Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I by L. Jagi Lamplighter Page B
Authors: L. Jagi Lamplighter
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intuition from my Lady suggested I should refill before going any further, so I turned onto a local road.
“Hey, where are we going? This looks familiar. Are we there yet?” Mephisto peered out the window.
I sighed. “We’re stopping for gas. As for whether or not we’re there yet . . . you are directing us, remember?”
“Oops! Sorry.”
“You do know where you’re taking us, don’t you?” Mab turned in his seat. “Because if this turns out to be a wild goose chase, I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”
Mephisto cried plaintively, “Miranda, don’t let him talk to me like that!”
I forced my voice to remain calm. “Do you know where we are going?”
“Yes. Of course. I just got confused. Everyone gets confused sometimes. Even sane people.” Mephisto spoke with mock resentfulness, but there was an undertone of genuine bitterness, as if he hated his lack of sanity. Neither Mab nor I answered, and an uncomfortable silence followed.
As we arrived at a service station, however, I happened to glance at my brother in the rearview mirror, and a strange thing happened. For an instant, I had such sympathy for his plight that it was as if I were the one who had lost my sanity, who had felt slip from me my intelligence, my memory, and everything that made me myself. For the first time, I contemplated how the brilliant and talented youthful Mephisto would have felt about his foolish older self. He would have been appalled—much as I might feel were I to come upon an older version of myself who was an imbecile or who had lost the favor of Eurynome.
The experience left me shaken.
* * *
SURROUNDED by forest, the service station stood by itself except for a squat thrift shop across the road. Next to the thrift shop was a huge, sprawling, gravel parking lot, far larger than a store of its type would ever need. Perhaps the building had once been a restaurant.
As Mab pumped the gas, Mephisto rolled down his window and scrambled up until he was sitting in the window of the car door. Crossing his arms, he leaned on the roof, looking around.
“Miranda? Did you ever notice that every gas station off every highway looks like every other gas station off a highway? And, every small town thrift shop is called The Elephant’s Trunk?”
“No,” I murmured.
He was right about the name of the thrift shop. A gray wooden cutout of an elephant hung above the sign. The glass bay windows showed plastic mannequins with painted hair. They were dressed in outfits from the twenties through the fifties. One of the mannequins was missing a hand.
The soft voice of my Lady spoke in my heart.
Go into the store
.
Immediately, I left the car and crossed the road to the thrift shop. Behind me, Mephisto had climbed out of his window and leapt down to the pavement. His footsteps echoed behind mine. He caught up with me as I reached the door, and we walked into the tiny shop together.
The musty smell of old clothes nearly caused me to retreat. I stood blinking, my hand over my nose, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. As my vision cleared, the clerk came toward us, smiling simperingly at Mephisto. She was a thin woman in a red knit dress.
“Oops, got to go!” Mephisto spun on his heels. He wrinkled his nose as he left, calling, “Icky smell!”
The clerk hesitated, frowning, before coming to serve me. I refrained from smirking. Middle-aged women pursuing my daffy brother always amused me, though how he managed to impress this one so quickly was mystifying.
“Can I help you? We’re having a special on sequined gowns and flapper hats.” An eager look came over her face as, with her trained eye, she took in my dress, examining its shimmering emerald satin, its high lace collar, its narrow fitted waist, and its puffed shoulders. “That’s a lovely tea gown you’re wearing. A reproduction of a Worth gown, perhaps? Circa 1894? It’s amazingly well preserved! What extraordinary fabric! I’ve never seen
“Hey, where are we going? This looks familiar. Are we there yet?” Mephisto peered out the window.
I sighed. “We’re stopping for gas. As for whether or not we’re there yet . . . you are directing us, remember?”
“Oops! Sorry.”
“You do know where you’re taking us, don’t you?” Mab turned in his seat. “Because if this turns out to be a wild goose chase, I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”
Mephisto cried plaintively, “Miranda, don’t let him talk to me like that!”
I forced my voice to remain calm. “Do you know where we are going?”
“Yes. Of course. I just got confused. Everyone gets confused sometimes. Even sane people.” Mephisto spoke with mock resentfulness, but there was an undertone of genuine bitterness, as if he hated his lack of sanity. Neither Mab nor I answered, and an uncomfortable silence followed.
As we arrived at a service station, however, I happened to glance at my brother in the rearview mirror, and a strange thing happened. For an instant, I had such sympathy for his plight that it was as if I were the one who had lost my sanity, who had felt slip from me my intelligence, my memory, and everything that made me myself. For the first time, I contemplated how the brilliant and talented youthful Mephisto would have felt about his foolish older self. He would have been appalled—much as I might feel were I to come upon an older version of myself who was an imbecile or who had lost the favor of Eurynome.
The experience left me shaken.
* * *
SURROUNDED by forest, the service station stood by itself except for a squat thrift shop across the road. Next to the thrift shop was a huge, sprawling, gravel parking lot, far larger than a store of its type would ever need. Perhaps the building had once been a restaurant.
As Mab pumped the gas, Mephisto rolled down his window and scrambled up until he was sitting in the window of the car door. Crossing his arms, he leaned on the roof, looking around.
“Miranda? Did you ever notice that every gas station off every highway looks like every other gas station off a highway? And, every small town thrift shop is called The Elephant’s Trunk?”
“No,” I murmured.
He was right about the name of the thrift shop. A gray wooden cutout of an elephant hung above the sign. The glass bay windows showed plastic mannequins with painted hair. They were dressed in outfits from the twenties through the fifties. One of the mannequins was missing a hand.
The soft voice of my Lady spoke in my heart.
Go into the store
.
Immediately, I left the car and crossed the road to the thrift shop. Behind me, Mephisto had climbed out of his window and leapt down to the pavement. His footsteps echoed behind mine. He caught up with me as I reached the door, and we walked into the tiny shop together.
The musty smell of old clothes nearly caused me to retreat. I stood blinking, my hand over my nose, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. As my vision cleared, the clerk came toward us, smiling simperingly at Mephisto. She was a thin woman in a red knit dress.
“Oops, got to go!” Mephisto spun on his heels. He wrinkled his nose as he left, calling, “Icky smell!”
The clerk hesitated, frowning, before coming to serve me. I refrained from smirking. Middle-aged women pursuing my daffy brother always amused me, though how he managed to impress this one so quickly was mystifying.
“Can I help you? We’re having a special on sequined gowns and flapper hats.” An eager look came over her face as, with her trained eye, she took in my dress, examining its shimmering emerald satin, its high lace collar, its narrow fitted waist, and its puffed shoulders. “That’s a lovely tea gown you’re wearing. A reproduction of a Worth gown, perhaps? Circa 1894? It’s amazingly well preserved! What extraordinary fabric! I’ve never seen
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