The Blue Door

16



THE SWEETEST SONG



Will?”

The single word echoed off barren walls in the bleak cavern as Murque hauled himself the rest of the way out of the pit and leered cruelly. “He’s weakening, my lord. I can make him whimper.”

“Has he told you where it is?”

“Not yet.”

Dinge crouched at the edge of the gaping hole and asked, “What makes you think he knows anything?”

“The Faithful do not lie, so silence is his last refuge,” replied their leader with a delicate sneer. “He has the information I seek.”

Murque drew a twisted dagger. “Want me to dig deeper to find his voice.”

“You’ll get your chance, but first, I’d like a word with our caged bird.” With an explosion that sounded like shattering glass, the Fallen leapt, sending up sparks and a metallic squeal as he plummeted into the makeshift prison cell.

The two demons exchanged dumbfounded glances, and Dinge muttered, “I’ve never seen him willingly go into the presence of a Faithful.”

Murque picked at his teeth with the point of his blade. “What’s the hurry? It ain’t as if anyone wants this Observer back. He’s already been replaced.”

Suddenly, a thin wail pierced the darkness, rising in desperation. For a moment, light blazed through the darkness, sending the pair scrabbling away from the edge. With a final shout, it flickered, then failed, and by the time it dimmed to nothing, their leader had returned.

“What did you do, my lord?” Dinge murmured in awe.

“Robbed him of his purpose.”

He tossed something at the cowering figures, and two pale orbs wobbled to a stop at their knees. Murque grunted in surprise, but only muttered. “Can’t observe much without those.”

“From now on, fill his pointed ears with doubts. Perhaps in his despair, he will find the courage to fall. Now, come.”

Once the captors were well out of earshot, their prisoner broke his long-held silence with hoarse sobs.


“And I hear that congratulations are in order?” Milo inquired knowingly.

Prissie blushed and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Will we get to sample this award-winning pie of yours sometime?” asked the mailman, a hopeful light in his eyes.

“You could all come over for dinner, maybe,” she shyly offered.

“Dinner?” Baird asked, perking up.

“Harken and I are regularly favored by the Pomeroys’ hospitality,” Milo boasted.

“Don’t I know it,” the redhead drawled. “Harken goes on and on about Nell Pomeroy’s home cooking. So!” Baird exclaimed, clapping his hands. “What would it take to get us through the door? I could sing for my supper.”

Prissie giggled. “I’ll talk to Momma. I’m sure we can plan something soon. Maybe before harvesttime.” Glancing up into Kester’s face, she asked, “Would that be all right?”

“I would not be opposed to spending more time with your family,” he replied. “Your father would certainly be a congenial host.”

“What kind of word is that — congenial?” Baird asked, giving his apprentice a sidelong look.

Milo snickered. “It just means friendly.”

“Then why not say friendly?” groused the redhead.

Their banter continued as they wandered onto the midway. Rumbles and raucous music clamored around them, and Prissie glanced around, hoping for a glimpse of Margery and the others. She smiled to herself when they passed the bumper cars, but it didn’t occur to her that her companions were planning to go on any of the rides until Baird stopped at a ticket booth and purchased a sizable roll. “This should keep us busy for a while!” he declared with a wink.

Prissie’s steps lagged when she realized where her companions were headed, but her reluctance went unremarked. Baird was rambling on about a bird’s-eye view when all three angels halted in their tracks as if they’d hit a brick wall. The worship leader lifted his hands defensively. “Whoa now! No need to go ballistic! Put the sword away!”

She had no idea who the redhead was talking to, but in the next moment, it ceased to matter. All three angels turned to face her, each with a measure of guilt written on their faces.

“It has come to our attention that this ride may not be to your liking,” Kester announced neutrally.

Milo looked stricken, but Baird took their gaff in stride. “You’re afraid of heights?” he asked curiously.

“A little,” she replied carefully.

“O-kay,” he replied thoughtfully. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed to the three of them. “Are we enough to lend you the confidence to face this fear?”

Prissie glanced nervously at the towering Ferris wheel, indecision robbing her of words. She’d stood her ground against Elise and the rest when it came to visiting the fortune-teller. As miserable as it had made her, that had been a place she didn’t want to go. But now, there was somewhere she did want to go, but she was afraid to accept, which made her even more miserable than before.

Milo lifted his brows expectantly, and Baird winked, but it was Kester who tipped the scales. Without downplaying the reality of her anxiety, he stepped to her side and offered his arm. “Lend me a little of your trust, Prissie?”

Pleased to be treated like a lady instead of the frightened child she felt like, she slipped her arm through his, accepting the angel’s invitation.

When their turn came to enter one of the large, pink-roofed gondolas, Kester courteously saw her to a seat, then took his place on the hard bench across from her, folding his hands in his lap and gazing thoughtfully toward the sky. Baird dropped down next to him and leaned back casually, an arm draped across the back of the seat, and one ankle propped on his knee. He drummed his fingers against a jeans-clad thigh and hummed a little tune under his breath. The two Worshipers were each calm in their own way, which eased some of Prissie’s tension.

Then Milo took the seat next to Prissie. He was far too subdued, which put her back on edge. “I have a message,” he murmured, his blue eyes solemn. The other two angels looked surprised, and Milo smiled sheepishly. “It’s an unofficial one.”

“From who?” she asked tightly.

Baird snorted. “From an overprotective she-bear who’s bending the rules.”

“There isn’t a rule,” countered Milo.

“It’s hardly the norm,” Baird pointed out.

“This entire situation is exceptional,” Kester calmly interjected.

Before their little discussion could go any further off topic, a lever was thrown and the wheel lifted them off the ground. Prissie squeaked as the gondola swayed back and forth, and her hands locked onto the bench. Frantically, she wondered why there weren’t any seat belts.

“Prissie?” Kester called softly. “You are quite safe.”

Distantly, she heard Baird sharply order, “Go on, Goldilocks! You’re closest!”

“Miss Priscilla,” Milo spoke, and the note of urgency in his tone made her look up. “If it would help,” he offered, awkwardly patting the seat beside him.

She lunged, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Later, she knew she’d be mortified, but right now Prissie just wanted to feel safe, and if anyone was safe, it was Milo.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he offered reassuringly. “We’re with you.”

“Breathe, Prissie,” Baird urged.

Kester quickly crossed to sit on her other side, wedging her between two solid bodies. “Your Guardian,” he stated, answering her earlier question. “Milo’s message is from your Guardian, an angel whose sole purpose in this moment is to watch over you.”

They were still rising, and Prissie hunched her shoulders; however, she listened intently to Kester’s voice, needing the distraction his words offered. Their gondola seemed to rush toward the pinnacle, and the winds changed as Prissie was carried up over the top. In a moment, she knew, she would be falling, and she choked on a scream.

“Tell her, Messenger,” Kester prompted as the ride swung them downwards.

Milo held her hand as he relayed the Guardian’s pledge. “He gives you his word, ‘I will catch you if you fall.’ “

“But you won’t fall,” Baird cheerfully interjected. “Not this time.”

After another revolution, the Ferris wheel stopped to take on passengers, leaving them suspended somewhere three-quarters of the way up. “Take a look around,” suggested Milo.

Prissie slowly opened her eyes and took stock of her surroundings. Baird was still humming lightly, and the tune sounded familiar; after searching her memory, she realized it was the lullaby his apprentice had played for her on the day they’d met. Kester had one of her hands in his and was idly chafing her cold fingers as he took in the view.

Then, he began to hum in unison with his mentor, and after a few moments, Baird broke off, taking a higher set of notes. As his descant rose above Kester’s melody, Milo added his voice to the others’, dueting in close harmony with the other apprentice. The humming transitioned into a series of soft nonsense syllables, doo-ing and la-ing. Their trio was simple, even playful, yet their song reached out to her, soothing her until something eased at her core. The calm that settled over her was soul-deep.

The ride resumed, and this time, the revolutions weren’t quite as frightening, even when the next stop left them teetering at the very top of the wheel. “I can see your folks’ place from here,” Milo remarked, pointing.

For some reason, Prissie assumed that he meant the kettle corn stand, but the blond angel ignored the sprawl of tents below, pointing into the hazy distance beyond the fairgrounds. It took a moment to realize what she was seeing — neat rows of trees on a distant slope. “Our orchard?” she asked.

“Yes,” Milo confirmed. “Your farm is the closest residence to, well, to here.”

Baird was looking toward the ridge that marked the border of neighboring park lands, a slight frown marring his face. “Which may have something to do with this …”

“… exceptional situation?” Kester offered, finishing his mentor’s sentence.

The redhead tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Mm-hmm.”

“Pardon me,” Kester murmured, drawing back in order to return to his own seat.

In the process, Prissie noticed something peeping out from under the partially rolled cuffs of his shirt. Startled, she blurted, “Kester, do you have a tattoo as well?”

“Ah, you have noticed?” He obligingly pulled back his shirtsleeve, revealing the twining ends of a pattern that lay dark against his olive skin. Where Baird’s tattoos were a vibrant shade of red, Kester’s gleamed black. “Does it surprise you?”

“A little,” she admitted, and his deep brown eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Let me guess,” drawled Baird, whose markings were often on display. “You assumed I was the rebellious type?” Prissie refused to answer, but the blush rising in her cheeks confirmed enough. “Take a gander at Milo’s,” he directed, and the mailman unbuttoned his own sleeve and rolled it back. His fair skin was decorated with tracings of blue as bright as the sky.

“The pattern is different,” she noted in fascination.

“As unique as snowflakes,” replied Baird, looking pleased.

“What are they for?”

“Should we tell her?” Milo asked, looking to Baird, who had seniority.

“A demonstration would be more fun!” suggested the redhead.

“Here?” gasped the mailman.

“I think not,” Kester interjected.

They were an angel thing, obviously, but one that made no sense. “I’m not sure my parents approve of tattoos,” she announced nervously.

“They’re not tattoos,” Baird announced. “It would be more accurate to say that tattoos imitate these.”

“Many people groups seek to emulate the supernatural, reaching for the divine,” Kester offered.

At her blank expression, Baird helpfully rephrased, “They copy us.”

The gondola jerked and the wheel began to turn again, but Prissie hardly noticed. That’s not to say she was enjoying the ride, but it was easier to endure when the angels were distracting her.

Baird snapped his fingers. “My band doesn’t have any more sets, but the organizers asked Kester here to come back, so he’s doing one later. Perhaps we could show her then?” With a sly glance at the dark-haired Worshiper, the redhead continued, “Kester pulled in so many people with his performance this morning that they want him to play again this evening.”

Prissie glanced curiously at him. “What did you do?”

Baird leaned forward and said, “Why don’t you come and see for yourself?”

She thought fast. “I’ll have to ask Momma how late we’re staying. If my older brothers want to stick around for fireworks and everything, then I probably can, too.”

“Excellent!” the redhead exclaimed. “Tonight’s concert will be perfect for a demonstration of what these are good for.”

“In front of all those people?” she asked.

“Sure,” he confirmed. “Kester is just the one for the job. He’s got all kinds of subtlety and whatnot. If I tried, I’d probably end up blinding everyone in the first several rows.”

“You’re kidding,” Prissie gasped.

“Nope,” Baird grinned. “I’m an all or nothing kind of guy.”

“Quite,” remarked Kester.

Baird shook a finger at him and warned, “Just a peek, though. Can you manage that, oh apprentice of mine?”

“Of course,” the tall angel replied seriously. “It would be my pleasure.”


The sun had long since set when Baird led Prissie through the backstage area behind the bandstand to help him give Kester a “pep talk” before his performance. Groups from all over the county took their turn in the limelight, and at the moment, the local chapter of the Sweet Adelines was on the stage, singing an upbeat medley of tunes from The Music Man.

A marker board to the right of the stage announced upcoming acts in larger letters, so she could see that they’d just missed the Tiny Tots Tap-dancing Troupe from Fancy Footwork in West Edinton. In the next scheduled slot was written, Kester Peverell, Deo Volente, Harper.

They found Baird’s apprentice standing in one of the pools of light that were spaced intermittently along the passage, a black instrument case at his feet. The redhead sidled up and elbowed the taller angel. “Patiently waiting in the wings?” he asked mischievously.

“It shall be just as you say,” Kester replied with gravity.

The redhead shook his head. “You really need to lighten up!”

“Hmm … it is possible,” Kester allowed. “However, I do not believe it is essential.”

Prissie couldn’t help it. She giggled. Baird’s eyebrows shot up, but his surprise melted into satisfaction. Giving Kester’s shoulder a friendly cuff, he said, “You might be right.”

“I’m looking forward to your performance,” Prissie offered.

“May God grant you ears to hear and eyes to see,” he replied.

“This is gonna be so cool!” Baird assured.

The contrast between their manners had Prissie biting her lip. Baird and Kester might not be good friends yet, but she was sure they would be. Or maybe they already were, in their own way.

The redhead waved casually to his apprentice, then led the way through the narrow passage behind the stage, where the chorus was nearing the climax of a dramatic ballad.

Prissie suddenly wondered what Baird’s last apprentice was like, and since he was so easy to approach, she decided to ask. Hurrying her steps, she tapped his shoulder and raised her voice to be heard. “You used to have another apprentice?”

“That’s right,” Baird replied.

“What happened to him?” Prissie asked curiously. “Was he captured, too?”

The Worshiper turned to look searchingly at her. “Did Koji tell you about Ephron?”

“A little,” she admitted, wondering if maybe the young angel had told her something he shouldn’t.

Baird simply nodded and said, “My last apprentice simply transferred out in much the way that Kester and Koji transferred in. We go where we are Sent, so personnel changes are natural, especially for teams that include Grafts.”

“Grafts?” she echoed, testing the term. Having been raised on an orchard, Prissie knew exactly what a graft was. It was possible to make a place for the branch of one tree to be on the trunk of another. The new limb that was grafted in would take hold and flourish, bearing its own, unique fruit. In fact, Grandpa had a special tree planted in full view of his front porch that he called his Family Tree. With the birth of each of his grandchildren, he’d carefully grafted in a new branch until now, the tree bore six varieties of apples.

“Angels like Harken, Milo, Kester, and me … and Koji, too. We’re grafted into human society and live as a part of it for a time,” Baird explained.

“Are there a lot of Grafts?”

“Not really,” he replied, waving at someone in the crowd. “I guess it might seem like it, but our team’s a little different. Jedrick is responsible for all of the Grafts in the vicinity of, well, around here. Oh, look! They saved us seats!”

“Who’s Jedrick?” she asked in as low a voice as the crowd noise would allow.

“Our group’s captain,” he replied with a wink.

They turned out to be Prissie’s parents, Beau, Koji, and Milo. Once greetings were traded and seating shuffled, she ended up between Baird and Koji. “Did you enjoy your afternoon?” Koji asked, studying her face with all the intensity of his kind. “You seem happy.”

Prissie thought about the roller coaster her day had taken and answered, “Parts were bad, but other parts were good.”

“It’s about to get better,” predicted Milo, who sat on Koji’s other side.

The hubbub of the crowd didn’t change when Kester strode onto the stage and quietly placed a stool at its center, but Prissie sat up a little straighter. He carried the harp he’d shown her the week before, and as he took a seat, she whispered to Baird, “He doesn’t need a microphone?”

The worship leader waved toward the band shell. “This isn’t exactly symphony hall, but the acoustics are good. Just wait. In a little bit, he’ll be the only thing you hear.”

Prissie glanced around skeptically. The crowds always picked up in the evenings on weeknights, what with people coming after work. Since tomorrow was the final day of the fair, people were anxious to pack in their last bit of fun. Even though the bandstand was on the opposite end of the main thoroughfare from the midway, she could hear tinny music carrying through the night, and from every quarter, the noises multiplied — hawkers and barkers, bells and buzzers, laughter and shouts. She doubted anyone would notice the sound of a harp in the midst of the din.

Kester braced a foot upon one of the stool rungs and leaned his instrument against his shoulder. Without fanfare, he placed his hands against the strings, then plucked a rippling chord. As the sweet, lyrical notes filtered over the crowd, the noise dropped off, and Kester looked toward Prissie, a little half-smile on his face. Somehow, she knew that this song was for her, and that something amazing was about to happen.

Leaving off his tuning, the Worshiper launched into a song, and a hush swept the area as people took notice. Again, she recognized the tune from before, but this time, there were words. Prissie didn’t recognize the language, but that didn’t detract from the piercing beauty of the song. Kester’s mellow voice rang clearly in the open air, accompanied by the sweetly rising notes he plucked from the harp’s strings. She’d thought it would take a miracle to get everyone to pay attention, but perhaps the presence of an angel was a miracle in itself. The noises of the fair didn’t stop, but they faded into the background.

As a second verse began, it occurred to Prissie that in spite of his reserved nature, Kester found just as much joy in music as Baird, with all his overt enthusiasm. The redhead leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Watch closely.”

At first, there was nothing different, but then she realized that she could see Kester’s tattoo-like markings glowing. The curving patterns decorating his back and arms lifted away, passing right through his clothes, spreading as they stretched over his shoulders, unfolding like a graceful set of …

“Wings,” she breathed.

“And she gets it in one!” praised Baird in an undertone.

Prissie couldn’t tear her eyes away. As Kester extended his wings, shifting shards of color appeared, suspended above him like fragments of a rainbow strung upon threads of lightening.

Each piece was tapered, almost like a feather, but when Kester shook them out, it wasn’t anything like the flapping of birds’ wings. As they brushed together, Prissie heard the distant notes of wind chimes, a symphony of sounds that added an artless complexity to the harpist’s song. Without a doubt, the first people to put stained glass windows in cathedrals had seen the wings of an angel like Kester.

As he began another refrain, Prissie realized that each tiny glass-like pane seemed to be lit from behind, as if the windows offered a glimpse of heaven itself. From deep within, her soul responded with a wordless longing, a homesickness for a place she’d never been. Prissie didn’t realize there were tears on her cheeks until Milo leaned across and pressed his handkerchief against her limp fingers. As he pulled back, she grabbed his hand, and he met her gaze steadily, searchingly.

It was silly, really. They’d been telling her as much since the beginning, but for the first time, Prissie found she could believe it completely. “You’re angels,” she whispered in awe.

Milo relaxed imperceptibly at her declaration. With a gentle smile, he said, “Yes, Miss Priscilla, we are.”