“No, I’m pretty sure I remember eating,” the redhead countered.
“Sure about that?” his teammate inquired in teasing tones.
Baird eyed him suspiciously. “Did my apprentice send for you, by any chance?”
“He did!” Milo cheerfully confirmed. “According to Kester, all you’ve had today is a toaster pastry, a bag of potato chips, and a package of licorice. That’s not exactly the food of angels.”
“I’m a terrible cook?”
“Come aside and refresh yourself. You need to relax for a while.” The mailman crouched before him and extended a small box. “Eat your manna, Baird.”
With a short huff and a small grin, Baird accepted it, lifting the lid to reveal small wafers of condensed light. “Pull the shades for me?”
Milo was just lowering the last of them when the light in the room doubled, then trebled. Turning, he smiled at the sight his friend made. Kneeling in the center of the tiny apartment, Baird’s outstretched wingtips just brushed the corners of the room, their glory outshining the festive twinkling of his holiday decorations. Hushed notes accompanied the rustle of stained-glass wings, and Milo’s smile broadened as his eyes slipped shut. Heaven drew close when those born to worship gave thanks to God.
Prissie wondered if God would forgive her for hating Elise. Never in her life had she met someone so spiteful, and she heartily wished the girl would go back to wherever it was she came from. “What did I ever do to her?” Prissie begged miserably.
Koji handed her another tissue. “I am not aware of any offense.”
“Did you hear what she said?”
“I did.” He edged closer to her on the step. “She apologized immediately.”
“She didn’t mean it,” Prissie said bitterly. “She meant to be mean.”
During lunch, Elise had found so many ways to slight her, subtly ridiculing everything from her bagged lunch to her unpierced ears. Prissie might have been able to brush it off if it hadn’t been for her friends. None of them had come to her defense. No one had tried to change the subject. It was as if they agreed with Elise’s cutting comments, and that knowledge was too much to bear. She’d excused herself politely enough and left the cafeteria with her head held high … until she was in the clear. Then she fled, Koji close on her heels.
No one really used the stairwell where she was hiding, so she was a little surprised to hear a door open somewhere above them. For a moment, she held out a fleeting hope that April or even Margery had come to see if she was okay. But the voices that filled the echoing space were male, and she hid her face against her drawn-up knees. Hopefully, they would just ignore her.
The galumph of sneakers thudded closer, but when they reached the landing above her and Koji, they stalled. “Miss Priss?”
She groaned and covered her head with her hands. “Go away, Ransom.”
Completely ignoring her words, he hurried down the last flight of steps. “Hey, Koji.”
“Hello, Ransom … Marcus.”
Prissie’s head came up, and she blinked in surprise at the Protector, who leaned against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket. With an unhappy grunt, she went back to hiding a face that had to be red and puffy from crying. “Leave me alone,” she ordered in a muffled voice.
Instead, Ransom crouched in front of her, a concerned expression on his face. “You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He snorted. “Liar. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she stubbornly insisted.
“What’s your verdict, Conscience?” Ransom inquired.
Koji pushed another tissue into Prissie’s hand, giving it a covert pat. “Unkind words.”
“Rumor mill still grinding?” he asked lightly. “I suppose this time it’s tougher to shake the gossip since you can’t exactly deny it.”
Prissie peered warily at him. “What do you mean?”
Ransom made himself comfortable on the floor, sitting with legs crossed as he met her watery gaze. “Last time, they were saying stuff about you and Marcus, and none of it was true.”
“Obviously,” she muttered, casting a look at the angel with two-tone hair. Marcus was watching them closely, and for once, there was no smirking or sly remarks.
With a shrug, Ransom continued. “This time, it’s not a flat-out lie.”
“You know what they’re saying?” she asked, dabbing self-consciously at her nose.
His brows shot up. “You don’t?”
She slowly shook her head.
“Huh. Well, it’s nothing weird or kinky or anything,” Ransom explained. “It’s actually kinda funny … from my perspective.”
Prissie glared for all she was worth, but that wasn’t much right now. Her old nemesis was teasing her, but there wasn’t a speck of meanness in his manner. She was in a position to tell the difference now. “Well?” she prompted sulkily.
With an ironic smile, Ransom revealed, “Elise has been making sly remarks about people like you.”
A distant bell warned that lunch was over, and Prissie knew they’d need to make their way to their fourth-period classes soon. She didn’t budge, though. It was confusing, being on the other side of the phrase she’d so recently flung at him. “Someone like me?” she whispered, shaking her head in confusion.
“Yep,” he confirmed. “Basically, she’s saying that you and your family are all religious fanatics.”
Prissie stared at him blankly. “Wh-what?”
“You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy stuff they’re whispering about,” said Ransom. “They’re lumping you with every crackpot and charlatan in history, and if what they’re saying is true, anyone would be a fool to consider becoming a Christian.”
She couldn’t believe it. Instead of telling an outright lie, Elise had simply twisted the truth into something ugly. How did you set people straight when their ideas were so skewed?
Ransom wasn’t done. “So tell me, Miss Priss … will you ditch the whole faith thing in order to fit in again?”
She gaped at him, stunned that he’d suggest such a thing. It wasn’t even tempting. In fact, it was quite possibly the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. “Never,” she gasped. Wrapping her arm tightly around Koji and cutting a sharp look at Marcus, she vehemently exclaimed, “Never, ever, ever!”
“Sure about that?” Ransom asked in teasing tones.
“Completely!” she retorted, her voice ringing.
Hauling himself to his feet, he nodded to himself. “Thought as much. You’re your father’s daughter after all. Good to know.”
Ransom ambled toward the door, and Marcus pushed off the wall to follow. But first, he leaned down and gently flicked Prissie’s forehead. “Amen and amen, kiddo,” he whispered before trooping after his friend.
After all the drama at school, Prissie was glad to immerse herself in something Christmassy. This was supposed to be the season of sugar plum fairies and gingerbread men, not gossip and persecution. “It’s busy tonight,” she whispered to Koji from their usual seat at the back of the balcony in the Presbyterian church. There were easily two hundred people in the pews below, for tonight was the final run-through of Handel’s Messiah with the orchestra.
As the musicians warmed up their instruments, the choir practiced filing onto the stage, and the director explained to his soloists when to step forward and where to stand. Prissie spotted Kester in the strings section, drawing a bow across his cello and adding low, mellow notes to the rest of the tuning.
When the director stepped up to the podium, everyone gave him a round of applause, and then a hush fell as the first chords of the overture filled the sanctuary. Prissie squiggled down in her seat and closed her eyes, smiling softly. This had been a part of Christmas for as long as she could remember, and the strains were like the voice of a dear friend.
If she concentrated, she could pick out Harken in the bass section, and after the first several measures, Baird’s electric guitar made itself hea
rd. Koji sat straight and tall, his eyes taking in all that happened, but he wasn’t ignoring her. As a shiver of excitement thrilled through her heart, his hand briefly touched hers. “I love this,” she whispered.
“I understand why,” he replied solemnly. “All have gathered to hear the Living Word proclaimed in song.”
“They are all Bible verses, aren’t they? I guess I knew that, but I think of them as songs.”
“It is Milo’s turn,” Koji announced, nudging her with an elbow.
She quickly sat up and rested her arms on the back of the pew in front of them as the Messenger stepped into place and waited for his cue. “Comfort ye … comfort ye My people …” His clear tenor rose confidently over his accompaniment, carrying all the way to the back.
“The song is perfect for Milo,” whispered Prissie.
“It is indeed a Messenger’s song.”
Even with the changed pace of the classic, this solo remained a gentle ballad, and she loved hearing the good news proclaimed by one who lived to relay God’s words to others. She doubted she would ever hear a more heartfelt performance.
“And cry unto her that her warfare, her warfare is accomplished,” Milo sang.
A small part of Prissie’s happiness dimmed, and she looked to Koji. “Will your war end?”
“It will.”
“When?” she wondered.
“In the fullness of time,” Koji replied as Milo finished and stepped back. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Scripture says soon.”
After rehearsal, Tad came to find them. “Hey, you two. Neil ran into Derrick in the foyer, and they’re talking shop. If you want to head home now, you’d better catch a ride with Grandpa and Grandma.”
“I’d rather stay,” Prissie replied.
Tad nodded. “I figured as much, and that’s fine. Neil may be a while. Wake me up when you’re all ready?”
Prissie had to smile. Her big-big brother was just about the hardest working guy she knew, but he had a reputation of being lazy since he tended to fall asleep whenever he had some downtime. “I’ll find you.”
Koji nudged her. “May I greet the others?”
“Of course! That’s why I wanted to stick around.” A quick glance at the people milling below showed that both Baird and Kester were still up front. “Let’s go.”
Koji raced down the balcony stairs, bursting through one of the side doors into the sanctuary, but Prissie slowed down to admire the many stained glass windows. She could tell by the shadows drifting across the floodlights trained on them from outside that it was snowing again.
“Prissie!” She turned to see Baird jogging toward her. “Brace for impact!” he warned. Although she wasn’t the sort of person who went in for public displays of affection, the exuberant redhead definitely was. Still, he pulled up just short and quietly asked, “Braced?”
“I guess,” she mumbled, granting permission.
“Good, because you look like you need a hug,” he asserted. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he gave her a quick squeeze, then herded her to the front where his teammates waited. “Rough day?” he asked lightly.
“It was,” she admitted. “But after tonight, I’m feeling lots better.”
“Glad to hear it!” Baird enthused before his expression grew more serious. “I’m totally available for hugs any time you need one, ‘kay?”
“Thanks,” she whispered, touched by the offer.
“Good evening, Prissie,” Kester greeted.
Something about the way his dark eyes searched her face reminded her of Tamaes, and without thinking, she blurted, “I’m okay … really!”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he inclined his head. “I am pleased to know it.”
The last of the orchestra members drifted out the doors in the back, but Baird didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Instead, he gazed at the high ceilings and whistled sharply. Then he snapped his fingers, still eyeing the architecture. “Man, it’s definitely built for music. C’mon, Kester, let’s put this place through its paces!”
“There is the time to consider,” Kester cautioned.
From over on one side of the room, an older gentleman called, “It’s okay, boys. I’m the custodian, and I’ll be busy for another hour or so. Knock yourselves out.”
Baird bounded over, introduced himself, and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks, Russ. You’re a godsend!”
With a laugh, the man waved him away. “Enjoy!”
Racing back to the front, Baird propped his hands on his hips as he considered his options, then made a dive for the harpsichord. The score for Messiah was propped on the instrument’s music stand, and as he riffled through the fat book, he called, “Kester, c’mere!”
His apprentice strolled over, saying, “Yes?”
“It’s not every day we get to play with a harpsichord!”
“That is so,” Kester agreed.
Patting the bench at his side, Baird said, “Sit, sit, sit!”
The tall angel unbuttoned his suit coat and dutifully slid onto the seat beside his mentor. “What did you have in mind?”
“Duet, duet, duet,” he muttered, turning pages.
“You are speaking in threes,” Kester pointed out, a trace of amusement underlying his tone.
Baird straightened. “Am I?”
“You are.”
“Well, well, well! Maybe it just comes naturally?” The redheaded Worshiper struck a chord and warbled, “Holy, holy, holy …!”
Koji tiptoed forward and peered over the redhead’s shoulder, and Prissie followed. The young Observer inquired, “Are you going to sing?”
“Aha!” Baird exclaimed, thumping a page near the back of the score. “We don’t sing all the songs during our performance, but there are some awesome ones in here. Which part do you want, Kester?”
“You may lead. I will follow.”
Hopping to his feet, the redhead strolled around the harpsichord to face his partner, and Kester centered himself on the bench, running his fingers up and down the keys to get a feel for the instrument. Then he lifted dark eyes expectantly to Baird, who dimpled. “On three?”
Kester’s lips quirked, and his long fingers plucked a few notes from the harpsichord. Almost immediately, Baird launched into a ringing solo. “O Death, O Death, where … where is thy sting?”
The line repeated, but the second time through, Kester’s baritone rose up. “O Grave, O Grave, where … where is thy victory?”
To Prissie, it sounded as if the two Worshipers were singing different songs, but the notes wove together and occasionally meshed. It was like a game of tag, with the two melody lines chasing after each other. All too soon, it was over. Disappointed, she peeped at the music and complained, “It’s so short!”
“Again?” Baird offered. Prissie nodded hopefully, and he twirled his finger at Kester. “Reprise!”
This time, she was able to follow the weaving melodies better, which only added to her appreciation. “Amazing,” she whispered when the pair brought the song to its triumphant conclusion.
Immediately, the redhead leaned over the top of the piano-like instrument and wheedled, “Since I spoke in threes, let’s sing in threes?”
“Switch parts?” Kester suggested.
“Now you’re talkin’!” Baird agreed, rubbing his hands together.
Before his apprentice could resume, a deep chuckle rang through the sanctuary. “A musical taunt for the enemy?” Harken called.
“I’m feeling sassy,” Baird replied, shoving his hands into his pockets with a sheepish air.
Harken’s grin broadened as he took a seat. “By all means!”
As the third rendition of their duet wove its way into Prissie’s heart, she followed Koji down the stairs and into the pew next to Harken. “Good evening,” she whispered to the shopkeeper.
“It has been,” he returned, patting her shoulder.
After the two Worshipers finished their threefold excerpt of Handel, Kester closed the harpsich
ord and waited while Baird wandered the platform, singing under his breath. The lights along the sides of the sanctuary started to flick off, leaving only the front of the sanctuary lit, and the redhead raised a hand at the janitor. Russ waved back and went on with his duties, leaving them to their fun.
Baird stopped his meandering, closed his eyes, and lifted his voice. There was no accompaniment this time, and his melody rose right to the ceiling, filling the sanctuary. Kester was soon humming along, and Baird beckoned for his apprentice to join him at center stage.
“What language are they singing in?” Prissie whispered.
Harken’s smile was nostalgic. “Hebrew. Would you like a translation?”
“Yes, please.” She scooted closer to the Messenger.
Harken shared the lyrics in a low voice. “It is good to sing praises to our God; for it is pleasant, and praise is beautiful.”
As she watched Baird and Kester, Prissie couldn’t have agreed more.
“He counts the number of the stars; He calls them all by name,” Harken continued.
“He does?” she murmured, startled by the notion.
“Indeed,” breathed Koji.
“He gives snow like wool. He scatters the frost like ashes. He casts out His hail like morsels. Who can stand before His cold?”
Prissie glanced toward the windows. It seemed an appropriate song to sing in winter, and as it drew to a close, she said, “The words were pretty. Did Baird write this one?”
“No,” the shopkeeper replied with a small smile. “That was the 147th psalm.”
“Oh,” she murmured, embarrassed for not recognizing the passage. “So … where’s Milo?”
“He had some matters to attend to,” Harken replied offhandedly.
“Something dangerous?”
“No more than usual.”
Worried in spite of Harken’s calm, she pressed for more. “Are Taweel and Omri with him?”
“Yes, Prissie.” With a steady gaze, he added, “Have faith.”
9
THE
TREE GARDEN
The Broken Window Page 8