Prospero Regained (74 page)

Authors: L. Jagi Lamplighter

BOOK: Prospero Regained

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“Cornelius? I didn’t know you even liked Cornelius.”

I brushed aside escaped strands of my raven black hair, which still seemed jarring and unfamiliar to me. “It’s a long story.” I looked him in the face a moment and suddenly thought of something. “Erasmus! Wait here, just a moment!”

I ran off and came back with an old tin canteen wrapped in a MacLaren plaid. I thrust it at him.

“What is this?” He opened it and sniffed the wondrous aroma that escaped from the bottle. His breath caught in his throat, and his face went slack. He stared at the canteen for a time, as if he was afraid to trust his senses. Finally, he looked up at me, his face agog with joy. “Water of Life! A whole canteen!”

“I thought you might need some. It’s not a Urim container, so the holy essence will eventually leak out, but—”

“It’s all right.” He cut me off, his dark eyes dancing with an inner light. “I know how to make it last long enough to serve my purposes. I’ll ward the canteen with that black cloth we prepared to keep Paimon quiet during our trip.”

He put down his staff and bags and pulled me into his arms, hugging me tightly. I squeezed him back, laying my head against his shoulder. I searched my memory, but could not recall that he had ever willingly embraced me before, except in Limbo, when he thanked me for saving him.

Stepping back, he smiled at me sideways though his dark hair, which, as always, hung in his face. He picked up his staff again, leaving the bags on the floor. “I’m not entirely certain this Elf Boy is good enough for you, though. If any part of him gives you trouble, you tell me.” He hefted his staff. “I’ll see it won’t bother you in the future!”

I started to smile then blushed furiously as possible implications of his threat occurred to me.

“You need not fear having Osae’s bastard for a nephew,” I replied in a rush. “My Lady assures me I have escaped that doom.”

“Wonderful news!” Erasmus exclaimed. “I shall look forward to the
pitter-patter
of little elvish feet, Madam Stormwind.”

His use of my new title caught me by surprise and caused me to blush all the more. For he was right. I was now Miranda Stormwind. I put my hands over my mouth to suppress a girlish giggle.

Erasmus shook his head, chuckling. “Nothing makes a bride giddier than to remind her of the gravity of her new position.” Lowering his staff through the handles, he picked up his bags again. “A Sibyl. After all these years. And now you can talk to Eurynome directly, can’t you?”

I smiled. “Yes. Which is wonderful … but not as important as I once thought it was.”

“How so?”

“I have learned how to make my own decisions.”

“How glorious, Sister,” Erasmus bowed, smiling though his hair.

As he turned to go, I watched him fondly. I realized that I now had trouble recalling why I had so disliked him.

“Erasmus!” I called as he walked away. He paused and arched an eyebrow. I hesitated and then blurted out, “My hair, can you … would you turn it back to silver?”

Erasmus threw his head back and laughed. “Certainly, Sister,” he replied when he could speak again. “Always happy to wither a family member.”

* * *

I WENT
down to the Eridanus and, after showering the life and love that poured from my forehead upon a still pool, washed my newly withered hair in Water of Life until it shone like spun silver. It was a pleasure to see my reflection match my mental image of myself, and an even greater joy to see the spiral ivory mark upon my brow. I hoped Astreus would like my pale locks.

The little feylings gathered around the Water, sipping it and dancing, until the whole glade sparkled with tiny lights. Several Aerie Ones who were still on the island swooped down to drink as well, caressing me with gentle gusts to show their gratitude.

When I came back to the house, I found my family gathered in the music room. An Aerie One—who had accepted my offer of employment—stood by, muting the tremendous roar of the waterfall. Beyond the sheet of falling water, I could see Astreus soaring above the island, laughing as he glided and dove. Closer at hand, Logistilla and Titus talked with their children. Teleron had put his book aside, and Typhon leaned his head happily against Logistilla, who was stroking his hair. Gregor and Ulysses sat at the small table in the center of the room, sipping wine and playing cards with Father’s antique
tarocco
deck.

Theo stood beside the piano with a cavalier-hat-wearing Mephisto, who was trying to master modern language. Near them, Schrödinger, in her new, Logistilla-designed, brindle cat body, batted playfully at Tybalt, Prince of Cats. Ulysses had fetched my familiar from Prospero’s Mansion, along with the gem that held Mab’s “cousin” in it, which I had found on my breakfast tray.

On the far side of the room, Father, Cornelius, and Caliban listened as the
Staff of Wisdom
conversed with the
Staff of Persuasion
. Cornelius’s shoulders still slumped dejectedly, but Caliban’s face had a calmer, more steady quality: more like a professor, less like a servant.

“Where’s Mab?” I asked.

* * *

I FOUND
him in Father’s workroom amidst swirling sawdust. He had my flute in a vise and was slicing it into slim rings with the electric saw. My stomach clenched, and I had to look away.

“Won’t be enough for us all,” he commented over the
whirr
of the saw, “but, heck, at least some of us can enjoy ’em. Maybe we can take turns. Thought I’d keep the mouthpiece myself. Seems fitting, somehow. Kind of like the idea of dancing to my own tune for a change.”

I held out the gem that Ulysses had brought from Prospero’s Mansion. Mab’s face lit up.

“My … well, you’d call him a cousin!” A big grin split Mab’s craggy face as he accepted the jewel in which some airy spirit flitted hither and yon. “Ah, Ma’am, you remembered! You kept your word.”

Mab started to peer into the gem and then seemed to think better of it. He stuffed it into his pocket to work on later and went back to sawing.

“Oh, Mab!” Tears rushed to my eyes. “Father’s servants are all leaving. Five hundred years, they’ve been with us, yet they’re leaving. Ariel will be gone when Logistilla gets to Oregon. I have no idea how she’ll run that house without him. Or Prospero, Inc! Though Mustardseed is staying on as head of Priority Contracts, bless him! That sacrifice alone may save mankind. Wh-what will you do?”

Mab left off sawing and cocked his head, tilting up the brim of his hat. “Well, Ma’am, the truth is I’ve gotten to rather like this mortal body. Figure I’ll stick with it a while longer. Besides, Lord Astreus’s a fine elf, but he doesn’t know squat about this mortal world. A half-angel like yourself, Ma’am … Well, someone’s got to stand by to keep you out of trouble. Might as well be me.” He fidgeted with the pile of new rings he had cut from what had, for so long, been my precious flute. “That is, if you’ll have me. Don’t want to be intruding on your honeymoon or nothing.”

“Mab!” I cried joyously. Leaning forward, I gave him a kiss on his scratchy cheek. Straightening up, I added, “Looks like we’ll have some exciting times ahead, with all these elves to contact and Gifts of the Sibyl to explore.”

“Exciting is not the word I’d choose,” Mab muttered, as he went back to sawing, “but, that’s just me, Ma’am.”

THE
END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to Mark Whipple, Dave Eckstein, and Catherine Rockwood, without whose encouragement, this novel would have been abandoned in its infancy.

To Von Long, Bill Burns, Erin Furby, Kirsten Edwards, Dave Coffman, Donna Royston, Don Schank, James Hyder, Anna MacDonald, and Diana Hardy for their support and advice, and to Danielle Ackley-McPhail and the Yesterday’s Dreamers for all their useful ideas concerning the craft of writing itself.

To my brother, Law Lamplighter, for recounting his vision of the City of Dis, which I reproduced to the best of my ability.

To Peter Atkins, for permission to reprint his poem, “Expectant Father to His Unborn Son.”

To Father Laurence and Brother Gerard for the idea about the nature of Hell, which they shared under a circumstance so strange that it would not be believed if I tried to explain it.

To my gracious editor, Jim Frenkel, and my dashing and knightly agent, Richard Curtis.

To Milton, whose title this one hopefully honors.

And, most important, to my mother, Jane Lamplighter, without whose selfless devotion to her grandchildren this book literally could not have been written.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L. Jagi Lamplighter is the author of the novels
Prospero Lost, Prospero in Hell,
and
Prospero Regained,
and sundry short stories. She lives with her husband and children in northern Virginia. For more information, visit her Web site at
www.ljagilamplighter.com
.

TOR BOOKS BY L. JAGI LAMPLIGHTER

Prospero Lost

Prospero in Hell

Prospero Regained

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

PROSPERO REGAINED

Copyright © 2011 by L. Jagi Lamplighter

All rights reserved.

Edited by James Frenkel

The author wishes to thank Peter Atkins for permission to reprint his poem “Expectant Father to His Unborn Son.” Copyright © 1998 by Peter Atkins. First published in
Weird Tales,
Fall 1998.