But where? And was there yet a third place they could go, now that their apartment on the top floor had all but been destroyed? Their belongings tossed about like dandelion fluff on a breeze?
She didn’t have any answers, and Romeo hadn’t gotten any from Olivier Gerard or Brice Marshall: the towers had gone out, and so, until this morning, none of the phones, Imagebars, or computers had been operable; all holographic projection technology had stood still for them as they’d waited, not quite patiently, for it to all get fixed.
While it was an issue, it wasn’t the biggest one: that had been where to sleep until they could find another safe haven to respite at and then transfer out. Finally, rooms had been offered to them in Jackson by someone from their church, and she was thankful for it.
Riding the bus there wouldn’t be a fun trip, but at least they’d have one less thing to worry about once they were established, however short the time was.
If they could get to the bank, maybe she could talk Romeo into calling for a taxi instead. Just the thought of taking a public transit system from city to city made her shake all over with fear if she allowed herself to.
“As you can see, even the staff didn’t come out of this with no damages,” Mario was saying, “but at least the dealership might let me get some sort of discount on what I owe them on it, considering the situation. Who knows?”
Ah, the thoughts of the young. So optimistic, but so naïve, she thought. Of course, they aren’t going to just let it be a write-off to themselves; they’re in business to make money and sell whatever they can, however they’re able to.
She let go of Romeo’s hand a moment to scratch her other arm, and then gave her hand back to him as she pondered.
Looking at Mario, who was now engaged in a debate with Amos over his comment, she realized maybe he wasn’t as young as she’d thought, after all. Maybe because she had rarely seen him in daylight; maybe because she felt old when she saw how much energy he exuded, who knew? But now, she detected a smattering of white hairs that had gone unnoticed before.
“Well,” her husband said to nobody in particular, glancing around them, “it could have been a lot worse, but I’m sure glad it wasn’t.”
Prudence, her hand cradled in Amos’s, nodded silently before resting her head against the somewhat shorter man’s shoulder, and Amos let go of her hand to put an arm around her instead.
“I’m hungry,” Angus announced suddenly, tugging on Calico’s arm. “Can we find something to eat?”
Her eyes met Romeo’s and he nodded.
“Sure. Papa’s going to go check on a few things, and while he’s at it, maybe Amos and Prudence will walk with us to see if McDonalds is open, or possibly Red Robin, since they’re the closest places we’ve got,” she told him, releasing her husband’s hand again to bend closer to their child. “Would you like that?”
Angus nodded his head vigorously, let go of her hand, and bolted toward Amos and Prudence as the men continued their discussion, apparently so wrapped up in their topic they were unaware of the mention of food.
His little hands going around Prudence’s waist, he crooked a finger at her so he could whisper in her ear, and she obliged. Romeo and Calico exchanged looks, and then watched as Prudence was extracted from the men’s discussion and nodded, smiling.
“I don’t know about Amos, and I know Mario still has to work, but… I’ll definitely go. A burger sounds really good about now,” she acknowledged before suddenly turning back to the men.
“Food alert,” she said, her voice raised as she stood up on the tiptoes of the Prim House Mouse-decorated ballet flats she wore, which matched her light sweater in theme.
And with that, their eyes on her, Mario and Amos closed their mouths, Mario nodded as though it was his cue to depart, and Amos was ready to join them.
“So, where are we headed, and how?”
Thirty Four
Vancouver, Washington… May 30, 2025
Rose carefully made her way down the hall toward the living room, pausing to cringe when the next contraction hit her; she gritted her teeth and squeezed her hands into balls, trying not to cry out.
It certainly wouldn’t do to alarm S. Gillam and Angelique, but if she suggested that, perhaps, it would be a good time to head toward the hospital, things would remain somewhat calm. Flustering them up would do about as good as trying to corral wet hens in the wind.
For most of her association with them, they had been passionate - yet still somehow calming – people who simply loved life and the people God had put in their lives. And she, for one, was thankful for it.
They had provided her a home, and the emotional and spiritual support she needed when at her near-lowest, for which she was more thankful than she’d ever have words for.
She couldn’t imagine what would have happened to her – or to the baby she carried and would soon deliver – if it hadn’t been for their generosity and hospitality.
“Rose?”
She looked up from where she still stood, clutching her fists, to find Angelique observing her, her hair as perfectly coifed as any other day, a look of concern on her face. The woman moved toward her, paused in front of her, and then, without another word, pulled out her phone. “Call for an ambulance,” she told it, “and have it come to my home address.”
With a sigh of relief, Rose nodded her approval at the idea as Angelique pocketed her phone again and called for S. Gillam. “It’s time,” she said when he asked what she wanted. “Go get her hospital bag, if you would, and the snack bags I put together. Who knows how long this might take; an hour or fifteen,” she said when he moved into the hallway.
Rose started moving again, and Angelique helped her into the chair nearest the front door: a wide brown leather office chair that could move about as necessary, with a similarly movable ottoman. Much like the rest of the furnishings in their home, it was somehow comfortable, elegant, and homey all at once. And she, for one, had been grateful for that.
Another contraction raced across her stomach and she clenched her jaw, trying unsuccessfully this time to refrain from calling out at the pain. She could feel sweat just beginning to form at her brow as the torture released her from its grip once more.
She could hear S. Gillam rushing around to various places in the little three-bedroom grabbing bags and making sure the lights were off in the rest of the house before he came, finally, to sit on the couch and wait with her for the ambulance. Angelique was quietly making a phone call to Masao and Anouk Chanel in the corner, and the couple raised their voices enough to let her know they’d meet her there and call the rest of the people concerned as quickly as they could.
And then, as another contraction hit her remorselessly, she heard the ambulance turning up the block, rounding into the driveway seconds later.
It was at times like this Rose was thankful to be three houses into a block instead of down a long country lane.
S. Gillam grabbed the bags as Angelique hung up, allowing the holoscreen to disappear before she pocketed it. Then, moments later, as the paramedics were knocking at the door, Rose struggled to stand, the pain in her lower back excruciating. Angelique opened the door and three paramedics came inside to assist her, hoisting her gently onto a rolling cot they’d set up at the door.
And with that, Rose was on her way.
So, apparently, was her baby.
Rose stirred as she heard the faint whimper of her son, Nathaniel Joel, beside her. Opening her eyes, she realized that a nurse had brought him back for his second feeding.
By some miracle, he was healthy; by some miracle, God had saved her the heartache of having damaged her child beyond imagining. At least in any physical sense.
Only time would tell for some things, but she was thankful.
After nineteen hours of labor, he had finally been delivered by Cesarean in order to make sure he was alright. His cord had begun to cause problems, and the doctor told her he hadn’t seen any other way to save both mother and child, a
nd so, here she was with barely a few hours of interrupted sleep, thankful to be alive. Thankful for her son.
Thankful for those who had stuck by her, and for the hospital staff who had done their all to ensure such a good outcome.
The nurse – a tall, plump, blonde woman who had earlier introduced herself as Patty – gently handed Nathaniel over to her.
“I’ll be back for him in a little while, or Sally will, if I’m not available. And I’ve got to tell you,” the woman said in her high, reedy voice, “that little man has already stolen the hearts of a lot of the nursing and obstetrics staff, men and women alike.”
She smiled at Rose, and for the first time, Rose smiled back, though it took all her energy to hold her son correctly and not wince from the pain radiating from where the surgeon, Dr. Lehmin, had resealed the areas he’d had to laser through in order to save her son’s life.
“Thank you,” she said weakly. “Can you let my family and friends know that I’m… that I’m awake?”
“Sure will, Hon. No problem. They were asking about you; at least, the Stuarts were. They stopped by the nurses’ desk not half an hour ago.”
Rose nodded and thanked her again as she prepared to feed the baby, her eyes quickly moving to his bald little head and big grey-green eyes.
“Nathaniel Joel Wishart-Laurent,” she whispered to him as the nurse left, “I welcome you to the world and pray God watch over you all the days of your life, for He is good. Your Mama won’t be perfect, but she will love you always; this, I guarantee.”
And with that, she sighed, her mind drifting even as she watched the perfect fingers of her son grasp her hair, moving it toward his mouth. Yes, the little man was ready for food; something a bit more nutritious than what he seemed to have in mind.
Thirty Five
Portland, Oregon… May 31, 2025
Mark carefully sat up in bed at the sound of his wife’s excited speech; through the walls, he could hear the news of Rose’s baby: a son. And though he knew it would be days, if not weeks before he would be able to meet the babe – if not years, if the state prosecutor had his way – he was glad the child was born now, and that both mother and child seemed to be faring well.
At least, from what he could gather through the walls that stifled some of his wife’s words like so much cotton in the ears.
“Majesta,” he called softly as he smoothed down the blue ticking that covered his legs, hoping she was within hearing. “Could you come here, please?”
Perhaps she would tell him the name of Rose’s new baby.
Eugenie seemed to be telling the whole world, but had she seen fit to tell him anything? No.
Perhaps she had thought him still asleep, or perhaps she thought he didn’t care a whit, but more than he wanted to admit, he did. And very much.
Footsteps in the hall outside, heading in his direction, forced a smile to his face. Though it felt lopsided, there was nothing to help it; the doctors had said he’d suffered a mild stroke as a result of – or at least, in conjunction with – the series of seizures he’d fallen into, and that it might take some time to regain the muscle control he had lost.
“It’s me,” he heard Eugenie say. “Majesta stepped out. What can I do for you, Mark?”
“Well, I, um… I didn’t want to interrupt all the calls you were making, but I couldn’t help but overhear bits and pieces of what you said. About Rose having a boy, I mean. And I wondered….”
“Nathaniel Joel Wishart-Laurent, six pounds five ounces, Mark. He ended up coming C-section because of some problem or another, but they’re both doing alright, as far as the doctors can tell. He was born at 9:52 this morning,” she told him as she moved to sit in the rocker to the left side of the bed; the rocker that currently faced the bed, but often faced the window.
“Nate. I like it,” he said, smiling again.
“Not Nate; Nathaniel. She insisted he not be called Nate… at least as long as she can help it. Angelique told me she’d said that people see you differently when you have a less regal sounding name,” she told him. “How she can know that with a name like Rose, I don’t know, but I think I can understand, to some degree; at least see her point,” his wife continued, bringing the rocker a little closer and taking his hand.
“Nathaniel, then. Still good; like Nathaniel Hawthorne?”
“That, and Nat King Cole, who she named him after… and the prophets Joel and Nathaniel in the Old Testament,” she told him, laughing.
“Nat King Cole?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know his name was Nathaniel?”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” she said, laughing again, making the chair sway. “Maybe because you listen to his music now and again, and because he’s as famous for music as Hawthorne is for books?”
“Hmmm,” he said, wishing he could just get into his car and head to the hospital to see the pair on his own. “Point taken.”
“Mr. Reynolds,” Arthur heard a familiar voice say when he picked up the old smartphone he’d been borrowing from one of his cousins. “The position is yours, if you would kindly begin in the morning.”
Glancing around the park to see if anyone was close by, and seeing no one, Arthur relaxed a bit and sat at the bottom of the slide. Had he ever played on one as a kid? He couldn’t recall.
He was thankful this wasn’t one of those newfandangled holoscreen phones, so that Mr. Shiloh – who had insisted he call him Benedict, even though Arthur knew he couldn’t say it right – took a deep breath before answering. “An’ at what kinda time,” he wanted to know. “’Cause since I be on the bus, gotta try to fig’re a sched’le.”
“If you can be here by, say, ten o’clock, I would appreciate it. I have already discussed a schedule with the Misters Kennewick and Meriwether, and they’ve approved you for thirty-six hours of work a week, so long as they don’t interfere with the appointments you’ve already got set up with them,” the man continued, his voice sounding a bit more nasally than it had when they’d met in person.
“Ten,” Arthur asked, somewhat incredulously before clamping a hand over his mouth “Uh, yeah, ten be okay. See ya then, Mr. Shiloh.”
“Benedict, if you would, and may I call you Arthur, as we will be working together closely?”
“Yeah, fine, man. Dat works,” he replied as he stood again; walked toward the swings.
Dare he?
Now, swings, he remembered, and with joy.
“Ten o’clock, then, Arthur,” Mr. Shiloh reiterated. “I look forward to showing you the ropes. You’ve already met Rosa Grace and Pierre; they’re both on your shift for tomorrow, so it will help with settling in to see familiar faces, I’m sure.”
“Awright,” Arthur said again, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but merely listening.
After the man hung up, Arthur looked about him again and, seeing no one watching him, sat tentatively on the highest of the three swings, which sat in the middle. He tested his weight, taking his feet off the ground, and when it didn’t collapse, made a few mild movements.
Within minutes, with his eyes closed, he was swinging freely, making sure not to hit his long legs or feet against the ground.
Had he ever felt so free?
He let his mind roam to his childhood as memories of happier times engulfed him, causing his heart to speed up and somehow, simultaneously, to sing a song more beautiful than he recalled ever really hearing.
And in those moments, he didn’t worry about someone coming up behind and startling him; he didn’t worry about whether someone he knew might see him, or children would laugh, because he was free.
Finally and completely free, for the first time in his life.
A sudden thought jarred him back down to earth even as his memory continued to take its stroll. Free, yeah, he thought, ‘cept for the whole takin’ Jesus in ma heart thing. Mebbe….
But who was he kidding? He had killed a woman and her unborn child, and allowed another to fall – or had it been run?
– through a mirror. He had stalked people and tortured them; he had treated people more cruelly than they deserved. Since he’d been out; since he’d met the new Andrea and her young, fiercely praying charges, his heart had begun shifting. He saw things from the perspective of other people.
Is that what empathy was? Had he lacked it so many years, focused on his own wants and wishes?
God would never allow someone like him into His family, would He?
With a sigh, Arthur slowed the swing down but remained seated. He lowered his head, covering his face in his hands even as new images came to him, unbidden: Uncle Dabney and Ken Traylor, out cold on the floor after he’d hit them over the head with a lamp; Rosemary, halfway inside of a mirror; Andrea, hands on her belly as the life drained from her. Images of his father, leaving; of his mother, weeping; of his sisters and cousins at the few weddings and birthdays he’d been able to attend over the years, given how long he’d been in prison.
And then, suddenly, a vision of a lamb near a creek bed, bleating as if to call him to follow. In his mind, Arthur watched himself follow after it as it moved up a hill; he panted along after it, nearly out of breath. And when the lamb stopped, it stood between two soldiers.
The younger but larger of the two – not quite twenty, Arthur would guess – picked it up, and it did nothing to struggle.
“Follow,” he said, turning to the other guard. “It’s time this criminal got what was coming to him.”
It was as if the guards hadn’t even noticed Arthur’s presence, but he followed nevertheless, the image clinging to him.
He couldn’t stop the progression of it if he tried.
“The traitor is here, and he must die,” the other guard said, the hate in his words searing into Arthur’s mind.
Why would they kill a lamb? What had it done to them, and why were they calling it traitor and criminal?
It made no sense.
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 80