Nocturne

I knew the answer already, but I wanted my guess confirmed before I actually risked showing my face to an angel. So I asked, “Won’t he wonder why I’m bringing him dinner instead of you?”



She shook her head and eased herself back onto her pillows. There were a lot of them. The bed was surprisingly plush, given her situation and the severe plainness of the rest of the room. I liked the thought that she allowed herself a single indulgence. “No,” she said, “he’s blind.”



I had to turn away to hide my smile. “I’ll be back in a few moments,” I told her as I stepped into the kitchen again. I was so delighted with the way my plan had gone so far that I was almost humming as I fixed up a platter.



It turns out it’s not easy to carry a heavy tray up two flights if the stairs are narrow and twisty and the only illumination is a small lamp you added to your tray at the last moment, when you realized the house was too old and remote to run on gaslight. I was a little breathless when I arrived at the attic level and found myself in a narrow corridor that ran along one side of the house. Three doors led off the hallway; the two that were closed I guessed to be a bedroom and a closet. The third one stood open in a rather gloomy invitation into what appeared to be a large sitting room. It seemed to take up most of the top story and to be intended as a public space, so I stepped inside with assumed confidence.



A quick look around showed me shadowy groupings of chairs and small tables, boarded-up windows, and a curving iron staircase that had to lead to the roof. In one corner, a large stringed instrument leaned against a wall. There appeared to be stacks of books and papers on the floor, though they were disordered, as if no one had touched them in a long time.



In the center of the room, not quite facing me, was the angel. He was sprawled in one of those special cutaway chairs designed to accommodate angel wings, though he sat in it so carelessly that he appeared to be in danger of slipping out and crashing to the floor. His head was flung back to rest on the top of the padded back; his wings puddled on either side of him like dirty garments he had cast off after a tiring day. It was hard to tell by lamplight, but the clothes he was actually wearing appeared soiled as well. His white shirt looked wrinkled and stained, and his dark trousers sported a visible rip all the way down one seam. He was barefoot.



His face was in profile to me so at first all I could tell about his features was that his chin was firm, his nose was straight, and his cheekbone sleekly planed. He must not have liked the feel of whiskers on his face, because he had shaved recently, but his dark hair was long and disordered, spilling over the back of the chair in tangled knots.



I stood for a long time, holding the tray, staring at him. It was rare to see an angel—one of the most haughty, disdainful, unlikable creatures in all of Samaria—humbled and miserable. I wanted to enjoy the sight for as long as I could.



Then my hand trembled, or I shifted my weight and the floor creaked beneath me. At any rate, he suddenly realized I was there. He didn’t lift his head, just turned it enough so that he appeared to be looking in my direction. It was too dark for me to discern what the trouble was with his eyes. From here they looked like pools of shadow fringed with sweeping lashes.



“The breakfast plates are on the table,” he said in an indifferent voice that was still musical enough to make me catch my breath. He didn’t seem to realize or care that I had arrived after midnight with his evening meal. “You can leave dinner there if you like. I’m not hungry.”



I located the table he meant, but set my tray in a different spot because the breakfast dishes took up all the room. Then I regarded him again for a moment before I asked brightly, “So what exactly happened to you?”



The astonishment on the angel’s face was comical. He jerked upright and glared in my direction, his wings quivering in indignation. “Who are you? Where’s Alma?” he demanded.



I felt a grudging admiration that he knew the servant’s name; so many in his position wouldn’t. “She sprained her ankle and can barely make it around the house, let alone up the stairs,” I said, still in that cheerful voice. “I volunteered to help her out.”



“No one is supposed to enter this house without my approval,” he said, frowning heavily. “No one asked me if you could come here.”



“Well, the headmistress and the footman are gone, and Alma’s laid up downstairs, so no one could really ask about your preferences,” I said. “As long as Alma’s off her feet, you’ll have to accept my help—or feed yourself—or starve.”



At my tone, his features gathered in a scowl. “Who are you?” he repeated.



“Moriah. I’m a cook at the school.”



“You’re insolent for a cook.”



It was all I could do to keep from replying, You’re pathetic for an angel. Instead I said, “I suppose you’re used to being treated with more deference.”



“With civility,” he shot back. “With the sort of politeness anyone would extend to a stranger.”



There was a difference; even I had to acknowledge that. “I’ll be nice if you will,” I said. “Why don’t you eat? That way I can take all the dishes down at once. We don’t want rats coming for the scraps.”



I could tell by his expression he realized this was sensible, but he said, “I told you. I’m not hungry.”



He sounded like a petulant girl who hadn’t gotten her way on some trivial matter and was determined to sulk about it until everyone noticed. “Maybe not,” I said. “But I’m afraid if you won’t eat now, you’ll be very hungry by the time I can make it back here tomorrow night. You really should eat something.”



He hesitated a moment, not done sulking, but gave in. “Oh, very well.” I expected to have to guide him toward the table where I’d left the tray, but he came to his feet and headed unerringly in its direction, dragging his chair behind him. His wing tips trailed on the floor, completely unheeded, like the cloth belt from a robe that had fallen open when the sash was untied.



“How did you do that?” I asked when he sat down and began feeling for the silverware. “Find the food?”



“I could smell it,” he said. He picked up a fork and took a bite of potatoes.



He had not invited me to join him, but I settled into a chair across the table from him and studied his face. “You must have a keen nose.”



He considered that while he chewed and swallowed. “Now, maybe,” he said. “It’s not something I ever noticed before.”



“Now—you mean, since you lost your sight?”



“Yes,” he said bitterly, “that’s exactly what I mean.”



“How did it happen?” I asked. Maybe he decided my tone was curious, rather than rude, because he didn’t seem offended, though he finished another mouthful of food before he answered.



“I was blinded,” he said, “by a thunderbolt from the god’s hand.”



My eyes opened wide, because that was terribly dramatic. “The god was angry at you? What had you done?”



He shook his head, chewing again. For someone who claimed to have no appetite, he was tearing through dinner at a rapid clip. “Not angry. There was a prayer for lightning, and he responded with lightning.” The angel took a drink from his water glass. “And destroyed me.”



My brows drew down. That was a pretty sketchy story. “Were you the one praying for lightning?”



He shook his head, his expression bleak. He couldn’t see now, but it was clear he was watching some internal vision. “A boy. I was teaching him some of the elemental prayers. How to beg Jovah for rain, how to ask him to stop the rain. How to pray for thunderbolts.”



I’d never given it any thought, but the entire sky must light up with a dazzling display whenever those particular songs are being taught. “I’m surprised the whole lot of you aren’t blind by now,” I remarked, “with prayers like that on the loose.”



The angel shook his head again. “We know the risks, and we contain them,” he said. “We know never to sing the whole melodies all the way through. We teach the first half of the prayer, then we work on different songs, then we go back to the plea for lightning. Everyone is always very careful.”



“Then what happened?”



“Aaron was young. And confident and careless and curious. Maybe he didn’t believe something as simple as a song could call something as terrible as a thunderbolt. Maybe he was showing off. I don’t know. But he didn’t end the song where he was supposed to. When I realized he was still singing, I ordered him to stop, but he wouldn’t. We were in a small building in Cedar Hills—there were twenty students in the room. I started shouting at all of them to get out, get out, and then I ran back to Aaron, to wrestle him to the ground, to make him stop.” The angel shrugged. “But the prayer was complete. The lightning bolt came. The building was demolished.”



“And you were blinded,” I finished. “Did you get injured as well?”



He nodded. “I have burns across my back and one down the side of my ribs. Scars now, but bad ones at the time.”