Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (47 page)

“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.