I could tell she didn’t like it, but she allowed me to examine her injury again. No wonder she was in so much pain. The great purple bruise had spread down toward her toes and up toward her knee, acquiring some interesting tints of red and yellow. But I didn’t think there was a broken bone. I turned it gently and prodded it in the likely spots, and she didn’t cry out.
“It’s going to be a while before you can put any weight on this,” I said. “But maybe the manna root will make you feel better.”
It did, almost instantly, as it usually does. I’ve always thought that manna was the best of the god’s tangible gifts. She looked both relieved and grateful as the salve went to work, and I saw her surreptitiously flexing her toes. Hoping that the absence of pain was the same thing as healing. Of course, that’s never true, no matter how you’re hurting.
“How was the angel when you saw him last night?” she asked.
“Short-tempered and feeling sorry for himself” was my prompt reply.
That widened her green eyes, then narrowed them in consternation. “You talked to him? I told you not to bother him.”
I shrugged. “I had to explain who I was. And then we exchanged a few more words. He struck me as a very bitter man.”
“Anyone might be, under the same circumstances,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. I was willing to bet that Alma had met her share of adversities and refused to buckle under any of them.
“Maybe,” I said. I made a neat pile of the salve and bandages, then stood up and began gathering dinner items. “I’m impressed that you were able to cook a meal,” I said, peeking under the lid of the pan. It appeared to be dried meat made tender again by baking in juice and onions, and it smelled delicious.
“It took me the entire day to assemble everything,” she said. “And I made the easiest meal I could think of.”
“Well, he certainly liked what you cooked yesterday,” I said, filling up a plate and adding a good chunk of the bread. “He ate it all.”
“He did?” She sounded pleased. “Usually I bring back half of what I take him.”
I had picked up the tray, but now I paused with a couple more questions. “How long has he been here?” The angel had not answered when I asked him the same question.
“Six or seven weeks.”
“And how does he occupy his time?”
“The headmistress usually spends part of the evening with him, but I don’t know what they talk about. And sometimes when he’s alone, I hear music.”
“Singing?”
“Never. Some kind of stringed instrument, but I don’t know what.”
“And other than that, he just sits up in that room by himself all day, doing nothing? Sweet Jovah singing, it’s a wonder he hasn’t thrown himself off the roof by now.”
She frowned. “I’m sure he has plenty to occupy his thoughts,” she said stiffly.
“Nobody’s thoughts are that interesting,” I said and headed toward the door. Just on the other side of it, I turned back. “What’s his name?”
Alma was still frowning. “You may address him as angelo, if you need to speak to him at all.”
“Of course,” I said smoothly, though I had never used the honorific in any of my infrequent conversations with angels, and I wasn’t about to start now. “But what’s his name? Just so I know it.”
“Corban,” she said.
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll go take Corban his dinner.”
CHAPTER 3
Like Alma, the angel was waiting for me, or so it seemed: He had turned his chair so it faced the door, and his whole posture was alert. Even his wings were less dispirited, arching behind his back as if they had been plumped and groomed. It was obvious he had heard me climbing the steps and could tell by the cadence of my footfall exactly when I crossed into the room.
“I’m back. Moriah,” I said. “Are you hungry tonight?”
“A little,” he said.
“You should try to eat everything, since it cost Alma some effort to make it for you,” I said. “Her ankle is still very painful.”
“It smells quite good,” he said, shifting his body to track me as I crossed the room. Still dark and gloomy up here. I would have to bring up multiple lamps and leave them in strategic spots to brighten the place up.
“I’ll tell her you said so. Here. I’ve set everything out.”
Corban came to his feet and crossed the room, but hesitated before he sat down. “Will you dine with me?” he asked abruptly. “It feels very odd to eat while someone watches me.”
I was starving, and I’d actually put more food on the plate than it seemed likely he’d finish, with the thought that I could sneak a few bites. I laughed.
“I will,” I said, “if you don’t mind me eating with my fingers.”
He offered a smile—small and twisted, but the first one I’d seen on his face. “I doubt I’ll notice.”
We took our places on opposite sides of the small table, the plate between us. I had moved the lamp over, as well, and now I studied him by its flickering light. He was a handsome man, or he would be, if his face wasn’t so closed and woeful. His features were fine, almost delicate, his cheekbones prominent enough to throw their own shadows. His eyebrows were so feathery they might have been painted on with a light hand, and again, he had found the energy to shave himself. He also appeared to have combed his hair. At any rate, it was not quite the mess it had been the day before.
His eyes were a blank and liquid black that seemed to be swirled with streaks of white. But that might just have been the reflections of the flames dancing on the wick.
“It’s impossible to tell just by looking,” I said.
He looked startled and then displeased. “What is?” he said, though he clearly knew what I meant.
“Your eyes. They don’t look burned. And there’s no scarring on your face.”
“Jovah spared me disfigurement,” he said sardonically. “One of his many kindnesses.”
“What about pain?” I said.
“Very little now. At the beginning, when the burns were fresh—that was bad.”
I finished up a mouthful of food and greedily took another. Even working with dried meat and limited materials, Alma was a good cook. “So you lost your sight, and you have some scars,” I said, when I’d swallowed another bite. “Were you harmed in any other way?”
“Those seem to be sufficient evils.”
“So your wings weren’t injured. You can still fly.”
His expression showed how stupid he thought me, or how cruel. The wings in question fluttered forward a bit, then back, reminding me of nothing so much as the lashing tale of an unhappy cat. “I can’t see. Of course I can’t fly.”
I glanced at him in surprise. “Really? You haven’t tried it since you were blinded? You might need one of your angel friends to go aloft with you, talk you through it, but I’d think you could fly if someone acted as your guide.”
Corban was silent a moment, his face creased with displeasure. At first I thought he was annoyed at me again, but then I realized he was angry at an old memory. “I did try flying with a guide—once—shortly after the accident,” he said at last. “But it was terrifying. I had no sense of direction—I don’t just mean north and south, I mean up and down. Once I was high enough, it was hard to tell where the ground might be below me. When the wind blew, even a little, I lost my bearings. It was like being—” He seemed to search for words. “Like being caught in a rockslide when a mountain is falling. I was tumbled in all directions. I couldn’t see, I was filled with panic.”
“Where was your friend?”
“Nearby, watching me flail, thinking if he remained silent I would be forced to figure out my circumstances, which would help me gain confidence. He did come to my aid when it seemed likely I would crash, and we both walked away from the episode shaken. We have only spoken once or twice since.”
“Well, obviously he was the wrong one to try that with,” I said. “And ma
ybe it was too soon.”
“I don’t think the fear will leave me no matter how long I wait.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t seem to break the habit, even though he couldn’t see me. “No, I mean—you seem to have keen senses of smell and hearing, and maybe those developed after your accident,” I said. “Maybe your other senses have grown more acute as well. Maybe you have a better sense of direction. You seem to walk around the room well enough without running into furniture. Maybe you wouldn’t fly into trees, or come up on the ground too fast when you tried to land.”
I had surprised him; the expression on his face was considering. “Maybe,” he said.
“So you should try to fly again.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “We seem to be missing an essential element,” he said. “An angel who can fly beside me and help me find my way.”
“Couldn’t you invite one of your old friends to visit you here?”
“I could, but I can’t think of one I would trust enough to guide me in a flight.”
“Why do you consider them your friends, then?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “They are—they were—people with whom I shared certain experiences,” he said. “Certain attitudes. A position in life. We were all alike. None of us were ever comfortable with—” He struggled to express it. “Weakness. In others. We didn’t have weaknesses of our own.”
Everything he said just reminded me how much I had disliked all the angels I had ever met. “You’re all arrogant bastards who think you rule the world,” I said. “You don’t have compassion for others because you never needed it for yourselves.”
He looked both affronted and rueful. “That’s not exactly—but to some extent—perhaps,” he said.
“So has adversity made you kinder, do you think?” I asked.
He looked like he’d never thought about that, either. “I don’t know,” he said stiffly. “In the past two years, I haven’t been in many situations where I was asked for kindness.”
“No, you’ve spent all your time sitting here, brooding in the dark.”
“Well, it seems pointless to brood in the light,” he shot back.
I threw my hands in the air. “What do you do all day?” I demanded. “Surely you must do something besides sit here in the dark and feel miserable.”
I had annoyed him again, but I wasn’t sure that was a bad thing. His face took on more color, his gestures were livelier, when he was arguing with me. That couldn’t fail but amuse me somewhat. Never before had my abrasive personality looked to have such a beneficial effect on someone. Particularly an angel.
“Some of the time I play music,” he said. He gestured to the instrument against the wall. So he knows where he is and where everything is placed inside this room, I thought. “Some of the time I write it.”
“You’re able to put the notes down on paper?”
“I misspoke,” he said deliberately. “I compose the music. I hear it in my head, and I practice it on the cello. I also have a flute, though I’m not as adept with it.”
“Good. I was afraid you did nothing but mope. I’m glad you’ve found a distraction.”
“Yes, since your own capacity for compassion makes you sympathetic to all Samaria’s creatures.”
It was so unexpected that I laughed out loud. “I have plenty of compassion for people who deserve it,” I assured him. “I just don’t happen to feel sorry for you.”
“I must assume that the individuals you pity are truly wretched.”
“You’re right,” I said cheerfully. “I think most people give up too easily, when—if they showed a little determination—they could improve their circumstances. I’m not saying it’s easy. But you almost always end up somewhere better than you started.”
“Which makes me—for the first time, I might add—curious about your life.”
I laughed again, but came to my feet and started gathering the dishes. Every speck of food was gone. I’d eaten some of the meal, but honestly, he’d beaten me to most of it. Sparring with me seemed to be good for his appetite.
“And it’s an interesting tale, but there’s no time to tell it,” I said. “I have to get back to the kitchen and finish my shift.”
Corban came to his feet, too, his attitude suggesting he was listening to me arrange the plates and silver. “What do you look like?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m beautiful” was my immediate reply. “My hair is black as night and my eyes are so blue people can see their color from across the room. And I’m tall. And voluptuous,” I added for good measure.
His expression was thoughtful; he was assessing my words. “Not tall,” he decided. “Maybe—” He held his hand out so it was about level with his chin. “This height.”
He had gauged it exactly. “Very good,” I said dryly.
“So I suppose the rest of it is a lie as well.”
“I can’t see that it matters what I look like.”
He looked interested. “Are you that hideous?”
“No!” Now I was the irritated one; how had that happened? “I’m ordinary. My hair is that dirty brown color that so many people have. My eyes are brown, too. My face is too round. I weigh a little more than I’d like. But I do have a good figure,” I couldn’t resist tacking on at the end. If he was picturing me from my description, he may as well include the good bits.
“How old are you?”
Old enough to know better than to even remotely consider flirting with an angel. “I’ll be thirty-two a couple weeks after the Gloria. How old are you?”
It was meant for impudence, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Thirty-five. Or a hundred and thirty-five, depending on the day.”
That made me laugh. “I don’t think I’m ever older than seventy, even during my worst weeks. But sometimes I feel sixteen, so I suppose it evens out.”
“How did you end up at the Gabriel School?”
I was done gathering the dishes, and I was certainly done with this conversation. “That’s part of the story that’s too long to tell,” I replied, edging for the door. “I’ll be late with my chores if I’m gone much longer.”
“Will you be back tomorrow?”
I quashed the desire to say Do you want me back? Stupid, to try to make a sad and heartsick angel confess some need for me. Who was the pathetic one now? I made my answer casual to cover up my self-disgust. “As long as Alma’s unable to climb steps, I suppose I’ll be back,” I said. “And since I don’t think she’ll miraculously heal overnight—yes, I’ll be here tomorrow.”
He didn’t say, Good. He didn’t say I’ll look forward to talking to you again. He just said, “Very well,” and turned away from me before I was even out the door.
The next day was much the same, except I got to bed earlier, slept better, and rose later. I didn’t mind nocturnal hours, but if I was going to fill them with twice the usual activity, I needed to husband my energy. Once again, I made hasty work of my most important chores, then climbed clandestinely to the Great House and spent a little time with Alma. Her ankle was still a swollen purple mess, but the salve had greatly reduced her pain, and she thanked me three times for bringing it.
Tonight’s meal smelled just as appetizing, but it made me think. “Do you have enough food on hand to continue like this?” I asked. Usually Alma or the footman came down to the school once or twice a week to take supplies from our storerooms. These were supplemented every week by deliveries from Telford, including a few live pigs and chickens that Deborah and Elon slaughtered and dressed.
“For another week, I do,” she said. “And I don’t have to worry about water—it’s piped into the house and drains into an underground line.”
I’d noticed that no one had asked me to run a pump or empty chamber pots, for which I was deeply grateful. We had a good plumbing system at the school, so I’d gotten out of the habit of thinking about how precious water was when it wasn’t readily available.
“I don’t think I
can sneak bags of potatoes and whole chickens up here,” I said thoughtfully. “If the headmistress isn’t back soon, you might have to let Deborah know you need help.”
She nodded. “I already realized that. I can’t walk down the hill yet, but I think I can wave from the porch and catch someone’s attention.”
“Good. I’ll be on the lookout in case no one else notices.”
I finished assembling the tray, and a few minutes later I was carrying it into Corban’s room. “Here’s your dinner,” I said.
But I was speaking to an empty room.
I looked around harder, just in case he was lurking in a corner, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was late, of course; maybe he had already gone to bed. Or was he simply avoiding me, less entertained by my needling conversation than I had supposed?
But almost immediately I registered the temperature of the room, far chillier than it had been on my earlier visits. I set down the tray and followed the swirls of cold air to the trapdoor above the spiral metal staircase that I assumed led to the roof.
He knew I was coming. He had left the trapdoor open. He must expect me to follow him. I grasped the railing and ran up the curving flight of stairs, into the star-cooled night.
Corban was standing in the far corner, posed as if he were gazing out at the ground below. A quick glance showed me that the whole roof was hemmed in with a half wall, just high enough for a medium-sized person to lean an elbow on. A few knobby pipes poked up from below, and chimneys on two sides added interest to the architecture. Otherwise it was a plain rectangular space, flat as a floor, with little to recommend the view.
By the light of the full moon, I could pick out the curls in Corban’s hair and the interlaced quills of his wings. He was facing away from me, and I had an excellent view of the way his wings sprang from his back to make their distinctive bell shape. I could see his hands braced against the half wall. His fingers were balled into fists; there was tension in the line of his shoulders.
I was certain he had heard my arrival, and I was too contrary to speak first. So we waited a few moments in silence while I studied the silhouette of his body and he contemplated some thought too private to share.
Angels of Darkness Page 24