Angel-Seeker (32 page)

“You dropped this, angelo,” she said. She was offering him one of his own wing feathers, torn from his skin by the splintered doorframe, perhaps, or combed out by the spindly branches that had overhung the path from the creek to the house. It was a pristine white and long as his forearm, one of the bigger feathers to be found toward the very back of his wings. “Do you need it?”

He was about to say no when an idea occurred to him. “Yes,” he said, reaching for it. “Thank you.”

“There's another one, back by the creek,” she said, jerking her thumb in that direction. “Shall I get that one, too?”

He had tucked the feather into an inside pocket of his leather vest, where it barely fit. He would have to move carefully to avoid snapping it. “No, I just need this one,” he said. “You can keep the other if you like.”

Her sober face broke into a delighted smile. “That's luck for me, isn't it?” she asked. “An angel's feather.”

He came close enough to pat her on the tangled curls at the top of her head. “I hope so,” he said. “And my prayers for you. That'll bring you luck, too.”

“Mama says Daddy's better already, since he took those funny white pills.”

“He'll be well in a day or two. Trust me.”

“I'm glad you came, angelo.”

And that, thought Obadiah as he took wing again a few minutes later, was all the justification he needed for this small detour, this illicit but surely harmless jaunt back into Breven. He had brought a little girl luck and quite possibly saved her father's life. That would satisfy Nathan, if he even asked what had kept Obadiah on the road so long. That would satisfy the god himself, if Jovah were keeping accounts.

Shortly before nightfall, he was in Breven and hovering over Hector's house. In Velora and major cities of Samaria, citizens had trained themselves to glance skyward now and then, desirous of seeing an angel, but in Breven, he thought, such traditions were not common. For one thing, angels were rare in this part of the world. For another, the Jansai did not think it such a grand sight to view an angel on the wing.

Still, it would not do for some bored and restless member of Hector's household to look up and begin pointing, and bring the whole attention of the neighborhood to the occupied skies overhead. So Obadiah circled quite high, flicking in and out of thin streamers of cloud, hoping to blend with the haze of afternoon. He could see very little from this vantage point, of course, mostly small sticklike figures that floated down the boulevards around this house, indistinguishable from each other. Now and then shadowy shapes moved in and out of the back gardens of Hector's house, but Obadiah had no way of knowing if one of them was Rebekah. Those who left the gardens for the street he presumed to be men; those who stayed within its walls he guessed to be women.

He thought that at one point he saw someone bend over and pick up an object from the ground, and study it, and slip it inside a pocket; but he could not be sure. If so, he hoped that that person had been Rebekah, and that she had found the wing feather he had tied to a stone and dropped in her stepfather's garden. And that, if it had been Rebekah, she knew how to interpret the treasure she had found.

He stayed above the house till well after dark, not sure what he expected to observe, just loath to tear himself away. In case she had not found his clue, in case she could not get free, in case this was the closest he would be able to get to her this night. But she would never be able to find him if he remained airborne, endlessly wheeling overhead, so he eventually forced himself to cross the city and drop to land on the street before the Hotel Verde.

The young woman he had seen before was sitting at her desk in the center of the atrium, and she smiled as he approached.

“Good evening, angelo,” she said. “Would you like a room?”

“Yes, please. And I'd like to have food sent to me as soon as possible.”

“Certainly.”

“Also, I may be expecting company tonight. I'm not sure. It might be quite late. But if someone could make sure this visitor is admitted to my room—”

“I shall be at this station until midnight,” she said gravely. “I can escort your visitor to you.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Is it the same young woman who's visited before?”

His mouth had already shaped the word
yes
before he took in the enormity of what she'd said. Then all he could do was stare at her, shock making him stupid and voiceless.

She smiled. “I'm sorry. The
m'kash
who's been here.”

“How did you know?” he asked quietly.

“The disguise is not that good, angelo. Anyone paying much attention would also know.”

“But she—no one has guessed but you.”

“I hope for her sake that is true.”

He still watched her. She was a quiet, well-mannered, beautiful girl whose patrician face spoke of centuries of wealth and breeding. Not someone he would expect to be entirely in sympathy with a runaway Jansai rebel. “Have you told anyone?” he asked.

“No, angelo. I would not do that. My family maintains the discretion of all the guests at its establishment.”

“Does your brother know?”

“I have not discussed it with him.”

The next words to come from his mouth surprised him. “It is possible she could stand to have a friend in this city.”

“If I ever have a chance to be her friend, I will be.”

He watched her a moment longer. His instinct was to trust her—indeed, at this point he had almost no choice but to trust her—and yet, Rebekah's safety was at stake, and that was a gift almost too great to lay in the hands of any stranger. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Zoe.”

“Not a name from the Librera,” he commented.

She smiled. “Not a name found there, perhaps, but a word in the great book. It means abundance and grace. My mother named me.”

“I hope your mother would approve of this secret you are willing to keep for me.”

“My mother was a woman of many secrets herself. I think she would agree that this one was worth keeping.”

“Let me tell her—my friend—when she arrives,” Obadiah said. “It might alarm her to learn the news from you.”

“As you wish, angelo. I will see that food is brought to you immediately.”

So Obadiah was left to pace in his room for who knew how many hours, beset by a fresh set of worries. He had had his share of dealings with the Manadavvi over the years, and he had always found them tricky and impossible to read. The men were clever, ambitious, greedy, and worldly, but often so charming that you could not hold their vices against them. The women were invariably beautiful and mysterious—all of them, like Zoe's mother, full of secrets. He knew an angel who swore he would never take any woman but a Manadavvi for a lover. “Because you can't tell if she loves you or hates you, you can't tell if you've bored her or roused her to rapture, but she'll smile at you every minute that she's with you, and you'll sleep on silk sheets when you're in her bed.” Those had not been good enough inducements for Obadiah—silk sheets and discretion—but he was willing to bargain for just one of those virtues now.

Food arrived almost at once, but he was too tense to eat. He was tired from the earlier effort spent at the troubled homestead, not to mention the long flight and the hours spent circling over Rebekah's
house, but he could not throw himself on the bed and attempt to rest. He could merely pace, and stop to try a bite of cheese, and stand at the window and stare out, wondering if anyone he loved walked these streets this night.

When the knock came shortly before midnight, he flung himself from the window and tore open the door. The image of Rebekah was so strong in his head that for a moment he did not recognize the slim boyish figure standing there, face bare, chin raised, shapeless clothes adding to the androgynous look. Then he felt his own face remolded by happiness, joy springing from him like a source of light.

“Rebekah!” he exclaimed, catching her arms and pulling her into the room. “You're here!”

She had so much to tell him, in her serious, unself-conscious way, and they lay in bed talking for at least an hour after lovemaking. There had been a fever sickness in the house, but everyone was better now; the date for the wedding had been set, exactly five months from now; her cousin Martha had grown quite reckless of late and had begun to leave the house in broad daylight to make assignations with her lover.

“How does she manage that?” he asked, having more than a little interest in this trick if it was one that another young woman could replicate.

“She just goes down to the garden in her jeska and veil, and when no one is watching, she steps out of the gate! And then she puts on a
different
veil, the most disreputable thing, something no woman of respect or status would wear, and she walks to the market like a beggar woman. No one troubles her, no one speaks to her, of course, all of them assuming she is the most desperate of women, whose husband and sons must be sick. So she goes where she wants.”

“How does she get back home?”

“That's the real danger, of course. She creeps back and stands outside the gate, and listens to hear if anyone else is in the garden. And if she hears no voices, she slips back inside. But anyone could be standing there—anyone! Her mother or her aunts or even Uncle Ezra—anyone could see her stealing back inside!”

“And what will she say then?”

“Oh, she has it all worked out. She is so devious you cannot believe it. She has a little handkerchief that I embroidered for her years ago and she carries it with her everywhere. Everyone knows she has it, just as everyone knows I carry a scarf she embroidered for me. She says that if anyone sees her coming back in, she will just claim that the handkerchief got blown over the wall and she went scrambling after it. She will get in trouble, but it won't be so bad. That will be seen as a little transgression.”

“But what if someone has been sitting in the garden for an hour or two, and that someone knows very well that Martha did not just dash out of the gate a moment ago?”

“I know! Or what if her father or her brother come upon her from behind while she is lurking outside the gate, listening for voices on the inside? Then her little excuse will fool nobody, and she will be in very big trouble indeed.”

“I don't think you should try to leave the garden during the day,” he said reluctantly.

“No,” she said. “I've thought it through, and I can't see how it would work.”

“But you were very clever to know to come here tonight.”

She smiled at him. She was curled next to his body, sheltered under his wing, and she looked utterly content. “I almost didn't get your message! Jordan found it this afternoon and brought it to me. ‘Look what I found out in the garden. Isn't this the most curious thing? What kind of bird could this have fallen from?' Well, first, don't be silly, that feather's much too long to have fallen from a
bird,
and what bird ties rocks to its feathers when they fall? I didn't say that, of course! I just told him he should put it in his box of treasures, or save it to give Jonah on his naming day—”

“Jonah?”

“Yes,” she said happily. “The baby's finally got a name. We're going to have quite a celebration next week on his naming day.”

“I don't suppose you'd want to miss that,” he said ruefully.

“Miss it? Why would I?”

He kissed her quickly on the mouth. “If you came back with me to Cedar Hills. Tomorrow morning—or even now. We could leave this instant.”

She looked as grave and unprepared as if he had never made the proposal before. “But I can't leave Breven,” she said.

“I wish you would think about it. You always say no, but you never stop to even consider it.”

“Because I—it's just that—you're right. I don't even consider it. I can't leave Breven.”

He sat up, so she sat up, too, drawing the covers around her for warmth when his wing fell away. “You don't think you can leave this life behind, but don't you see?” he said gently. “You've already left part of this life behind, just by knowing me. You're no longer the girl you were when I met you in the desert six weeks ago.”

“No,” she said, her face troubled. “But I have not changed so much that I have considered leaving my home.”

“You think you can marry Isaac and live in his father's house and raise his children—and not wonder? All your life? Where I am, what happened to me, who I might be loving? You think you can love somebody and then walk away into another man's arms? Or do you think—do you honestly think—you can continue to see me after you are wed? Or have you even considered that at all?”

“I have,” she said in a small voice. “At least, I've tried to. I can't imagine what it will be like—to be married. What that will feel like. But I can't imagine what it will feel like to know I'll never see you again. And if you say, ‘Once you are married, I am done with you,' then I'll understand that, I am even expecting that, but—”