But it was interesting to contemplate the idea of some angel taking refuge in the upper stories of the Great House. That would explain the shape of wings. That would explain the heart-wrenching snatch of music. Angels pray to Jovah through song—they fly into the heavens and plead for him to send rain or sunshine or medicines or grain, whatever is most needed at the moment. All of them possess voices so beautiful you might weep to hear them.
So I was prepared to believe I had spotted an angel on the roof of the Great House. It just wasn’t Raphael.
Deborah was trying to convince the doubters. “Angels live a very long time,” she said firmly. “A hundred years would be nothing to one of them.”
Judith—who I suspected had more experience with angels than Deborah did—said, “Maybe, but I never heard of any of them living a hundred and twenty years. Even if it was Raphael there at some point, he can’t possibly be there now.”
“No, but his spirit is,” Deborah snapped, clearly annoyed. “It haunts the place.”
“Still?” I asked, trying to sound frightened instead of speculative. “That is—do people still hear voices and—and see shapes?”
“I never have,” Elon said.
“Me, either,” Rhesa added.
I glanced at Judith, and she shook her head. Judith was a thoughtful and observant woman. If she hadn’t noticed any spirits lurking around, then there hadn’t been any on the premises for at least five years.
“Sometimes the spirits lie quiet,” Deborah said. “And sometimes they are stirred up again. You should feel grateful that you live at the Gabriel School during a time when no ghosts are walking. And as long as all of us stay behind the fence, the ghosts should remain quiet, and everything will be fine.”
Rhesa turned back to the stove, already grumbling. “Well, I don’t mind not poking around the Great House, but I’m awfully tired of staying here all the time,” she said in a voice scarcely better than a whine. “There’s nothing to do. I want to go to Telford or Stockton, or even Breven, just for a day or two.”
“I wouldn’t mind a trip to Stockton myself,” Judith said. “If I don’t get another pair of shoes pretty soon, I might just as well go barefoot.”
That quickly turned the conversation from spirits to shopping, but I didn’t mind. I had learned what I needed to know.
The Great House—isolated, mysterious, and brooding—served as more than just the lodgings for whoever was current headmistress of the Gabriel School. It was a haven for broken angels who needed somewhere to rest and recover. I strongly doubted that a ruined old Raphael had ever lived in its upper stories, but I was willing to bet that, over the past seventy years, an assortment of angelic occupants had taken refuge there.
And one was living there now.
I wondered if it was one I knew.
I would have to be very, very careful.
For the next three weeks, I was obsessed with watching the Great House, trying to get another glimpse of the angel, while making very sure he did not catch sight of me. I kept up my usual routine, except now instead of using any free hours to explore the rest of the compound, I spent them patrolling the patch of fence that served as a border between the school and the house. We were not quite done with winter, so the weather veered from temperate to frigid and back to mild. Some of the nights were so cold I could only stand to be outside for ten minutes.
Twice during that period, I saw the angel again.
The first time was probably a week after our conversation in the kitchen. The half-moon still produced enough light to see by, and the weather was moderate enough to make a midnight stroll bearable. As before, I came to a standstill and wrapped my fingers around the iron bars, though this time I stood in the shadow thrown by one of the school buildings, so that I would be difficult to see. I stared up at the Great House, willing it to spill its secrets.
And I saw a shape rise up from the rooftop as if conjured by faith and longing. It was an angel, all right—there was no mistaking the silhouette. An angel who stood with his head thrown back and his arms upraised and his wings swept back, in an attitude that could not have more plainly bespoken supplication. He stood that way for five minutes, for ten, and then turned abruptly away with the banked rage of a man who knows his prayers will not be answered. Suddenly he pitched to his knees, tripped up by some obstruction on the roof that he had overlooked in the chancy light.
Or—no. Tripped up by something he had not noticed because he could not see. I watched as he rose cautiously to a standing position. I saw him stretch his arms out, as if seeking a wall or handhold; I saw him glide his right foot forward, as if testing the surface ahead for other hazards he might have missed. The fall seemed to have disrupted his sense of orientation. He tilted his head, as if listening for the way the evening breeze played around the surfaces of the roof, then felt his way slowly toward a specific point. It must have been a door that led to the interior, because almost instantly he dropped out of sight and did not reappear.
The angel was blind? Oh, as he had proved so often in the past, Jovah had an interesting sense of humor. No need for me to worry that the angel might recognize me. No need for me to fear him at all.
The thought rekindled my desire to somehow gain access to the Great House, only this time I had a clear goal: I wanted a chance to view the angel from a closer range. I couldn’t even explain why I wanted to do it, except that it gave me a tremendous sense of freedom to think I could stand in the same room with an angel and not be afraid for my life. It equalized things somehow; it gave me back a measure of dignity. The balance of the world would be righted, and I could abandon the past.
Probably not; but maybe I could gaze at him in silent mockery and simply feel a sense of triumph and relief.
The next time I glimpsed the angel, I heard him sing.
I had been to all three of the angel holds; I had briefly lived in Luminaux, the Blue City that spills over with music and art. Once I had traveled to the Gloria and heard the sacred mass performed by angel choirs. I knew how easy it was to grow drunk on the music angels can make.
But I had never heard anything to match the sound of that angel’s song.
This time there was more than that single sustained cry. This time there was a melody of sorts, bitter and drowned and beautiful, and every separate ravished note struck me like a copper blow. It was like being hammered by mournful metal; I felt his music pock my skin and dimple my bones. I felt it run like scattered silver through my veins.
If there were words, I couldn’t distinguish them. I couldn’t have said if the angel was singing a line from a traditional requiem or improvising a dirge on the spot. All I knew was that the sound made me want to fall to the ground, weeping. Instead, I turned away and blundered through the yard, back toward the school, back toward the kitchen, back to the safety of silence.
CHAPTER 2
Three days later, I found my way into the Great House. Jovah’s hand at work, I almost believed. The god had formed the habit of making my oddest prayers come true. Maybe to make up for the fact that he had once tried to destroy me.
I had been sleeping when the messenger appeared that morning, but Judith told me he arrived on a wheezing horse and carried exciting news. The headmistress’s daughter was about to be delivered of a baby, and she desperately wanted her mother on hand. The footman had hitched up the two most reliable horses, and within an hour he was driving her down the rutted road, heading toward a tricky mountain pass and west toward Castelana. There were no easy routes to any of the river cities from this side of the Caitanas, so I had to believe they would be gone at least two weeks.
During that period, there would be only one servant minding the Great House, a middle-aged woman who must surely sleep some of the time. I was not wild about the idea of sneaking through the manor under cover of darkness, to be startled by every creak and groan, but it might be my best option.
But then good fortune struck. Or disaster, depending on your perspective.
I had been awake for a couple of hours and was standing outside in the cold air before heading to the kitchen to help clean up the evening meal. I had taken my usual shaded post beside the fence that overlooked the hill leading to the Great House, and I was scanning its porch and windows. So I happened to be watching when the housekeeper stepped through a side door to shake out a rug. I saw her slip in a patch of mud and tumble to the ground, her hands bracing as her feet went flying. I saw her struggle to stand—almost accomplish the feat—and then drop to the ground again, clearly in pain. I watched as she slowly and with great determination inched back toward the stoop, up the three steps, and across the threshold. She was on her bottom the whole time, pulling herself along with her hands and sheer willpower.
I paused a moment to admire her fortitude. Then I made my plans.
It was necessary first to put in an hour in the kitchen, working beside the other cooks until they had all headed off to their beds. It was close to midnight before I slipped outside, let myself out of the tall gate at the front of the complex, and climbed the path leading up to the manor. I forced myself to remain calm, to breathe evenly, as I crested the hill and headed to the side of the house where I had seen the housekeeper fall.
I stood outside the door, took one more deep breath, then stepped inside as if I belonged.
I was instantly inside the kitchen, a much smaller room than the one at the school, but meticulously maintained. It was blessedly warm after the chill outside, and I could catch the aromatic odors of meat and potatoes warming in the oven. Late as it was, the housekeeper was still awake and trying to cope with her crisis. She was sitting on the floor, her back to a wall, her legs stretched out, and a scatter of cloths all around her. She looked up in astonishment as I strolled in, all brisk confidence and breezy certainty.
“Oh, dear, I thought I saw you fall, but I couldn’t get free until just now,” I said in a sympathetic tone, dropping to a crouch. “What happened? Did you twist your ankle? Or worse?”
She stared at me, speechless for a moment. I put her at about fifty, with years of hard labor showing in her thin face, but she looked tough enough still to heave a table at me, if only she could get close enough to grab the legs. Her hair was an indeterminate brown and pulled back in an impatient bun; her eyes were a narrowed green, dense with intelligence. I had the strange thought that if she and Deborah were to engage in some kind of head servants’ brawl, this woman would win handily.