Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (53 page)

“Why would Titus’s children have a doll house that looked exactly like Father’s house, down to the furniture and furnishings?” I asked slowly. “That seems . . .”

“Occultish?” Mab drawled. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

“So, if this is Logistilla’s place . . .” My voice trailed off.

“You think that’s Logistilla’s voodoo house? I don’t like it, Ma’am. Specially not after that devil stench I smelled at her place.” He frowned, his gaze fixed on the doll house. “We still don’t know how that incubus got into the mansion.”

I shivered and began chafing my arms. “We haven’t found Titus, but we’ve learned some interesting things nonetheless. I guess that’s all we’re going to see here, unless there are other children in our family I do not know about.”

The image shifted again. This time, it showed a group of dark-haired children playing in the street. As I watched, a man dressed in jeans and a blue shirt called to one of the children to come home. Apparently, the pool showed adults if they happened to pass close to children. Mab and I leaned closer.

“Why is the pool showing us this scene? Who is this boy? . . . Hey! I recognize that man! Mab, where have we seen him before?”

“I think . . .” Mab peered closer. “I know! He was one of the workmen at the Lincoln Memorial. He was the young guy hanging around with the fellow Harebrain nicknamed Mr. Mustache.”

I leaned closer, examining the brass ring on the workman’s hand. Gasping, I grabbed Mab’s shoulder. “Oh, Mab! We are such fools! Look at the symbol on his ring! That wasn’t the Star of David those masons were wearing! It was—”

“The Seal of Solomon,” Mab finished. His voice trembled slightly. “Ma’am, those guys aren’t Freemasons. They’re
Orbis Suleimani
!”

“No wonder they followed us down to the Caribbean!” I whispered, releasing Mab to pace about the room. “The
Orbis Suleimani
are devoted to removing all traces of magic from Mankind. If they heard us talking at the monument. . . . That man in the motorboat! Mr. Mustache!”

Mab’s face was grim. “If he was one of them, he might not have been sent by the Three Shadowed Ones after all.”

“Oh dear, and I had been congratulating myself for taking him out so cleverly.” I shivered suddenly. “I hope he survived the crash . . . unless the
Orbis Suleimani
is in cahoots with the Three Shadowed Ones, which could be the case if Cornelius has gone bad.” I froze. “Ferdinand! He was with us in D.C. He’s probably in danger, too! Do you think the pool was trying to warn us?”

“I wouldn’t burst your buttons, Ma’am. If they haven’t gotten him by now, he’s probably safe. Either way, there’s no point in our running off half-cocked to look for him.”

“Still, perhaps, we should leave immediately, as you suggested. Without waiting for dinner, I mean.”

“Glad to hear you talking sense, Ma’am,” Mab agreed, adding under his breath, “Even if I don’t much care for the cause.”

IN
the end, we stayed for the feast. We did inquire about leaving, only to discover a terrible blizzard raged outside. Even the reindeer with the nose-light refused to guide us through this storm. I offered to dispel the blizzard with my flute, but our host asked that it be allowed to run its course as he had already requested it to hold off until after Christmas Eve. As this left us with no way to depart before the weather cleared, our choice was to sit in our rooms or attend the feast.

The feast was not until late in the evening, so Mab and I decided to join Mephisto in the sauna-pool. I do not approve of the modern swimming suits—they reveal more flesh than they cover, but an elf maid had provided me with a proper bathing outfit, one that covered the shoulders and thighs while leaving the limbs free to enjoy the water. They had even gone to the trouble of providing me with one in emerald green. Garbed in this, and toting the huge shaggy lime-colored towel that I found folded beside my new swimsuit, I hurried down to join the men.

I walked into the steam-filled chamber and breathed in the moist sandalwood-scented air. It was like nothing I had seen elsewhere. The room was like a sauna, with cedar walls and ceiling, but much larger than any public sauna I knew. Hot rocks, over which water poured occasionally, formed a ring around a medium-sized swimming pool, filling the chamber with steam. Its heated waters bubbled from the pressure of air jets. The setup looked simple enough, but whether or not it required magic to keep up the thick steamy atmosphere, I could not tell.

The water was very warm. I luxuriated in the hot bubbling water, floating pleasantly in its relaxing warmth. Nearby, Mab, dressed in a pair of black bathing shorts, hung just beneath the surface with only his eyes and nose above the water. Farther along, Mephisto played with a large colorful beach ball. He leapt and splashed about, trying to interest us in his games, but Mab and I were both content merely to soak up the warmth.

As he floated, Mab pulled out his new Space Pen and began scribbling happily upon the pages of his waterproof notebook, underneath the water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cedar-scented air, thinking back upon previous Christmases spent in exotic places, or with my family, in happier days. Christmas, to me, brought to mind the ringing of bells, exchanging presents, scrumptious feasts, and, in the earlier days, attending Mass. In later years, my siblings became less religious, and we stopped going as a family, though Father never missed attending church on Christmas Day—not until this year, anyway.

Even after Father retired, we still spent Christmas together. I would fly out to Prospero’s Island to collect him, and we would attend mass in Notre Dame, or the Sistine chapel, or at one of the great Protestant Churches. We had talked about spending this next Christmas at the Duomo in Milan. Neither of us had been home in ages. It was to have been a special outing, just the two of us.

How terribly sad to know that while I basked in warmth and luxury, my father suffered the torments of Hell.

I splashed my face with hot water, so as to conceal any tell-tale tears, and recalled another Christmas when I had feared I would not see Father, though that occasion came to a happy conclusion. It had been a cold December, about forty years after our raid on the Vatican. After barely escaping the Roundheads with our lives, we had fled England. Returning ten years later, we found Cromwell dead, and the nation ruled by tolerant King Charles II. Father and Erasmus quickly made themselves useful to the new regime, and we were again the darlings of a British court.

Christmas of 1666, however, promised to be a lonely one, as only Mephisto, Erasmus, Logistilla, and I were home. Father and the rest of our brothers had left months before, chasing yet another meager hope of curing Cornelius’s blindness by visiting some hot bath or holy relic. They had been expected for weeks, but there had been no sign or word.

The four of us who remained were an incongruous lot; yet, as the holidays approached, our spirits rose. Carolers knocked at our door, singing “As It Fell on a Holie Eve” and “Angels, From the Realms of Glory.” We filled their hands with coins and steaming mugs of a strong ale called “nog,” for everyone believed it was bad luck to send carolers away empty-handed. We had no Christmas tree—that tradition had not yet been brought over from Germany—but we did have a nativity scene Mephisto had carved many years before. Mary and Joseph were a bit the worse for wear when we first took them out, but after Erasmus gave them a fresh coat of paint and a touch of gilt, they looked quite festive.

After the others returned from church, we gathered in our finery for Christmas supper. Ribbons were newly in fashion, and Logistilla dripped from crown to sole with brightly colored “ribands of the finest satin.” Erasmus and Mephisto (who no longer showed any concern for what he wore and thus had been clothed by Erasmus) were dressed in the new “English style” made popular by the king, who hoped to rival the French as an instigator of fashion. I thought they looked quite handsome in their long black cassocks lined with pink-and-white silk, though Logistilla insisted they looked like giant magpies. Less concerned with the dictates of fashion myself, I wore a gown of severe dark green with a falling lace collar of the sort popular during the reign of the current king’s grandfather.

Just as we sat down to our Christmas supper, the door burst opened and in came Father, along with Theo, Titus, Cornelius, and Gregor. Returning from the Continent, they were decked out in the latest French style, wearing long justaucorps and handsome dark periwigs of wavy curls, except for Gregor,
who wore his cardinal’s robes, despite the danger to Catholics in England. Entering the house, they swept off Cavalier hats festooned with jaunty ostrich feathers—much like the one Mephisto had just received, which might have been what recalled this scene to me—and came forward, smiling, to embrace us.

Titus burst into laughter when he saw Mephisto’s and Erasmus’s attire, and informed them that the French king had recently taken to dressing his footmen and servants in this “English” manner. That was the last time I saw either Erasmus or Mephisto wear their magpie coats. There was much anger against the French king for this slight, especially among the English noblemen, who muttered that such indignity would incite even a stone to seek revenge. Yet, soon the whole court, including King Charles himself, were again garbed as French fashion dictated.

We all sat down together around our Christmas dinner, though what was to have been a large feast for four looked somewhat meager when shared among nine. Still, despite Cornelius’s most recent disappointment, there was an air of festivity and joy.

“You missed a horrendous fire,” Erasmus explained as Father began carving the shoulder of mutton. “Near all the city was destroyed. I did hear it called the new Great Fire of London.”

“ ’Twas worse than the fire of 1212?” asked Father.

“Over thirteen thousand houses lost. True, some of these fell to the Duke of York’s gunpowder. Buckingham claims York was overzealous in his efforts to stop the conflagration, but the number remains.”

Theo whistled. “How many killed?”

“Six!” Erasmus grinned.

Father’s white bushy eyebrows shot up. “All those houses lost and only six souls died? Surely, the Hand of God rested upon London.”

“Or the hand of Prospero!” Erasmus chuckled. “Mephisto and I ensnared the Sovereign of the Salamanders early the first day. Lacking our staffs, we had not the strength to compel him to stop his inferno, but we offered what we could. We promised if his minions curbed their taste for the living, restricting their diet to inanimate materials and beasts, we would reward him with a droplet of Water of Life. He did as we requested, and we paid the toll.” The laughter drained out of Erasmus’s face. “Sir, if we had but had our staffs! Thousands of men are destitute, camped in tents at St. George’s Fields, and Moorfields, or as far out as Highgate. All of which could have been avoided.”

“In their despair, many have turned to dishonest means. Our prisons are
frightfully overcrowded,” huffed Logistilla, who often visited the prisons as part of her charity work.

“And this after the Black Death claimed nearly twenty thousand souls only last year.” Gregor bowed his head in prayer. “O Accursed City! The men of England suffer for the sins of their libertine Protestant king!”

Father looked up from his mince pie, frowning. “From whence came the Water of Life you proffered this monster?”

“From my personal reserve. I mind not forgoing one year’s drop in return for the lives saved,” replied Erasmus.

“Would not Miranda help you?” Father voice rose sharply. I opened my mouth to explain that my brothers had never approached me, but Erasmus cut me off with a snort of derision.

“That miser? A lamentable proposition, sir! She would rather all Londoners cook than waste one drop of her pearly riches! She would not even come out and help us.”

Again, I wanted to object—the day Father departed, he had asked me to mind the house, and so I had done so. As I opened my mouth to explain, however, Theo threw me a pleading glance, indicating he would be grateful if Christmas dinner did not turn into a quarrel. I was so happy to have him home! As a favor to him, I held my tongue.

We ate, accompanied by animated descriptions of the travelers’ adventures. The fare was excellent, and every time one of us raised an empty glass, a wine bottle would float up and fill it, as Aerie Ones rushed to do our bidding. Logistilla was commended by all for her choice of dishes, Mephisto roused himself from his morose stupor—his malady was much worse in those days—to juggle jam tarts for our amusement, and even Gregor allowed himself a smile.

As the last dish was being cleared away, Cornelius spoke up in his soft voice.

“Father, I would speak.”

Father held up his hand, and the rest of us fell silent. Cornelius stood. The dusty-blue silk covering his eyes matched the shade of his justaucorps. “All this rushing to and fro, pursuing will-o-the-wisps, achieves nothing but to raise and dash our expectations. By the Grace of God was I blinded, and only by the Grace of God will my sight be restored. Let us abandon our attempts to find a cure and turn our efforts to more useful ends.”

He sat down. The rest of us gaped at him in astonishment. Curing
Cornelius’s blindness had been our main effort for four decades, that and Mephisto’s madness. We were not sure how to respond.

Father finally broke the silence. “This news brings me sorrow, and yet I think it wise. I would reward you for your noble sacrifice. What gift do you desire? Name it!”