Page 39 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

She looked at Ross questioningly. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact, gazing at the view, but after a pause he nodded, just once.

“Also,” she said slowly, watching his face closely, “some would feel the Caliban-Miranda vibe is problematic.”

“Prospero’s thinly veiled rape accusation?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I want to rescue Caliban’s reputation from that. To rehabilitate him. He’s a victim of character assassination, in my view.”

“Motive?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Prospero creates him, and he thinks he owns him. He’s bound to think poor Caliban isn’t good enough for his daughter. He has Miranda on a pedestal. She’s a chattel destined—as far as he is concerned—to inflate his consequence by making a strategic marriage. And—I suppose—Caliban is a chattel too. But Caliban is there to serve him, and Miranda is there to further his prestige. It’s all pretty narcissistic.”

“Not great parenting,” Petra agreed. “But sexual assault?” she went on. Ross wasn’t naïve. He must know the publishing industry would shy away from anything potentially controversial. Anything that might cause a writer to be canceled. The success of a book was already too arbitrary to risk bringing it down over something unnecessarily divisive.

“It’s an allegation,” persisted Ross, “and I want that allegation to shine a light on Prospero’s behavior, not Caliban’s. Caliban is an innocent. Pure of heart. The story is about love, of course—between Caliban and Miranda—but it’s also about having a mentor that creates you and makes you fully emotionally dependent on them”—he swallowed, screwing up his eyes as he looked at the sky—“so they can control you.”

His use of the third person didn’t fool Petra. “You’re Caliban?” she ventured.

He shrugged, then nodded again and hung his head as if the admission weighed heavily on him. “When I was first playing with these ideas,” he told her, “I started with Frankenstein’s monster, you know? The freak, the outcast, the rejected son who wants nothing more than to be loved by his creator—his parent, whose job is to protect him . . .”

Sheesh, this was heavy stuff, Petra thought. “I mean, you’re ugly,” she joked gently, “but you’re not that ugly,” she said, pleased to see him crack a smile.

“Then,” he continued, “I realized Caliban was a better fit for this idea I wanted to explore. For me, the whole thing with my first novel was about me becoming the creature of the people who were invested in my work. I was the ‘creature’ of”—he hesitated— “the publishing industry, required to do its bidding. A being with no agency. Kind of a facsimile of an author, who didn’t even exist outside this role that she—they,” he corrected himself, “had created for me, you know?”

Hmm. She? thought Petra.

Now, at last, he turned to her, his eyes pleading for her to understand.

“I get it,” she said, placing her hand gently on his forearm. “It’s not as rosy in the garden as people think it is, looking in from outside. I do get it. Truly.”

Ross nodded again sharply, satisfied, it seemed, by her understanding.

“But still,” Petra went on, “that accusation Caliban tried to rape Miranda? That’s heavy stuff to get around. People don’t stop to absorb the nuances if they sense an issue . . .”

“Ah, but in this retelling I absolutely want to show how Prospero completely invents the slur as part of his cruelty toward Caliban. It’s character assassination to achieve his goal of ostracizing Caliban now that he constitutes him as a threat to his ambitions for Miranda.”

“Okay,” said Petra. She would have to read the whole thing, but this kind of risky content could be more than enough to prevent Ross’s ideas from getting out into the world. “So how does it end?”

He sighed. “Well, in Shakespeare’s version, not well for Caliban, if you remember?”

“Hmm . . .” Petra frowned, trying to recall. “Ariel gets released by Prospero, doesn’t he? I remember it’s Prospero’s final act before he leaves the island, to free the little sprite in return for his good service. I actually don’t remember what happens to Caliban in the play.”

“That’s because it’s left open,” Ross explained. “The audience doesn’t get to hear, and I suppose the suggestion is that Caliban has been surly and resentful, so he’s left there, discarded and unwanted. Trapped in purgatory forever.”

“Perhaps,” said Petra gently, “this time Caliban can have a happily ever after?”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Ross quietly, staring into the middle distance. “I don’t know yet . . .” And then he seemed to gather himself. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked suddenly.

“Nope,” said Petra, who had been thinking longingly of pancakes with syrup or a big, squishy bacon sandwich. She was starving.

“I know a place,” Ross said, standing and holding out his hand to help Petra to her feet. She was a little stiff. It must be the climb. Or the cold. It was still just barely April. The sunshine was weak, and the wind was cutting.

Going down the hill was considerably easier than going up. Ross seemed elated now and full of energy, whereas Petra was definitely still feeling the effects of her late-night reading session, despite getting up late.

Ross didn’t stop at the turning to the lane where his cottage was but slipped his arm through Petra’s, marching her through the churchyard to the top of the main street and down.

“Where are we going?” she laughed, panting a little, buoyed by his sudden high spirits.