Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (36 page)

I sighed. Sometimes, Mephisto’s memory losses seemed far too convenient.

“Okay, so Mr. Prospero sets up house in Milan and remarries?” Mab asked.

“That’s right,” Logistilla nodded. “Gregor and I were born in 1593.”

Mab did some quick addition. “Hold on! This makes no sense! Gregor
was born in 1593 and pope by 1623? The College of Cardinals confirmed a thirty-year-old man as pope?”

Logistilla put down her wine glass. “The whole adventure began in 1618, when Gregor and I were about twenty-five. We were visiting our mother’s family in Rome, and we happened to be the only ones present when a cardinal collapsed and died. Alexander Ludovisi, I believe it was. As a lark, Gregor asked me to use my staff—Papa had only recently lent us use of our staffs for the first time—to make him look like the cardinal. Only, once he was the cardinal, he turned out to be a natural. Within two or three years, they made him pope.

“Gregor made a pretty good pope, actually,” she continued. “Most of the popes back then were as corrupt as the dev il, carousing and wenching and taking bribes as fast as the money poured in. Gregor was devout. He refused to take bribes and cleared the cardinals’ mistresses out of the Vatican. He’d been pope about two years when Papa discovered there was still a great deal of true magic in the hands of the Catholics.

“Father was outraged to learn the Church was doing so well against his darling Protestants because they had magic on their side,” Logistilla continued. “By then, the whole family had turned Protestant, with the exception of Gregor and myself. And I’ve never been a great believer. So, when Papa asked us to break the power of the Catholic Church once and for all, by stealing their enchanted talismans, we agreed.”

“Even Pope Gregor agreed?” Mab asked.

“He was called Pope Gregory XV. Well, he was young then—despite wearing an elderly man’s body—and tired of the effort of being pope. Also, he was disillusioned by the lack of piety among the church officials. Gregor thought he was doing the faithful a favor by removing power from the hands of the criminals who were milking them in the name of Our Lord.”

“He thought the magic was harming the Catholics,” I explained. “He’s a little like Theo that way. In fact, Theo probably got his ideas from Gregor. He was a strange fellow, Gregor. For all his love of the Catholic Church, he had the soul of a Puritan.”

Logistilla drew herself up, frowning severely. “Do not malign my dearly departed twin!” She turned to Mab, pouting again. “Gregie-Poo was a pussycat and don’t you let my icicle of a sister convince you otherwise.”

“Er, as you say, Ma’am.” Mab lowered the brim of his fedora. Remembering that he should not be wearing a hat while sitting at a lady’s table, he quickly took it off and laid it on a chair beside him.

Sipping my wine, I recalled our daring escape that long-ago night in 1623, the wind whipping by as we clung to each other in our chariot pulled by the sons of Zephyrus. Stars sparkled overhead. As the Horses of the Sun mounted higher, the constellations swayed and danced, as if we had entered some higher realm, where Orion and Cassiopeia were living entities. That night was the end of an era for us. It was the night we left Italy for the final time.

Arriving home in Scotland after the raid, we freed our godly steeds, sending them back to their bright master, then stumbled laughing, windburnt, and exhilarated, into the Hound and Eagle Pub. Cornelius went upstairs to lie down and rest his eyes—back then we still expected his sight to return presently—while the rest of us gathered in the common room. Excitement still crackled in the air. Easygoing Theo got into a fistfight. Mephisto left with two barmaids, and normally rowdy Titus relaxed by the fire, spent from his battle with the guards. Only Father remained silent. He sat by the bar watching his children, the furrow in his brow deepening.

The next day, Father took back our staffs and commissioned Mephisto to carve statues for Logistilla and Gregor, who did not yet have them. It was some time before we saw our staffs again.

MAB
finished scribbling down Mephisto’s accounts of who stole what and looked up. “Okay, there’s the scepter with the piece of the True Cross, the ark, the lance of St. George, the spear of Joseph of Arimathea . . . that’s the same weapon as the Spear of Longinus, right? The ring? That would be Solomon’s Ring, the original Seal of Solomon. I’d heard somewhere it used to belong to the Pope.”

“That’s where the tradition of kissing the Pope’s ring came from,” said Logistilla. “Only a human being could bear to kiss that ring. It was the Pope’s way of testing whether or not he was being beguiled by a demon.”

“And the sphere?” asked Mab. “Would that be Merlin’s globe or John Dee’s?”

“They are one and the same,” I replied.

“Worse and worse! Dangerous object, that. Said to be one of the few seeing glasses capable of looking into truly vile places.”

“Mr. Dee once told Father that the angels he communed with warned him never to look anywhere infernal,” said Logistilla.

“Good advice,” Mab growled. “Where’s all this magical garbage now?”

“The lance, the scepter, and the shroud are at the mansion,” I said. “Cornelius still has the ark—we thought it only fitting considering the high
price he paid to get it. The spear was later built into Theo’s staff. Father used to have the Seal of Solomon, too, but I’m under the impression something happened to it.”

Mab nodded. “It was one of the two pieces Ulysses kept the time he stole the Warden. What happened to the sphere?”

“I broke it during the original raid,” Mephisto said sadly. “I had to throw it at some guys who wanted to kill me. But it was great!” His face lit up. “It exploded in a huge mushroom of fire!”

Mab looked at Mephisto with an odd expression on his face. “I heard a rumor about that sphere once,” he began, but Mephisto interrupted him, speaking rapidly.

“There were lots of rumors about the sphere, and most were wrong. But, it’s gone now. So, it doesn’t matter. Oh, well. Too bad.”

Mab eyed Mephisto thoughtfully, but he did not voice his original thought. “I gather Cornelius did something similar when he opened the Ark. Foiling his attackers, I mean.”

“The guards who attacked him were transformed into dust,” I replied. “Only, he himself looked too soon, as he was covering it. That’s how he lost his sight.”

“Bad business, the Ark,” said Mab.

Logistilla arched her perfectly formed eyebrows and looked at Mab with new interest. As Logistilla raised her glass to her lips, our eyes met. Her lip curled up slightly. To Mab, she said, “You seem surprisingly sensible for one of your kind. There’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask a spirit who talked sensibly. Who was Christ Jesus really? I know what we Prosperos believe, but then, we’re all Protestants now. What do the spirits believe?”

Mab sat back and scratched at his stubble. “Opinions differ, Madam Logistilla. No one seems to know for sure. Or, if they do, they aren’t telling. Some say he was the son of a wrathful sky god named Jehovah. Some say he was Lucifer’s son. Some say Adonai’s. Some think he was a stranger, from Outside, or a renegade from the universe of Muspell. But, I think that’s pure conjecture. Personally, though, I doubt all of the above.”

“Oh? Why?” Logistilla asked. I listened, curious. It was not a topic Mab and I had ever discussed.

“Simple. Devils don’t give you something for nothing, and this Christ guy did. Angels don’t break the law, creating miracles and all that. As for the tribal sky god theory, the old deities are no longer powerful enough to keep mentions of their works from being edited by—well, the guys you called the
Orbis Suleimani
. Mithra and Jove have been relegated to fairytales. Christ Jesus has not. As for who Christ actually was? I have my own opinion.”

“Ah, the
Orbis Suleimani
, or the Boys’ Club, as it should be called.” Logistilla sniffed. “I’ve never understood why Father would not let us women join. Even their splinter group, the Freemasons, don’t allow women. Or didn’t last time I checked. Things are changing so quickly, these days.”

Mephisto said. “Father did not create the organization, Dopeyhead! He was just a member. Solomon started the organization. Hence the name: ‘the Circle of Solomon.’ ”

Mab frowned suspiciously, “You know, that’s probably where Mr. Prospero stole his magical tomes from.”

“Father would never steal books!” Logistilla said, appalled.

“Why not?” Mephisto shrugged. “He stole stuff from the Vatican, didn’t he?”

I frowned, recalling Antonio’s taunt the day we lost Milan. “ . . .
in the old records you left behind in your haste to rob us of our sacred library
.” By
us
, had Uncle Antonio meant the
Orbis Suleimani
?

If so, why did Father claim—well, imply—the books were rightfully his? Could this ownership dispute have had something to do with the division in the
Orbis Suleimani
? For the first time, I found myself curious about the split in their organization. Mephisto had probably once known what had caused it, but it was unlikely he remembered today. The
Orbis Suleimani
had tossed him out long ago, for not being able to keep track of their business or their secrets.

“There may be a good deal about Father you don’t know,” I murmured. Theo and Ferdinand’s claims regarding Father’s trustworthiness clamored for my attention. Dutifully, I ignored them.

Logistilla gestured, and tiny furry hands served us bowls of sherbet.

“Miranda, why are you here?” she asked. “Mephisto, I can understand, he’s probably short of funds. Stupid thing to do, big brother, lose your staff. You, however, my sister; what would pull you out of your cocoon?”

“Something has happened to Father.”

Logistilla laughed out loud. “Oh, dear, you are going to have to do better than that!”

“You don’t believe her?” Mab asked, outraged.

“No, certainly not. Nothing rattles Papa. Besides, if something had, why would she come to me? Unless he’d been transformed into a newt. Has Papa been transformed into a newt, Miranda? Perhaps, if you stopped dawdling on this Sibyl business, you would be able to turn him back yourself, without
my help. Or is transmogrification not one of the precious Gifts of the Sibyl?”

“Transmogrification is not a Gift of the Sibyl, as you well know, Sister,” I replied through clenched teeth.

Mephisto, who had been frowning angrily down at his hands, now raised his head and shouted at Logistilla. “He is too in trouble. He’s in Hell!”

Logistilla sat motionless, shocked. What little color she possessed slowly drained away from her pale face. Her bottom lip trembled.

“Father unleashed an enemy he could not control,” I said. “He left a note asking the rest of the family be informed of the danger.”

Logistilla recovered quickly. “Left the note to you, Miranda, did he?” she asked scathingly. “Well, you always were his favorite. There was little enough the rest of us could do to get his attention.”

“He just left a note, Logistilla.” I was growing bored with her constant accusations of favoritism. “I happened to be the one who found it.”

“So . . . how did it happen? Where did our faultless paterfamilias go wrong?”

“We don’t know,” Mab replied. “We’re trying to track that down now.”

“Papa didn’t tell his perfect Miranda what he was up to?” Her eyebrows arched, and her lips formed a moue of amusement. “Who would have thought? I assume Cornelius and Erasmus must know. They’re thick as thieves with the Boys’ Club, and all Father’s dastardly doings.”

“Which dastardly doings would those be?” Mab reached for his pencil.

“It’s just a turn of phrase,” Logistilla responded primly.

Pencil in hand now, Mab asked, “How about you? When’s the last time you talked to Mr. Prospero?”

“Me? Oh, Papa comes by now and again. I’m helping him with certain . . . work.” Logistilla eyes sparkled maliciously. “But, I’d prefer not to talk about that. If Papa hasn’t told his precious Miranda all about it, there must be some reason he doesn’t want her to know.”

Mephisto had been pouring wine back and forth between three sizes of tall fluted crystal glasses, his face intent. Now, he lowered the glass in his hand. “Do you really think Daddy does it on purpose? The secrecy thing, I mean? I thought it was second nature to him, sort of like protective camouflaging in moths. You know, over the generations, moths change to blend in with new backgrounds, but it’s not like they do it on purpose. I think Daddy’s like that, don’t you?”

“I blame that Antonio person,” Logistilla replied, sniffing.

“Uncle Antonio? The Great Betrayer? Or was he the cool uncle who used to take me whoring?” He tipped his head back thoughtfully, as if he were trying to recall the misty past.

“Probably one and the same, from what I’ve heard. I never met Uncle Antonio, or Uncle Galeazzo and Uncle Ludovico, for that matter—they all died before I was born.” Logistilla gave Mephisto and me an arch glance. “But none of Papa’s brothers sound like real winners to me. Face it, this Antonio person betrayed Papa when he was young and vulnerable, and Papa’s never gotten over it. Papa’s spent his whole life worrying some family member might up and betray him at any moment. That’s why he’s so close mouthed with us. He doesn’t trust us! His own children, and after all we do for him!”