I remained in the form of "Angel" all the way to the gates. If anyone saw me and wondered about the frumpish servant girl carrying herself from the presence of Prince Wyatt I did not notice them. I felt sick, dizzy, and wonderfully elated, all at the same time. If Wyatt demanded that I be Angel, I would be. I would be anything he asked of me as long as he would speak to me and look at me. His letter to Christine was weightless in my hand. It was not until the gates that I remembered it. And then it seemed the every thought of and feeling for Wyatt vanished as I stared at his awkward handwriting covering the envelope.
No one was there to see me, and instantly the guise of Angel fell away till I was Fawn again in my dark robe holding a letter. I was not sure what to make of it, though one little thought did demand to know why Wyatt was writing to Christine. Because she had written to him and it was only courtesy to reply, of course. I examined the lettering more carefully. Just an address to Christine, nothing more, nothing less. Was there to be meaning there?
Christine. She was the one over whom I was supposed to be watching. I really needed to get back to her in spite of the fact she had sent me here. I nodded to no one and slipped the letter into my robe pocket. I would deliver this to Christine just as I promised Wyatt and I would not read it. Why would I need to read it?
As quickly as they had gone thoughts of Wyatt returned and a smile crept over my face. Christine could wait. I was in Sunelle, Wyatt's home. I should get to know it. What of all the mountains and streams he had promised me? Where were they? Where might I find them? And of course the Prickling returned to remind me of my gracious angelic duty. I was tempted to pout like a child. I did not care about Christine, and the letter to her weighed heavily in my pocket. It would be wrong to read it.
I shook every other thought away save that of my duty to Christine. If I loved Wyatt, I would deliver his letter. I had wasted too much time debating with myself like a little girl. Well, with any luck Christine would find some sick reason to continue this odd correspondence.
Before I set off I allowed myself one last look at Wyatt's palace. The gates stood behind me, tall yet welcoming, the gardens stretched out beyond them. Around a corner of green bushes came Minister Evan, talking with someone or another. His eyes glided over me. Oh dear! Immediately I vanished, once again feeling sick. Evan had been quite a distance off, but he stopped for the briefest of moments, eyes frozen on the spot where I was. I did not dare move, though I knew he could not see me? Had he seen me?
My thoughts were too quick for the moment and in a blink of an eye Evan had resumed his conversation. I let out the breath I had been holding, though I truly did not need the pain of breathing, and ran in the direction of Lady Melissa's home. I could wish myself there, but this was easier. Running still did something for this spirit body, and maybe if I ran fast enough Evan would not have seen me.
By the time I reached the house I was calm and logical. Evan, in his old age, was no doubt prone to flights of fancy and strange sights. Of course his eyes were playing tricks on him, as he had only recently discussed the subject of me and thus had me on his mind. The incident was laughable and I liked to think I had played a good joke upon poor Evan. My mood was restored and I was not going to be silly about giving Christine her letter. I was here to help her and this just might be what she needed. Either way, she saw me as her friend and this is what she had asked of a friend. I could be a good friend.
My first impression upon entering the house was that no one was there. A few candles lit dim corners, though I personally thought them useless for the noon hour. A lunch had been laid upon the table, but no one sat there. I began to imagine some
horrible incident when the sounds of shouting floated down the staircase. The sweet melody of Lady Melissa. I ran up the steps. That floor was like a maze that hid the argument from me until I stumbled upon a room that appeared entirely useless. Why have a random sitting room in the middle of the house?
Lady Melissa sat in a rickety, velvet-colored chair, burgundy skirts flowing around her like a waterfall. Her golden hair was pinned up in a graceful tower, but her face was as red as her dress. Christine stood before her, meek as a mouse, eyes focused on the floor. In the shadowy corner I could see the forms of Amelia and Grace, standing as cold as statues as Lady Melissa continued to scream.
"Gone!" she shouted. "Gone! They were valuable!"
Since the screaming had been going on since I had entered the house I was sure that Christine was very well aware of the cost of whatever this was about. I stood in the doorway, trying to decide when to intervene or even if.
"Your father worked for years on those books. Years! Can you not comprehend the importance of such things with your tiny mind? Or perhaps you are nothing more than an ungrateful daughter who uses her dearly departed father's work as the means for trinkets or selfish gifts! The meaning of them to our kingdom! Did you not care about that? Or that they belonged to this house, my home. Your sisters' home!"
I noticed she had left out Christine's home. Tears were already running down her face.
Lady Melissa paused for breath, rendering her next words barely above malignant whispers. "Your father's home. The place to which she owe your life!"
"I understand," Christine muttered.
"Do you continue to lie and protest you took them?" Lady Melissa's voice was rising again.
"I had nothing to do with them," Christine replied softly. She still did not meet her stepmother's eyes.
"Liar!" the screaming was back, and even Amelia jumped. "How dare you tell such lies to me, you ungrateful little bitch! I loved your father and you would dare to take his greatest works from me."
But he was Christine's father. Had he not left these books to her? I waited for Christine to defend herself, but only a few tears appeared.
"What did you do with them?!"
Silence. Horrible, heavy silence.
"What has become of my books?" Lady Melissa was like a hawk screaming down its prey. She rose from her chair in one fluid movement, eyes burning.
I hated her. If I had disliked her before, I hated her now. It took everything in my power to keep myself back.
Christine murmured something under her breath.
"What did you say?" Lady Melissa demanded.
"I tore them up," Christine repeated, audible.
Lady Melissa's face went white. "What?"
"I tore them up." Tears were pouring down Christine's cheeks now, and while her voice was still hardly over a whisper she might as well have been screaming herself. "I tore them up and crumpled them up and threw them into the fire until they became nothing but ashes! And those that I did not destroy I gave away. Every time I went on a trip for you I brought a book or two to give away, or a piece of jewelry or silverware. It was only now you were clever enough to catch on!"
In one step Lady Melissa was in front of her, arm and hand whirling through the air before colliding with Christine's face with a sound that hurt my ears. I flinched, but noticed that Amelia and Grace did so as well. Lady Melissa struck again, and again. Christine sunk to the floor, absolutely silent, hands over her face. Lady Melissa stepped back, a vein in her forehead throbbing.
"That will touch you to touch my things," she said.
But they were not her things! I had only been there a few days and I knew as much. Fury flooded through me as I stepped into the room. Melissa's chair (for I could no longer bear to think of her as a Lady) skidded from behind her to before her, where I had it hit her firmly in the chins. She cried out as she fell back with a superb bang against the wall. Grace gave a small scream while Amelia covered her mouth with her hands.
I was not good at being angry. What was I supposed to do next? I grabbed the air between by hands and pretended to shred it. As I did my imagined sound came to life via Melissa's skirt. Long and ragged, all the way to her hip. It seemed as if her foot had merely caught by misfortune on the skirt, but it was me.
Christine took the opportunity to pick herself up and flee the room. Why would she? I was not done. All I had was pitiful! I suddenly wanted to rake out her eyes with my fingernails. I closed my eyes, forced my hands to my side, and dashed after Christine.
Her footsteps echoed liked thunder throughout the house—the stairs to the attic were old and worn. A door slammed, but I was already on my way. I slid through the door without opening it and found Christine on her rat's next of a bed, sobbing.
My heart broke for her, and I appeared. "Christine?"
I expected her to ignore me, but her head shot up, red eyes staring at me. "Oh," she said softly. "You."
I nodded and sat down next to her on the bed. "I heard it."
"You threw the chair at her legs, didn't you?" She gave the faintest of laughs and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I hate her so much. I hate them all. They are all just… just insane. I mean, that she would even… that she would even care about them in the first place…" She choked back something and tried again. "Is it selfish of me, Fawn? Is it so horribly selfish that I would not her or any of them looking at my father's things? That I think they aren't good enough to read anything he ever wrote?"
Probably so, but all I could do at that moment was empathize. So I said no.
She pushed herself up and took a deep breath. "I didn't do anything I said. I would never treat Papa's books so horribly. He was brilliant and even if I did want to give some of things away I knew it wouldn't be practical because there aren't many copies."
"Why did you say you did?" I sat down next to her, having the strangest urge to give her a big hug.
She gave another weak laugh. "Most to make her mad. Is that a horrible reason?"
I smiled. "Probably."
She smiled back, though the tears kept coming. "I know, I know you're right. But I just… I just hate her so much. If you had any idea, Fawn."
"I saw her hit you." I reached forward and pushed the hair from Christine's face. The skin had already puckered up into a strong welt.
"She doesn't always hit me."
She did not always hit her. Well, of course she didn't! If she had Christine would be nothing but a walking pile of bruises. I wanted to say something spirited and powerful and inspiring but I had to no idea what that would be. And she sat next to me sniffling, before picking up one of her books, a dusty old copy half shoved under the blankets.
Part of me was furious at her for doing so while the other part of me understood. So I continued to sit while she read. As I was already terrible at keeping track of the flow of time I did not know how long she read and I sat. And as I sat I felt angry, angry, for reasons I could not quite explain, at Melissa. I was angry at her for yelling at Christine. I was angry at her for hitting Christine. I was angry at her for taking over the house and all the things and treating Christine the way she did!
It was not like I had never felt anger before. Anger, rage, hatred, I had known it all, more so during this phase of my existence. Wandering brought so much. I saw things in this world I had never dared hope of seeing and I had seen other things that would bring tears to the eyes of any decent person. There were people I wished to see dead even though I knew such a wish was wrong. Why did I feel so much more anger on behalf of Christine? It was not like I had known her so long.
But anger is what I felt and Christine, sitting there, with her book, was not helping. I was about to lose all of my supposedly angelic patience and take my turn at yelling her when she set the book down and pulled, seemingly from no where, a hideously bent quill and an almost-empty pot of ink.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
She opened the ink pot and dunked the quill into it. "I keep a journal," she said. "Papa taught me to do so. He says it is the most important part of contributing to history. He kept one and my mother kept one. And now I keep one. I have written it in since Mama's death. Not nearly as often when I should, but… well, I like to read in it. It's so funny to look back at what I have written ages ago and make fun of myself for being that way."
"Make fun of yourself?"
She shrugged. "Call me crazy, but it works for me. You angels see all of eternity and probably remember ever single and solitary second of it. Well, we poor humans don't. So I do this instead."
It was a rude thought, but I had to wonder what she wrote about.
She continued as if she had anticipated my unsaid question. "It's really a horrible journal. Absolutely terrible." A sly smile, much stronger than her others, made me suspect the very worse. "I spy on them." I did not have to ask who they were. "I spy on them, discover their dirtiest secrets, and write them all in here for the prudent knowledge of posterity."
I found myself laughing. "You are an absolutely awful person, Christine!"
"I know." She was already scribbling furiously across the page. "Today, I am writing about Melissa's obvious insanity and Amelia's secret fear of rabbits."
"Rabbits?"
"Yes. While you were gone one came into the yard while she was sewing. Embroidering, excuse me. She's too fine for mean sewing. She screamed bloody murder."
"I'm sorry I missed it. No dirt on Grace?"
"Not today, but she has had her fair share." As she wrote, Christine's face lit up little by little until she was positively beaming. "Would you like me to read anything to you?"
"I…" I really did not know if that would be appropriate. But she took my hesitation for a yes and started it into it with an extract from several pages back.
"April 29: Melissa gave the roaches a lesson on propriety. Apparently I will never have that kind of problem for I was ignored. It was all about how to behave in front of a gentleman. However, last night, Grace stayed out extremely late with that cobbler's apprentice. I say, if the shoe fits…"
Oh, dear. I choked back a laugh. I had never felt so indulgent. Hardly becoming of an angel. "Christine, I can't listen to this."
"Ah, yes. The pure ears of an angel."
"I'm not an angel of vengeance."
"You should be. I think that sounds like fun." She finished the dirt for the day and closed her book. "I know I'm awful, but this helps me. It makes me feel better."
"Why can't you leave?"
"I told you. Where am I supposed to go?"
I shook my head. She was exasperating. "Anywhere! You're smart, Christine! Lovely, funny. I've watched you. People like you. People outside this house, anyway."
Her smile faded and she shrugged. "I can't leave this house. This is my home, no matter what the law says. I will not leave my parent's house!"
My perspective had changed somewhat since my death. "Christine," I said kindly. "It is just a house. It means nothing. I know you loved your parents, but they aren't here anymore."
She clenched her teeth. "They aren't anywhere else I can see them. This house is all I have left. And Papa's books." She sighed. "She's probably hiding them so she can blame me. Even if they're gone, it's better than her having them."
She had a good argument, I could not deny that. And every counter-argument I had ever used during my career as an angel was useless.
I had forgotten Wyatt's letter. I quickly pulled it from my robe. "I have something to cheer you up."
"You're going to kill Melissa?"
"You sent me to deliver a letter to… the Prince. He wrote back."
Christine's eyes went wide as she grabbed the letter and tore it open. "You saw him? You spoke to him?"
"You spoke to him yourself."
"Yes, but you. I mean, Fawn, you're…"
"I can appear to whomever I choose." I did like sounding powerful.
She did not respond. Her eyes poured over the letter, drinking in the words. What had he written? I would gladly kill Melissa, had I the power, to see it. It was my like my heart would die all over again. But of course the letter was not to me.
Christine finished the letter and it fell into her lap. Her eyes were sparkling.
I felt cold.
"You will think I am silly for saying this," she said. "But Angel is a terrible name to call yourself."
"He didn't know what I was." He had mentioned me?! Or, Angel?!
"I suppose you're right. Either way, he mentioned you."
I know he mentioned me. The earlier chill melted away. Did I dare ask her what he had said? Was it my business? Of course it was, if it were about me! "What did he say?"
She cleared her throat before speaking. "'You have a good friend in Angel. She is someone to whom I can speak.'"
I did not exactly feel disappointed, but his way with words had certainly gone downhill during the past nine years.
"What?" Christine asked, noticing my expression which must have been horrifically gloomy. "I think that is a great compliment. I wish I was someone he could talk to."
"But he wrote you a letter. Just to you."
"Just a nasty reply. I think he has a sense of humor, but it is hard to tell. Some people simply cannot write." She folded the letter slowly. "Still… Fawn, can I talk to you?" Her entire demeanor had changed. She was begging me to listen, terrified I would not.
I nodded, surprised. "Of course. That's why I'm here."
"I don't know why I'm doing this," she began. "Writing to him. It makes no sense. It's stupid, and it is completely above my station to even presume I would be allowed to carry out this silly game. But…"
The words were hard to get out. "I understand." Of course I understood. Who could understand better than I? I wanted to shout it to Christine, make her understand. But that was not why I was here. "He's a great man, the Prince."
"Maybe he's the reason I don't want to leave." She took a deep breath and shook her head. "Maybe the hope of catching a glimpse of him is the reason I don't leave. And I know it's a stupid wish. I am not an idiot. But I can't help it. It is the one thing I have most days."
"It's not stupid." That was all I could say and I did not even know what it meant.
That was it for our talk, for, in a rage or not, Melissa then summoned Christine.
And the following morning, an announcement arrived from the palace.