Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (8 page)

“Your eternal lives,” Mab spat. “You’re kept eternal by the Water of Life. Without it, you’d be no different from the rest of humanity. With it, they’d be no different from you. How come you don’t hold all lives as priceless as yours, since all mortals have the same potential to live forever?”

“They’re not members of my family,” I replied haughtily, rebuking his impertinence.

As I spoke, I glanced out the window. Through the tinted glass, I caught a glimpse of an old woman crossing a pedestrian overpass with small hesitant steps. Her wrinkled face was careworn and tired. For a moment, I felt as if it were I and not she who tottered along, alone and worn.

There, but for the grace of my Lady, went I.

Meanwhile, Mab was saying, “. . . a fair trial. If the jury finds him guilty, and you still think he’s innocent, there will be time enough to decide what to do.”

“We’ll worry about it after we talk with him,” I said absently, absorbed by this extraordinary experience. In my long life, I could not recall ever having confused myself with someone else.

Besides, if I found Mephisto guilty, the cretin, it would not matter what the mortals decided.

The car screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. Car horns honked raucously. A silver Ford loomed in our rear window, with no apparent intention of stopping.

“Ma’am, I beg to differ with you, but I think we should settle it now. As I explained yesterday, I consider myself an American citizen, and I do not intend to dishonor Her laws. If you wait until after the trial, and you still think he’s innocent, I’ll do whatever you want. But if you intend to break him out before the trial, I refuse to help. I might even turn you in myself.”

“For God’s sake, Mab,” I cried. “Drive!”

Mab did as he was told, barely avoiding several accidents. My heart still in my throat, my hands sought my flute. It felt warm and solid in my grasp.

“Mab, you cannot disobey me.”

Mab shot a dark glance toward the flute. He growled. “I can damned well try. You might be able to move my limbs with that thing, but you can’t make me think. It can only force me to do tasks that are common to Aerie Ones. My knowledge and my expertise are my own, and I am not going to use them against the United States of America! We’re approaching the turnoff for the jail. What’s your decision, Ma’am?”

I examined my flute curiously. Was Mab right? Could I not command those parts of him that behaved like a man? What a fascinating concept! I doubted he was correct. Father would never have put him in a fleshly body if that were the case. On the other hand, one could never tell with Father.

I made a mental note to investigate Mab’s claims of free will when I had
some spare time. At the moment, I just wanted to see my brother and be done with it—without losing my life to traffic.

“Okay, Mab,” I said. “It hardly matters to me. If I think he’s innocent, I’ll wait until after the trial. But I’m going to hold you responsible for his safety. And woe to you if I believe him innocent and the Three Shadowed Ones reach him before the American courts do.”

“So be it, Ma’am,” Mab swore. “Let it be upon my head.”

THE
prison facilities were as impressive as any walled medieval city, except the great walls were meant to keep men in instead of out. Entering, we were conducted through a lengthy security procedure, made more difficult because the guard found it hard to believe someone as youthful-looking as I had been born in the 1950s. I probably would have been refused entrance altogether had he not mistaken my silvery hair for a sign of age. It was time to update my identification.

Of course, doing so would not be so easy this time, due to computers and modern security measures. As they finally waved us by, it occurred to me that it was a good thing Father had experimented with incarnating Aerie Ones back in the first half of the twentieth century. If he had produced a group of grown men out of nothing today, it would be tremendously difficult to acquire the necessary ID. Back when Mab got started, a letter of reference was sufficient.

We arrived so early that we had to wait until the visitor facilities opened. Eventually, a guard led us to a place where we could look through a window into a large room where they promised to bring my brother. There were phones on both sides of the glass, separated by slim walls that formed shallow booths. To either side of us, another prisoner spoke with his visitors. Mab and I stood silently, neither of us eager to talk as we awaited Mephisto’s entrance.

The door opened, and two guards dragged in the prisoner in his bright orange jumpsuit. He gazed fixedly at the floor, long black curls covering much of his face. I tried to get his attention, but he did not look up.

Too embarrassed to face me? This was not a good sign.

I sat down in the chair, facing the window, and picked up the phone on my side. The guards handed the other phone to their prisoner. I spoke to him sternly in Italian, asking if he were guilty of the crime of which he was accused. Instead of answering, he began to chant in a breathy singsong, babbling about how he was the alpha and the omega, the Archangel Gabriel and
Mephistopheles. As he chanted, he raised his arms over his head. His hair fell away from his face, revealing wide cheeks, a crooked nose, and a heavy dark brow.

This man was not my brother!

OUTSIDE
the prison, we walked silently to our car. As we reached our vehicle, Mab hung his head. “Oh, Ma’am! I hope you can forgive me for leading you on a wild goose chase.”

I glanced his way, intending a stern rebuke, but he looked so woebegone I could not help smiling. Suddenly, the experience seemed inexpressibly amusing. I started giggling.

Mab frowned, hurt. Then, a grin began tugging at the corner of his mouth. He too began to chuckle, and then we were both laughing uncontrollably. As soon as one of us would stop, a glance at the other would set us off again.

“By the North Wind, it’s a good thing we didn’t break him out without talking to him first!” Mab chuckled as we climbed into our car. “Would have been downright embarrassing, breaking out the wrong man!”

“Very true! Remind me of this event, should the issue ever arise again,” I replied. “You made an understandable mistake; the prisoner claimed to be Mephistopheles, and he did look Italian.”

“Mr. Mephistopheles’s trail still leads to Chicago, Ma’am. He’s here somewhere, or, at least, he was here recently. Perhaps we should take a day or two to investigate. Clues might come to light here that I’d miss if I were back home in Oregon.”

I closed my eyes and prayed to my Lady. She had brought this matter to my attention, I had no doubt She would help me carry out my duties. A sense of urgency, of growing danger, had begun nagging at my thoughts, and yet, as I prayed, I felt enveloped by Her calm constant presence. This feeling of peace came with no specific instructions. My Lady was gracious, all-wise, and a very present help in trouble; however, She only spoke to Her Handmaidens when it suited Her divine purpose. After pondering, I interpreted this to mean that we should stay here in Illinois.

Of course, had I been a Sibyl, I could have just asked Her directly and received a clear, unambiguous answer.

“Time is of the essence, Mab,” I said, opening my eyes. “There’s no point in our wasting time returning to Oregon, just to rush back again as soon as
another clue turns up. Let’s go to our Chicago offices and have the—whatever they are calling clerks nowadays—arrange a hotel for us. Then, you can continue searching for my brothers while I check in with the head office.”

LEAVING
the prison, we drove into Chicago, a city of wonders! Long ago, in Milan, I lived in a castle with a clock tower seventy yards tall. Even today, no building in Milan rivals that tower. Yet, seventy yards was like a child’s toy compared to the soaring marvels of glass and steel in downtown Chicago. The Sears Tower reached over 1,450 feet. While it dwarfed the buildings around it, the shorter ones also reached heights unimaginable to the men of my childhood. I never tired of gazing up at them.

But, it was not just the buildings. I’ve lived in many cities during my long life: Milan, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, St. Petersburg, Alexandria, to name just a few. Despite their various marvels, they had one thing in common—they stank. The inhabitants routinely dumped their chamber pots and rotting garbage into streets already buried under piles of horse manure. One could not walk in these cities without ruining one’s shoes—sometimes, one’s entire outfit.

Today’s tall looming skyscrapers rose over firm dry streets, clean except for occasional mud or litter. And the color! Ancient cities were bright on festival days, but flags and banners soon faded. Not so the brilliant signs and eye-boggling billboards of this modern age. The difference between the stinking towns of old and the glorious metallic expanses of today staggers the mind! I would never have believed men could produce such magic if I had not lived to see it with my own eyes.

And to think that none of it would have been possible without Father and Prospero, Inc.!

I ARRIVED
at our Chicago office just after ten. My next hour was swallowed by company business. I commandeered the Branch Director’s office and dealt with problems that had arisen since the morning. Many of our business concerns were unusually busy due to the Christmas season, and half our branches claimed to have emergencies only the CEO could resolve. Finally, I gave instructions to have all mundane troubles dealt with by the appropriate vice president and to forward to me only issues involving the five Priority Accounts.

Our company offices had been in a fashionable district when we opened them in 1910, but times change. Now, the area was so dilapidated, I hesitated
to walk the eight blocks to the hotel; however, I felt a sudden intuition that I should walk the distance. After arranging for our bags to be sent ahead, Mab and I set out on foot.

We strolled through the windy streets of downtown Chicago, past delicatessens and small stores selling jewelry or cameras. Winter was nearly upon us, and the weather here was true to the season. Mab pulled up the collar of his gray trench coat and lowered the brim of his black fedora, hoping to protect the back of his neck from the icy cold. I wondered how much protection an Aerie Spirit or, in particular, the carnal manifestation of the Nor’easterlies, actually needed from the wind.

The cold was not particularly disturbing to me either. Among the many charms woven into the emerald satin of my enchanted tea gown was a protection against the chill brought by any wind. However, a high-necked Edwardian gown tended to draw odd looks these days, especially if worn unadorned in frigid weather. So, I had added a white trench coat and a matching fedora, which fit snuggly over the Grecian twist into which I had pinned my silver-blond hair. Catching our reflections in a plate glass window as we walked along in our trench coats and hats, I thought Mab and I made a jaunty pair.

The morning rush hour had ended. A few well-dressed citizens bustled past, but the majority of our fellow pedestrians were unkempt and shivering. Almost every unattended alley or doorway had an occupant sleeping in it, huddled beneath newspaper or an old blanket. Across the road, a man in a bright fez and a brown overcoat stood in an archway. His placid face could have belonged to anyone—a short-order cook, an accountant, a department-store clerk, or a stock broker—except that one eye was significantly smaller than the other. As he met my gaze, something about his expression reminded me of the past, of many people I had met over the long years: people who worked for me, both aerie and human; people I had known in my childhood and long forgotten. Disturbed, I averted my gaze and pressed on.

Others, more adventurous, dared the cold to panhandle for their dinner. A lone woman with a red kerchief over her head and earrings the size of my palm sang beside a radio. An open cardboard box on the ground before her held a scattering of coins. Her voice was eerie and lilting. Mab tossed a bill into her box and another into the instrument case of a slim figure in a blue poncho and a sombrero, who sat on an old tomato crate, playing the lute.

As we approached the door of the hotel, the lute player began a new tune, singing in a high tenor:

“The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Lov’d Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she has a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She lov’d not the savor of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”

The song brought a smile to my lips, despite its lewd nature. Many years had passed since I last heard it, outside performances of
The Tempest
. By Shakespeare’s grace, it had outlasted many of its more deserving contemporaries. Yet, it seemed oddly charming to hear an old familiar tune, even a bawdy one, on the streets of modern Chicago. I walked back to listen.

The lutenist’s head rose. A slim pale hand pushed stringy black hair from large brown eyes that slowly grew round with fear.

“Miranda?” My brother Mephisto peered out from beneath the sombrero. “What are you doing here?”