Born in the Mouth of an Angel Part I

him. He got to his feet after a few minutes. The house settled around him, noises breaking into the silence. He cleaned his mug and her dishes, placing them on the drying rack. Once he was done, he wandered aimlessly.

  A few times he pulled aside the heavy curtains that covered the windows. Wisps of clouds covered the half-moon and the stars seemed dimmer.

  Once in a while he could hear her upstairs.

  He wondered what she did up there. This life they lived didn’t seem normal, though he couldn’t pinpoint what he thought was missing. Curious, he went back to his room and took a more thorough look at it. The chest of drawers held a few changes of clothes and a brush. He grabbed the brush and ran it through his hair, more as something to do than for any real interest in grooming.

  In his desk, he found a few books, maps and stationary. The book collection had classics, books on navigation and local fauna in the northeast. There was also a slim novel on mythology. He flicked through them but nothing jumped out at him. The maps were crinkled and well-used but there were no clues as to how he’d used them in the past or if he’d been anywhere on them. There was no technology at all in the room.

  The closet had an old pair of slippers, khaki-colored. He preferred his blue ones. A bathrobe hung in the closet as well, a few empty boxes in the corner on the floor. The high shelves had another set of sheets, two more pillows and a heavy comforter for colder weather. There was nothing personal, nothing to tell him who he was.

  With little else to do, and something pulling at him, he headed for the door to the outside. It opened easily under his touch and the sky seemed brighter, the world more alive. He wandered aimlessly in small circles, suddenly concerned with the grass and the veins in the leaves and the ridges in the bark on the trees and the wrinkles in the moon. Everything looked a little different, a little more itself.

  He took off his sweater, leaving it draped over the bough of a tree. Unbuttoning the top two buttons on his shirt, he ventured out from under the shadow of the looming house. He left his slippers behind and rolled his khakis up past his calves.

  There was magic in the night and a glimmer in the breeze. Annabelle appeared in the corner of his eye, following him as he strolled through the lush, natural garden that comprised her land. She looked older, emptier, though he was finally beginning to feel like himself. He could feel her eyes following him and even when the sky blushed, he didn’t want to return to the musty house or the curtains or the blue bedroom.

  The light wasn’t as frightening as it had been and the sun was welcoming. But as he ventured further from the house, out into the wild field beyond her trimmed grass and the islands of trees, Annabelle was no longer content to let him wander alone.

  “Come back,” she begged, approaching him.

  He found it hard to tear his gaze away from the coming sunrise. But when she grabbed his arm and tugged, he succumbed and allowed her to pull him back to the house, full of shadows and mystery.

  Once he was inside, he lost the yearning for the sunrise that he’d felt. The dark of the house and the smallness of the rooms felt comfortable. Annabelle looked relieved that he’d come inside. Though he couldn’t remember the time he’s spent with her in the past, he didn’t want to upset her.

  This time there was no mug of tea for him, drizzled with honey. With his sweater and slippers left outside, he saw her gaze catch on his bare feet and the triangle of skin revealed under the hollow of his throat. Her nightgown showed off pale, round arms and the dip of her collarbone.

  They hadn’t made it very far into the house, standing just inside the door. He reached out, his hands circling the cool skin of her arms, fingers making dents. He could feel the heat of her body, standing just in front of him. She traced the line of the shirt over his chest, her fingers small and cool against his skin. He shivered and she looked up, almost surprised. Her mouth curved just the tiniest fraction.

  They barely made it onto the lace bedspread of her pale pink room. She felt small and slight underneath him. He framed her face with his hands, felt her lips bend under his. Her hands scrabbled against his back, feeling under his shirt for warm skin.

  Still he did not remember falling asleep. He woke in a pink room, the white ceiling and its crown molding staring down at him. He groped next to him in the bed. She wasn’t there. He laid still but couldn’t hear her rustling around in the house.

  He swung out of the bed, his feet delighting in the crush of carpet under his toes. She wasn’t in the kitchen. The dishes were dry from last night. He filled the kettle and watched it heat up, leaning against the counter as he waited. He heard her footsteps above him but didn’t feel any interest in investigating. It would require climbing the stairs, something he didn’t want to do.

  When the water had boiled, he poured it into his blue mug and her pink teacup. In her cabinets he found the teabags and the honey. Everything waited for her at the kitchen table when he saw her feet on the stairs. Her long white hair rippled, blending into the white of her nightgown. She blushed when she saw him.

  He cleared his throat and tried to say something. Still nothing came out and she sat, laying a hand over his own. He stopped and shrugged. It wasn’t as strange anymore, that he couldn’t talk. She didn’t seem to mind and if he needed to communicate, he could always use the pen and paper she’d provided him.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, nodding at the teacup. He smiled.

  After all she’d done for him, all that he thought she meant to him, it was a small gesture. He wished he knew something else he could do for her.

  “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?” she asked as if the words were pulled from her against her will.

  He didn’t reply at first. He grabbed the pen and it hovered over the paper. He didn’t know what to write. He didn’t know why he would leave but when she said it, somehow he knew she was right. Where he’d go, he couldn’t say.

  She got up as if she didn’t expect him to answer her. She left, her teacup still full. He watched it cool as he drank his own tea, the honey cloying on his tongue. She made it better than he did. He heard her in her room.

  When she emerged, he rose and went to her. She held something in her hand, her eyes red as if she’d been crying. He gestured at the thing she held, his curiosity evident. She held it out for him to look at.

  He took it in his hand. A thin strand of braided silk, it slipped through his fingers. She watched for a moment, her eyes staring as he turned it over in his hands. After a moment, she took it back.

  “Give me your hand,” she said.

  He held his hand out, fingers loosely curled in a fist. She wrapped the silken strands around his wrist, tying them off. She let go and he turned his wrist, the white braid catching the light from the nearby lamp.

  “Maybe it’ll bring you back,” she said. “Help you remember.” She shrugged as if she didn’t believe it herself but that it couldn’t hurt to try.

  He tested the knot she’d tied, finding it tight. Though he couldn’t remember her, and in his mind, had only spent a few nights in her company, he didn’t care that her hair was tied around his wrist. He didn’t mind the idea of coming back to her. He only wished he knew more.

  “Spend this last night with me?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  He nodded and grabbed her hand. It was delicate in his and he held it carefully, not wanting to hurt her. Then they were outside, the moon a small curve in the sky. The stars outshone it and the shadowed edge between the house and the trees was hard to distinguish.

  She led him down a path, the grass tickling his feet. His slippers still rested under a tree close to the house. He’d forgotten to fetch them but his feet didn’t seem to mind on the carpet of lush growth.

  Annabelle stopped when they reached a clearing, shaded by the trees intertwined overhead. He looked up but could barely see the twinkle of a star or the inky night sky. She lay down in the middle of the clearing, the green grass outlining her form.

  She be
ckoned and he lay down beside her. She took his hand again. After a while she began to speak. She told him stories. He didn’t know if they were real but he listened, content.

  At some point her stories dried up and she was silent. He rolled his head and looked over at her. She gazed back, her eyes light. She smiled. He combed a hand through the fall of her white hair. She rolled over onto her stomach, letting his hands run their full course.

  “You’ve always liked my hair,” she told him.

  He liked knowing that. Something was consistent at least. He was consistent even if he didn’t remember it. When she bent and kissed him, the soft waterfall of her hair covered his face and he thought he must have liked that before too.

  He pulled down the shoulders of her nightgown, his hands cupping her white shoulders, feeling the skin beneath his fingers. She sighed against his lips, her own fingers digging into his skin.

  When he woke, she was still on top of him, her chest rising against his as she breathed, steadily and shallowly in sleep. He sat, cradling her against him. Somehow he could feel the dawn coming. He stood, holding her in his arms. She nestled against him as he walked them back to the house. He followed the same path and it wasn’t long before the shade of the house reached his feet. The sky was lightening in the east and Annabelle stirred in his arms.

  He felt her wake as he laid her