“So there are nine circles, each with a guardian, and all that?” Mab asked, taking notes as he spoke. “And you lived in the First Circle, the one called Limbo?”
As Ferdinand nodded, the waitress came with our food. Ferdinand smiled at her and thanked her kindly. The young woman blushed, flustered. She remained, hovering at Ferdinand’s elbow until Mab gave her a sharp look. Mephisto pouted. Waitresses usually fussed over him.
“Limbo is not properly part of the Devil’s kingdom,” Ferdinand said, wrapping his spaghetti skillfully about his fork. “It is instead the realm of the god of the dead. The shades there are not tortured. They are merely forlorn.
“Of the rest of Hell . . . myself, I have traveled only as far as the Sixth Circle. Having read Dante in my youth, I knew that if I could make my way to the bottom of the Ninth Circle, I could pass through the gate there and reach Purgatory, beyond. So, I tried to descend, but the Hellwind always caught me and returned me to Limbo before I could venture half so far.
“Twice in my journeys, I reached the red-hot iron walls of the City of Dis, on the Sixth Circle, only to be turned to stone by the Gorgon that the Furies have set to guard that wall. Once, I remained stone for over sixty years— counting by the dates uttered by the shades of the newly dead— before some fiend conducting an inventory of souls dragged me back to my proper place and restored me. Only once did I actually pass Dis’s gates, and even then, I hardly got beyond the first row of flaming sepulchers before one of the fallen angels who patrol that foul city threw me out again.”
“How did you get past the Furies?” Mab asked. To me he said, “You never know what might turn out to be important one day.”
“I accompanied the angels of High Heaven during one of their raids. Every century or so, they swoop down from on high, burning with Heaven-fire, their pinions too bright for any of us— of those below— to see. They draw up with them the souls of those who have truly repented of their former sins. I begged them to take me as well, but they said that I, being flesh, could not dwell where they were going.”
“Why didn’t you just kill yourself and go along?” Mab asked.
“The angels explained to me that were I to deliberately shed my mortal clay, I would find myself a tree in the Wood of the Suicides.”
“Isn’t the Wood of the Suicides in the Seventh Circle?” Mab wiped tomato sauce from his chin with the back of his hand. “Wouldn’t you have been closer to the bottom, where you wanted to go?”
“True, but I would have been stationary.” Ferdinand smiled into my eyes. I dropped my gaze, studying my calzone.
“So?” Mephisto broke in. “When are you two lovebirds going to get married?”
I glared indignantly at Mephisto, trying to douse the fire that had ignited my cheeks by an effort of will. Meanwhile, Ferdinand’s gaze rested earnestly on my face, as if life and death itself depended upon my answer.
When I said nothing, he spoke. “Bella mia, if you wish time before you answer the question your brother has so artlessly yet aptly asked, I will not begrudge it to you. Yet, I would still take you, if you will have me.”
“I have no interest in marrying.” I spoke coldly in my effort to force my voice to remain calm. “You or anyone.”
Ferdinand put his fork down slowly. “I understand, my darling,” he said softly. “You are still the servant of the Diana goddess, are you not?” When I nodded, he asked. “Might you ever change your mind?”
“It is unlikely.”
“I would it does not come to this.” Ferdinand held himself proudly, but it was clear it took an effort to force the words from his lips. “But if it does. I would agree to wed you for a day, in name alone, in the courts of these American peoples, so the vow you swore to me would be satisfied. So long as we never came together as man and wife, you could send an emissary to the Pope in Rome and request the union be annulled. Then, you would be free to wed elsewhere, should you ever desire to do so.”
“I will remember that.” I dropped my eyes, for the look in his was too revealing. I decided this was not the time to explain that ending a marriage no longer required intervention from the Pope.
The waitress brought us our check. I began to pull out my wallet, but Ferdinand refused to allow me to pay.
“I will not take money from the woman who will someday be my wife,” he said fiercely.
The waitress gave me a cold look. Recalling my quip about Ferdinand and the free meal, I felt ashamed. I suddenly wanted to do something to help him, but knew just as strongly that anything I offered would be turned down.
The four of us left the restaurant and stood together on the street.
“We must go,” I said to Ferdinand. “We are about some business for my father. If you tell me where you are staying, I will contact you when we return. You already know how to contact me through Prospero, Inc.”
Ferdinand nodded and gave us his address. Mab wrote it down. Ferdinand turned up the collar of his overcoat and stood gazing at me uncertainly. He glanced meaningfully at Mab and Mephisto. To my surprise, they both stepped away.
“Miranda.” He drew closer until he stood too close. His hand came up and touched my cheek. Then, tilting my chin up until I could no longer avoid looking him in the eye, he said, “I cherish a hope that, given time, you will recall your love for me. For it would be a sin, indeed, if torn from each other by such unkind fates, we did not make use of this, our second chance.”
He leaned toward me, and I knew he meant to kiss me. I stiffened and drew back. He hesitated, and then drew away slowly. Lowering his head, so his lips were near my ear, he whispered, “No. I see the time is not yet right.”
He touched my lips lightly with one finger. Then, bowing, he turned and walked off into the windswept afternoon.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Dances With Elves
The afternoon sun hung low over the aquamarine waters. The winds blew steadily upon our sails, as sparkles of golden sunlight danced over the curling waves. To the starboard, a flying fish broke free of its watery home before splashing back into the depths; overhead, seagulls wheeled and sounded their cries.
Mephisto, Mab, and I were sailing out of Charlotte Amalie, the busiest cruise port in the Virgin Islands. We had spent the night in Maryland, feeling it was too late for a long flight after our meeting with Ferdinand. Then, rising early this morning, we flew to St. Thomas, as there was no landing strip on St. Dismas’s Island. Once there, we chartered the Happy Gambit, a spinnaker-rigged thirty-foot sloop, and set sail for Logistilla’s.
The prevailing wind speed averaged eighteen knots. We bounded along at a goodly clip, with Aerie Ones shielding us from excess wind and spray. While I could not deny the appeal of sailing with the sheet in one hand and the helm in the other, the appeal of lounging on the deck enjoying the sun and wind was even stronger today. It had been months, perhaps years, since I had taken a day off.
I charted a course to St. Dismas’s Island and sailed out of the harbor. When we reached open waters, I whistled up the winds and turned control of the helm over to the local Aerie Spirits.
The Happy Gambit was a beautiful cedar-strip sloop. I sat on the bowsprit, floating above the waves, a cool breeze blowing in my face. I had changed my attire and now wore a yellow-and-white sundress with a wide straw hat tied under my chin with a ribbon of bright yellow silk that fluttered about my face as I gazed at the sea. It had been a long time since I had been sailing. My own sailboat, the Witchcraft, sat neglected in some dry dock in Portland. Sitting there, watching the water reflect the sky as our boat leapt from swell to swell, I resolved to find time to take her out again.
Sailing brought back such happy memories. It was hard to feel troubled when caught between the sky and the sea. One could almost believe one was flying. The warm Ca rib be an sun beat down on my face, as our hull moved melodically through the waves. What a splendid afternoon! What lovely weather! I loved weather, all weather, not just the good kind. I loved balmy d
ays, fearsome storms, blizzards, and spring showers. And the colors! Every day brought something to be admired: the soft feathery patterns of cirrus clouds, the deep, dark grays of thunderheads, the lacy gold and peach of the early morning sunrise. The sky and its moods called to me.
My childhood had been spent upon an island that was barely more than rock and heavens. The Aerie Spirits continually orchestrated storms at Father’s behest. Hardly a day went by without the howling of winds and the crash of thunder, and I had reveled in every moment of it! That my brother Erasmus, who had known me nearly all my life, could believe I had asked for the flute because I desired to seize control of Father’s servants was mind-boggling.
What a shock returning to Milan had been for me. Perhaps my long life might have taken a different direction if my father had married a woman who showed any kindness to my young self. When we returned from the island, Father had expected me to wed Ferdinand and leave for Naples, so he had not considered my welfare when he chose his next bride. Hoping to consolidate his power in Milan and keep his brothers at bay, he chose a daughter from a powerful family. Isabella Medici was a gorgeous young woman with dark glancing eyes and clever calculating ways. She had no time for a lovely stepdaughter who knew nothing about society or womanly arts. Since I was content to mope about the castle, mourning silently, she ignored me.
Father’s counselor, the wise Gonzalo, who in prior years had warned my father against his brother’s treachery and who had helped him and my infant self escape, took a keen interest in me and sought to cheer me; however, he passed on a year or so after our return, leaving me friendless.
With time, I recovered my spirits and took my first trek to draw Water of Life from the Well at the World’s End. The well stands beside the place where the River of Stars plunges off the brink of the world, falling into the abyss of the Void in a cascade of silvery light, surrounded by a spray of stardust. The journey there and back takes a year and a day, during which I was gone from Father’s court. By the time I returned, my grief banished and my spirits buoyed up by the wonders I had beheld, I had been forgotten. I was a living ghost, haunting the great stone edifice of my new home.
The night I had met Theo at the top of the Filarete tower, Isabella Medici had given a party in honor of my uncle Antonio. Everyone at the castello had been invited. Everyone, that was, except the duke’s awkward, savage daughter, who did not know how to eat or speak properly or how to behave like a civilized person. It was not that I would have been turned away— oddities were always diverting— but, rather, that no one bothered to rouse me from my private retreat, or to provide me with a suitable dress, or for that matter, to take any thought about me whatsoever.
My father treated me kindly, of course, but he was a busy man. In addition to his ducal responsibilities, which he left mainly in the hands of his wife and his brother Ludovico, he waged a war within the Orbis Suleimani. The details of this struggle were never made clear to me, but he was constantly drafting letters and sending Aerie Ones off with missives. Also, he was still drunk with the wonder of having fathered sons.
Nor did it seem to occur to my father that I might need attention. I had seen to my own entertainment on the island and had been perfectly content. He seemed to assume the same would be true in Milan. Only, on the island, I had Aerie Ones as companions, and, in my younger days, Caliban as my playmate. In Milan, the Aerie Ones were still with us, but Father, fearing that I might be slandered with charges of witchcraft, had forbidden me to speak with them when anyone else might see. And so, I did not.
I did go once and ask him what he thought I should be doing with my time. He asked why I did not help my stepmother, attend her parties, and whatnot.
“She does not seem to want me underfoot,” I had answered simply.
“Well, perhaps you should make yourself scarce, then,” Father had replied absently, as he turned the page of a highly illuminated tome. And so, I had done so.
Thus it was that I climbed so often to the top of Filarete Tower, even on cold nights, to talk with my airborne friends and play the old silver practice flute Father had given me.
Even today, the Aerie Ones remained my closest companions; they were the only ones with whom I could share my thoughts, my joys. I had never met another mortal who felt as I did, particularly about the sky. Everyone else in my family favored one type of weather over another. Even my dear Aerie Ones did not entirely understand. They were too much a part of the natural world to savor its delight. When I played my flute, summoning up a storm or a perfect blue sky, I could feel my soul stirring as if I could escape the bonds of earthbound life and lose myself in eternity.
“MA’AM, we’re being followed!” Mab’s voice called from the stern.
“Motor or sail?”
“Sail.”
I laughed. “You have got to be kidding!”
I roused myself and headed down into the cabin to get my flute, nodding to Mephisto, who was belowdecks making up his bunk. My brother often suffered from seasickness, so he wanted to have his bed ready, in case he felt the desire to slink below.
As I climbed back up the ladder, I called, “Earplugs, Mab!”
Planting my feet on the undulating deck, I played a brisk tune. The music leapt and danced, lightening my spirits even as it mocked our adversary. Within moments, the offending sailboat was blown far off course. Every time the harried sailor tried to change his tack, the wind switched directions. Soon, his sailboat was but a tiny spot on the horizon.
Mab took out his earplugs. He carried a cola, drinking it through a straw. “Did you see the guy sailing that boat, the one with the moustache? He’s the same fella who’s been following us since the hotel last night. I’m sure of it.”
“Last night! You mean the hotel in D.C.?”
Mab nodded. “I think he’s one of those masons from the Monument. The one with the tattoo on his arm.”
“Maybe the masons overheard us talking about escaping from Hell, and it piqued their interest.” A disturbing thought occurred to me. “Do you think one of them is trailing Ferdinand? Maybe we should warn him.”
I climbed down into the hold and pulled out my cell phone. It read “out of range.” Seeing the phone reminded me I had forgotten to check in with Mustardseed to confirm that everything was on schedule. The Priority Accounts were too vital to risk; too many lives were at stake. We would have to head back to St. Thomas.
I climbed back up through the hatch, flute in hand. The sun beat down upon my face, but a cool sea breeze soothed my skin and ruffled my hair. I inhaled the salty air and beheld the cerulean sky reflected in the azure water. Sitting down on the polished bench beneath the railing of the cockpit, I said, “Oh, what the heck! Let’s just go. Surely, they can get along without me for a day.”
Mab sat down beside me and pulled out his notebook. Despite the warmth of the day, he still wore his trench coat and fedora.
“A lot of weird stuff been happening of late, Ma’am. Maybe we should review and make sure we’re not missing a clue. According to my notes,” he flipped open the notebook, found the page he wanted, and surveyed it, “some of these we’ve already answered, but the unexplained mysteries I’ve got listed include: what happened to your father, the incubus showing up while we were in the Great Hall, finding Mephisto by chance on the street, Di Napoli showing up while we were in Chicago, finding the Chameleon Cloak right outside your brother’s place, stumbling upon the crate with the gate to the nether realms. And now . . .” He paused to scribble something. “. . . this guy from D.C.”
“Let’s see.” I leaned back and considered his list. “We think we know where Father is, but not how he got there or what he was doing when he got into trouble. The incubus you explained: we let the wards down when we opened the door— and it was able to get through the outer wards because the demons have Father and thus Father’s blood. Finding Mephisto was my Lady’s doing. I prayed to Her, and She showed me the way. The crate?”
Mab said, “It was in the
warehouse visited by the demon who stole your brother’s staff. I bet you, as we keep going, we’ll find out that crate is involved in this in some way.”
“You’re probably right. That leaves Ferdinand, the Chameleon Cloak, and the guy who was just chasing us as still suspicious.”
Mab crossed a few things out and made another note. “Right. So, tell me about this sister of yours, the sorceress with the Staff of . . .” Mab flipped through the pages. “Says here: ‘Transmogrification.’ Does she turn men into toads?”
“And pigs, and bears, and fish, and dogs, and ravens, and horses!” Mephisto emerged from below, carrying his pocketknife and a chunk of pale wood for whittling. He had put aside his winter garments and now sported shorts and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt.
“Logistilla has a selection of seven shapes my father built into the staff,” I continued. “But if she can catch a reflection in the green globe at the staff’s top, she can reproduce it.”
“Sort of a latter day Circe, eh? Sounds like an utter sweetheart.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad. She gave me my first pet unicorn.”
“What was it before she got ahold of it?” Mab murmured.
I could not help smiling. Mephisto chuckled too.
“Probably an old lover. She loves turning old lovers into things.” Mephisto pushed a coil of anchor rope aside and plopped himself down on the bench beside me. “I like her staff, but I liked mine better.” He pouted sadly, recalling his missing staff.
“Forgot to ask Di Napoli where he came out of Hell.” Mab paged through his notes some more. “Was it in Chicago? Or did he come out of a wooden packing crate? We’ve got to do something about that crate as soon as possible, Ma’am. I dispatched two Aerie Ones and a mundane to watch the warehouse and steal the crate; so we can ward it, like you suggested, but . . .”
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 21