Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (35 page)

I was dreaming, of course. Logistilla had the
Staff of Transmogrification
and, with it, all the metamorphosis magic our family possessed. Except in the unlikely event that Logistilla could be convinced to join the company again, the resources for such a venture would never be ours. I sighed.

LOGISTILLA
led us into a dining room. A long table had been laid out with a place for one at the nearer end. Silver dishes overflowed with fresh fruit. Pastries and steaming delicacies filled platters and crystal bowls. The sweet aroma of papaya and fresh bread mingled with the smell of wet fur. Above, two spider monkeys chattered as they lit the candles of the chandeliers.

Logistilla gestured with her staff, spreading her arms wide. The spider monkeys rushed from the room, returning presently with enough china and silver for three more settings. My sister swept aside the skirts of her deep blue robe to take the chair at the head of the table. She gestured for us to choose seats. Mab and I sat to her right. Mephisto sat to her left. Koala bears sidled up to our chairs and fanned us with large painted fans, which was pleasant, for the air was humid and hot. A fourth fan-bearing koala sat amidst the dishes, defending the feast from flies.

The pale green light emanating from the top of Logistilla’s staff died away. The globe now appeared to be an iridescent ball the color of mother-of-pearl atop a slender willow staff. Seven prongs, carved into the semblances of a bear, dog, raven, rat, horse, toad, and pig, held the ball to the staff. Logistilla placed the staff in a special holder beside her chair. It stood upright beside her.

“Mangos anyone? Oranges? Breadfruit?” She began to serve.

“Three years is an awfully long time for a man to be a beast.” Mab was carefully sniffing each dish before he took anything. Cautiously, he spooned some strawberries onto his plate.

“Oh? So, you disapprove? Just for the record, Mr. Snoop-into-Other-People’s-Business, I give them a chance to buy their way out at the end of the first year. This does tend to favor the rich, I admit. But then, life just never is fair, is it?” She bent and scratched an enormous pit bull behind its ear. “Is it? Yes, my sweet.”

“Can’t you just reproduce money? Wave your stick around and ‘zingo’ you’ve got bags of lucre?” Mephisto helped himself to three slices of blueberry pie. “You used to do that all the time.”

“That was coins,” she pouted. “My staff was particularly good at reproducing coins, but American money has some sort of spell on it that interferes with my work. Such an inconvenience. Probably put there just to stop me.”

“It was,” Mephisto replied, his mouth full. “By Cornelius.” He swallowed. “At least, Erasmus says Cornelius is the one who put that spooky eye in the pyramid on the money. That’s probably what’s stopping you from reproducing it.”

“An
Orbis Suleimani
spell,” I murmured.

“Cornelius! He lives to make my life miserable! Though he does have a very fine staff! Of course, I like mine better.” She reached behind her and petted the globe of her staff fondly.

“He does work for the Federal Reserve Board,” commented Mephisto. “Maybe he feels he owes it to the people of America to keep their currency magic-free. Besides, with neat digs like this, what do you need money for?”

“Taxes, mainly. You would think if a person owned their own island, taxes would not be a problem, wouldn’t you? But, no. Some foreign power is always sweeping in and declaring itself sovereign. I just pay them and hope that’s the end of them. I find it easier to pay than to protest.

“Then, there’s my estate in Russia,” Logistilla continued. “The bribes I’ve had to pay to keep the title to that place are exorbitant. And they refuse to accept anything but American currency. Or that’s how it had been for years, anyway. Such a nuisance! Shepherd’s pie, anyone?”

“Any shepherd in it?” Mab eyed it suspiciously.

“Not a one,” Logistilla replied.

Mab and I both accepted a serving. Mephisto made a face and shook his head. “Russia’s become boring this last century or so. All that violence and yuck. Why bother to keep a house there?”

Logistilla lifted her head regally and stared down her elegant nose at Mephisto. “That estate was granted to me by Peter the Great!” she said. “I’ll be damned before I let some insolent pack of transient mortals take it away.”

Mab glanced around nervously. “Wouldn’t say things like that, Madam Logistilla. Bad luck to call willingly on the powers of Hell.”

He poured salt from the shaker into his hand and sprinkled it about his seat in a circle. Turning to me, Mab whispered.

“Who was this great Peter fellow?”

“A king in Russia,” I replied. “He spent a year traveling incognito around Europe during the 1690s. Our family traveled with him for a time. Logistilla and he . . . got along well.”

“I would have made him a far better wife than that Catherine creature!” Logistilla said. “But perhaps it was for the best. I would have tired of him eventually. He was sometimes called the Bear, but the Russian people might have been a bit put out had he actually become one.”

“Apparently, Catherine thought you had turned him into a stallion.” Mephisto snickered, his face smeared with blueberries and marshmallow. “I heard it was her fatal flaw.”

Logistilla gave him a veiled look. “Wrong Catherine, you buffoon. You’re thinking of Catherine the Great. That’s a myth, anyway! And thank you so much for mentioning such an unpleasant subject in my presence, yet again.”

Mab looked up. “The death of Catherine the Great?”

“No, you fool,” Logistilla replied. “Horses. I should have known the two of you were just waiting for a chance to humiliate me. And after I attempted to be such a generous hostess!”

“Wait, I’d heard you liked horses,” Mab asked, confused. “I thought you were some kind of great horsewoman.”

“I do love horses,” Logistilla replied theatrically. “It is only when they are upon the lips of my relatives that they offend me.”

Logistilla stood. “We have lingered over our repast long enough. Let us withdraw to the drawing room.”

We followed my sister to a drawing room decorated with overstuffed Victorian furniture upholstered in deep blue velvet. The place smelled of pungent musk. Logistilla chased off several large beasts to make room for us all to sit. She gestured imperiously. A marmoset scurried over and poured a deep red port into our tall fluted glasses.

She took out a long cigarette, placed it in a long black holder, and murmured. “Look at that. Now we can smoke and drink port after dinner just like the men used to.” She glanced at the rest of us and gave a throaty chuckle, “Even if there isn’t a real man here.”

“I didn’t hear that!” Mephisto said cheerfully. He walked up to Logistilla and snapped her cigarette in half. “Besides, don’t you know that nobody smokes anymore. Smoking is evil, nowadays. Right up there with murder and loitering. Or did loitering go out of style?”

“Oh, pooh!” murmured Logistilla, but she did not take out another one.

Mab pulled out his notebook, “All this talk about horses reminded me of something. You guys never told me the whole scoop about that Vatican caper. This is as good a time as any, considering that we really shouldn’t try to sail out of here until the tide comes in. So, tell me about it. Who stole what?”

We all began talking at once, but Mephisto shouted over Logistilla and me.

“Oh, it was great!” he cried. “We broke in just before dawn, there was a huge commotion. First, Gregor walked out with the ring. Then, I stole the sphere. Miranda carried off St. George’s lance. You may have seen it, Daddy keeps it by the fireplace. It’s all black and twirly with gold edges? No? Anyway, Titus was supposed get something, I don’t remember what, but after
he dropped the fake dead body of Pope Gregory, he got too busy killing the guards. Ulysses . . . no, he wasn’t born yet. Erasmus took the Shroud of Turin. Cornelius stole the Ark of the Covenant—only he opened it, the dope. Too bad about that. Daddy got the scepter made from a piece of the true cross. Theo rescued the spear of Joseph of Arimathea. With Theo, it’s always a rescue. He never steals. And, who’s left?” Our hostess glared at him. “Oh, yeah. Logistilla held the horses.”

“What a night it was!” I cried, recalling our wild escape ride across the sky.

“Held Xanthus, Pyrois, Aethon, and Phlegon I will thank you to remember,” huffed Logistilla. To Mab, she said, “They left me holding the horses, while they got all the glory and the goodies. Then, they never let me live it down. After that, any time we planned to do anything, it was always ‘Oh, we can’t rely on Logistilla, she’s only good for holding horses.’ Or, ‘Here’s some horses to hold, Sister Dear, you excel at that.’ The ingrates!”

“You made your getaway on the Horses of the Sun?” Mab cried aghast. “Where was the sun that day? On vacation? Do you know those horses are relatives of mine? Nephews, I guess you’d call ’em.”

“It was dark, silly.” Mephisto spoke despite his mouth being full of banana bread.

“But what about the other side of the earth? Ah, never mind . . . why did you need horses at all?” Mab asked. “Why didn’t you just take . . .” He flipped through his notebook. “. . .the
Staff of Transportation
?”

“The travel staff was new.” I chose a candy from a box of bonbons offered by the marmoset. “Father made it while we were in Italy. It had never touched the earth of the British Isles, so it could not bring us there. Instead, Father sent Mephisto to capture and harness the Horses of the Sun.”

“It was a royal pain,” Logistilla complained, gesturing with her wine glass. “We could only take with us what we could carry by horse back. I had to winnow my childhood, my whole youthful life, down to two saddlebags.”

“Back up a step.” Mab held up a hand. “You were living in Italy? Last I heard, your family fled Milan and ended up in England.”

“You mean the famous ignominious retreat after they were betrayed by Uncle Antonio?” With a wave of her hand, Logistilla dismissed events that happened well before her birth as ancient history. “That was in 1499; this was 1623.”

I jumped in. “After that, we moved to Scotland, though we spent much of our time in London. In 1589, we moved back to Italy, this time as private
citizens. The Spanish were ruling Milan then.” I recalled how strange it had been to see their unfamiliar faces living in our old
castello
.

“What was that all about?” Mab scribbled as he talked. “I mean, why did you go?”

“I’m not sure of the details, but it had something to do with the internal squabbles of the
Orbis Suleimani
. Father was constantly sending Titus and Cornelius to and fro on errands related to these matters. They had been born during our stay in Scotland; this was their first time in Italy.”

“And their first time carrying staffs!” Mephisto piped in.

“Titus and Cornelius.” Mab made a note and then looked up. “Where was everyone else?”

“Theo stayed behind in England for much of this period, fighting under the Earl of Essex. Erasmus married an Italian girl, a merchant’s daughter. When she died in childbirth a few years later, he and his surviving children returned to England, where he participated in the king’s translation project, helping to create what later became known as the King James Bible. I was with Father, of course,” I finished.

Mab scribbled down what I had said and counted my brothers quickly, tapping each name with his pencil as he muttered it. “Where were you, Harebrain?”

“Here and there,” Mephisto gestured airily. “I was in Germany, learning a new trade.”

“But you went to Italy . . .” Mab glanced down again “. . . by 1623?”

Mephisto tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, I went back to England and hung out with the School of the Night for a while . . . or were those the guys who hunted Miranda? Mainly, I practiced gathering . . . stuff. Then, the Spanish Ambassador stole something from me and sent it to Rome. I wanted it back, so I went to Italy.”

“What was it?” asked Mab.

Mephisto squinted. He frowned. He rubbed his temples, concentrating. Finally, he shrugged. “Don’t remember.”