Free Rough Magic by Caryl Cude Mullin Page B

of it, but he hadn’t had much luck so far. He thought a fennel wine would be a lot more useful to the world than the Philosopher’s Stone, even if the stone was capable of turning base metals to gold and promised eternal life. But he kept that opinion to himself.
    â€œThis is a nice place,” said a small voice. Caliban snapped his eyes open. There was the little princess, alone.
    â€œAre you lost?” Caliban asked. His words came out like a bark, but the child did not flinch. “Where’s your nurse?” he added, in what he hoped was a gentler tone.
    â€œShe was telling stories to someone,” the girl replied. “I wanted to look around, but she kept telling me to wait. She likes to talk,” she explained, “but I don’t like to listen to her. She says mean things.”
    â€œAh,” said Caliban. He felt a bit helpless. Should he return the princess to her nurse? The woman would likely take one look at him and accuse him of kidnapping the child.
    â€œAre you Caliban?” she asked him, breaking his unpleasant speculations.
    â€œYes,” he said. “I’m your grandfather’s servant,” he added.
    â€œYes, I know,” the princess said, nodding. “You’re from the island.”
    â€œThat’s right,” he replied. A sudden choking wave of homesickness caught him. To conceal it, he bent down and pulled up three fennel plants.
    â€œThose are funny,” the child said, touching the double bulb roots with her fingers. “What do you do with them?”
    â€œI eat them,” Caliban said. “Would you like a taste?”
    She nodded, her eyes wide. He snapped off a bit of stalk. “Pop it in your mouth,” he directed. She did so, trusting him completely. The flavor made her smile. “It’s good,” she said.
    â€œYour grandfather is very fond of it,” Caliban said. “I’ll make this into tea, and then—”
    A scramble of feet and a cry of “Princess Chiara!” shattered their discussion. In a moment the garden was filled with breathless, panicking women. Miranda herself was among them. She was embracing her daughter when her gaze fell on Caliban. She stood, flustered. “It’s you!” she said, then blushed deeply. “Forgive me, Caliban,” she said, taking herself in hand. “This little scalawag likes to wander off. I’m glad she found you,” she added. Politely. He did not think she meant it. She had pushed the girl behind her, after all.
    â€œCaliban let me have some of his plant,” the child said, pulling herself around her mother. “I liked it very much. Thank you,” she said. Then she curtseyed. Her mother gathered her up and the flock of females left. Caliban watched them go.
    He hoped Chiara would escape again, sometime soon.

II.vii.
    â€œFather was very cross,” Chiara said. “He yelled at me. He said, ‘A royal princess does not carry vermin in her pockets!’”
    â€œHe’s right about that,” Caliban said. “I told you to let them go. You shouldn’t make pets of wild things.”
    She stuck the end of her braid in her mouth and chewed on it. It was a habit that drove her nurse and mother to near distraction. “I know you’re right,” she said. “But I loved their sweet little paws and their black eyes. And they would sit up so prettily for a treat.”
    â€œRats carry disease. Your little sweet things might have given us all the plague.” He put down the mortar and pestle he was using and washed his hands carefully, as always, in the porcelain basin. Then he reached for the notebook. Prospero wanted everything recorded in detail. Caliban found the writing tedious, but enduring his master’s lectures was far worse, so he gritted his teeth and did as he was told.
    They were in his workroom, which was no more than a large closet connected to Prospero’s study. Its