without assistance, and no one but you would have aided him. Your wild lad sought to incite my murder. Do you imagine I’ll not summon him back to stand the punishment for his crime?”
I push myself upright. “I do.”
“How so?” Papa asks in a deep, deceptively gentle voice.
I should be afraid of him, and yet, I am not. I have gone somewhere beyond fear. In the secret place inside me, my heart is as cold and hard as steel.
“I will tell you exactly how, Papa,” I say to him. “Would you have me play the doting bride? I will do so. Would you have me say naught of your great working, of the cause of the storm from which the king and his men are so grateful to be saved? I will say naught. Would you have me keep my silence in the matter of a certain homunculus that lies buried in one of the gardens? Of the punishment you inflicted upon me for discovering it? I will keep it, Papa. All that you ask of me, I will do. I ask only one thing in return.”
“Caliban,” he says with distaste.
“Caliban,” I agree. “You did promise to relinquish your magic, Papa. Will you be forsworn?”
Papa lets go of his amulets and raises one hand as though to strike me, his fist trembling in midair. Never, ever has he struck me thusly.
I brace myself for the blow.
It does not fall.
“Our guests are hungry,” he says, lowering his fist to his side. “Empty the larder and feed them as best you might, then attend to me in my sanctum.”
I lower my gaze so that no hint of triumph shows in my eyes. “Yes, Papa.”
There is not much in the larder—a few journey-cakes, a pot of soft cheese, and some early figs—but I set it on the long table in the great hall. Prince Ferdinand pronounces me a very angel of goodness. By their conversation, it seems that the king and his men have no idea yet that Caliban has fled.
I wonder what the prince would think of me if he knew what I have done.
In his sanctum, Papa is dismantling his instruments and packing them into trunks that have stood empty for years. The diligent little gnomes aid him in the task. Many of the shelves have already been stripped of their books and oddments, but the book Picatrix is open on its stand, and I remember that Papa said there would be one last image for me to render. Was that only yesterday? It seems as though an eternity has passed in the course of a single day.
“What would you have me paint, Papa?” I inquire, careful to keep my tone respectful.
“The third face of Capricorn.” He comes over to point at an illustration depicting a man holding an open book in one hand, and in the other, a fish by its tail. “’Tis an image to erase the influence of all images that preceded it.”
I peer at it. “Will it not undo your working, Papa?”
“No, child.” He shakes his head. “What is done is done; there is no more need for such influences. I do but fulfill my pledge to the Lord God in His heaven as you reminded me. With this final rendering, I surrender my arts and such influence as they have afforded me.”
I pray that it is true, though I am not entirely sure that I believe Papa.
“Work swiftly,” he adds. “The image must be finished in a matter of hours, for we set sail this very day.”
My belly clenches at the thought, but I say nothing. I have won a great victory this morning; I dare not press him further.
A man, a book, a fish. It is a simple enough image, and I am familiar with all the components of it. The man I paint has Papa’s likeness; Papa as I wish to see him, wise and noble and grave.
Papa, I think, is flattered by the likeness.
I paint the Picatrix laying open in the palm of his hand, and if I had more time, I should like to have painted an image in miniature on its pages of the very illustration I am rendering. Across the chamber, the salamander watches me from the glowing brazier, its bejeweled eyes reminding me of the promise I made it in exchange for a secret I learned to no avail.
Oh, dear Lord God, I do not want to think about promises.
I paint the fish that dangles from the man’s other hand, using subtle curves to suggest that the fish is yet alive and wriggling in his grasp. I take more time than I ought rendering its fins and gills and scales in exacting detail, for I do not want this moment to end.