Prospero Regained (29 page)

Titus lunged, expecting Gregor to dart backwards, but Gregor closed with him and pummeled his stomach repeatedly with solid punches. Titus
oophed
and then did a leg sweep and a hip throw.

It was a simple jujitsu move. But Gregor had disappeared from the face of the earth before the martial arts of the East became all the rage. None of the ruffians he boxed during his days as a priest in Ireland had used moves like that.

“What in the world was that?” Gregor yelped unceremoniously, from where he lay on his back.

Titus slammed his enormous meaty fist into his hand and moved toward the prone Gregor.

“Titus!” I croaked, “What’s the point of being the easy-going guy, if you can’t walk away from a fight when your wife needs you?”

Titus blinked sleepily. He thrust forth the
Staff of Darkness
, and asked, “Do you want your staff back?”

With this reminder of his recent good deed, the wrath drained from Gregor’s eyes. When he stood up, he looked less like a brute and more like a Spanish poet again. Frowning, he stroked his short-cropped beard.

“Did you get married in a church, at least?” he asked gruffly, brushing of his robes.

“We were wed at St. George’s Episcopal in the British Virgin Islands.”

“Anglican…” Gregor frowned and then shrugged, muttering, “could have been worse.”

“What about your Great Church Lady, from your vision? Doesn’t she approve of all denominations?” Erasmus asked mockingly. Gregor spun around and glared at him, his shoulders hunching forward again.

“Right.” Erasmus made a casual gesture in the air. “Forget I said anything.”

Mab called from the far side of the room, “Mr. Theophrastus! Come take a look at this!” Theo gave his brothers one last stern look. Excusing himself, he went to join Mab. That left the rest of us to puzzle over Logistilla.

Walking forward, I lay my hand on Logistilla’s shoulder, hoping to dispel the illusion that gripped her, but my touch had no effect. She remained upright and unseeing, a regal duchess before her imaginary subjects, unaware of the squalor about her in this pathetic mockery of our ancient home.

Apparently, it was not an illusion of the senses that gripped her, but one of her own mind’s making.

Watching Logistilla sit like a noble sovereign reminded me of her real reign as Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, one of the tiny Germanic states. Her husband had died young—or perhaps he was the one she turned into a stag after he had strayed with a particularly comely lady-in-waiting. I had trouble keeping Logistilla’s husbands straight—after which she ruled, first as regent and then through her son, for over fifty years. My sister had proved a fine sovereign. Under her reign, the kingdom expanded, the laws were enforced, and the people grew richer.

True, a few of her political rivals had gone hunting never to return, at least not in human shape, and a few hostile neighbors had abruptly withdrawn their threats after a visit from her brother. (Napoleon, who forced the duchy of Saxe-Eisenach to combine with Saxe-Weimar and then handed control of both duchies over to Logistilla’s son, was recorded as having remarked: “A charming man, the dowager duchess’s brother; a pity that he is blind in both eyes.”) All in all, however, her people had been pleased with her.

What a shame that Logistilla had not yet been born when our family ruled Milan. There would have been such a natural meeting of minds between Father, who wished to rule in name only, and Logistilla, who cared little for titles, desiring instead to preside over the details, to rule in truth. All my other siblings either wanted the prestige of being duke or had no interest in ruling whatsoever.

It was too late, of course, as the days of dukes and princes were no more. Nowadays, my sister’s competence as a ruler was a wasted talent, of no use to a recluse who made her livelihood by selling new shapes to criminals and cripples.

Suddenly, I wondered if Logistilla, too, realized what a help she could have been to Father. Could that be the reason she disliked me so? Because she resented Father’s reliance upon me when, in her mind, she could have done a better job? Unappreciated talents could become a heavy burden. I felt unexpectedly sorry for her.

“I do not know what to do,” Titus admitted, his voice low. “Miranda, could you ask your La…” His voice trailed off and he flushed. He lowered his head again, muttering, “Er … sorry.”

I turned away, my eyes wet with unshed tears.

“Honey, can you hear me?” Titus asked, chaffing Logistilla’s arm.

“I will not leave! I belong here! You cannot make me think otherwise!” cried Logistilla. “It is my due!”

“Here?” Titus rumbled. “In this dilapidated shack? With no servants? No running water? None of the comforts of home? Ha! Woman, you can have it and with my blessing. Me? I’m going back to our real home. Remember our house? A beautiful mansion with heat and air conditioning and all the benefits of modern life! Handsome furniture, electric lights, and our children. Children who will not grow old and die, but who will live as long as we do, so long as the Water lasts.”

“Argh!” The withered old man who clawed at Logistilla’s throne gave an inarticulate cry and lunged at Titus, slapping at him weakly. “Water! Water!” he cried in his high shrill voice. “Life! Life! Why should your other children have it, if it is denied to me? Why?”

“Cease, Galeazzo,” Logistilla cried. Apparently, she was aware of him. “He is not your enemy. My sister Miranda is! She is the one who slew you! She is the one who has everything, when I have nothing. She is the one who lived in this glorious home, a princess! While I was barred outside, forced to live in obscurity.”

This dark version of Milan, the loss of my Lady, and horrors I had seen all crowded around me, closing in as if to smother me. On top of all this, my sister’s accusations were unbearable.

“This heap?” I cried. “This prison? I did live here—if you can call my existence here ‘living’—but hardly as a princess! Once, Father suggested I make myself scarce, and so I did so. I lived here, haunting the halls, without speaking to my stepmother, my uncles, our guests, or even to my wise Aunt Ippolita, whom I tremendously admired. I spoke to no one, unless directly spoken to, except the Aerie Ones, the servants, and…”—I glanced back toward where my brother and Mab crouched before a pile of debris—“and little Theo.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “… For fifteen years.”

There. The truth had finally come out. I did not think I had known it myself consciously until I had spoken.

My brothers stared at me, appalled.

“Fifteen years?” Erasmus repeated. “You did not speak to anyone? Not Mother? Not Ludovico? Because of one stray comment from Father?”

I bowed my head, ashamed.

“God’s Teeth, Miranda, I had no idea!” Logistilla exclaimed. She looked directly at me. An unfamiliar emotion—could it be pity?—filled her dark eyes. Suddenly, she threw the broken pottery shard from her and, standing, snatched up her shoulder bag and the
Staff of Transmogrification.
“What is this filthy place? Get me out of here!”

Gregor and Titus both rushed forward to help her. Logistilla looked back and forth between them, frowning. Stepping away, she slid her arm through that of the rather startled Caliban, who glanced around warily, clearly not wishing to provoke my brothers.

Erasmus, meanwhile, confronted me, demanding, “Are you telling the truth?” I nodded. “Then, Father really did have you under a spell!” His face had gone strangely pale. “And all the time I was growing up, I never noticed!”

I could not answer. I wondered why I had never noticed Father’s influence over me, and yet, it had seemed so normal to do exactly as he said. I had always done so.

I pictured my father, the wise and brilliant man who had guided my life and kept our family on an even keel. How could I reconcile this man with the subtle sorcerer who hid secrets and ensorcelled his children? My current image of my father seemed as transformed from what it had been a month ago as this bloodstained, fungus-covered hall was from the
castello
I remembered. I wept.

“Oh, dastardly Daddy!” Mephisto hugged me. “He should never have done that.”

Logistilla’s withered son batted helplessly at our shoulders, wailing and bemoaning. Logistilla turned and saw him. She pulled away from Caliban and ran forward, wringing her hands.

“Galeazzo!” she cried. “Oh, my poor son!”

The five of us (I did not count Ulysses the Snake) tried to speak to Galeazzo, to tell him of heaven and the Brotherhood of Hope, all to no avail. Feeling sorry for Logistilla, who was weeping now, I gave Galeazzo a drop of Water. The sweet scent that filled the air raised our spirits and Galeazzo’s substance seemed less ephemeral; however, there was no change to his state of mind. The Water invigorated him, but he used this new strength to rage and spit curses at heaven. Finally, even Gregor, who had been making the greatest effort of all, admitted defeat.

Lowering his head and pressing his hands together, he said, “All we can do now is pray.”

*   *   *

“MIRANDA?
Erasmus? You’ll want to see this,” Theo’s voice called brusquely. “Logistilla, do you know anything of this?”

We joined Theo in the next chamber, where Mab was noting something down on his list of Possible Traitors. A pentacle had been etched into the floor, at the center of which stood the stone altar with the miniature images of Erasmus and me impaling each other. Other tools and accoutrements of the arcane arts were on display as well. Near the window, a red and black lizard had been sacrificed upon a second altar. It was pinned down by several stakes and wriggled lethargically, unable to break free.

“What is this place?” Logistilla walked into the chamber. She uttered a little gasp when she saw the dolls. “Oh, how horrible! Oh, that poor lizard! I hope that thing wasn’t a man once!”

“Did you do this?” Mab confronted Logistilla.

“Me? With what, my staff and some rubble? I need models, you know. I couldn’t make a doll that looked like Erasmus out of nothing. The only person I have saved in my staff is Gregor. Besides, why would I do such a thing? Do you think I
want
my siblings to quarrel? I mean, I admit it is amusing from time to time, but, really, there is a limit!”

“Then who?” growled Mab. He looked so disappointed at not having found the perpetrator that I felt sorry for him.

Erasmus asked, “How long have these been here, Detective? Can you tell?”

Mab shook his head. “Can’t tell because Hell covers its tracks. Makes stuff look like anything it wants. Not like up on the surface, where cause leads to effect.

“If I had to make a guess,” Mab continued, “based on the dust and the number of bones and such, I’d say a long time. Decades? Centuries? Hard to tell, ’cause matter doesn’t behave right here. Dust could settle in seconds equal to what would take years to accumulate above, just cause it’s, well, Hellish. But I can list our suspects.”

“Really?” Erasmus glanced at me sidewise. “And who would they be?”

“If it wasn’t Miss Logistilla, the only obvious candidates are Mephisto and Ulysses,” Mab replied directly.

“Why them?”

“They’re the ones who have had access to this place, the only ones who have traveled in Hell before—so far as we know. My first guess would be the Harebrain, because he recognized this place and seemed to know all about it, meaning he could have been here before. But then, the Perp is currently a snake, so if his snaky face showed recognition or guilt, I didn’t have the animal-whispering skills necessary to detect it.”

“I understand how Ulysses could be a suspect,” Theo said slowly, “since he has access to Hell with his staff, but why Mephisto?”

“Ix-nay on the emon-day uff-stay!” Mephisto whispered loudly, making a gesture with his finger across his neck. “No reason,” he said more loudly, “the detective just thinks I get around.”

Theo gave him an odd look but did not inquire further. “Is there anyone else it could be? What about Abaddon? He was the cause of a great deal of our misery.” Behind him, Gregor and Logistilla both nodded.

Mab lifted his head and sniffed the air carefully. He answered slowly, “Could be … Abaddon is the one who brought up the idea of a traitor … could be he did it himself to plant suspicion. However, it doesn’t smell like him … not that same stink I remember from Miss Logistilla’s house. Begging your pardon, Ma’am.” Logistilla huffed at him. Mab continued, “Besides, demons almost never do this kind of stuff themselves. Something to do with the Heaven/Hell compact. Usually, they get human servants to do it for them.” He sniffed again. “Smells like a human … but not one I can put my finger on. Too old.”

“Any other clues?” asked Erasmus.

“Not that I can recognize as such. No footprints or useful hints like that,” Mab snorted and shook his head. “Hell is no place for a detective.”

“Hell is no place for any of us,” Gregor replied solemnly.

From Mab’s expression, I could tell that he did not like dropping the matter of who might have put the dolls here, but neither did he want to be the one who told Theophrastus the Demonslayer that we had a demon in the family.

He turned to me. “Before you got here, Ma’am, we were just discussing how best to disenchant the dolls. Spells like this have to be dismantled carefully. Doing it properly could take hours.”

“Or, I could blow up the whole chamber with my staff,” Theo offered.

“What is the downside of that?” Erasmus asked.

Mab said, “It might cause you and Professor Erasmus some discomfort.”

“Discomfort as in we might suddenly combust?” Erasmus asked.

“Nah,” Mab replied. “If Mister Gre … Mister Titus surrounds you with that darkness stuff, you should be okay. You might feel kind of funny, though, when the spell breaks—tingly or something.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” I stepped forward. “Erasmus?”

“Oh, certainly!” He gazed with distaste at the dolls. “The sooner the better.”

I turned to Mephisto. “You’re the local expert. Will damaging this building harm the earthly Milan?”

“Quite the opposite,” Mephisto chimed in cheerfully. “The less similarity between the two, the less sway the evil twin has over the original.”