Abigail gave a little cry of pain and joy. Old Levi the oracle bent his gray head with relief. Jonathan smiled quietly as he accepted his infant daughter from the attending doctor, and ran a gentle finger over the child's small, folded cherub-wings, slick with birth fluids.
"Thank Jovah," murmured Levi. "At last, at last..."
Jonathan returned the baby girl to his wife's anxious, searching hands, and Abigail smiled wearily up at him; the angel was surprised to see tears running down her flushed face. "I thought it couldn't happen, that it wouldn't work..." she whispered. "I thought this one would turn out like Deborah..."
"What?" A small, dark girl who bore Jonathan's hard features looked up with a scowl. "What about me?" she repeated.
Her distracted mother did not hear, but continued to fuss of the winged infant. Jonathan took his first daughter's hand in his own, and sighed. "Nothing, dearheart," he told her. Deborah said nothing, but instead buried herself beneath her father's dove-gray wing. Jonathan felt his arm go around her protectively; with his second daughter's birth, he had come to realize that Deborah's life would be less than it had been; she would live always in the shadow of her angelic sister, and of any other angelic offspring that Jonathan and Abigail produced. He felt the girl's small hand against his feathers, and felt a pang of regret—he had not thought, when he had accepted his wings, of the shadows they might cast in this newly born world. Angelic children were so rare and so desperately craved—it was only natural that prejudices should form against the poor children who'd had the misfortune to be born mortal. Jonathan drew Deborah into a close embrace, and she nuzzled against his side. Human or no, she was his first and best-beloved child; and whatever dark times were ahead, he would always be her father.
"Thank Jovah," murmured Levi. "At last, at last..."
Jonathan returned the baby girl to his wife's anxious, searching hands, and Abigail smiled wearily up at him; the angel was surprised to see tears running down her flushed face. "I thought it couldn't happen, that it wouldn't work..." she whispered. "I thought this one would turn out like Deborah..."
"What?" A small, dark girl who bore Jonathan's hard features looked up with a scowl. "What about me?" she repeated.
Her distracted mother did not hear, but continued to fuss of the winged infant. Jonathan took his first daughter's hand in his own, and sighed. "Nothing, dearheart," he told her. Deborah said nothing, but instead buried herself beneath her father's dove-gray wing. Jonathan felt his arm go around her protectively; with his second daughter's birth, he had come to realize that Deborah's life would be less than it had been; she would live always in the shadow of her angelic sister, and of any other angelic offspring that Jonathan and Abigail produced. He felt the girl's small hand against his feathers, and felt a pang of regret—he had not thought, when he had accepted his wings, of the shadows they might cast in this newly born world. Angelic children were so rare and so desperately craved—it was only natural that prejudices should form against the poor children who'd had the misfortune to be born mortal. Jonathan drew Deborah into a close embrace, and she nuzzled against his side. Human or no, she was his first and best-beloved child; and whatever dark times were ahead, he would always be her father.
