Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (10 page)

MAB
and I gathered our hats and coats. Mephisto retreated into the corner, where he sat with his arms crossed, sulking. I offered him some money, but he just threw it on the floor. I shrugged and returned to Mab.

“Do you have any more leads?” I asked, “Or must we return to Oregon?”

A crafty look came into Mephisto’s eyes. He leapt up and stepped in front of us to stand in the doorway.

“And, of course, you know where you’re going. So, you don’t need me to lead you around. But perhaps I’ll see you at Theo’s? Or maybe at Cornelius’s? Got to be going, now. Bye.”

He waved good-bye and started out the door. Mab and I exchanged glances.

“Mephisto! Wait!”

“Yes?” Part way down the hall, Mephisto froze as if in mid-step. He turned and leaned back toward us, cupping a hand about his ear. “You called?”

“You know where Theo is?”

“And Cornelius! And Logistilla!”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell us?” I asked sadly.

“What do you take me for? A fool?” he asked, throwing up his hands. “But of course, I would be willing to lead you there, if . . .”

“If . . . what?”

“If you make your detective help me find my staff,” he said.

I looked at Mab. He was scowling.

“Could be a matter of life or death for some of my brothers, Mab. What if we hadn’t heard of the Three Shadowed Ones when the darkness started forming in the Great Hall?”

Mab stared at me hard for quite some time. Finally, he nodded glumly.

“Okay, Mephisto,” I said. “You have yourself a deal.”

“Yippee,” yelled Mephisto, punching the air as he leapt.

The phone rang in the room behind us.

“Could you get that Mab? It could be from our Chicago branch,” I said.

“While you’re at it,” called Mephisto. “Could you pick up the money Miranda left on the floor? I have a feeling I might want it after all.”

“Pick up your own damned money,” grumbled Mab, answering the phone. He spoke into it for a moment. Then, he picked up the money and came out, shutting the door behind him.

“It was for you, Ma’am. Front desk says there’s someone waiting downstairs to see you.” He handed me the money. I handed it to Mephisto, who wadded it up and stuck it into his pocket. Mab continued, “She hung up before I could ask any questions. I don’t like it.”

“Who could possibly know I was here, except someone from our Chicago office?” I asked. “Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

“What was it I said about ‘angels fear to tread’?” growled Mab. “Never listens to me. Okay, Ma’am, risk your neck. But I’m sticking with you. Just in case.”

“Me too!” exclaimed Mephisto.

“Great, just great,” I murmured. “You two have to promise me that if it’s a mundane business associate, you’ll both vamoose.”

“Let’s take the elevator to the second floor, then walk down the fire stairs to the lobby,” Mab said. “Just to be safe. That way we can approach from an unexpected angle and catch any assailants unaware.”

I sighed but obliged him. We took the elevator to the second floor and then found the nearest door marked
EXIT
. The fire stairs opened into a plush lobby covered by a maroon carpet. In the center stood a fountain surrounded by tall fronds.

Ahead, a man leaned casually against the counter. The clerk behind the counter, a pretty little brunette, blushed under his attentions. Then I saw his face.

Without hesitating, I turned and fled.

Memory is a funny thing.

We think of it as pictures in a row, like a motion picture recording of the past, but it is not. When we visit a place we once lived or hear a long forgotten song, we suddenly recall not only images but also sounds, smells, feelings. If we were victorious when we last walked the cobblestone streets of Firenze, the ringing of those cobblestones beneath our feet will bring a swell of confidence. If we were sad when we last heard Beethoven’s Sixth, then upon hearing the orchestra playing the opening swell of its notes, we will find our hearts inexplicably filled with sorrow.

And, to my great shame, if we were an awkward lovesick girl of sixteen when last we encountered a certain man, meeting him again makes us feel clumsy and sick to our stomachs—no matter how many centuries have passed in the interlude.

I WAS
across the lobby and through the glass doors leading to the street before Mab and Mephisto caught up with me. Grabbing their arms, I hustled them along rapidly. Mab followed without complaint, but Mephisto hung back, trying to get a good look at the man we were leaving behind. He leaned away from my grip at a precarious angle, hopping on one foot and shading his eyes with his free hand. He could not have been more conspicuous if he had yodeled. In disgust, I released my grip. He lost his balance, collapsing gently to the pavement.

Mephisto leapt up quickly and hurried after me as I strode briskly, covering the blocks back to the office parking garage without pause or comment. My heart was pounding. My cheeks felt sunburnt. By the time we reached the car, my fingers were trembling so badly I could not hold my keys. I dropped them twice before finally managing to open the door.

I climbed into the car. Mephisto went obediently to the back door, waving cheerfully to a couple walking between the cement pillars of the underground complex. They waved back, puzzled. Mab strapped himself into the front passenger seat, then watched, bemused, as I struggled to get the right key into the ignition.

“You seem distraught, Ma’am. Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“Better me driving distraught than either of you behind the wheel,” I replied hoarsely. “I would like to arrive alive, thank you.”

“So would I,” muttered Mab.

Ignoring his cheekiness, I drove out of the garage and began weaving my way through traffic, heading back toward Wilhelmi Field, where we had left our Lear. The rush of vehicles around me seemed a distant whir. Cars honked, perhaps at me; I did not care. I held my breath and waited for my innate sense of reason to offer some rational explanation as to what had just occurred.

None came.

Having given up on getting any information out of me, Mab had turned to Mephisto. “. . . must be some explanation,” he was saying. “Wonder if it has anything to do with the good-looking mug on that chap.”

“I didn’t know they made real people who looked like that,” Mephisto replied enthusiastically. “Do you think he was an actor or a movie star? Maybe he does toothpaste commercials.”

“Have you ever seen him before?” asked Mab.

“Nope. Must be after my time,” said Mephisto. By which he meant, of course, that I must have met the gentleman recently, since our family had gone its separate ways. He was mistaken. I felt compelled to correct him.

“Before your time, actually,” I said as I cut across two lanes of traffic to merge onto Interstate 80.

“Before? But how could that be? Unless, you mean he’s . . .” Mephisto did a double-take back toward the direction of the hotel that would have done Cary Grant proud. “He couldn’t be!”

“Could not be who?” asked Mab, scowling.

“Ferdinand de Napoli!” Mephisto exclaimed eagerly.

“Who?” Mab asked again.

No point in delaying the inevitable.

“You read Shakespeare didn’t you, Mab?
The Tempest
?”

“Sure. That and
Midsummer Night’s Dream
are the only histories of Shakespeare where anyone of importance appears,” replied Mab.

“That was Ferdinand,” I sighed. “Prince Ferdinand of Naples.”

“Impossible! He should have been dead for some five centuries!” Mab paused. “Are you certain it was him? Maybe this guy at the hotel was a look-alike.”

Behind him, in the rearview mirror, I could see Mephisto nodding sagely.

“You saw him,” I muttered. My fingers were gripping the steering wheel so tightly I feared I might break it. “Do you think I could forget that man’s face?”

Mephisto and Mab both shook their heads.

Mab growled, “Bet he made off with one of Prospero’s books, back when he was on that island. Used it to make himself immortal, which would explain why he still looks as good as he did five hundred-plus years ago. Whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good!”

“Miranda,” Mephisto called from the back seat, “If that’s Ferdie, why are we running away?”

Ay, there’s the rub.

Why were we running away? What could I possibly say to my brother? I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, but after so many years of pretending, the words would not come to my lips.

“I have nothing to say to him,” I replied flatly.

Intrigued, Mephisto leaned forward, his dark eyes sparkling. “So, what’s the story, Miranda? Embarrassed to see him after you used him and abused him? Afraid to face him after you made him a pawn in your revenge against Uncle Antonio for exiling Daddy to that island?”

“Ah, yes . . . our great revenge,” I muttered. My mouth was unnaturally dry. What a tangled web I had woven. Now, I must bear the burden of unraveling it.

In my long life, there had been only one matter about which I had constantly been less than straightforward. I do not know when the line between fantasy and reality blurred, but I had repeated the fabrication so many times, I had forgotten the real version. Only, when I stepped into the hotel lobby and found the subject of my fabrications staring me in the face did I recall the truth . . . and my terrible shame.

If Ferdinand were really alive, the truth would come out. My brother might as well hear it from me.

“About the whole revenge thing . . .” The heat in my cheeks rose to the
level of a second-degree burn. “The truth is . . .” I spoke the three hardest words of my long life in one rapid rush. “Ferdinand jilted me.”

Silence fell like a lead curtain. Stomach churning, I glanced sideways and then at my rearview mirror, trying to gauge the reactions of my passengers. Mab had pulled his fedora down over his face. Mephisto’s jaw hung open in astonishment. As I was turning away, Mephisto reached up and pushed his jaw shut with his hand. It closed with a snap.

“Jilted?” he squeaked. “As in ‘did not marry’? You? Marry? What about the Unicorn?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wishing I had let Mab drive after all.

“I-I was young, six-sixteen,” I faltered. “You gentlemen saw him. Can you imagine any young girl who wouldn’t want to marry such a man? He was the only man I’d ever seen, except for Caliban. I thought . . .” My voice dropped. “At the time, I thought I’d given the Unicorn her due.”

“You were going to leave the Unicorn to marry him, and he left you for another woman?” Mephisto asked. “Had you already bought your dress?”

“Had it handmade, you mean . . . one did not buy dresses back then. And yes, it had been made. I was wearing it. I was . . . at the altar.” My voice seemed to have dropped out of my throat. In a hoarse whisper I finished, “He never showed up.”

Amazing how a mere memory could shame me to the point of tears.

“He left you standing alone at the altar? Oh, poor Miranda!” cried Mephisto. “What was his explanation?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him again. He just . . . disappeared.”

“And now he’s here,” Mephisto said happily. “How romantic. The two of you can get back together.”

“Not a chance.” I stepped on the accelerator. The car leapt forward. I changed lanes, shooting between two other vehicles. This time I was certain the honking was meant for me.

We drove in silence, the other two afraid to speak. The roads flashed by, and soon we were at the exit, heading back toward Wilhelmi Field.

“That’s odd,” I said suddenly. “I was thinking about Ferdinand just today, right before we found Mephisto. I wonder what reminded me of him? I haven’t thought of him in years.”

“Maybe it was the song your brother was playing on his lute,” suggested Mab.

“I doubt it. That was a sixteenth-century English song. I knew Ferdinand in 1473, in Italy. Hardly the same, at least to me.”