Ironic, he reflected, that it had been only a couple weeks’ hard ride from where Father and Cousin Louis had tried to ship me off to as married so many years before I ever knew about it and it was gifted to me. Not much more than three hundred miles, as opposed to, what almost four hundred, going a different route? But either way, that’s just… peculiar.
Just thinking of Jurriana Monserrat Rufet and her father, the co-Prince Olegeur, sent shivers down his spine, and he paused to thank God once more for His intervention.
It was rather odd that the angel mirror, as they were calling it, had crossed the Pyrenees twice and been relatively unharmed; once before and once after he had owned it the first time. But was there a specific reason for it, or was it merely because of ownership changes? And where had it been before Sancho saw it among Alfonso’s belongings? Where was it in the interim?
Would they ever know?
Edward sighed as he carefully turned over again, hoping Paloma wouldn’t wake up with all his tossing.
Enough of this, he told himself. I’ve got to get some sleep. Who knows but God if we’ll figure this out. But if and when we do, I want to have the strength to follow through with what we find. And I can’t get that by just sitting here thinking in the dark. I need rest. Now.
He could hear birds begin to chirp outside, and the sound of a lone frog. They were soothing, and so, as he aimed once more for sleep, that’s where his concentration lay.
And finally, just as he saw daylight approaching underneath the blinds, he was asleep.
Twenty
Perpignan, France… May 12, 1702
Sir Gaspar Delacroix Aiton glanced up from his desk, startled not for the first time to hear music coming from the mirror he had purchased in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and wondered at it.
He had decided to put it in Aiton Manor’s music room, amidst much art, for just that reason, but it still surprised him on the rare occurrence of a new tune. This one, especially, was so hauntingly beautiful, he was nearly in tears.
There were times, true, when he heard voices coming from it without any music. Not always words he understood, but still, it fascinated him.
His nieces and nephews – and most certainly his sisters and brother-in-law, God rest his soul – had taken a liking to the odd and hauntingly beautiful piece, as well.
Is that why old King James wanted to sell it so badly? Had the mirror simply been too eccentric for him?
Or was it something more?
Though much of the time, Sir Gaspar was in greater Languedoc and the Corbières tending to his other properties instead of at home, he was thankful for the times he had to just relax and enjoy life. And he was just as grateful that, soon, he would be spending his life with another… a woman he’d met on one of his rare trips into Paris, who was on the way to marry him just a few weeks hence.
She had been visiting from Angers, and he from Perpignan… where else would they have met but Paris?
A thrill went through him at the thought of bringing Miss Marguerite Chevreul here to be his wife, and he smiled, standing to move closer to the mirror.
At twenty-seven, he was finally ready to settle down.
Though he’d enjoyed the company of Miss Roisin while in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, it had quickly become apparent she didn’t find him similarly attractive. It had stung, and he’d sworn off the idea of marriage at all until the delightful Miss Marguerite had won his heart with her wit and beauty.
She carried a cheery disposition, and – with the addition of her soft words, blonde locks, and round figure – Gaspar had fallen for her hard, and quickly.
Though they’d known one another a mere eleven months, he knew without a doubt she would complement his lifestyle, and him hers. Their heritage within their mutual communities was impeccable, and he could see that any children resulting from their union would benefit greatly in fiscal ways, as well as in the inheritance of land.
While he knew that life was about more than heritage, money, and inheritances, it had been drilled into him from early childhood to seek someone his equal – or perhaps a bit more – in order to satisfy both the Delacroix and Aiton sides of the family.
As he was pondering this, the melody of the mirror grew louder, and occasionally, he heard what sounded like thunder punctuating it.
He watched with curiosity as, once again, the glass became dark.
Why darken with music, he thought, moving in just a little closer. Why always a thunder, and bright light occasionally flashing through the darkness of it, as though a storm lived inside? Upon it rests an angel, and within it, there seems to be something almost… otherworldly.
What Marguerite would think of the mirror, he didn’t know, for he hadn’t disclosed anything about it to her. He just hoped she wouldn’t want to have it removed… because he would refuse.
Flat out refuse.
He loved Marguerite, but there was something about the mirror he just couldn’t part with. It was like a dream… an odd and craze-led dream that brought fresh inspiration to his life, and with it, humor and a sense of humility.
Should I wait to show it to her until we’ve married, he wondered as he sat on the floor in front of the mirror, mesmerized and perplexed, as always. Or should I share its secrets with her and see how she responds before saying our vows?
Would she understand that, in spite of all the work he needed to get done, when the music of the angel mirror came upon him, he couldn’t help but be fascinated with it to the point of distraction? That something pulled him to the mirror and made him feel almost… sacrosanct just in its presence?
As the stormy weather and music continued, Sir Gaspar suddenly sensed that someone had walked into the room; he was no longer alone. But when he stood and turned, there was nobody.
“Sacrosanct, indeed,” he said aloud.
It was not the first time he wondered if angels had entered the room rather than people.
As he sat back down, his thoughts beginning to wander, there was a sudden change in the atmosphere. He wasn’t sure if he sensed a foreboding, or a miracle on the verge of happening.
The music stopped, and the mirror darkened more. A prickle of fear ran through him, and he began to shiver.
My breeches be damned, he thought, scooting backward quickly as the smell of fresh water and lightening reached his nostrils. What’s going on here?
The sky outside was becoming shadow and he heard rain begin to pour forth in great perplickety-plip-ploppings.
He got up and watched out the window, afraid now to look at the mirror he had been so transfixed with moments earlier.
Within moments, the sky was lit with fire as lightening crashed into a nearby tree, felling it into the rivulets of water that were already forming. The light was blinding, and as he turned back around, he saw movement near the mirror.
He pivoted and ventured a step or two closer to it before starting, an unexpected sight before his eyes. He rubbed them once, twice, and opened them again, but the apparition was still there.
Was this human, or angel?
For at the foot of the mirror, now calm with its natural reflection again, was a woman, dark of skin and hair, rubbing her elbow and muttering something he didn’t understand. It almost seemed as though she had stumbled right out, but how would that even be possible?
Where had she really come from?
And why was she here?
Sir Gaspar glanced around, trying to figure out how she could possibly have arrived in the music room. Was someone playing a joke on him? If so, it was in no way funny.
He moved a few steps closer, and the woman looked up at him. Her eyes were an oddly beautiful shade of brown for which he – at first glance – had no words, and as he drew closer, he could tell that the wet hair tumbling down around her shoulders gave off the faint scent of grape vines, olives, and figs. It was an intoxicating feeling, being in her presence.
Her tunic – long, winding its way around the main of her body, somewhat damp, and drab g
rey in color – was belted with some sort of natural cording, and her feet were bare, but for the presence of some sort of clay-based mud that were caked to them.
She spoke for a few more moments, gesturing wildly, but he understood none of it.
“Pouvez-vous me dire d'ou vous est venue de? Et quel pourrait être votre nom, Miss. ..?”
Sir Gaspar watched for her response, but saw only a scared, blank look on the woman’s face.
“I am Gaspar,” he tried again, pointing to himself. “Sir Gaspar Delacroix Aiton, at your service.” He bowed this time, hoping it would help, and he thought he saw the woman blush, but couldn’t be certain.
How might I go about this, Lord, he prayed quickly, eyes to heaven, before returning his gaze to the mysterious woman. How am I going to communicate with this woman that I’m not here to harm her, but to help?
Even as he prayed, she seemed to shrink back a moment before smiling; a shy smile that melted his heart.
Her eyes, he thought finally, as though a memory registered within his very soul… they’re the color of cognac running over amber. So enchanting; so unique. They undo me.
There was yet something else about her that drew him forward. Though, in spite of himself, he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
She was beautiful, in a way many of the Spanish in the area were beautiful, but there was something so different about her that he had no words to describe it.
It came not from what she wore, or how she looked… it came not even from the enticing scent that had captured his attention, or the look in her eyes – so tender, so wild, and so vulnerable. It came from deep within her, and he prayed God would allow him to find out.
There were only two words that he could understand of what said, but it was enough. She had repeated them again and again, as though she wanted him to know something important. Whenever she said one – Adonai – she pointed toward heaven, and when she said the other, she pointed to herself.
That word was Galya.
Twenty One
Boston, Massachusetts… June 9, 1937
Steven waited until after his boss left before getting up to stretch and move over to the window to give himself a different view for a few minutes. The rest of Mr. Faires’ employees had left, as had those in the adjoining office space, giving him the quiet he enjoyed at the end of the day before heading home.
The dinner he’d had with Mr. Faires came to mind again, and he tried to shake it off.
He still had yet to provide the man with an answer to his offer, or to apologize for condemning him without at least asking him to understand what it was about the Jewish people that caused him so much grief.
There were so many angles to look at the job offer from, and it made his head hurt to think it all through. Add in the rest of it, and he wouldn’t know for sure where to begin.
Steven felt more conflicted than he had in many years; another raise would help with his family, but it also meant more hours, and he was working beyond what was normal now. On top of that, he’d mentioned to his boss that though he’d need to think on it, he’d also need to think on whether he wished to stay.
Not that he didn’t like or need the job, he’d said. But that they had differing views on something close to his heart.
“But what could possibly be important enough that you’d consider quitting,” the man had asked him, his glass of sherry halfway to his mouth.
“Thoughts pertaining to the Jewish people,” he’d said simply. Why get into it more than that?
“What thoughts about the Jewish people would those be,” his boss had said, clenching the goblet stem in his hand so hard that Steven wondered how it hadn’t burst.
“Just that I happen to care about some people who are Jews, and because I’ve heard some comments you’ve made in the negative regarding-“
“How dare you,” his boss had nearly shouted, interrupting him.
“You think you know everything there is to know about my life, or why I believe what I do? You think you know why I do or do not like people from various cultures or belief systems? Well, you’re wrong, young man. You know so little about me, there’s no point trying to explain. We can talk another time… I don’t have to put up with this.”
And with that, Mr. Faires had called the waiter, paid the bill, and left without another word. And since then, they hadn’t said three words at a time about anything other than those concerning documents that needed typing for the man’s clients.
The other three employees didn’t even seem to notice.
Janice, Fred, and Harold just kept on working in their own, somewhat haphazard ways, getting two-thirds or three-quarters of the way through their final assignment of the day and then leaving the rest for Steven to pick up.
As if he didn’t have other things to do with his life.
If he took a week off, why, sometimes he wondered if those clients would even stay with the company.
A soft rain began to fall as he stood there thinking and, for once, Steven had the urge to rebel against all he’d been taught was proper and normal and moral.
“Lord, I know this isn’t the best thing for me to do, but I’ll come in early tomorrow. I promise,” he prayed. “I’ve just got to get out of here; I can’t stay anchored to this desk, to this office, to this assignment for another minute. I want to go walk in the rain; feel it against my skin like I used to in Gloucester. I want to feel like myself again, without worrying about everything around me falling apart. I just…,” he heaved a sigh, his shoulder blades contracting so hard they touched.
“I just want to have a normal life again, without worrying about everything that comes my way. I want to spend more time with the ones that I love and less time sweating over stuff that cannot be changed… at least not by me.”
Slowly, he turned back toward his desk; his typewriter; the fifteen pages left, sitting waiting to be typed. He put the pages away, grabbed his jacket, and made his way outside, making sure to lock both doors behind him.
By the time he got to the ground floor, the rain was coming down, a little more steadily, and he welcomed it with open arms. A few people looked at him askance, but he ignored it, smiling even more as he stood there at the entryway to the office building. He walked, slowly, in the direction of Fenway Park.
He knew the Red Sox – a handful of whom were friends – had a game against the Indians that day, but maybe he could find someone to talk with.
If nothing else, the conversation would get his mind off Mr. Faires, his offer, his outburst, and what, to Steven was his foolish thinking.
The sound of a ball colliding with a bat – pthwak – met his ears as he approached, followed by the roaring of the crowd.
By the time he got close enough to speak with anyone, he heard another pthwak, and waited for the crowd to subside in its cheering long enough to make his query.
Though he sensed he needed something to help cool down, he figured, if possible, rain and conversation would be just the ticket prior to going home. Because if there was anything Steven knew about his wife, it was that she didn’t like it when he came home in a bad mood. It upset all three of the females in his house, and he was tired of cleaning up emotional messes that he’d helped participate in creating.
“Sorry, Mac,” the guy behind the ticket counter told him, smacking his gum before he continued. “I know you’re in close with some of the guys, but ain’t nobody to really hang out with today. Probably not much ‘til season’s over, but hey, I’ll leave a message, though; pin it back in the locker room that you stopped by.”
Steven nodded, thanked the man, and slowly headed back in the other direction.
Well, it was worth a shot, he thought. Now I guess there’s nothing to do but head home.
Slowly, he headed in the direction of home, allowing the moisture in the air to take his mind off work pressures and the fact that his boss may not be his boss much longer if they couldn’t find a solution to their impasse.
Twenty Two
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Vancouver, Washington… June 9, 2020
Paloma rolled over and carefully got out from underneath the covers, blinking repeatedly to acclimate to the dim light. Her feet felt heavy as they made contact with the floor..
Daylight had yet to arrive, though considering the clock read 5:12 AM, it would be there soon enough… probably before she got back to bed.
The chickens were already beginning to make a bit of a fuss, and she didn’t want to wake anyone else up in her sojourn over the lawn to feed them before curling back up in bed for another forty minutes.
Confetti met her as she opened the bedroom door and followed her as she made her way quietly to the kitchen to grab the chickens’ bucket of vegetable scraps from the day before. She then headed toward the back door, slipped into her chicken-chore shoes, and proceeded outside, making sure that the cat stayed inside.
The air smelled crisp, and there were a few squirrels playing tag between the oaks in the yard, much to her delight. And for the first time in months, there was a sense of total freedom from harm.
As she made her way to the coop, she breathed in the air around her and sighed.
It was going to be a good day; she could feel it deep down in her bones.
“Just keep reminding yourself of that if something comes up, Paloma,” she whispered in the near dark, chuckling as she opened the gating above the chickens’ area and dumped their breakfast over the side before locking it back up. “It’s going to be a good day; a wonderful day. A day to remember.”
Within minutes she was back inside. The sun was just coming over the horizon and the chickens happily enjoying their breakfast. After removing the shoes, she made sure to feed Confetti, bending down to tousle her curly, multi-colored fur a few moments before heading back to bed.
While she missed Petunia Grace, she was grateful for one thing: Confetti didn’t care a whit if you talked to her when she ate, so you could go back to bed. Petunia had been a pill about it. It didn’t matter what else you needed to get done, she’d wanted you there, front and center, talking to but not watching her.
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 13