20
The Chapel of the Unicorn
I awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the curtains of my enormous canopy bed. The bed had been built during the reign of Elizabeth I, when such beds were first in style. As I luxuriated upon the massive mattress, it amused me to recall that, back then, our whole family had slept crammed into this single bed.
What pleasant dreams the night had brought. I dreamt Ferdinand kissed me, and no fence of lightning appeared to drive us apart. Only . . . I sat upright. I ran a finger across my lips. They still felt tender. Then, it had not been a dream at all, had it?
The phone rang, and an Aerie Spirit wafted the receiver to my hand. I leaned back against the headboard and greeted Mab, whose gruff voice came wearily to my ear.
“Greetings, Miss Miranda, how are things back there?”
“Very well, Mab,” I replied enthusiastically. “It’s a lovely morning!”
“No additional disasters?”
“Not a one. No inkling of what may befall us by Twelfth Night, either, but I have the company on high alert, to be on the lookout for more attacks, just in case.”
“Good thinking, ma’am,” Mab grunted. “I sent the truck parts we recovered to our forensics guys. I’m hoping they will be able to tell us the cause of the crash.”
“Let’s hope they find it was just an accident, though Tybalt doesn’t seem to think so.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I wouldn’t trust the talking fur ball. He has this quirky notion that facts should not stand in the way of an exciting theory. Hardly a reliable witness.”
With nothing to gain from participating in the Mab-Tybalt feud, I changed the subject. “How is it going where you are?”
“Okay, ma’am. This is what I found out.” There was a short pause, during which I could hear him flipping the pages of his notebook. “Your father visited Prospero’s Mansion in Oregon on September 17th—while you were in Japan. I’m not certain exactly where he went next—looks like he spent a few days in New York, perhaps visiting your brother Cornelius.”
Cornelius again. I shuddered. Please, Lady, do not let him have worked evil upon Father, too!
“Anyway,” Mab continued, “he showed up here in Elgin five days later, on September 22nd, which happens to have been the fall equinox this year. The old priest who takes care of the graveyard where Gregor was buried says Mr. Prospero arrived about two PM. He had a judge’s order allowing him to exhume your brother’s body and brought in a backhoe to dig up the grave. Then the bulldozer departed and the old priest left Mr. Prospero alone with the coffin.”
“Exhume Gregor!” My mind boggled. “Wha-what happened next?”
“Well, that’s just it, ma’am. No one seems to know. The priest says your father never showed up to sign the rest of the paperwork. Nor have any of my people been able to find hide nor hair of him since. The backhoe driver was the last person who reported seeing him. It’s as if Mr. Prospero walked into the graveyard and vanished off the face of the Earth . . . which may be exactly what happened.”
None of this made any sense, unless . . .
Could Cornelius be in league with the demons? Could he have sold out Father in order to free the Three Shadowed Ones and get his hands on Gregor’s staff, perhaps hoping to earn some nefarious reward from his infernal allies? Perhaps, ensorcelling Theo and tricking Father were part of some greater, overarching plan.
No. The idea was ridiculous. Besides, Father claimed he freed the Three Shadowed Ones. Of course, he thought it was an accident. . . .
“This doesn’t sound good, Mab.” I spoke slowly, hoping to mask my confusion and dismay.
“I questioned the old priest as to whether there were any other unusual occurrences,” he continued. “He mentioned two weird things. First, late that same night, a man was found wandering around that same graveyard in a state of amnesia. Or at least the priest called it amnesia; apparently nothing the guy said made sense. The old priest took him to the local hospital, which in turn shipped him off to Chicago. I spoke with the doctors, to ascertain whether it might have been Mr. Prospero. They described a young Italian man, who I am tentatively assuming was Mr. Di Napoli—at least, until I find evidence to the contrary.”
“Well, that’s a relief!” I sighed. Slipping from my bed, I began laying out my emerald tea dress and clean undergarments. “More corroborating evidence for Ferdinand’s story!”
Knowing that Ferdinand might be on the level made me feel better about last night’s visit; however, I refrained from mentioning it to Mab. The experience was too precious to share just now, and I did not wish to field the barrage of questions such an admission would surely bring.
Over the phone, I could hear a scratching sound, as if Mab were doodling on a notepad as he talked. “The other thing was: on September 23rd, a trucking company showed up and carried away a crate. According to the old priest, they were supposed to be taking away a broken headstone. However, the priest showed me the broken headstone—it was still there. Then, he showed me the paperwork. Guess what company owned that truck?”
A feeling of icy dread clawed at my stomach. “The same company that owns the warehouse we investigated in Landover, Maryland?”
“You betcha!”
I sat down in front of my vanity and rested my forehead against my palms. It had just dawned on me that the theory Tybalt proposed that first night might be correct. Perhaps Father had not told me what he was about because he feared I would disapprove—and with good reason.
Rallying, I picked up my brush and began untangling my long silvery locks. It took a certain knack to keep the phone nestled snugly on one’s shoulder while dressing one’s hair, but decades of practice helped. Of course, one of these days I would get a speakerphone, and yet another of my highly-honed skills would go the way of galloping while riding sidesaddle, placing the bed-warmer just so, and dancing in a bustle—victims of the relentless march of progress.
“I don’t suppose the priest had any idea what Father wanted to do with Gregor’s body?” I asked. Mab gave a negative snort. I continued, “Did he say what became of Gregor’s body and coffin?”
“The priest never mentioned a body. He thought the trucking company took Gregor’s coffin instead of the broken headstone, which may be the case. It can’t be in the crate we found, because that crate was the wrong shape for a coffin, unless . . . ” Mab’s voice dropped. “Ma’am, I fear the coffin, and probably your brother’s body too, may have fallen through the gate into Hell.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a Protestant now,” I said faintly, putting down my brush. “Otherwise, I might find that information tremendously disturbing.”
Ordinarily, the news that my brother’s dead body was now in Hell would have inspired cold fury within my breast, directed at whomever had disturbed his eternal sleep. However, the culprit was apparently Father. I comforted myself with the assurance that Father had not intended to lose Gregor’s body, and thus, that it has been the Three Shadowed Ones who were to blame . . . unless, of course, Cornelius were at fault. Given a choice, I would rather blame the demons.
“By the way, ma’am, I’ve been meaning to ask, and seeing your brother’s grave—or lack thereof—reminded me. What does Gregor’s staff, the . . . ” I heard pages flip as he consulted his notes, “Staff of Darkness . . . what does the Staff of Darkness do? Other than issue darkness . . . I mean, it does do something else, right?”
“Enforces oaths. If you swear an oath on it, you cannot break that oath without dying. Also, it drains life—not enough to injure a human without prolonged exposure, but enough so that the darkness can be used as a ward to keep out spirits, much as the rock salt did.”
“Swear oaths, you say? Similar to swearing on water from the River Styx, then?”
“Exactly. We used it to guarantee our contracts would be upheld,” I sighed, “and it’s mighty hard running Prospero, Inc. without it! Also, the darkness that seeps from it absorbs life, keeping certain kinds of spirits at bay . . . the same kind that cannot cross the Styx. It’s a wonderful staff, though I prefer mine.”
“I see. Interesting . . . ” There came a pause. “We swore on that thing, didn’t we, ma’am? That’s how we Aerie Ones became enslaved to you Prosperos. . . . ”
“Employees, Mab, not slaves. Slaves serve against their will.”
“When the penalty for changing one’s mind is death? Sounds pretty ‘against my will’ to me! Wish there were some court where I could go complain about being compelled to swear under duress.”
“Back to the matter at hand, Mab,” I insisted sternly. “Where do we stand now? What have we learned?”
“Basically, the priest’s story seems to corroborate Di Napoli’s story. Other than that . . . your father goes into a graveyard and digs up a dead relative. He never reappears, but a truck shows up and removes a crate. The truck belongs to a company that just happens to own a crate with a gate to Hell in it.
“My guess is this: the crate from the graveyard contained a gateway into Hell. The same gateway through which your father disappeared and Di Napoli emerged—probably herded out by the demons, so that his reappearance would cause havoc. Furthermore, I hypothesize this is the same crate Mephisto so kindly opened for us in Maryland—a crate which, by the way, is now securely packed in one of our warded warehouses. Thanks to the good work of some of my men.”
I brushed my hair in silence, considering all that I had heard. Mab waited respectfully. I heard him take a gulp of something, probably—from the sound he made after he swallowed it—the cold dregs of a forgotten morning coffee. It was later in the day where he was.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Mab asked finally, “but what was Mr. Prospero thinking? Digging up your dead brother on the fall equinox?”
“I don’t know, Mab.” I considered the matter. “My guess is he was trying to summon up my brother’s ghost, and he got some kind of demon instead. The demon then dragged him bodily into Hell—leaving behind an open gate, which allowed both Ferdinand and the Three Shadowed Ones to escape.”
“Yeah, but what did Mr. Prospero expect to gain from summoning your brother’s shade? And why did he need the body? Why not just use his hairbrush or some old belonging? What kind of magic was he aiming to perform that he needed a corpse? Nothing white, I can tell you!”
“I don’t know, but I can make a possible guess. Father has been studying the secrets of the ancient Eleusinian mystery cults. With those secrets, it is theoretically possible that Gregor could be reborn without losing his memories. Their rituals were usually held around harvest time. Perhaps the fall equinox was a propitious day for this, so he tried to summon up my brother in hopes of sharing with him the secrets he had gleaned. Though how he thought Gregor would find his way out of Hell to be reborn, I don’t know. Nor do I have any idea why he needed my brother’s body, unless he had tried before without it and was unable to locate Gregor’s soul.”
“Interesting,” Mab muttered darkly.
I said, “I would not envy Gregor, finding himself stuck in the body of an infant with the memory of a grown man. Nor would I want to be the woman who gave birth to a baby who remembered his previous life.” Visions of the cigar-smoking baby I had seen in some cartoon flashed through my head.
Mab growled, “Bet you Prospero planned to take Baby Gregor to your sister Logistilla. Then, voilà, a flick of her wrist, and she turns him into an adult. After all, she’s had plenty of practice producing full-grown Italians. Only, Prospero doesn’t know darling Logistilla was in on it with the guys who killed Gregor. Unless she had his knife because she hunted down his killers, took the dagger back, and turned them into turtle soup.”
“A comforting hope, Mab,” I replied, “but I doubt it. I’m sure if Logistilla had caught Gregor’s murderer, we would all have heard about it, over and over again. No, I fear her having the knife has some more sinister cause. Exactly what, I don’t know—perhaps having something to do with that devil you smelled.”
“Speaking of that knife,” Mab drawled, “I visited the archive at the town hall in Elgin. Apparently, they still have some police records regarding the shooting of your brother. They aren’t immediately accessible though—have to be printed off a microfiche machine or something. I paid their fee and gave them the address of the mansion. The clerk promised to mail us a copy of whatever he finds.”
“Good thinking! Tell them we’ll pay more if they expedite it,” I said absently, for my thoughts were consumed with suspicions regarding Logistilla and Cornelius.
They had been quite close until their recent falling out, always whispering together at stockholder meetings, back when Logistilla still owned stock. Could this plot against the family have reached as far back as the death of Gregor? Could Cornelius have wanted the Staff of Darkness even then, and been thwarted when it was laid to rest with Gregor’s body?
I would have dismissed this theory as foolishness, were it not for one thing: I did not, for an instant, believe Logistilla’s claim that she had forgotten about seeing Cornelius use his staff on Theo, only to have the memory conveniently pop up again while we were dining together, over half a century later. It was possible, but since we were speaking of something as important as Theo’s life, her claim struck me as unlikely. Yet, if she had remembered all along, why had she waited so long to tell anyone?
Unless she had been Cornelius’s accomplice. In which case, she was willing to tell me now because of their recent falling out. I wondered again what the cause had been. Could it be that she feared for Theo, or that she had balked at involving Father? If so, I applauded her attack of conscience. Of course, all of this was speculation.
“Ma’am?” Mab repeated.
“Er. Very good, Mab,” I said. “Though I’ll be surprised if they turn up anything. I recall Ulysses did some investigating at the time, but no one was very helpful.”
“Won’t know what they have until we see it, ma’am.”
“Very true, Mab. Hurry home! There is still much to do.”
“Yes, ma’am. Will do.”
Bundled in my white cashmere cloak and a pair of fur-lined suede boots, I set out into the enchanted gardens behind Prospero’s Mansion, and passed through the gate in the high stone wall that enclosed the forest beyond, seeking the chapel hidden in its midst. I walked between the straight black trunks, my boots crushing the mix of snow and soft needles carpeting the earth. The pungent scent of pine tickled my nostrils, and brought to mind other walks through other forests on other continents.
I always enjoyed walking through this forest, but today it seemed even more lovely than usual. For the first time since I had read Father’s letter, my spirits felt light again. I was no longer afraid that some terrible doom was going to descend upon us; spirits called up by séances were notably untrustworthy, and demons were notable liars. There was still almost two weeks until Erasmus’s New Year’s Party. Most of the siblings were likely to gather there, though hopefully, by now, Erasmus had received my letter and warned those with whom he was in contact. That left only Titus, who seemed to be missing. There was little I could do about this until Mab returned, however, so I had decided to use the time to attend to other matters.
As I went, one of my pet unicorns, a descendent of the original mated pair Logistilla had given me one Christmas, came to greet me, nuzzling my pockets for sugar or carrots. I pulled out some oats and stroked the soft whiteness of his nose. He was merely a mortal creature, not a supernatural being, like my Lady. Still, I loved him.
The chapel was hidden amidst the tallest trees of the enclosed forest and could not be seen until one was almost upon it. It was a small white structure with stained-glass windows and a white spiral steeple stretching above its steep black roof. Two keys, a long, old-fashioned cast-iron one and a modern brass one for the deadbolt, were required to open the thick oak door, behind which lay a single chamber.
Inside, the chapel was simple and clean, whitewashed walls above oak wainscoting. A spiral candlestick, as tall as a lance, stood in each of the four corners. In the center of the chamber, a small altar held a book and some candles. Across the back wall, a tapestry woven by Logistilla portrayed the Greek concept of Eurynome—a woman dancing with the Serpent of the Wind as She created the world out of Chaos.
Sunlight filtered through the pines to strike the stained glass in the eastern windows. Dust motes danced along sapphire, emerald, and ruby beams, which dyed the slate tiles with gem-like colors. The effect was striking. I could stand and admire the kaleidoscopic light shining through the colored glass for hours.
Each time we rebuilt the chapel in a new location, I replaced yet another window with a stained-glass portrait of one of the Sibyls of Eurynome. The women and the style of the art differed sharply, but each bore a spiral of ivory upon her brow, like a white flower with five curving petals: the Mark of the Sibyl.
The four women I had chosen to portray were Eve, Cassandra of Troy, Phemonoe of Delphi, and Deiphobe of Cumae, the Sibyl who helped Aeneas find his way to the underworld. It was she who wrote the nine famous scrolls known as the Sibylline Books, including the scroll containing the secrets of my Lady’s order that I so desired. I once had another window portraying Herophile the Pilgrim sitting upon her prophesy stone, but it had been shattered by Cromwell’s followers when we lost the English Civil War.
What had become of these women? I wondered for the millionth time. With their access to Water of Life, every Sibyl should be able to live as long as she pleased. And yet, in all our travels, both on Earth and otherwise, I had never met a single one. Everywhere, we encountered rumors of how a Sibyl had once lived there and, sometimes, tales of how one had been slain by the Unicorn Hunters, but neither I nor my family had ever located a living Sibyl.
Even Handmaidens were becoming rare. In my youth, I would meet another Handmaiden every so often, and we would swap secrets and discuss our duties. But it had been more than a century since I had met the last one. Where had they all gone?
I crossed the chamber to stand before the altar, my cashmere cloak dappled with bright splashes of color. The altar’s lacquered front bore symbolic images for the six gifts of the Sibyl: a key to represent opening locks; a mortar and pestle for curing poison; an overflowing cup for the Water of Life; a lightning bolt for command of electricity; a mirror for the gift of visions; and a broken chain to represent absolving people of foolish oaths.
How strange to recall how this chapel, or another like it, had once been the center of my life. In my youth, I spent my waking hours praying before this altar, waiting for insight or instruction, perhaps pausing to watch the play of the light through the beautiful glazed portraits. Back then, inspiration came to me sporadically, seldom and far between. Receiving the answer to a question often took hours or days of patient prayer. Over time, it became easier, until the wall between my mind and my Lady’s grew so transparent, I could hear Her—when She chose to speak—even in the midst of the tumult of daily life.
Once this occurred, I was sent back into the world to join my family and aid their work. Since I could hear Her voice so clearly, I was certain She would guide me to take the steps necessary to achieve Sibylhood. Yet centuries had passed, and still I waited.
So many memories had been lost to the mists of time, and yet, as I stepped within these walls and smelled the stone and candles, my vigils in this chapel returned so vividly. I also could bring to mind the exact colors and shapes of the portrait of Herophile the Pilgrim. I had been praying before her window when the guards arrived, the time I was arrested for witchcraft. We were living in Rome, during Gregor’s first term as pope. When I heard the boots of the guards coming up the path, I knew Gregor must have betrayed me, for he hated Protestants and disapproved of my devotion to my Lady.
That night, he came to see me where I was chained. He slipped into my cell under the cloak of darkness, not as an old man but in his own youthful shape. I had been praying when he arrived, pointing out to my Lady that this might be a good opportunity for me to be raised in Her esteem, as Sibyls could open locks. I was certain Gregor intended to have me put to death.
He stepped upon the straw covering the cell floor and pulled back the hood that obscured his face. He was taller and stockier than my other Italian brothers, though not as large as the Scottish Titus. Gregor had thick wavy dark hair and penetrating black eyes. His arms and shoulders were large and muscular—he had been apprenticed to an armorer in his youth. I wondered if he had come to strangle me personally.
“Greetings, Sister.”
Gregor spoke in Italian. His voice sounded hoarse, as if from disuse. Before he had been transformed into the Cardinal, he had spoken with a pleasant baritone. Logistilla must have made some error that night in returning him to his true form, however, for his voice sounded low and breathy. From that day forth, whenever Gregor was in his own shape, he retained the low, husky voice. The last time I heard him speak, at our Christmas celebration about three years before his death, his voice was still the gravelly bass I first heard that night in my cell.
“Have you come to ask me to repent?” I asked, twisting my arms in their stocks.
“Would you?” he asked.
“Never!” I composed myself to die.
“I thought not.” He spoke without a trace of humor. “I came to tell you I have found a way to save you, but you must be patient. You must promise, if I do this, you will wait for your legal release, not to disappear or flee away by magic.”
“Free me? Why are you doing this?” I hesitated to give my word, lest this be some trick. “I thought you hated my Lady. Are you even fond of me?”
“It does not matter if I approve of your heresy, or even if I am fond of you,” my brother replied huskily. “What matters is that you are my sister.”
True to his word, I was released a few weeks later. The guard who unlocked the chains explained I had been spared by the grace of Pope Gregory XV, who had passed a Papal Bull reducing the penalties for witchcraft. The new Bull decreed the death penalty appropriate only for witches who were proven to have made compacts with the Devil or to have committed homicide through magic. To this day, that decree remains the last Papal Bull ever issued on the subject of witchcraft.
Circling the altar, I knelt and slid back a panel, revealing a little cabinet. The top shelf held matches, a candlesnuffer, and other simple tools. The bottom half contained a black metallic safe with a combination lock. I spun the dial through the combination and swung open the safe door.
Within, upon a bed of green velvet, lay a heavy black case. Its intricate silver fastenings had been designed by Titus. Only someone who knew the secret to solving their puzzle could open the case. To my dismay, I saw I had left the fastenings unlatched the last time I had been here, some decades ago. Chiding myself for absentmindedness, I opened the box.
As the lid came up, the light of day glinted against the crystal cut sides of vessels within, causing a prism-like flash of light. The black velvet lining was molded to hold the special decanters that held my precious supply of the Water of Life from the Well at the World’s End: a large diamond carafe and four tiny matching pear-shaped vials. These vessels had been given to me by the Keeper of the Well and were fashioned of the only material that could store Water of Life. Erasmus had studied them in his alchemy days, and declared this material was not diamond but crystallized Urim. It was because I had so few of these vessels that I could bring back so little Water from each trip to the World’s End.
Within the case, the carafe and two of the small vials glinted snugly in their proper places, but the two remaining pear-shaped indentations were empty. I had intentionally left one vial at Theo’s.
Where was the last one?
Silently cursing that Mab should be away at such a time, I drew one of the two remaining smaller vials out of the case and put it in my pocket, disturbing the case and its contents as little as possible, so as not to tamper with the evidence. Then, after locking the safe and closing the cabinet, I yanked on the pull-rope hanging beside the tapestry, ringing the bell in the steeple. A moment later, the door blew open, and Ariel’s fluting voice asked what I desired.
“Ariel, we have been robbed. One of the vials of the Water of Life is missing. It has been some years since I have opened the case. I have no notion when it vanished. Quickly, call one of Mab’s assistants, or someone trained in his art. Have them dust for fingerprints and do what else they may to discover who has touched it.”
“I go and return as my mistress commands.” The door rattled again. Moments later, Ariel returned. “I have done as you decreed. There is another matter I would broach, Great Mistress. There is that which has been promised me, but not delivered.”
I sighed. “Ariel, your contract is with my father,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “It serves no purpose to debate this matter with me.”
Ariel’s fluting voice continued. “The winds bring rumors of Prospero’s death. If Prospero is no more, then our fate doth rest in the hands of his eldest child. Will you not set us free now, eldest child of your father?”
“Who has repeated such slander? I will not hear such evil spoken of my father!”
“But if it should prove true that he has perished . . . ” Ariel began.
I cut him off. “There will be no talk of Prospero’s death. Go about the task I have assigned you.” Ariel sighed and sped away, and I was left standing in the dappled light.
Gone was the lighthearted calm that had accompanied me into the Enclosed Forest. The fear of the demon’s predicted doom closed in around me like a cloak. Ariel’s question had shaken me. I had never considered how the Aerie Ones’ obligations to our family might be affected by my father’s disappearance. It was one thing to continue to tell Ariel and Mab I could not free them because my father did not wish it. It was quite another to have to take responsibility for their captivity upon myself.
My gaze fell upon the bronze seal of the Order of Sibyls, where it hung above the heavy oaken door. Around the image of a unicorn rampant circled the words: RELEASE CAPTIVES, ABSOLVE OATHS, BANISH DARKNESS. A shiver went through me.
Had I ever read these words properly before? Eurynome, my holy Lady, forsook Her place in High Heaven to free the children of man in the Garden. Could my involvement with the imprisonment of the Aerie Ones be the reason that the coveted Sibylhood had eluded me?
I so yearned to be a Sibyl, a true servant of my holy Lady. Sometimes this desire was but a faint longing. At other times, it burned me like a living coal. Sibyls could wield the Six Gifts, and, unlike Handmaidens, Sibyls were free to marry.
Remaining unwed through the long years had been no hard task, since losing my Handmaiden status would have denied me the Water of Life, and damned my family to mortality. Secretly, in the depth of my heart, however, I have always longed for the kind of love my father had spoken of when I was a child.
We would take our meal atop the bluff overlooking the northeast shore of the island, and Father would speak to me of my mother. As he described his love for her, his keen blue eyes would glow, as if some light, kindled within his heart, were shining through them. Father took four more wives over the ensuing years, but none of them sparked such adoration.
My father had been a callous youth, so he often told me, foolish and bent upon selfish goals. Meeting my mother had transformed him. All his efforts since then—his life’s work to improve the Earth for mankind, which had culminated in the current activities of Prospero, Inc.—all were inspired by my mother. Her influence had lifted him out of his previous wickedness and made of him a better creature.
Sitting atop the bluff with the wind in my face and the cries of seagulls in my ears, I had vowed to myself I would not wed unless I, too, could have such happiness. Of course, at the time I had imagined it would be only a short while before I found a man who stirred such devotion in me. It never occurred to the child I had been that I might remain unwed forever.
Were I a Sibyl, I would be free to pursue such a love.
Yet, even if I wanted to free the Aerie Ones, sacrificing my beloved flute and denying myself its music forever after, duty forbade me from doing so. It was not just the damage they might do were they free. There was also the matter of Prospero, Inc. To lose the Aerie Ones would be to destroy the company, and all my family’s work. Half the employees at Prospero, Inc., and all those who managed our supernatural accounts, were Aerie Ones. If I let them free to pursue their own amusements, the company would fail. Even if I were willing to reveal our secrets to mankind, some of the most important tasks would be impossible to accomplish without supernatural servants.
Were Prospero, Inc. to founder, its contracts would be violated. If that were to happen, the technology upon which mankind depends would begin to fail.
Earthquakes and hurricanes, mankind might endure; however, worse fates would befall us if Father’s covenants failed. Blood of the earth, known today as petroleum, only burned evenly because my father bound the oreads from whose veins it flowed. Nor would machines run smoothly if lightning, the servant and herald of my Lady, were no longer bound to run along a wire. Nothing mankind achieved in earlier ages rivals the grandeur, the accomplishment, or the quality of life of the modern age—all of which would be lost if the spirits of the natural world could act without restraint. The pre-industrial age had been unpleasant for men and worse for women. I could not free the Aerie Ones if it meant reducing mankind to that again.
I stood in the chapel staring up at the seal, astounded by the enormity of Father’s accomplishments. Had he done all this deliberately? Had he foreseen this modern world, in which men moved mountains and walked upon the moon, when he first began binding spirits? Or, had he merely trusted mankind to prosper, once they were free of the ravages of unruly supernatural forces?
And what of Mab and the other incarnated Aerie Ones? Was spending time as a human the answer to the problem of freeing them? I certainly hoped so, especially as Mab’s talk about devils had filled me with foreboding. I much preferred to think that the stacked naked bodies at Logistilla’s were meant for our airy folk: the Aerie Ones, and the sylphs, sprites, apsaras, gandharvas, and other spirits of the air who serve them.
Contemplating all this filled me with renewed admiration for my father. I felt ashamed for having doubted him. Next to his accomplishments, accusations of ensorcelling me and damning Ferdinand paled to naught.