The Garden Gate

by Christa J. Kinde

“I am here,” he answered softly.

  She jumped and whirled. He was standing behind her. “You startled me!”

  “That was not my intention,” Kester said, his accent adding to the illusion that he might be some kind of foreign prince. The Worshiper had shed his guise of humanity, so instead of the usual starched and pressed attire and conservative haircut, he was arrayed in shining raiment, and a series of leather bands held the heavy mass of glossy black curls that reached the middle of his back. “You have nothing to fear.”

  “I know,” she sighed, glancing around again. “Where are we?”

  “A safe place,” he assured. “Padgett opened the way. I hope his summons was not too abrupt?”

  “I guess I wasn’t expecting to talk to you until tomorrow.” Prissie waded over to him, still discomfited by all the openness. “I was also thinking of something more along the lines of a phone call.”

  “I was under the impression your need was urgent.”

  “Yes. At least, I think so.” Giving the tall angel a tentative smile, she said, “This place is different than the garden behind the blue door.”

  “It is,” Kester agreed.

  “It’s so . . . big!” she whispered, edging a tiny bit closer.

  The Worshiper considered her for a few moments, and then the corners of his dark eyes crinkled. Without ceremony, he lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged, and gestured for her to join him. Prissie followed suit, and suddenly it wasn’t the two of them in a fathomless space. It was the two of them in a little pocket of rustling grasses.

  “Is this an improvement?”

  Even though it was probably impolite to try to improve upon someplace so close to heaven, she smiled shyly. “Yes, thank you.”

  With a gracious inclination of his head, Kester asked, “What do you need, Prissie?”

  She tried to explain everything in a rush, her words tumbling together in her nervousness. “You see, I was thinking . . . you know so much, and you’re really very patient. I’ll bet you’d be good at explaining things, even to someone who might have trouble catching on at first.”

  When she stumbled to a standstill, he gently said, “I am uncertain what you are asking for.”

  Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “Do you ever give lessons?”

  Kester’s expression cleared. “I have in times past. At present, I have no students. Did you wish to learn to play an instrument?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean me!” she corrected. “Ephron.”

  He frowned in confusion. “You are asking on his behalf?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m asking,” Prissie admitted, suddenly feeling unsure of herself. At the time, her idea had seemed perfect, but now she worried she was imposing on Kester. It wasn’t her job to Send angels. Blushing furiously, she mumbled, “Maybe it’s none of my business.”

  “Please explain,” Kester urged. “I wish to understand.”

  “I kept noticing that Ephron’s hands were empty.” She unconsciously mimicked the restless rubbing of fingertips she’d been seeing day in and day out. “He can’t write or draw or paint now that he’s blind. But he’s an angel, so he must love music. I was thinking that if you taught him to play the harp or flute or something . . . . Wouldn’t that be better than just sitting on top of my fridge?”

  There was a long pause that made her wish she could take it all back, but then Kester said, “Thank you for bringing my teammate’s need to my attention, Prissie. I believe you are correct. I shall bring a selection of instruments to Ephron as soon as I am able.”

  Prissie let out a shaky breath. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. It was so frustrating that there was nothing I could do, but you can help him!”

  “You did nothing?”

  “Well, practically.”

  The angel folded his fingers together and calmly persisted, “Did you notice Ephron’s distress?”

  “It was hard to miss. He’s in the middle of my kitchen. I see him all the time.”

  “And you felt compelled to do something about it.”

  “It’s hard to watch him,” Prissie explained, pressing her hand over her heart. “It hurts.”

  With a nod of understanding, Kester said, “So you prayed.”

  “Y-yes,” she replied in a small voice. “A little. Beau probably prayed more than I did. And it was because of him that I thought to try the clay.”

  This time, Kester smiled. “All of these things amount to nothing in your eyes?”

  His amusement reminded her of those times when Koji seemed to be watching her from across what amounted to a huge cultural gap. Angels often couldn’t understand human perspectives, just as she was often baffled by theirs. Flipping a braid over her shoulder, she wearily asked, “Am I missing something important?”

  Kester took his time to consider her question. “Do not underestimate compassion, Prissie. It begins with the simple act of noticing when another is in need.”

  5

  THE MAKESHIFT LIFE

  Cast from heaven, the Fallen wasted away on earth. Wings stiffened and shattered. Voices hoarsened into perpetual discord. Bodies bent, bristled, or bloated, depending upon the shape their hatred took. These pitiable beings were barred from song, from dreams, and from the sweet taste of manna.

  “Does it sting?” asked Murque. “Does it bite?”

  Tamaes hung in chains, helpless to prevent the lumpish demon’s cruel games. They’d dragged him down to some dank crevice, far from air and light. This was their refuge. This was his prison.

  “We’ll take our time,” said Dinge with gleeful malice. “One drip. One drop. Until you dim to naught!”

  Had it been like this for Ephron? Tamaes mourned over the mental image of his fragile teammate withstanding this torment. Adin had left him at the mercy of two underlings — ​stripped of names, robbed of fellowship, robed in deceit. The light that once coursed through their veins had changed to darkness, and their tattered raiment hung like cobwebs. But their despair could not touch him, no matter what they did.

  A tug. A rip. A rusty cackle. “Make ribbons of his light. Without wings, he cannot fly away!”

  Tamaes arched his back, straining away, but there was no escaping the pain. Eyes wide, tears close, he clung to faith and whispered, “No matter what.”

  Saturdays were strange enough now that Prissie’s father stayed home instead of going in to the bakery, but this weekend took a turn for the surreal. Too many people who didn’t belong in the Pomeroys’ kitchen were making themselves right at home.

  When Zeke trundled into the room after spending the morning at their grandparents’ house across the yard, he made a beeline for the obvious newcomer. “How come you’re here?”

  “School stuff,” Marcus replied shortly.

  Ransom cheerfully expanded, “Miss Priss is in my group for a social studies project.”

  Prissie frowned. “Or maybe he’s in my group.”

  “If it’s a group, does it matter whose name is on it?” her father inquired in diplomatic tones. “All for one, and one for all?”

  “Dunno. There’s usually a leader who holds things together,” Ransom replied thoughtfully.

  “Fine,” Prissie said. “I nominate Koji.”

  “I’m okay with that. Solid pick.”

  “Sure,” Marcus agreed, making it unanimous.

  “There you have it!” Ransom said, grinning at Zeke. “We’re here because we’re all in Koji’s group.”

  The young Observer sat very tall at the table. “I am the leader? I have no experience leading a group.”

  Marcus smirked and suggested, “Test your wings.”

  Koji opened his mouth, but Prissie poked him in the ribs. “It’s just an expression,” she muttered.

  Bemusedly rubbing his side, he replied, “Indeed.”

  Their first deadline was coming up fast, and Ransom had suggested meeting at the farm since two members lived there. It made sense, but Prissie suspected it was an excuse to buddy up
to her dad. Ransom leaned against the counter, watching Jayce measure ingredients into an old ceramic bowl decorated with blue stripes. “Did you come here to bake or to do homework?” she complained.

  “Both!”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to do your part!”

  “O, ye of little faith,” Ransom countered, circling around to the chair where he’d dumped his bag earlier. Pulling out a folder and flash drive, he dropped them in front of her. “Don’t worry. I can keep up.”

  She glanced at his notes. “You’re done already?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To lend Marcus some moral support,” Ransom said. “But mostly to bake!”

  Her father chuckled, and Prissie hung her head in defeat. “So annoying,” she muttered. Marcus and Koji kept their opinions to themselves, and so she grudgingly followed their example and opened a book.

  Meanwhile, Ransom donned an apron and queued up next to Zeke, eager to take part in her dad’s impromptu lesson. Mr. Pomeroy had taken a crazy theme for the day’s cookery. “Since my life’s been put into a spin, I’ll cook in spirals!” he announced, sounding pleased.

  Prissie did her best to tune out the planning session underway at the counter, but they were having a lot more fun than she was. It was strange, watching Ransom fit in with what had always been Dad’s and Zeke’s special brand of male bonding. As per usual, her father had bread dough on the rise, but there was also a tray of meat, a block of butter, and a jumble of jam and jelly jars from the basement.

  “Are you gonna get in trouble for making this big a mess in the kitchen?” Ransom asked.

  Jayce shook his head. “Why would I?”

  “My mom used to flip out whenever me or my dad trespassed.”

  “Sure, sure. I see what you mean. Nope. We settled all that back when Naomi and I first married.” Ransom gazed at his boss expectantly, and the man continued, “I grew up in this house, so this used to be my mother’s kitchen. When they built that little house across the yard, it was hard for my mom to let go of this place. And it was just as hard for my new bride to know how to act. There they both were, needing to set boundaries and worrying about stepping on each others’ toes.”

  “Auntie Lou says it’s next to impossible for two women to share a kitchen,” Ransom reported.

  “Could be. Which is why I stepped in and solved everyone’s problems.”

  “What’d you do, Dad?” Zeke asked.

  “Only what I had to, Son.”

  Ransom rolled his hand. “Which was . . . ?”

  “I took everything apart and put it together the way I wanted it,” Mr. Pomeroy explained. “This is my kitchen, but I’m willing to share it with the women in my life.”

  “And me!” Zeke interjected.

  “Sure, sure.” Shaking a meat mallet at his two helpers, he said, “My mother still cooks in this kitchen when something big’s happening. And Prissie seems to prefer messing in her grandmother’s kitchen across the way. So it all works out.”

  “So long as I won’t be chased out for throwing around a little flour,” Ransom said with a shrug.

  Homework more or less resumed, but Prissie still wasn’t able to focus. Ephron sat atop the fridge, smiling faintly as he listened. It was utterly fascinating to watch him. The lump of clay he held transformed fluidly from an egg to a chick, then morphed into a variety of garden vegetables.

  Marcus elbowed her. “Hungry?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “Nope. But you’re starin’ pretty hard at the fridge. Makes a person wonder why.”

  “Oh. Right,” she murmured. “Sorry.”

  The Protector shrugged. “You aren’t doing anything wrong. Unless you count slacking off with your homework.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “It’s hard to focus when there’s so much going on.”

  “I know,” he replied simply. “Do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Come along when your dad drops us off in town.”

  Prissie blinked. “Why?”

  “No idea. Your choice.”

  She frowned and leaned closer. “Do you think I should?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She bristled, and he shot a look at the other occupants in the kitchen before blandly saying, “Do you really need to ask if I think you should follow God’s lead? That’s a no-brainer, kiddo.”

  Late that afternoon, Mr. Pomeroy led the way into Loafing Around, or what was left of it. “They ripped off the roof today. We decided to put in all new beams, build things up a little. Contractor recommended putting a couple of apartments over the store, and I think it’s a good investment.”

  Prissie hunched her shoulders and edged closer to Marcus. “Why am I here again?”

  “Dunno.”

  “This is the one place I didn’t want to go.”

  “Don’t look at me,” the Protector replied. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  Koji whispered, “Stay close. Things are stirring.”

  She shivered. “Why does it feel like I’m bait.”

  Marcus sighed. “A little trust, please.”

  Gazing at the mess, Prissie couldn’t see the future. This place was supposed to smell like bread and pie, not soot, plastic, and mildew. While her Dad and Ransom talked about knocking out walls and splurging on fancy bread ovens, she escaped into the front part of the store, hoping for fresher air. It was eerie to look up and see the fading light of the late-afternoon sky through the rafters.

  Unsettled feelings turned to confusion when a lone figure leapt onto the top corner of the building, then strolled along a crossbeam, nimble as a cat. Had someone climbed the scaffolding outside? But why?

  “I have something for you, Prissie,” he called down.

  Horror rose like gorge in her throat, choking her cry for help.

  From under the folds of a dark cloak, Adin withdrew a sword. He held it high, turning it this way and that, admiring its gleaming edge. “You’ll never guess where I found this.”

  Prissie didn’t need to guess. She knew. And knowing hurt. “They said you took him.”

  “He was Sent into my grasp. All I had to do was close my hand.”

  Her voice shook, and tears burned. “G-give him back.”

  “Make me.” Adin crouched on his perch, a cruel smile twisting his handsome face. “Or did you already try and fail to bend the whims of God to your will?” Was that true? Were her prayers not enough? Was her faith too weak to save Tamaes?

  “Lies!” shouted Koji, darting to Prissie’s side and grabbing her hand. “Do not listen to him!”

  Adin gave the stolen weapon a spin. “Be a good girl and stay still for me, Prissie. You don’t need to do a thing.”

  She froze as he flung Tamaes’s sword straight at her, but Koji shoved her hard, pushing her out of danger. Purple wings blossomed before her, knocking aside the blade, which whirled end-over-end before sticking into a pile of lumber stacked against the far wall. As it quivered, Prissie slapped her hands over her mouth, smothering her scream.

  “Where’d you go, Miss Priss?” called a voice from the direction of the kitchen.

  Ransom was coming. Staring at Koji, she mutely shook her head. She couldn’t face him now. Not when fear was as fresh as the tears on her cheeks. Taweel took one look at her and ordered, “Hide.”

  Suddenly, Prissie was wrapped in warm, golden light. Within the overlapping folds of his wings, Marcus turned her around to face him and lifted one finger to his lips. “Shh. He can’t see us.”

  She couldn’t begin to express how grateful she was to be invisible. With a strangled sob, she hid her face from Marcus and tried not to shake herself to pieces.

  Ransom’s voice came from right behind her. “Hey, Koji. Where’s your other half?”

  “She did not wish to be here.”

  “Did she run over to Harken’s or something?”

  “Or something,” Koji replied gravely.

  Th
e Observer must have led Ransom back out of the room, because it was quiet again when Marcus said, “Don’t let the enemy get to you, Prissie. He can’t hurt you.”

  “But he’s hurting Tamaes.” Dabbing at her nose, she pointed out, “Adin was going to kill me with my own Guardian’s sword.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  Prissie whispered, “But he’ll lie.”

  “And Tamaes will do what we all gotta do. Trust.”

  Her knees wobbled. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “Where’s a Caretaker when you need one,” Marcus muttered, steadying her with strong arms. “Hush, kiddo. He’s bad news, but the end’s already been written. They lose. We win.”

  Marcus’s wings had a different personality than Milo’s — ​warm light with a miniscule rattling, like wind tumbling grains of sand. Prissie decided that an angel’s wings offered a shelter unlike any other. When one took you close to his heart, you were closer to heaven. “Marcus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m scared.”

  His arms tightened slightly. “I know.”

  “Do you get scared?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I got nothing to say you ain’t already heard.”

  “Say it again?” Prissie begged.

  His voice was a husky grumble beside her ear. “Fear not.”

  6

  THE MOVING TOWER

  Dinge! Murque!” A low laugh followed on the heels of the imperious call. “Still at it, I see.”

  The latter paused in his ministrations, and the former scuttled forward. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I’ve learned something interesting,” Adin announced, his eyes fixed on their captive. “Yet another Graft serves in West Edinton. He betrayed himself to shield a girl.”

  From where he hung in chains, Tamaes slowly lifted his gaze, peering at the demon responsible for his capture.

  Adin gloated, “Caught you and your interest?”

  The Guardian remained silent, waiting for more.

  “That town’s a nest of pests,” grumbled Murque.

  “Prey’s easy to corner when there’s something to hide.” Dinge rubbed his hands together. “Is this one easy pickings?”