12
Dances with Elves
The afternoon sun hung low over the aquamarine waters. The winds blew steadily upon our sails, as sparkles of golden sunlight danced over the curling waves. To the starboard, a flying fish broke free of its watery home before splashing back into the depths; overhead, seagulls wheeled and sounded their cries.
Mephisto, Mab, and I were sailing out of Charlotte Amalie, the busiest cruise port in the Virgin Islands. We had spent the night in Maryland, feeling it was too late for a long flight after our meeting with Ferdinand. Then, rising early this morning, we flew to St. Thomas, as there was no landing strip on St. Dismas’s Island. Once there, we chartered the Happy Gambit, a spinnaker-rigged thirty-foot sloop, and set sail for Logistilla’s.
The prevailing wind speed averaged eighteen knots. We bounded along at a goodly clip, with Aerie Ones shielding us from excess wind and spray. While I could not deny the appeal of sailing with the sheet in one hand and the helm in the other, the appeal of lounging on the deck enjoying the sun and wind was even stronger today. It had been months, perhaps years, since I had taken a day off.
I charted a course to St. Dismas’s Island and sailed out of the harbor. When we reached open waters, I whistled up the winds and turned control of the helm over to the local Aerie Spirits.
The Happy Gambit was a beautiful cedar-strip sloop. I sat on the bowsprit, floating above the waves, a cool breeze blowing in my face. I had changed my attire and now wore a yellow-and-white sundress with a wide straw hat tied under my chin with a ribbon of bright yellow silk that fluttered about my face as I gazed at the sea. It had been a long time since I had been sailing. My own sailboat, the Witchcraft, sat neglected in some dry dock in Portland. Sitting there, watching the water reflect the sky as our boat leapt from swell to swell, I resolved to find time to take her out again.
Sailing brought back such happy memories. It was hard to feel troubled when caught between the sky and the sea. One could almost believe one was flying. The warm Caribbean sun beat down on my face, as our hull moved melodically through the waves. What a splendid afternoon! What lovely weather! I loved weather, all weather, not just the good kind. I loved balmy days, fearsome storms, blizzards, and spring showers. And the colors! Every day brought something to be admired: the soft feathery patterns of cirrus clouds, the deep, dark grays of thunderheads, the lacy gold and peach of the early morning sunrise. The sky and its moods called to me.
My childhood had been spent upon an island that was barely more than rock and heavens. The Aerie Spirits continually orchestrated storms at Father’s behest. Hardly a day went by without the howling of winds and the crash of thunder, and I had reveled in every moment of it! That my brother Erasmus, who had known me nearly all my life, could believe I had asked for the flute because I desired to seize control of Father’s servants was mind-boggling.
What a shock returning to Milan had been for me. Perhaps my long life might have taken a different direction if my father had married a woman who showed any kindness to my young self. When we returned from the island, Father had expected me to wed Ferdinand and leave for Naples, so he had not considered my welfare when he chose his next bride. Hoping to consolidate his power in Milan and keep his brothers at bay, he chose a daughter from a powerful family. Isabella Medici was a gorgeous young woman with dark, glancing eyes and clever, calculating ways. She had no time for a lovely stepdaughter who knew nothing about society or womanly arts. Since I was content to mope about the castle, mourning silently, she ignored me.
Father’s counselor, the wise Gonzalo, who in prior years had warned my father against his brother’s treachery and who had helped him and my infant self escape, took a keen interest in me and sought to cheer me; however, he passed on a year or so after our return, leaving me friendless.
With time, I recovered my spirits and took my first trek to draw Water of Life from the Well at the World’s End. The well stands beside the place where the River of Stars plunges off the brink of the world, falling into the abyss of the Void in a cascade of silvery light, surrounded by a spray of stardust. The journey there and back takes a year and a day, during which I was gone from Father’s court. By the time I returned, my grief banished and my spirits buoyed up by the wonders I had beheld, I had been forgotten. I was a living ghost, haunting the great stone edifice of my new home.
The night I had met Theo at the top of the Filarete tower, Isabella Medici had given a party in honor of my uncle Antonio. Everyone at the castello had been invited. Everyone, that was, except the duke’s awkward, savage daughter, who did not know how to eat or speak properly or how to behave like a civilized person. It was not that I would have been turned away—oddities were always diverting—but, rather, that no one bothered to rouse me from my private retreat, or to provide me with a suitable dress, or for that matter, to take any thought about me whatsoever.
My father treated me kindly, of course, but he was a busy man. In addition to his ducal responsibilities, which he left mainly in the hands of his wife and his brother Ludovico, he waged a war within the Orbis Suleimani. The details of this struggle were never made clear to me, but he was constantly drafting letters and sending Aerie Ones off with missives. Also, he was still drunk with the wonder of having fathered sons.
Nor did it seem to occur to my father that I might need attention. I had seen to my own entertainment on the island and had been perfectly content. He seemed to assume the same would be true in Milan. Only, on the island, I had Aerie Ones as companions, and, in my younger days, Caliban as my playmate. In Milan, the Aerie Ones were still with us, but Father, fearing that I might be slandered with charges of witchcraft, had forbidden me to speak with them when anyone else might see. And so, I did not.
I did go once and ask him what he thought I should be doing with my time. He asked why I did not help my stepmother, attend her parties, and whatnot.
“She does not seem to want me underfoot,” I had answered simply.
“Well, perhaps you should make yourself scarce, then,” Father had replied absently, as he turned the page of a highly illuminated tome. And so, I had done so.
Thus it was that I climbed so often to the top of Filarete Tower, even on cold nights, to talk with my airborne friends and play the old silver practice flute Father had given me.
Even today, the Aerie Ones remained my closest companions; they were the only ones with whom I could share my thoughts, my joys. I had never met another mortal who felt as I did, particularly about the sky. Everyone else in my family favored one type of weather over another. Even my dear Aerie Ones did not entirely understand. They were too much a part of the natural world to savor its delight. When I played my flute, summoning up a storm or a perfect blue sky, I could feel my soul stirring as if I could escape the bonds of earthbound life and lose myself in eternity.
“Ma’am, we’re being followed!” Mab’s voice called from the stern.
“Motor or sail?”
“Sail.”
I laughed. “You have got to be kidding!”
I roused myself and headed down into the cabin to get my flute, nodding to Mephisto, who was belowdecks making up his bunk. My brother often suffered from seasickness, so he wanted to have his bed ready, in case he felt the desire to slink below.
As I climbed back up the ladder, I called, “Earplugs, Mab!”
Planting my feet on the undulating deck, I played a brisk tune. The music leapt and danced, lightening my spirits even as it mocked our adversary. Within moments, the offending sailboat was blown far off course. Every time the harried sailor tried to change his tack, the wind switched directions. Soon, his sailboat was but a tiny spot on the horizon.
Mab took out his earplugs. He carried a cola, drinking it through a straw. “Did you see the guy sailing that boat, the one with the moustache? He’s the same fella who’s been following us since the hotel last night. I’m sure of it.”
“Last night! You mean the hotel in DC?”
Mab nodded. “I think he’s one of those masons from the Monument. The one with the tattoo on his arm.”
“Maybe the masons overheard us talking about escaping from Hell, and it piqued their interest.” A disturbing thought occurred to me. “Do you think one of them is trailing Ferdinand? Maybe we should warn him.”
I climbed down into the hold and pulled out my cell phone. It read “out of range.” Seeing the phone reminded me I had forgotten to check in with Mustardseed to confirm that everything was on schedule. The Priority Accounts were too vital to risk; too many lives were at stake. We would have to head back to St. Thomas.
I climbed back up through the hatch, flute in hand. The sun beat down upon my face, but a cool sea breeze soothed my skin and ruffled my hair. I inhaled the salty air and beheld the cerulean sky reflected in the azure water. Sitting down on the polished bench beneath the railing of the cockpit, I said, “Oh, what the heck! Let’s just go. Surely, they can get along without me for a day.”
Mab sat down beside me and pulled out his notebook. Despite the warmth of the day, he still wore his trench coat and fedora.
“A lot of weird stuff been happening of late, ma’am. Maybe we should review and make sure we’re not missing a clue. According to my notes,” he flipped open the notebook, found the page he wanted, and surveyed it, “some of these we’ve already answered, but the unexplained mysteries I’ve got listed include: what happened to your father, the incubus showing up while we were in the Great Hall, finding Mephisto by chance on the street, Di Napoli showing up while we were in Chicago, finding the Chameleon Cloak right outside your brother’s place, stumbling upon the crate with the gate to the nether realms. And now . . . ” He paused to scribble something. “ . . . this guy from DC.”
“Let’s see.” I leaned back and considered his list. “We think we know where Father is, but not how he got there or what he was doing when he got into trouble. The incubus you explained: we let the wards down when we opened the door—and it was able to get through the outer wards because the demons have Father and thus Father’s blood. Finding Mephisto was my Lady’s doing. I prayed to Her, and She showed me the way. The crate?”
Mab said, “It was in the warehouse visited by the demon who stole your brother’s staff. I bet you, as we keep going, we’ll find out that crate is involved in this in some way.”
“You’re probably right. That leaves Ferdinand, the Chameleon Cloak, and the guy who was just chasing us as still suspicious.”
Mab crossed a few things out and made another note. “Right. So, tell me about this sister of yours, the sorceress with the Staff of . . . ” Mab flipped through the pages. “Says here: ‘Transmogrification.’ Does she turn men into toads?”
“And pigs, and bears, and fish, and dogs, and ravens, and horses!” Mephisto emerged from below, carrying his pocketknife and a chunk of pale wood for whittling. He had put aside his winter garments and now sported shorts and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt.
“Logistilla has a selection of seven shapes my father built into the staff,” I continued. “But if she can catch a reflection in the green globe at the staff’s top, she can reproduce it.”
“Sort of a latter day Circe, eh? Sounds like an utter sweetheart.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad. She gave me my first pet unicorn.”
“What was it before she got ahold of it?” Mab murmured.
I could not help smiling. Mephisto chuckled, too.
“Probably an old lover. She loves turning old lovers into things.” Mephisto pushed a coil of anchor rope aside and plopped himself down on the bench beside me. “I like her staff, but I liked mine better.” He pouted sadly, recalling his missing staff.
“Forgot to ask Di Napoli where he came out of Hell.” Mab paged through his notes some more. “Was it in Chicago? Or did he come out of a wooden packing crate? We’ve got to do something about that crate as soon as possible, ma’am. I dispatched two Aerie Ones and a mundane to watch the warehouse and steal the crate; so we can ward it, like you suggested, but . . . ”
I cut him off. “When we get back, Mab. Let’s warn my family first. There’ll be time enough to seal up a gate to Hell later . . . besides, if Father’s really down there, we might need it.”
Mab frowned thoughtfully. “What do you make of what Mr. Ferdinand said, ma’am? About Mr. Prospero, I mean.”
I took my time answering, gazing into the dark waters of our wake. The blue-green sea stretched out around us like a thousand-faceted living jewel, undulating and shimmering.
“I don’t know what to think, Mab,” I said finally. “I’ve known Father much longer than I’ve known Ferdinand. It’s hard to believe . . . ”
“So, do you miss him yet, Miranda?” Mephisto interrupted. “What a nice guy, that Ferdinand. I hope you marry him soon. Only, I still think you should marry the elf lord.”
“Elf lord? I’m dead against it, ma’am,” Mab jumped in immediately. “Humans marrying elves is a bad business. I wouldn’t get involved with a misalliance like that, if I were you. What elf lord is this, anyway?”
“One of the Lords of the High Council!” chimed Mephisto.
Mab whistled, awed. “How did you meet one of them?”
Sighing, I took off my hat and leaned back against the railing, letting the cool breeze blow through my hair. The Happy Gambit skipped across the waves like a rock tossed by a child. Bits of spray escaped our airy shield, wetting my face and neck.
“It was in the mid-1600s,” I said, “during the reign of Charles I of England. We were on our way home from a party when we saw an entrance in the side of an old barrow where only earth and stone should have been. We came upon them by starlight, where they danced beneath the arching boughs, all lit by tiny floating sparks. They were tall and stately folk, and their music sounded of night noises, dew, and softly ringing harps.”
“Ma’am, that sounds suspiciously like Elfland. A dangerous place. I trust you turned tail and ran home,” Mab growled hopefully.
“Don’t worry. We neither ate, drank, nor accepted gifts. But we did dance, and dance, and dance, and dance.” How graceful those elves had been. No human partner had ever compared to that night. “When they left, Mephisto thought we should all of us, Father too, marry elves. He had one picked out for me, one of the high lords. I believe he had chosen the Queen of Elfland for himself.” I laughed at the memory.
“You didn’t accept any assignations, did you?” Mab asked accusingly.
“I never saw him again,” I replied primly.
I neglected to mention to Mab that the elf lord and I had agreed to a rendezvous. We were to meet seven years later by the banks of the Avon. I went on the appointed day, garbed in a gown I had convinced Logistilla to make for me. It was of the finest gossamer silk from Cathay, a forest green concoction with a bodice of gold, the split skirts revealing a silver petticoat embroidered with golden lilies.
The fickle elf lord never came.
Meanwhile, Mab was snorting at Mephisto, “Queen Maeve is hardly your type!”
The motion of the sea had already gotten to Mephisto, for he looked a pale sickly green. Clutching the rail and staring morosely into the sea, he did not rise to Mab’s jibe, but answered in a flat distracted tone: “I know.”
The sun sank beneath the waves. Above, the deep, shadowy, purple clouds were shot through with fiery rose. Below, the sea mirrored the glorious sky, differing from the original only where a stray island broke though the reflected clouds. I sat for a long time at my favorite perch atop the bowsprit, watching the beauty of color, light, and water until the first stars appeared in the twilight fields of the sky.
The sight of the stars a-twinkle brought back memories of the night in 1627 when we had come upon the elves dancing outside their howe. I recalled the smell of apple wood upon their bonfire, and the brightness of the sparks that shot up from it. How tall and fey the elves had been, and how disdainfully aloof the elf lords’ regard. All except one, who had mocked his fellows for their poor taste and led me into the dance.
He had clasped me about the waist and spun me hither and thither, midst music and enchantment. Many a dancer wishes he could make his partner feel as if she were flying, but this time, we did fly! He whistled, and the winds picked us up, swirling us amidst star and cloud and sky. His eyes, filled with laughter, changed their color with his mood. In them, I saw myself reflected as a constellation among the stars. It was the single most marvelous night of my life. Even the joy of skimming along upon the sea, amidst an illusion of endless sky, does not compare to the exhilaration of actually being among the heavens. Only my childhood flight and the music of my flute in the midst of a tempest could even begin to compare.
The sea was without question my next most favorite place. Amazed, I wondered how I had spent so much time away from it. Sailing was the first skill I learned after we left Prospero’s Island. Ferdinand taught me on the trip back to Italy, when everything was brave and new. He had stood behind me, the length of his body pressing against mine, his hands guiding me, showing me what to pull or tie. We had laughed and laughed, once falling to the deck together to avoid the swinging boom. We had not been able to remain there long; the ship was crowded, and privacy rare. Yet, before he gallantly helped me to my feet, Ferdinand had stolen a kiss. I had blushed and called him “my most true love.”
Pain squeezed my heart, the ache of a wound I had thought long healed. I recalled the agony of those first few weeks after what should have been our wedding day, when I was certain Ferdinand lay grievously wounded somewhere and I had been unwilling to admit he might be dead. My father treated me kindly, but I could tell he did not believe Ferdinand would return. At the time, I thought he believed Ferdinand dead, but would not dash my hopes. Later, I thought Father had suspected the truth—that Ferdinand had run off pursuing a life of adventure. Now?
Now, I did not know what to believe.
As the sunlight dimmed, so did my mood. Like a leaf in the autumn winds, my well-ordered life was suddenly tumbling every which way. I no longer knew whom to trust, save my Lady. My abiding faith in my father, whom I relied on and loved above all men, had been shaken from two sides.
And what of those sides?
Theo’s speculation that Father held me enthralled in an enchantment was just that—speculation. I dismissed it. Ferdinand’s claims were harder to deny and harder to accept. I could forgive Father’s binding me up, should it turn out to be true, because I trusted him. If he had done it, he must have had a good reason.
If Father had condemned my love to Hell, I feared my heart would burst. What kind of good reason could a man offer for sending an innocent teenage boy to Hell?
Then, there were my brothers to worry about. Theo was dying. There was no way to be certain my calling upon his oath would successfully rouse him from his stupor. And, if it did work . . .
Alarmed, I sat straight up and wrapped my arms about my knees. I had sent Theo after Ferdinand! But, Ferdinand was innocent. I did not want Theo to kill him! Yet, if I called Theo off, there might not be time to find another way to engage his interest. This might be my last hope of saving my favorite brother. If it came down to my brother or Ferdinand—well, I had lived without Ferdinand this long. . . .
Finally, there was Mephisto! All these years, the family had assumed his madness was harmless. Yet, two nights ago in the warehouse, he had transformed into something bearing a sickening resemblance to a fiend of Hell. A frisson of terror tickled my spine when I remembered the disconcerting way he regarded me when we landed beside the car, right after I called upon my Lady! If Father sent Ferdinand to Hell, was he responsible for Mephisto’s state, too? And what, if anything, was the relationship between this larger, seemingly more alert form and Mephisto’s madness?
A loud bellow broke my reverie, followed quickly by a high-pitched screech. The disturbance came from the cockpit. Grabbing a stay, I swung myself back onto the deck and began clambering along the port side of the vessel, squinting in the dim light. After shimmying past the anchor and hurling myself along the sloping deck beside the cabin roof, I found Mab crouched over Mephisto. His gray trench coat spread behind him in the wind. His hands encircled my brother’s throat, throttling him.
A lantern swayed upon the mast. In its light, Mephisto’s face was blue. His eyes bulged, and his arms were flailing. The pocketknife he had been carving with had flown from his hand. His piece of carving wood clattered off the cabin wall near my foot.
“You scurvy, good-for-nothing lout!” Mab shouted. “I’ll wring your scrawny neck!”
“Mab! Mab! Stop! What are you doing?” I cried, but Mab did not hear me. Mephisto made a gargling noise but could get no words past his strangled throat.
Putting my flute to my lips, I blew a harsh command. Mab jerked into the air and was thrown against the mast.
“What is going on here?” I demanded.
Mab slid down across the helm, his trench coat catching on the spokes of the wheel. Reaching the cockpit floor, he rose to his feet and yanked his coat free, growling. Mephisto rubbed his throat. He slunk up to sit upon the bench again and stared with sullen, hurt eyes at his attacker.
“Your lousy, no-good brother tried to cast a spell on me.” Mab jabbed a finger at Mephisto.
“Mephisto?” I turned to regard my brother.
Mephisto recoiled, blocking his face with his hands. “Did not! I was just carving. I was sitting here, minding my own business—as quiet as you please—when your stupid bodyguard went wacko and jumped me!”
“I’m not her bodyguard.” Mab stalked forward.
“Calm down, Mab. Nothing will be achieved by fighting.” I stooped and picked up the wooden figure by my foot, holding it up near one of the lanterns. The bottom was still an unworked rectangular block. The upper portion vaguely resembled a human face and shoulders. The very top, however, clearly and skillfully resembled a fedora and its brim.
“He was just carving you, Mab. You have to be less paranoid. Not every image of you is meant for voodoo, you know. Please be more careful! You could have hurt my brother. I think you should apologize to him.”
“Yeah!” Mephisto stuck out his tongue at Mab.
Mab ran his hand through his grizzled hair. “Begging your pardon, Miss Miranda, but I am the expert on thaumaturgy here. And when I say I felt a spell trying to bind what little is left of my freedom of will, I know of what I speak. Your brother was trying to cast a spell on me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mab. This is harmless! It’s just a piece of wood. Look. It’s . . . ”
I halted midsentence. Something about Mephisto’s carving seemed strangely familiar. During our conversation on the way to Theo’s, Mephisto had hesitated when I asked him how he had lengthened his staff. What had he said? Something about himself being able to make more compacts without Father’s help?
A cold shiver traveled down my spine. Other than Father’s magic, there was only one method I knew of to make compacts of that sort. Merciful Heavens, no wonder he hesitated! With what Hellish powers had Mephisto trafficked, and what price had he paid for it? His wits, perhaps? I thought of the great black demon with his shining sapphire eyes. His soul?
I turned on my brother. “Mephisto! Mab’s right, isn’t he? This was going to be a figurine, wasn’t it, like the ones on your staff?”
Mephisto squirmed beneath my gaze.
“I . . . I thought he’d be useful,” he blurted out. “Ever since Chalandra took my staff, I’ve been so lonely without my friends. You have so many windy friends. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed one sometimes. Would you? Please?”
“No way,” Mab hissed. “No bloody way. Not even if Hell freezes over.”
I struggled to maintain my composure, fury seething through my veins. I was furious with Mephisto for daring to take something that was mine, and with Mab, for daring to attack a member of my family. My first concern, however, was to see that the incident not be repeated. Yelling at Mephisto would not make any impression.
When I could speak calmly, I said in measured tones, “Mephisto, your figurines only summon. They do not compel. What happens if the creature you summon doesn’t want to cooperate with you when it arrives?”
Mephisto gazed at me in horror. His face went slack and drained of all its color. His eyes opened wide in terror. His lips worked, but emitted no sound. His breathing became labored and rough. I had meant my comment as a prelude to a tirade; however, Mephisto’s reaction was so extreme that I reconsidered. Had he once summoned up something he could not control? If so, the mere memory of the incident was enough to petrify him.
“I’m sorry,” Mephisto squeaked.
I nodded and turned away.
“That’s it?” Mab fumed. “Aren’t you going to throw him overboard? Or cut off his hand?”
“He’s my brother, Mab. Besides, I don’t think he’ll do it again.”
“‘Don’t think’ isn’t good enough, ma’am. If you want any more help from me, you’re going to have to do a bit better than that!”
The sails snapped loudly, jangling, as the boom swung across the ship. We ducked. When I rose, my voice was as soft as thistledown and as sharp as steel.
“Are you threatening me, Mab?”
Mab crossed his arms and stared back at me, eye to eye. “You can’t intimidate me, Miss Miranda. I know I don’t have much free will. But I cherish what I have above all other things. Now, you do more than slap that slaver’s hand, or I won’t do another stitch of work for you.”
My voice remained deceptively calm. “Mab, I give you my word. It won’t happen again. Now, I suggest we let this drop.”
Mab jutted his chin out and stubbornly shook his head.
“Look, Mab. I’m not going to drown Mephisto. He’s my brother. So we’re stuck on this boat together, at least until we reach Logistilla’s. Let’s put this behind us and make the best of it.”
“If this is the kind of treatment I get after all I’ve done for you, I’m sorry I even tried. And, I, for one, am not stuck anywhere. At any time, I can leave this body and wing away from here. Now, I suggest you tie up your brother, or I’m leaving.” Mab straightened, eyes glaring.
Staring back at him, I raised the flute. “Not away from me, Mab! Never away from me!”
Mab scowled. He took off his hat and threw it down. It bounced against the deck.
“You win, ma’am,” he said bitterly. “But, if you want me to do something, you’re going to have to make me do it. I’m not going to do anything your accursed flute can’t force me to do.”
Mab snatched up his hat and put it back on his head, pulling it low over his eyes. He continued sarcastically. “Go ahead, ma’am, play your exalted piccolo. Do you want me to spend my time blowing your sails or scrubbing the decks? Your wish is my command, milady. Should you want me to speculate about who is following us, or to make some guesses as to where your father is? Sorry, lady, you’re out of luck. I don’t think you’ll be able to find a song for that.”
Turning his back on me, he climbed out of the cockpit and stomped off to glower by the stern.