8
The Circle of Solomon
I sat there watching my brother coughing his life away, my heart heavy with sorrow. If five decades of facing life as a mortal had not softened his resolve, what hope had I of saving him?
From the shifting mists of time rose a memory of my first conversation with Theo, back in 1482, some eight years after Father and I returned to Milan from Prospero’s Island. I stood in the cupola at the top of our Filarete Tower, the highest point in Milan, some forty yards above the roof of the two corner towers, and over seventy yards above the courtyard below. Facing inward toward the parade grounds, the vast edifice of Castello Sforzesco stretched out before me, a sprawling rectangular shape in the dark. The fortified Roccetta was barely distinguishable, a dark bulk in the left of the rectangle. To the right, however, the windows overlooking the Ducal Courtyard shone with life, and strains of music winged their way up through the cold night to where I stood.
The gaiety and lights poured out from yet another festivity, the third this week. My Uncle Antonio was visiting from Naples, and my stepmother used his visit as an excuse to throw a series of parties. The fact that this same uncle once betrayed my father in no way dimmed her enthusiasm, though, to her credit, she put her charm to good use, winning the admiration of many of Antonio’s supporters.
As I stood gazing into the dark, praying to my Lady, footsteps came echoing up the stairs. Sometimes, servants were sent to fetch me, should I be wanted at the festivities. The degli Gardelli, my relatives from my mother’s side, still took an interest in me. When they were in attendance, I would be paraded so they might admire my beauty and reminisce about my lovely, talented mother. Sighing, I smoothed my skirts and waited for the servant to reach the top, savoring my last moments alone with the night.
Only, it was not a servant who came tentatively into the cupola, but a little child with a head of black curls. He was a solid fellow with lithe brown limbs and dark eyes like clear pools under a midnight sky. I saw so little of my brothers that it took me a moment to recall which boy this must be. Erasmus was still a babe in arms, born the previous Christmas, while I was journeying back from the World’s End, and I vaguely recalled that Mephistopheles was taller and slenderer. So, this had to be the quieter and more stalwart Theophrastus.
“Sistah,” he asked, gazing up with his great dark eyes, “Mephto told me we can see whole world from up here. Is it true?”
“Not the whole world,” I said, smiling. As I let him admire the view, I pointed to some of the landmarks. Then, I showed him the sky. “You see those three stars in a row? That is Orion’s Belt. Now, behind Orion, you see that star and there? That is the constellation of Monoceros Unicornus, put in the sky by the Persian astronomer Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi, to honor my Lady Eurynome. It is a secret constellation, known only to Father’s people, which they use in their astrological predictions.”
This was true in those days. Not until over a century later, in 1612, did the Dutch astronomer Plancius leak the existence of Monoceros and several other Orbis Suleimani constellations to the general public.
“Your-ri-no-may,” my child brother repeated dutifully, gazing wide-eyed at the blanket of stars above us. “Father Julius did not tell me about Lady Yourrinomay. What is she? Saint? Angel? Or demon?”
“Do you think angels and men are the only children of God?” I replied, laughing. “The Almighty has more orders of servants than are known to mortal clergy. My Lady is one of these.”
“Father says you were con-consecated into her service when you were little, like me.”
“Consecrated,” I corrected him, recalling the ceremony and the smell of the spring rain as it splashed over the wet rocks of the chapel. “It is true. I was five.”
“Can I be consecated?” My little brother gazed up at me earnestly.
I shook my head. “No, only women can serve in this fashion.”
“What can men do?”
“A man may take a vow to serve Eurynome as her loyal knight, righting wrongs in her name.”
My tiny brother put his hand solemnly over his heart. “I so vow it!”
My heart softened, and, for the first time, I felt a chord of sympathy with a human being other than Father or Ferdinand. That evening stands out in my memory as the single note of warmth amidst the arctic waste of my years in Milan.
Theo recovered from his coughing bout and went to stand by the hearth, staring into the dark fireplace. As I watched him, it occurred to me that reminiscing might remind my brother of his younger, happier self. Fearing that if I took time to search for a suitable topic Theo would notice the lull in the conversation and send us on our way, I blurted out the first memory that came to mind.
“The spell today reminded me of watching Father and Mephisto set the wards before the French arrived. Do you remember the day we lost Milan?”
Theo uttered a short laugh. “What a disaster that was!”
“What went wrong? Did some unsuspecting mortal get his liver ripped out?” Mab moved over to the chair at the writing desk.
“The day, I meant,” Theo clarified. “The spell went well enough.”
“What happened?”
“We were betrayed.”
Mab leaned forward, his interest perked. “Betrayed? By whom?”
From the couch, Mephisto interrupted, “It wasn’t betrayal that did us in, it was Charlemagne’s Brood. Darn those sexy French sorceresses!”
“Take it from the top,” said Mab, pencil poised. “What exactly happened?”
“To begin with, we were overconfident.” Theo leaned back against the brick of the hearth and crossed his arms. “When we discovered the French were coming, we weren’t unduly concerned because we’d just beaten them five years before, under Charles VIII. It never occurred to us that this new king might pose more of a threat. After all, Milan had risen up and repulsed the Holy Roman Emperor when he attacked some centuries before. If Milan could defeat Barbarossa himself on their own, then how could we, with our magic, fail to defeat Louis XII?”
I recalled the event vividly. “The French came sweeping down from the north, just before noon on September 10, 1499. We rode out confidently to meet them. Back then, Milan was the home of the Missaglia family, the foremost armor makers in Europe, so our men glimmered like silver coins as they marched forward into battle. Between our soldiers and our magic, we were convinced we were invincible.” I smiled sadly. “Only the French brought magic, too.”
“Move back a step,” Mab interrupted. “How did you come to be involved in this battle to begin with?”
“Father was Duke of Milan,” I said.
Mab raised an eyebrow. “That really happened? I thought that Spear-shaker fellow invented it.”
“Shakespeare got his story straight from Father, though Father changed or omitted certain details, presumably to protect the play from the Orbis Suleimani.” I glanced at Theo, who nodded.
“As to how Father came to be duke . . . ” Theo stroked his neatly trimmed beard. “Our family is descended from the great Visconti family that ruled the duchy of Milan for centuries. Our father’s father was a commoner who married the daughter of the last Visconti duke and rose to become duke himself. Father was his eldest son and heir.”
Mab raised an eyebrow. “Married the duke’s daughter and got the duchy! That doesn’t happen too often. Lucky guy!”
“Our grandfather had the backing of a secret organization, to which Father and my brothers also belong,” I said, despite warning glances from Theo and Mephisto. “They picked him out as a likely candidate and maneuvered him into position.”
“Interesting . . . ” Mab frowned, then flipped a page in his notebook. “Back to that later. So, about this battle . . . you were defeated by a mixture of overconfidence, French magic, and treachery. Let’s focus on the treachery. Who betrayed who?”
“Who else? Uncle Antonio betrayed us . . . for the second time.” I pulled my feet up so that I was seated cross-legged on the trunk.
“Antonio? The name sounds familiar,” Mab scratched at his stubble. “Isn’t he the guy who was responsible for you and Mr. Prospero getting stranded on that island in the first place?”
“Yes, that was he!”
“That dastardly Antonio,” swore Mephisto. “And after he had gone out of his way to be so nice to me. He’s the one who taught me how to play cards and to ride drunk!”
“Still to this day, I have trouble believing his betrayal,” Theo sighed. “It may have been the French magic that destroyed us, but it was Uncle Antonio who found the sorcerers for the French king.”
“What happened?” Mab asked.
“We fled.” Theo closed his eyes. “Retreated to Switzerland.”
“Ran away like mangy dogs!” Mephisto chimed in enthusiastically.
As my brothers spoke, a scene from the past, long forgotten, presented itself to my memory.
A figure in armor of shining steel inset with filigree of gold on the back of a splendid chestnut charger galloped across the plains that surrounded Milan. Beside me, my father groaned, for he recognized the suit of armor, said to be the finest the family Missaglia ever wrought. As the armored figure rode forward, the enemy troops parted to let him pass. When he reached the place where we sat upon our horses, he lifted his face plate, laughing.
“Uncle Antonio!” I gasped.
My brothers, who admired their uncle, cried out in anger and anguish, but Father merely frowned grimly.
“Ah! Prospero!” my uncle cried, “How do you like my new allies? They are the bastard children of the great king Charlemagne and the fairy Morgana le Fey. I found them in some of the old records you left behind in your haste to rob us of our sacred library. In return for my rousing them from their tower in the vale of Orgagna, King Louis has promised to reward me with the duchy of Milan.”
“We shall see,” was my father’s sole reply.
We called up our magic, but it was a sorry second to the splendor of the French. Mephisto, not I, played the Flute of Winds that day, and while Father’s keen blue eyes shone with pride to see his eldest son perform a tempest, its song did not sing in his blood as it sang in mine. Nor could the flute yet call upon the other six Lords of the Wind Father later bound to it; only Ariel and Caurus bowed to its tune.
Desperate, I sought out Father and begged him to bring out his Great Tomes, the eight volumes he had kept locked away during my childhood, consulting them only in the most dire of circumstances.
“I cannot,” he replied gravely. “I do not have them. Or rather, they have been put to a greater purpose from which they cannot now be retrieved.”
“But, Father, we shall be killed!”
“Not killed, my dear, just routed. We shall withdraw to fight another day.”
He had been right, of course, though at the time, fleeing Milan had seemed inconceivable. Yet, many things changed that day. Years after the battle, I asked Father about Antonio’s “secret library.” He fixed his keen gaze upon me and asked whom I thought more likely to be in possession of a library not his own, himself or Antonio? I never reopened the topic, but to this day, I remain curious as to what actually transpired between my father and Antonio in their youth, and the fate of Father’s Great Tomes. I made a mental note to request that Mab add this subject to our list of questions.
Meanwhile, Mab asked, “Did this uncle of yours become the duke?”
“No. He died like the dog he was!” Apparently, Mephisto had already forgotten that, moments before, it was we whom he had likened to dogs.
“Who were these French jokers again?” Mab asked suspiciously.
“The sons of Charlemagne: the sorcerer Malagigi who could call up the dead; Eliaures the enchanter, his art was much like Cornelius’s; the devious, serpent-tailed Melusine on her chariot pulled by lions; the incomparable Alcina, who could sing men’s wits away . . . ” Theo paused, sighing. “And the sweet, charitable Falerina. Weapons blessed by her never broke or misfired.”
“You’re going too fast,” Mab growled. “Describe them in more detail.”
As Theo answered Mab’s question, I recalled how it had been that day. The sorcerer Malagigi had ridden an enchanted charger, before whom none could stand. He called up spirits and colored them to resemble the great heroes of his land: Rinaldo, Astolpho, Turpin, and the Invincible Orlando. Our soldiers could not wound these phantoms, yet a mere touch of the spirits’ illusory blades caused them to clutch their chests and fall dead from fear.
Horses with fangs and scaled hides drew the war carriage of Malagigi’s brother Eliaures. As our soldiers fled before these demon beasts, Eliaures threw handfuls of twigs into their midst. Wherever they struck our men, the twigs were transformed into serpents that latched onto their limbs and could not be shaken off. I saw a soldier chop off his own leg in an attempt to rid himself of the serpent that had sunk its poisoned fangs into his flesh.
The vile enchantress Melusine, her serpentine tail protruding from beneath her richly embroidered robes, resembled a goddess of the classical age as she charged across the battlefield in a chariot pulled by lions. She summoned up the evil spirit Ashtaroth and sent him to rip out the hearts of our generals. Elsewhere, surrounded by a phalanx of guards, their younger sister, the incomparable Alcina, beguiled men with her sweet voice, singing away their wits and leaving them wandering aimlessly, believing themselves to be trees, birds, or beasts. And, finally, behind the French ranks, the last of them, the charitable Falerina, enchanted our enemy’s weapons so their blades could not break nor their muskets misfire.
“In later years,” Theo finished, “they could never have stood up to us, for their tricks depended predominantly upon hypnotism. With a wave of his staff, Cornelius could have protected the minds of any man within sound of his voice. The Staff of Silence would have banished Ashtaroth and the other spirits serving Malagigi. As to Falerina, while none of our magics would counter hers directly, her blessings would not have been powerful enough to protect the French weapons from my staff. Back then, however, we had no staffs.”
“Nowadays, we’d a creamed ’em!” Mephisto bounced enthusiastically.
“How funny life is.” Theo gave a faint, ironic smile. “How we hated Charlemagne’s brood! For decades, I plotted my revenge. But time really does heal all wounds. Only two centuries later, when we met at the Centennial Ball—where the world’s immortals gather once a century to dance and swap stories—we were all the best of friends.” Theo sighed again, perhaps recalling the lovely Alcina, whom he once had loved.
“Logistilla even married Malagigi!” Mephisto declared gleefully. Then, he paused and tapped his finger against his cheek. “Or was it Eliaures?”
“Both,” I laughed, adding, when I saw Mab’s outraged expression, “Not at the same time, of course.”
“Both matches ending badly,” Theo said stiffly.
“Which means?” Mab leaned forward inquiringly.
“The gentlemen in question spent time as a boar or a goat,” I replied. “All Logistilla’s paramours end up that way.
“I thought Theo was going to marry his beloved Alcina,” Mephisto sighed dreamily. “But it was not to be.”
“Why? What happened?” asked Mab.
“They were French aristocrats.” Theo’s voice became grave. “One morning in 1793, the entire family was taken by surprise by Robespierre’s fanatics. They were dragged from their home before they could gather the tools necessary to practice their art.
“They lost their heads to Madame La Guillotine—the men, the women, even the half-sister with the serpent tail.” He shook his head in disgust. “A thousand years they lived secretly among men, and they were all killed in a single day, slain by envy and spite.”
“Weren’t they great magicians?” Mab asked. “Why didn’t they save themselves with magic? Not that I recommend that course of action, mind you. I’m just surprised they would show restraint under the circumstances.”
“The problem with sorcery,” Mephisto announced from the couch, “is that it’s no good unless you’re prepared! If they catch you without your staff, you’re just like anybody else—a dweeb.”
“Is that what you are, Harebrain?” Mab drawled. “A dweeb?”
“Yes, and I hate being a dweeb!” Mephisto replied fiercely. More cheerfully, he added, “Which is why I want you to find my staff!”
“Then you had best get underway,” Theo said stiffly. “You don’t want it to fall into the hands of the Three Shadowed Ones. Where are you going next?”
When I did not respond immediately, Theo asked curiously, “Who else have you warned?”
“So far, we’ve reached Mephisto and yourself,” I replied, “and we sent a letter to Cornelius. I’m assuming Cornelius knows where to find Erasmus.”
“If he doesn’t, the Orbis Suleimani will know,” Theo said, adding, “Cornelius is their leader.”
“Orbis Suleimani?” Mab flipped through his notes. “Did you mention them before? Who are they?”
Theo ran a finger along his mantelpiece, checking for dust. “The Circle of Solomon, the secret society founded by King Solomon, from which the Freemasons were later derived.”
“Holy Setebos!” Mab’s face went pale. “I’ve heard of those guys, and they aren’t nice to the likes of me. Used to have a—well, you’d call it a cousin. Poor sucker got caught by those bastards one night, and they put him in a jar. Far as I know, he’s still in there, and it has been over a millennium!” Mab turned to me. “Have you mentioned these guys before, ma’am?”
“I don’t know much about them.” My eyes narrowed. “Women are not allowed to join, but our family has been involved with them since before I was born. They’re the organization I mentioned earlier, the one that backed my grandfather’s bid to become duke of Milan. They have tasked themselves with keeping all mention of magic out of official records.”
I did not add that it was thanks to the Orbis Suleimani that Father and I did not appear in history books. All record of our exploits had been removed, and the period of Father’s reign credited to his father and younger brothers. The Orbis Suleimani did not bother eradicating The Tempest, given that it was generally regarded as fiction.
“Shhh!” Mephisto whispered loudly from the couch, “Ix-nay on illing-spay our ecrets-say, ench-way!”
I raised my eyebrow imperiously, then whispered back just as loudly. “This is Mab we’re talking to, Mephisto. He’s one of our employees, and he’s trying to help us. What’s the point of keeping secrets from him?”
“So, these Orbis guys go around changing the history books and messing with public records?” Mab asked. When Theo and Mephisto both nodded, Mab asked bluntly, “Why?”
“It’s part of their duty as guardians of the legacy of King Solomon.” Theo came to lean against the back of the armchair in which he had previously sat. His dog trotted over as well and sat beside him, gazing up soulfully at his master. “When men believed in the supernatural, they were victims. They tried to solve their problems by appealing to supernatural entities for help. Many of these beings demanded worship in return. Few of them were worthy of the honor human beings paid them, and some of them were downright evil.
“As soon as men stopped believing that pagan gods and spirits could help them, they began solving their own problems,” Theo continued. “Notice the Renaissance and the Industrial Revolution started in Europe. This was not because the Europeans were wiser than other peoples, but because that was where the Orbis Suleimani was most active. The idea that we lived in an orderly, scientific world caught on, and men began studying nature and benefited from it accordingly.
“Of course, it’s just a deception created by Solomon’s heirs and maintained, nowadays, by the Orbis Suleimani and Prospero, Inc.—what scientists call ‘physical matter’ only behaves consistently because King Solomon captured the four kings of the elements and bound them to the service of mankind. But it is a deception that is useful to the dignity and well-being of men,” Theo explained. He added piously, “Also, people are more likely to turn to God Almighty for their solace when they do not believe in lesser supernatural entities.”
Mab scribbled away for a time and then muttered, “Got it. Thanks.” He turned to me. “Anything else noteworthy about them, ma’am?”
“Back in Milan,” I replied, “my father was a member of the Orbis Suleimani. Soon after he joined, there was a division in their ranks. Father was loyal to one faction. Uncle Antonio and King Alfonso of Naples, Ferdinand’s father, belonged to the other. Their falling out led to the treachery that ended with Father and my infant self being exiled to Prospero’s Island.”
“And the second betrayal?” Mab asked.
It had never occurred to me to wonder if the opposing side of the Orbis Suleimani was involved in bringing the French to Milan. I replied hesitantly, “As far as I know, that was fueled by personal ambition.”
“And you’re sure this Uncle Antonio isn’t behind your current problems?” asked Mab.
I laughed. “He’s been dead a long time.”
“Did anyone actually see the body?” Mab asked.
“We all did,” Theo confirmed. “One of his old supporters turned on him when he realized that Antonio had betrayed Milan to the French. Erasmus found Antonio lying in the mud, dying, and made his last few minutes comfortable.”
“Erasmus sent a runner to fetch Father,” I said, “but by the time Father arrived, Antonio was gone.”
Only three times had I ever seen my father weep. The death of Antonio was the first. That was when I learned that Father and Antonio had been the best of friends as children, before power and Milan had come between them.
“His death has always troubled me.” Theo frowned. “Antonio was a bad man, and he died unshriven. I fear he may be burning in Hell.”
“Er . . . right,” muttered Mab. He reviewed what he had just written. “Which faction of the Orbis Suleimani is Cornelius loyal to, ma’am? Your father’s or Dead Antonio’s?”
“I don’t know. I never paid much attention, myself—too much mumbo jumbo for my taste.” Theo squatted beside the armchair and let the dog lick his face.
“Bears looking into.” Mab scribbled furiously.
Mephisto, who had slumped down again, popped his head up over the back of the couch. “Oh, Cornelius is loyal to Daddy. No doubt about that!”
“That covers Cornelius and Erasmus, then,” Theo said. “What about Logistilla?”
“Mephisto knows where she is, but he’s not talking.” Mab turned toward the couch. “Hey? How did a harebrain like you manage to track down so many family members anyway, when my detectives can’t find hide nor hair of them?”
“What’s to track down?” Mephisto folded his arms across the back of the couch and beamed at Mab. “I’m not a head-in-my-shell, like Miranda and Theo here. I never lost track of them. Well, except for Titus. He just dropped off the face of the earth about two years ago—hopefully not literally. And Ulysses, of course, but who could track him? I mean I know where he was when I last saw him, but who knows if he’ll ever go back there again? He’s less rooted than thistledown! I like his staff.” He considered this for a moment before concluding, “But I like mine better!”
“Hardly admirable that you’ve kept track of your relatives when your motive is to hit them up for money,” Mab observed.
“Oh, and you know so much about my motives, Mr. Bodyguard!” Mephisto replied hotly. He stuck out his tongue.
“Last I heard, Logistilla was living on an island in the East Indies,” I offered. “She also has a place near the Okefenokee Swamp and another on the Russian Steppe. She loves the Steppe,” I said, turning to Mab. “She’s a superb horsewoman. Horses were her greatest passion before she became a sorceress.”
“What changed her? Getting her staff?” Mab asked.
“No, being left out of our most famous undertaking.” Theo chuckled, smiling in reminiscence. “While the rest of us risked danger and gained glory, Logistilla was stuck holding the horses. She wanted to make certain we’d never have an excuse to leave her behind again, so she took up the study of magic.”
“Which most famous undertaking would this be?” Mab asked.
“The stealing of the artifacts of power from the popes of Rome,” all three of us Prosperos said in unison.
“Whoa! I thought all those Catholic artifacts were hoaxes,” said Mab. “Didn’t they recently debunk the Shroud of Turin?”
I smiled. “Of course, the shroud the Church has is a fake. The original is in the tapestry room in Father’s mansion.”
Mab scowled and spat. “No wonder that demon got past the wards. That house is even more polluted than I thought. How did you Prosperos know where these artifacts were?”
Rising, Theo glowered and took a step toward Mab. “You will not use the word ‘pollute’ in reference to the shroud of Our Lord in my house!”
Mab lowered the brim of his hat. “My apologies, sir.”
“As to how we knew . . . ” Theo leaned against the wall again and scratched the dog behind the ear. “Gregor was pope at the time. But, back to Father. What of Father himself? What efforts have you made to find him? Have you at least traced him to wherever he was when he disappeared?”
“We sent detectives after Father as soon as we knew he was not at home,” I replied.
“Why didn’t you go looking for him yourself?” Theo asked, his voice suddenly accusatory. He jerked his thumb toward Mab. “If he’s the best detective Prospero, Inc. has, why is he here, instead of looking for Father?”
“Those weren’t Father’s instructions,” I replied simply.
Theo stared very hard at me and then sat down in his armchair and put his face in his hands. After a time, he spoke without looking up. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time now, Miranda. When you were growing up on that island, did Father spend a lot of time looking after you?”
“No,” I replied slowly, puzzled by this dramatic change of subject. “He was usually studying, at least until I came to be of tutoring age. Ariel kept me out of trouble.”
“Ariel? Mab, you must know Ariel well. How good, would you say, is Ariel’s judgment of what is good or bad for humans?” Theo sat back.
“Lousy,” murmured Mab. “Take it from me.”
“What’s this about, Theo?” I asked.
“You were left alone a lot as a child, yet unlike every other child in the world, you never got in trouble, and you never got into Father’s hair.”
“I was obedient,” I replied, adding under my breath, “unlike some people.” Theo had been a dutiful boy, but I would not say the same for my other brothers.
Theo continued, “On an island, where every living creature—the Aerie Ones, Caliban, and even the flowers—were bound to Father’s will . . . hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Miranda, to wonder if he might have bound yours as well?”
“No.” I dismissed the idea.
“Well, it’s occurred to me many times, and I’ll tell you something else. I don’t think he ever got around to releasing you either. Here it is, over fifty-five decades later, and you still can’t help but obey his every command, even when disobeying might save his life,” Theo said bitterly.
“That is insane. Ridiculous,” I objected. “You have absolutely no evidence.”
“Then why don’t you give up looking for the others and go find Father?” Theo asked persistently.
“Those weren’t his instructions.”
A deep, trembling growl came from over by the writing desk. Mab stalked slowly forward, his eyes smoldering.
“Mr. Prospero wouldn’t have done that, would he?” he asked. “By Setebos and the Four Quarters! If I find that he enchanted Miss Miranda, there will be hell to pay!”
“Relax, Mab. No one has enchanted me. If you care about Father so much, Theo, why don’t you go save him, rather than accusing other people of being bewitched?” I snapped back.
Theo rose, and my heart leapt, for he looked as if he planned to take up his staff and head out to save Father there and then. If he would only leave his farm and return to the world, I was certain he could find the strength of will to throw off this malady of the spirit, whatever it was that had poisoned him and made him turn his back on the family and on life.
Theo’s gaze dulled. The sense of purpose left his body, and he slouched back in the chair again.
“I’m certain Father can take care of himself,” he said flatly. “He can’t be in Hell. That’s ridiculous. No, this is about you. You just don’t face up to facts. You know, Miranda, sometimes I think Erasmus is right about you. Nothing has touched you in five hundred years. You’re the same now as you were at sixteen.” He coughed briefly and then stood up. “Excuse me, I am going to get myself a glass of water.”
Theo headed for the kitchen with the old hound following him, its nails clicking loudly against the broad boards of the floor. As they disappeared through the door leading to the kitchen, an older woman’s voice rang out cheerfully, inquiring what she could get him and whether he wanted refreshments for his guests. From her tone of address, she sounded more like an employee than the mistress of the house.
As my brother stomped off, I stared after him, stung. Was this really Theophrastus, my loyal brother who had defended me unfailingly against Erasmus’s cool and acerbic humor? How bitter he had grown in his old age! Even so, I found it hard to stomach his siding with Erasmus. If Theo had fallen this far, what hope had I of rousing him?
Rage toward my malicious brother swept over me. Intellectually, I knew Theo’s new attitude was not Erasmus’s fault, but I could not quite get myself to believe it.
The door of the kitchen, which had been propped open, banged shut behind my brother, and I forgave Theo for all his rudeness.
On the back of the door hung a shield-shaped embroidery frame. The dark walnut frame held an embroidery of an elegant unicorn rampant upon a field of royal blue. The unicorn had a silver horn and silver hooves. Tiny pale flowers of light blue and lavender grew at her feet. The piece had faded over time, the unicorn’s graceful deer-like body yellowing to a creamy beige. Yet I felt it had aged well.
The sight of the faded embroidery brought back a flood of memories. Long ago, Erasmus claimed my lack of skill at womanly arts resulted from some want in my person. In truth, it was my upbringing among spirits rather than civilization that was to blame. Theo had stood up for me and told Erasmus that if he repeated his slanders, he would have to answer to Theo and his Toledo steel. And when Erasmus refused to be silent, Theo had beaten him soundly.
To show my thanks, I secretly learned the very arts Erasmus had mocked me for lacking. The first thing I made with my new skills was this embroidery of Theo’s livery, for Theo had kept the vow he made in the Filarete Tower at the age of five. He had taken the Unicorn as his device and had devoted his long life to righting wrongs in her name. That my embroidery hung here, when even his beloved sword and clock were not in evidence, meant that, despite his gruff words, he had not forgotten his affection for me.
Theo came back with a tray of fresh-baked cookies and a mug of hot chocolate for each of us. He carried the tray around and handed out the cocoa before settling back in his armchair with a cookie and his glass of water. The dog scampered back as well, and laid its grizzled muzzle across his feet.
The sight of the embroidery had warmed me, and the cookie was sweet and fresh from the oven. As I sipped my cocoa, however, I felt a dull emptiness spreading through my heart. Out in the snow, I had felt so confident that a few encouraging words were all that would be needed to rouse Theo out of his lethargy. I had not counted on the debilitating effects of the physical ills from which he suffered. These ills were hardly a barrier, of course. A drop or two of Water of Life and he would be good as new again. However, they sapped his spirit, keeping him from rallying against the reaper whose dry fleshless hands clawed at his door. I had tried Father’s plight. I had tried reminiscing. I had tried righteous anger against the demons, I had even tried family duty, from which the Theo of old never shirked. Nothing had worked.
I did not know what to do.
Silently, I bowed my head and prayed to my Lady, asking for Her aid, begging Her not to let my brother die.
Mephisto, who had been watching a soap opera, switched off the TV. His mouth full of cookie, he peeked over the edge of the couch and blurted, “Hey, Theo, you’ll never guess who we saw at the hotel today! Prince Ferdinand. You remember him . . . the supposed sap? Did you know he jilted our sister? At the altar, even? Left her standing there in her wedding dress! I bet you didn’t know that.” He waggled his index finger at Theo. “Somehow, Miranda neglected to mention this down through the centuries.”
“Don’t be foolish, Mephisto,” Theo began, then he caught sight of the blush upon my cheeks. “Miranda . . . is he telling the truth?”
I stared into my mug, my appetite suddenly gone. When I finally spoke, it may have been the most difficult single word I ever pronounced.
“Yes.”
Theo looked so shocked and so hurt that, for a moment, the young man he had once been was visible through the wrinkles and the short gray beard. I would have been overjoyed had I not been wishing so very hard that I could turn invisible. The humiliation of watching the pain and doubt that warred upon my brother’s features was so great, I thought I should die. Tears of shame stung my eyes.
Theo did not even attempt to maintain his pretense of gruff aloofness. He cried, “B-but, he must be dead, some five hundred years now! Are you certain the man you saw was not a look-alike?”
“I don’t understand it either,” I mouthed. I had intended to speak, but no breath came. “But he asked for me by name. I suppose it could have been Osae,” I added more clearly. The thought cheered me, obscurely. “I didn’t get close enough to check for telltale red spots.”
“He abandoned you at the altar?” The muscle in Theo’s jaw began contracting. “How did he justify breaking his sacred engagement vow?”
“She doesn’t know. She ran away and wouldn’t talk to him,” Mephisto chimed in. He now had a mustache of chocolate foam. “Too chicken to face the man who wronged her and warped her for life.”
My face burned like a furnace, and I feared I might faint; something that had not happened to me since the 1800s, when the dictates of fashion required that I wear a corset too tight to allow for proper breathing. Theo, who had always adored me, regarded me with something akin to pity on his face.
I was saved from further indignity by a knock at the door. The three farmhands—a hefty, bearded man and two wiry fellows in flannel jackets—returned from the bonfire to report “the weirdest thing.” The bear carcass split open in the midst of the flames, and a small red bird had flown out. Theo asked a few questions and then sent them away, shaking his head.
“God’s teeth!” He reverted to the swear words of an earlier age. “He escaped me that way once before! I should have told my men to keep their guns ready and shoot anything that came out.” My brother shot a long angry look at the trunk upon which I was sitting.
Mab closed his notebook and adjusted his hat. “Look, it’s been nice visiting, Mr. Theophrastus, and I admire your philosophy. But we’ve got to be going, if we’re going to warn the rest of your relatives. Oh,” he snapped open the notebook. “There was one other question I wanted to ask Mr. Mephistopheles.” Mab turned to Mephisto. “What color was Chalandra’s hair?”
“Oh, the most pretty auburn, just like a Titian. And she had the most lovely pearly gray eyes . . . Oh!” Mephisto trailed off. His mouth fell open. Then he screwed up his face as he began to spit and sputter.
“Eew, gross! Yuck! Phewwy!”
“Teach you to be more careful about your bedmates,” Mab said. “You’re lucky she didn’t make off with both your staves.”
Mephisto drew his knees together. Theo shook his head in disgust, though he chuckled dryly in spite of himself.
“Well, we’re off then,” I said softly. The room seemed stiflingly hot, and I found myself short of breath. I had failed. Theo would die, and I would be left, bereft.
Theo stood, suddenly awkward. “Take care of yourself. If I don’t see you again . . . ”
“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss,” Mephisto stood and slapped him on the back. “We’ll be back to bug you before you know it.”
“I would prefer if you did not return,” Theo replied stiffly.
While my brothers talked, I went to Mab and took back the crystal vial. When Theo’s head was turned, I slipped it onto the writing desk, next to the brown medicine container. I was probably wasting two ounces of the precious Water. But, some risks were worth it.
Moving across the room, I embraced Theo and kissed his bristly cheek. He squeezed me tightly to his chest.
“It has been good to see you again, Sister,” he said lamely, as he let me go. “You are as beautiful as ever. . . . ” His hand rose as if to touch my cheek, then fell away. “Untouched by the passage of time.”
In light of his previous comment regarding Erasmus, his words pained my heart and nearly caused me to cry. I managed an appreciative smile and squeezed his hand, but he only stood frowning at me. Dropping my eyes, I turned to go.
That was when it struck me. One last desperate idea. Perhaps it was in my power to save my brother after all.
“Theo, do you recall the day atop Grantham Tor?” I stood in the doorway, framed by darkness and softly swirling snow.
“We were both children then,” Theo replied brusquely.
“So, your promises meant nothing?” I whispered, hurt. Maybe the Theo I loved was already dead. Maybe he had died long ago, on that horrible night beside Gregor’s grave. Maybe this man here was nothing but a husk.
Theo bristled and snapped fiercely, “I always keep my word!”
Oh, thank God! I drew myself up.
“Prince Ferdinand Di Napoli has offended my honor.”
I did not wait for him to answer, but turned and headed through the early evening gloom toward our rented car. As I crossed the snow-sprinkled yard, I could feel the heat of Theo’s anger burning behind me like a flame.