As befitted a penitent, he made no attempts to ease or shorten his journey. He began on foot at the base of the mountain and toiled upward uncomplainingly. He was not used to this particular kind of physical exertion, but he was in good shape, and the climb did not tire him or curb his building excitement. Nonetheless, he paused to rest about halfway up the mountain, dropped his bundles and freed his flute from its case.
He played his six selections twice apiece, serenading the birds, the wild foxes, the trees, the god and anyone else who might be listening. The pipe sounded just right here on this steep slope made half of stone and half of forest; it could have been birdsong or rainfall or dawn wind. He was sure that his idle melodies floated upward, skipping over the cruel iron spikes and skirling into the small house at the top of the mountain.
Retrieving his packages, he continued the climb. The pathway narrowed till he felt his shoulders and his wings squeezing together to avoid scraping against the metal railings. The tips of his feathers trailed behind him in the dirt. No glorious entrance for him. He would arrive humble and disheveled as any mortal man.
But when he crested the final hill and gazed down into the clearing around the cottage, he could not help smiling. Flowers rioted in three gardens, smoke curled from two chimneys, and the smell of baking bread drifted back to him like an invitation. Rachel was nowhere in sight. He picked his way down the small hill, crossed the yard and knocked hopefully at the door. Then he held his breath until she opened it.
She was dressed all in blue, and her gold hair lay unbound across her shoulders. She looked like a peasant girl minding her mother’s house, or a wise woman enmeshed in her own spells, eternally beautiful, eternally young. She was not smiling. But she did not look angry or surprised to see him at her door.
“Angela,” he said.
“Gabriel,” she replied, inclining her head regally. “I see you undertook the long hard walk to my house.”
“It did not seem so steep or so tiring.”
“This is not a place made to welcome angels.”
“No, it was a place built to shelter angelicas. Have you found it comfortable?”
“I like it better than any place I have ever been, I think.”
He smiled. “May I come in?”
She moved aside. “Please do.”
He had to duck his head and draw his wings tight about him to step under the low lintel. Inside, the smell of flour and yeast was extremely strong. What he could see of the cottage was very spare, very clean, enlivened here and there with bright splashes of intense color. How much of this was Hagar, how much Rachel?
“I brought you a gift for your new home,” he said, and handed her a rolled bundle that was a hearth rug. He had gotten the rug in Luminaux, for no reason except that its aqueous blue and green colors reminded him of things he had seen in Rachel’s room. He had not then considered under what circumstances he might be giving it to her.
She took it from him, shook it out and laid it in front of the cold fireplace on the far wall. Instantly it looked as if it had been purchased for just that spot. From across the room, she turned to face him.
“And did you come all the way from the Eyrie just to bring me something for my house?” she asked.
“No,” he said, smiling. “But I would have flown that whole distance just to bring you presents, and then flown home again.”
“What have you been doing with yourself these past few months?” she asked.
She still stood apart from him, so he moved closer, slowly, so as not to alarm her. “I have traveled between every town and hillock of Samaria, meeting with people and plotting out the next twenty years,” he said. “I have installed Nathan and Maga in Jordana, and they are building a new hold in the Heldora Mountains.”
“What happened to Windy Point?”
“Gone,” he said. “Sliced from the mountain by the hand of the god.”
She lifted her chin and considered him, but she did not ask what role he had played in the destruction of the fortress. “Good,” she said.
He smiled again and stepped nearer. “And,” he said, “I have learned to play a song or two on the instrument you gave me as we waited to sing the Gloria.”
“I heard you. Or at least I heard someone piping a little while before you came to my door.”
“That was me.”
“Have you come all the way from the Eyrie just to play me songs on your recorder?”
“No,” he said. “But I would have flown all that distance just to play for you, if it would have pleased you, and then flown home again.”
Now, faintly, as if she could not help herself, she allowed a smile to show around the edges of her mouth. “But I could not let you fly all that way and fly home again, without at least offering you a meal,” she said. “Are you hungry? I could feed you.”
“Yes,” he said, and let it go at that.
She turned and led him to the kitchen. Here, the aroma of baking bread was mixed with heavier, more seductive smells. Forcefully the image came back to him, of a witch-woman brewing up philters in her isolated cabin. The small table was set for two.
“Sit down,” she said. “Would you like water? Or wine?”
“Wine,” he said. It was a night for intoxication. “Your food smells good.”
“I like to cook,” she said. “I haven’t had many chances lately.”
“In Bethel,” he said, “everyone is cooking these days.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s a strange new spice that the women have discovered. They use it to flavor everything—bread, meat, wine, cake.”
She was again standing across the width of the room, but now she was definitely smiling. “And have you eaten many of the delicacies these women have been cooking?”
“Not a one,” he said carefully. “I’ve touched nothing except the dishes prepared by my own hand.”
“No wonder you are hungry, then.”
“I know.”
“Do you dislike this new seasoning?”
“Not at all. I’m sure I would love it if I ate it from the proper plate.”
“I’ve used it in all the loaves and casseroles I made for you tonight.”
“I’ll have large portions of them all.”
She drifted closer, half against her will, it seemed, but driven by her own excitement. Gabriel came to his feet, slowly, not wanting to startle her away.
“What a risk you run,” she said softly. “Don’t you know that the spice is desire, and that it will flavor whatever nourishment you take from this day forward?”
She was close enough. He grabbed her hands and held them though she tried for a moment to pull them away. “I told you,” he murmured, “I have not eaten such a food for so long I cannot remember how it tastes.”
She stopped struggling, and he swept her, none too gently, into his arms. She flung her head back, pushing him away a little with her hands against his shoulders.
“Desire changes nothing,” she said a little breathlessly. “Passion erases none of the troubles that lie between you and me.”
“None of them?” he said and drew her closer. When he kissed her, he felt her change to silk in his arms. She had been caged and restless; now she preened and became content. Her arms slipped around his back, lay warm and flat between his feathers and his skin. He kissed her again and again, until he lost count, until he had had enough kisses to make up for having had only one up to this point in his life.
When he finally freed her, though not completely, she was laughing. “It must be a stronger drug than I knew,” she said. “For it is effective when you have done no more than smell the baking bread.”
“You seem to have succumbed to it yourself,” he noted.
“Well, but I have been cooking for days.”
“Oh? And who were you expecting to feed with all your stews and casseroles?”
She pushed him away, pressed him into his chair and crossed the room to fuss with items on her iron stove. H
er face had colored with the heat of the fire or some thought that left her blushing.
“Well?” he said, because, after all, it was time she said it. She turned to face him, finally, still just a little aloof but not shy at all.
“You,” she said at last. “I would have waited forever for you.”
NEW IN HARDCOVER:
Quatrain
From National Bestselling Author
Sharon Shinn
Sharon Shinn’s “outstanding” (Publishers Weekly) Twelve Houses novels have fascinated readers and critics alike with their irresistible blend of fantasy, romance, and adventure. Now, in Quatrain, she weaves compelling stories set in four of the worlds that readers love in “Flight,” “Blood,” “Gold,” and “Flame.”
penguin.com
M495T0609
Sharon Shinn, Archangel
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