“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 maybe 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.