She flung open the door as soon as they reached it, and they both stepped inside the room. It was fairly small but nicely appointed, with a lovely view of the harbor through thick lace curtains. The four-poster bed was plush with a satin quilt; the desk, the armoire, and the chest of drawers were all constructed of a warm honey wood that glowed in the white morning light. On the walls were two paintings of Angel Rock done by some visitor more than a decade ago.
“But how charming!” Omar said, pivoting slowly to take in the furnishings, walking across the room to gaze out at the harbor. “I wonder that you don’t keep such a pretty room for yourself!”
Lucinda laughed. “My room is smaller, crammed with things, and has no view to speak of, but since I’m rarely in it, I don’t really mind. So you like it, then? You’d like to take it for the week?”
He turned back to smile at her. “At least a week.”
“There’s not much to divert you in Angel Rock,” she warned him. “A week is about as much as most people can stand.”
“And what are the entertainments?” he asked. “So I can work up my enthusiasm in advance.”
“Well, many of our male guests like to fish,” she said. “A few of the residents maintain fishing boats, and they’ll take you out very early in the morning and stay out with you as long as you want. Have you ever fished?”
“Not in the ocean. In lakes and rivers. I like it. Do you?”
Lucinda laughed and shook her head. “Not at all! I don’t mind eating fish, or even boning it and cooking it, but the idea of actually taking a live thing and sticking a hook through its mouth or its gill—awful. I can’t do it. Besides—” She flicked her wings delicately. “I’m not much good on a small fishing craft. I don’t exactly fit.”
“You could trail your feathers in the water as bait,” he suggested.
She laughed again. “Yes, and have eel nibbling at my wings! I don’t think so! So I mostly stay away from the fishing expeditions.”
“What else is there?” he asked.
“Well, in the summer months, some people go swimming off the north beach, but it’s really too cold for that now,” she replied. “There are a few pretty walks around the island—but it’s not a very big island, and the walks don’t take very long.”
“And for entertainment in the evenings?”
She felt the laughter bubbling up again. Strange, she didn’t usually find it this amusing to describe the charms of the island—but she knew where Omar came from, she knew how sophisticated his pleasures usually were, and Angel Rock could in no way match them.
“Well, lately the Jomarsons—who have been with us for six days—and Mrs. Temple, who has been here for three weeks— have been writing a play which they hope to perform in a few days for whoever can fit in our parlor one night,” she said. “I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you contribute your wit to the composition of the play, or your acting skills to the performance. I’ve also learned how to play some pretty complex board games, which I could teach you if you don’t already know them. And sometimes Hammet and Celia invite us over to the Gablefront Inn for an evening with their guests. Generally then people take turns singing, or reciting poetry, or telling funny stories. Usually it’s quite enjoyable.”
“Yes, it all sounds delightful. Why are you laughing at me, you silly child? Do you think I’m too jaded to enjoy simple pleasures?”
“Well—yes! After the Eyrie, and Luminaux, and Semorrah—”
“The Eyrie and Luminaux and Semorrah are the very reasons I have come to Angel Rock,” he said firmly. “I find their pace too taxing. I must have quiet! Or I shall go mad!”
This last was said very dramatically, in obvious jest, and Lucinda laughed again. “Well, you shall have it here,” she observed. “Come along downstairs. We’ll tell Aunt Gretchen you’ve come to stay awhile.”
They returned to the ground floor to look for Gretchen, whom they finally discovered in the orchard that grew some distance behind the house. She was frowning up at the riotously blossoming apple trees.
“Aunt Gretchen! Goodness, why are you looking so fierce?” Lucinda exclaimed. “I think the trees look gorgeous.”
“Dory said she saw insects boring into her peach trees this morning, and I was just wondering if I would need to spray,” Gretchen replied. “I don’t see any evidence of trouble—but then, better too much prevention than a season ruined. What a bother! Well, I’d best go tell Jackson the glad news. You know how he hates spraying for bugs.”
“Aunt Gretchen, we have a new visitor from the mainland,” Lucinda said, since it seemed possible that Gretchen could stalk right by them, intent on ruining Jackson’s day. “Do you remember Omar? Bael’s son? You met him at the Gloria.”
Gretchen did a strange, abrupt halt, spin, and stare, so that she seemed to be jerked from one plane of existence to a wholly different and less pleasant one. She dragged her eyes once from Omar’s face to glance at her niece, and then she returned her attention to the Archangel’s son.
“Yes. Of course I remember you,” she said in a completely uninflected voice. “I just did not expect—what brings you to Angel Rock?”
Mystified by Gretchen’s odd response, and hoping Omar didn’t notice it, Lucinda spoke in a quick, bright tone. “He’s come to rusticate for a few days and escape the grueling pace of the mainland. He says Bael may come to Angel Rock sometime in the future when he needs a vacation. Won’t that be nice? Has he ever been here?”
“Not that I know of,” Gretchen said, still in that strained voice. “I don’t recall that any of the Archangels have ever come to the island.”
“Lucinda has been telling me of all the pleasures in store for me,” Omar said. “She laughed, but I confess, I did not expect so much! If I go out fishing and I’m successful, what do I do with my catch? Bring it back to the Manor for cooking?”
“Oh, yes! Emmie loves to make fresh fish. But you have to catch enough to feed all the guests, because we wouldn’t want anyone to feel slighted,” Lucinda said.
“So if I only catch two, I should throw them back before we head for land.”
“Unless they’re two very big fish,” she said solemnly, and then the two of them laughed, Gretchen gave them the smallest, unhappiest smile.
“Yes. How enjoyable for you,” Gretchen said, seeming to speak almost at random. “Excuse me, Omar. I must go find Jackson. Lucinda, I’m sure you’ll do what you can to make our new guest comfortable.” And she hurried off.
Omar looked after her with a small frown. “Well! She seems very upset about her destructive bugs.”
Or something, Lucinda thought. “Aunt Gretchen gets very focused on something, and that’s all she can think about,” she said lightly. “But she’s a wonderful hostess. Let’s go back to the house so you can unpack. Lunch will be ready in another two hours. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
So Omar was settled in and introduced to the rest of the guests at the noon meal, where he managed to charm even the prim Mrs. Temple. Lucinda didn’t see him again until dinner, because she got swept up in the orchard frenzy, and spent the entire rest of the day under the apple trees with Jackson and her aunt. They sprayed all afternoon, covering themselves with a noxious, choking chemical residue, and she never saw a single bug.
But she had cleaned herself up by dinner, which she looked forward to for the first time in nearly a month, and a very pleasant meal it was, too. Omar enthralled every guest with tales of the Eyrie and descriptions of the Gloria, painting vivid pictures of the great events and popular angels, and fielding all the questions the others put to him.
Except one. “And who’s to be the next Archangel?” Mrs. Temple asked as dessert was being served. “Has that been decided?”
Omar looked grave. “The god has not yet spoken on that issue, which concerns my father greatly. All the oracles have been consulted, but Jovah has chosen not to answer this particular question.”
“And what happens if no Arch
angel is named before the next Gloria? It is next year that the new Archangel should sing for the first time, am I not right?”
“Indeed you are. My father, of course, is willing to carry on his duties as long as is necessary—but he has served nineteen years, and grows weary. He is as eager as anyone to see the next man—or woman—chosen.”
“Do you think it might be a woman?” Ed Jomarson asked.
“Historically, the Archangel has been female roughly a third of the time,” Omar said. “We have had several male Archangels in a row, so—yes, I think the chances are good that the god will select a woman.”
“Mercy?” Lucinda asked.
Omar spread his hands in a diplomatic gesture of denial. “Mercy is not an old woman, but she would be by the time she had been Archangel for twenty years,” Omar said. “Most often, the Archangel is in the prime of life—thirty or thirty-five, often young enough to still bear children. Delilah, of course, was barely twenty-five when she took over the role. But I do not remember any Archangel who was older than forty when he or she was named to the office.”
“Then who?” Lucinda asked. “Are there many female angels between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five living in Samaria?”
“Oh, there are several—quite lively, intelligent women, too. We’ll just have to see what Jovah decides. It may be months before he lets us know. And it may be tomorrow.”
“This is quite intriguing,” Mrs. Temple said, quivering a little in her seat. “It makes it seem so much more exciting when you hear about it all firsthand. Now I cannot wait to see who is chosen.”
That conversation ended the meal, and they all moved by common consent to the parlor. The Jomarsons and Mrs. Temple instantly went to work on their play, arguing in low voices over the wording of a line of dialogue. Three of the other guests got out a board game, and four others dealt out a hand of cards.
“That appears to leave you to entertain me,” Omar said to the angel. “I spy a harpsichord in the corner. Is it too much to hope that you are allowed to play music at night, or will we disturb the others?”
“No, no disturbance!” Ed called out. “In fact, we consider our evening quite ruined if Lucinda doesn’t play for us at least an hour.”
“Will you?” Omar asked her again.
“Gladly. Unless you would rather play? We have music, if you neglected to bring any.”
“I’m not good on a keyboard,” he said, following her over to the instrument. “A flute I have mastered with some gracefulness, I like to think, and I’ve been practicing on a lyre, but I don’t have either with me.”
“Well, you could sing,” she said, seating herself on the bench. “For I know you have the skill for that.”
He had picked up a book of music and was flipping through it. “Let’s see. I know this piece, and this one, and—here. One of my favorites. Do you know it?”
He set the open book before her. “But this one is so sad!” she exclaimed.
“No, no, sweet and wistful. You don’t want to play it?”
She ran her fingers over the opening chords, minor and dark. “I’ll play it. You take the melody.”
She let him sing the first verse solo, playing the accompaniment very softly, and she had to admit the piece was more moving than she remembered. Or perhaps she was swayed by the power of his voice, gorgeously grieving over the words of heartache and loss. In any case, she felt like crying before the chorus was reached. She added her voice in ghostly treble counterpoint, and the room instantly seemed haunted by echoes of sadness. She continued singing harmony through the second verse, and the third, and when they finally wrapped up the final chorus, the mood in the whole room was one of profound dejection.
Lucinda herself sat a moment with her hands on the keyboard, recovering her good temper and quite unable to speak. Omar sat beside her, seemingly lost in a reverie of his own. It took a voice from across the room to break the silence.
“But, Lucinda, can’t you play something happier?” Mrs. Jomarson asked plaintively. “You’re making my heart break!”
Murmured assents from the others caused Lucinda to toss her hair back and summon up a smile. “You see?” she said to Omar, and without consulting him, offered up the chords for a completely different song. This one was lively and fun, full of looping melody lines and a tricky harmony. He laughed, but joined in, and allowed her to pick the next few selections as well.
“I see we have completely different styles,” he said several songs later when she paused. “I have been accused before of having a sober turn of mind, but you’re the first one who’s forbidden me to choose any of the music.”
“And it seems so unlike you,” she said, allowing her fingers to wander at random over the keyboard. “For you seem to be such an amusing, entertaining man. But your music—! I remember now. At the Gloria you did a very solemn piece as well.”
“They say a man’s true nature is revealed in his poetry and his song,” he said lightly. “Whatever else he conceals about himself is inevitably revealed in verse.”
“And is that true of you?” she said, looking at him sideways. “Are you a sad man in your secret, concealed heart?”
“Sad?” he repeated. “I would not say that. Serious, yes. These are serious days. A man needs to be earnest and sober.”
She thought of the voyage to Angel Rock on The Wayward, the attack by the Jansai, Reuben’s contention that the Archangel encouraged such piracy. She thought of the Jacobites, hounded from Samaria at Bael’s instigation. She wondered what the son thought of the father’s policies. Serious days, indeed.
But she smiled at him. “But you must meet grave challenges with a serene heart,” she said. “You must seek happiness where you can. A joyful song floods my whole body with delight. That makes me stronger,”
He gave her a deep, deferential nod, almost a bow. “You seem formed for joy,” he said. “That makes you delightful to be near.”
She surveyed him a little more speculatively, but her smile lingered. “And you have a very graceful way of flattering,” she observed. “By week’s end, I shall be so under your spell, I shall begin to believe you when you say things like that.”
“Why wait that long?” he murmured. “Believe me now.”
She laughed aloud, pleased despite herself. Before she could make an answer, some stray movement at the corner of her eye turned her attention to the door. Aunt Gretchen stood there, seemingly rooted in place, staring across the room at the couple by the harpsichord. Her angular face seemed bony with worry; her dark eyes were sharp with concern. Her hands twisted in her apron, furling and unfurling it with completely uncharacteristic disregard for an item of clothing. But she was not looking at Lucinda. Her gaze was fixed on Omar.
Lucinda glanced again at the Archangel’s son. And what could Aunt Gretchen possibly know about Omar that would make her stare at him as if he was bad news direct from Jovah? Omar had opened a book of music and was idly flipping through its pages. He did not seem to notice the intense, despairing gaze that was trained on him from across the room. He found a selection that pleased him and offered it to Lucinda with a smile. She played it, but this time her heart was not in it. She could not imagine what, but something was greatly amiss.
Yet Gretchen said nothing to her the next morning, by which time most of Lucinda’s odd uneasiness had evaporated. Omar had elected to spend the morning on one of the boats (promising to bring back a basketful of fish), so he could not disturb them with his presence. By the time he returned, sunburned and happy, Lucinda had managed to forget her aunt’s strange reaction of the night before. She welcomed him into the kitchen, she incorporated his fish onto the night’s menu, and she shooed him out of the house so she and Emmie could finish preparing the evening meal.
Which was delicious, and everyone said so. Afterward, the Jomarsons and Mrs. Temple cornered Omar to see if he’d be willing to take a part in their play, to which he agreed. He spent the rest of the evening huddled with them, discussing
his part and the rehearsal schedule. Lucinda was surprised to find that she was a little disappointed—she had enjoyed his company the day before—but she amused herself playing card games with the other guests.
And two whole days were gotten through in this manner; and she had only thought of Reuben three or four hundred times in those two days; and she would see him again in as little as twelve days, perhaps. So she was not unhappy.
The next day, all the cast members commandeered the newly sprayed orchard and practiced their lines and argued over stage directions. No one was allowed close enough to overhear a word of dialogue, so Emmie and Lucinda took lunch out to them, left it a hundred yards away, and scampered back to the house, laughing.
That evening after dinner, Omar did manage to break free of the playwrights and join Lucinda at the harpsichord again. “They’re charming people, but do give me an hour’s mercy!” he whispered in her ear. “I really cannot abide one more discussion about Jack’s proper pronunciation—my character is named Jack, you see—or why he simply wouldn’t say such a thing, though I think he would. Had I known how grueling this would be, I would never have agreed to take part.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure you’d be completely bored if you weren’t doing the play.”
“I wouldn’t be bored, I would be exploring the island with you,” he said promptly. “Do you realize I have scarcely said a word to you for a whole day? I didn’t realize that was the bargain I would be required to make.”
“When do you perform?”
“Tomorrow night. Here in the parlor, I believe. I suppose we can seat twenty or so in the audience, though it will be a tight fit.”