Angel-Seeker (37 page)

“Angelo?” came the woman's voice again.

And then he realized. “Zoe! Yes! Thank you! We were just leaving!” he called, jumping up and hopping into his own clothes. “Merciful god, how long were we sleeping? Rebekah, I'm so sorry—”

She was tying the sash around her boy's tunic, adjusting the cap upon her head. It was still full dark outside the windows, but she could hear the slap and rattle of carts going down the roads. In maybe an hour, Hector's household would be awake. She had so little time, almost no time, to make her way across town and sneak inside the garden.

Obadiah's shirt was misbuttoned and his blond hair stood up all over his head, but he looked ready to go. “I'll take you back,” he said. “It'll be much faster.”

She merely brushed by him and stepped into the hall. “No. Someone will see you.”

“I'll put you down a block away. You can go the rest of the way on foot.”

She hurried down the corridor, out into the atrium, the angel at her heels. “I can make it. I have just enough time.”

“Rebekah, it will be light in less than an hour!”

“It doesn't take me an hour to get from my house to here.”

“I want to take you.”

“I don't want you to.”

“Rebekah—”

“Stop arguing with me, you'll only make me late.”

The Manadavvi woman sat at the desk with her head down, pretending not to hear them. Obadiah nodded at her, mouthing a quick thank-you, but Rebekah just hurried on by, furious. At Obadiah, at herself, at everybody. Furious and terrified. The cooks usually weren't up before dawn, but Jerusha might be awake already, roused by a crying baby. Hepzibah was often up at three or four in the morning to use the water room, and sometimes she never fell back asleep. One of the curses of old age, she would say.

Anyone could be awake. Anyone at all.

Her feet hit the street and she almost fell into a run. Obadiah was beside her for a few steps, pulling at her arm, attempting to reason with her, but she ignored him and kept on trotting forward. Soon enough he must have realized that he put her in even more danger by racing along beside her, an angel opportuning a Jansai boy, so he halted and fell behind as she kept striding on. And then—she was waiting for the sounds—a rush and a ruffle and the sensation of a private wind swirling about her, and she knew he was aloft, following her from overhead.

She didn't look up. She didn't slow down. She just hurried forward, head drawn in a little, eyes on her feet, heart pounding, breath trading painfully in and out of her lungs. A cart passed her, the horse's hooves making a steady clopping on the cobblestone road. Strangers walked by on the other side of the street, quarreling in low voices. The darkness felt thin, insubstantial, ready to rip and give way. Two more carts passed, heading toward the market.

She rounded a corner, crossed another street, and was almost in the residential district. Another block, another street crossed, no
more carts or pedestrians. These were the neighborhoods where the wealthy Jansai lived, in big multistory houses behind high walls and sere gardens. She could catch the minty scent of the dera leaves, green all winter. She was fifty yards from her own gate.

So close to her goal, she quickened her pace so that she was actually running by the time she reached her destination. She put one hand on her heart to slow its beating and the other one to the gate latch, to pull it open.

But it would not budge. She jerked again, harder, but it would not respond. The gate was locked.

R
ebekah stood there a moment, so stunned she couldn't think. Locked out? Who would have been up, roaming the house and gardens, after she had left? Certainly Hector and the other men were often gone from home till quite late, but they entered through the front door or the gate of the outer garden. Which of the women had been abroad later than Rebekah herself?

And how would she get back inside? Back to safety, back to secrecy, back to her own secure room? She tugged on the handle more frantically, causing the wood to rattle against the iron, but the lock didn't give. Sweet Jovah singing, she couldn't climb the wall—it was nearly twelve feet high, and made of smoothly planed wood—and there was no other way in.

But she couldn't stand here all night, waiting for the cooks to stir and the house door to open, waiting to call someone over.
It's Rebekah, I've been out all night, let me in.
She had to get inside. She would have to try the wall.

She had taken a step back to gaze up and gauge her chances when she felt the soft stir and swirl of wind around her. Turning quickly, she found Obadiah had landed noiselessly on the street behind her.

“What is it? What's wrong?” he demanded, coming close enough to whisper.

She gestured helplessly. “The gate, it's locked.”

“You don't have a key?”

She shook her head. “From the inside.”

“I'll lift you over,” he said.

She stared at him a moment, not comprehending.

“I'll carry you over,” he repeated. “Set you down in the garden and then take off again.”

“Someone will see you,” she said.

“Well, someone will certainly see
you
if you're out here much longer.”

“And the garden—it's not very big—I don't know if you'll be able to take off again from inside—”

The sky was lightening just enough for her to see the faint smile on his face. “Well, then, I'll unlock the gate and walk out.”

“Oh—yes! But I still think you—”

A noise on the other side of the gate caused them both to freeze, then move deeper in the shadow of the wall.

“What was that?” Obadiah breathed.

“One of the cooks, I think. Usually they're not up this early. But she might be going out to pick marrowroot or spices. You can't carry me over.”

He stepped back into the street and gazed up, scanning the flat, bare surfaces of the house. “What about the roof?” he said. “Can you get in from there?”

She looked from his face to the house and back again. “The roof? I don't—well—yes. Maybe. There's the winter stairwell.”

“The what?”

She shook her head. “In the winter. When it rains. We put pans and buckets on the roof to catch the rainwater. Everybody does, all the houses on the street—”

He nodded impatiently. “And can you get to this winter stair?”

“I don't know. I mean, I don't know if it's locked. I haven't been up on the roof since I was a child. I think Jordan and Ephram still go up there sometimes.”

“I'll take you to the roof,” he said. “And I'll wait to see if that door, too, is locked.”

She was seized with terror. “And if it is?”

“And if it is . . . then you'll have to come back with me.”

“I can't do that!”

“Or you'll have to wait outside until someone lets you in, and only you can tell me what kind of story might keep you out of trouble.”

She shook her head. “No story. I can't think of anything. I—I have to get in. That's all. I have to.”

He stepped closer. “Put your arms around my neck.”

Unthinking, she did. She was not quite prepared for what happened next. She felt his whole body collect itself, then explode in one clean burst of energy. A little cry escaped her; she clung to him, her face against his chest. The world swung madly around her for maybe a minute, though she couldn't see any of it; she had her eyes shut tight. Then a little
bump
and a couple of quick steps, and all motion stopped. Cautiously, she opened her eyes.

“We're on the roof!” she exclaimed in a low voice.

He kissed the top of her head and set her on her feet. “Where's this stairwell?”

She took a moment to gaze around her at the unfamiliar perspective on a familiar world. From here she could see down into the gardens of the houses on either side. One of them was crammed with a variety of skinny shrubs, naked and shivering in the winter cold but no doubt quite green and inviting in the summer. The other garden showed very little plant life, but it had been set with stone benches and an ornamental screen that probably shielded the worst of the sun in the hottest months. She had not been inside either of these gardens, because Hector was not friendly with the men who owned the houses. She had often been in the garden of the house across the street, but she could not see into it from this vantage point.

“Rebekah?” Obadiah murmured. “I think we'd best hurry.”

She nodded and shook herself from her reverie. The trapdoor to the winter stair was on the women's side of the house, toward the back. “See that? That's the skylight to the fabric room,” Rebekah said. “We work in there all winter, just to see the sunlight.”

“I'll fly above it from time to time and look down on you. Maybe you'll glance up just as I'm going over, and you'll see me and wave.”

“And have Hepzibah and Gabbatha and everyone wonder if I'm crazy enough to be waving at birds. Here it is,” she said, falling abruptly to her knees. Obadiah crouched down beside her.

“I hope it doesn't creak when it's pulled open,” he said.

“No one should be awake on this level. Not now, anyway. The bedrooms are all on the second floor.”

He put his hand out to the carved wooden knob and pulled hard. Protesting only a little, the door swung back on its hinges to reveal absolute blackness inside.

“Can you find your way from here?” Obadiah asked, peering in. His voice sounded worried.

Rebekah had already dangled her feet over the open edge and felt for the first stair with her toes. “Yes. I know exactly where the stairwell comes out. Now the only danger will be running into anyone in the hallway—dressed as I am.”

“I wish I knew that you would be all right,” Obadiah said.

She kissed him swiftly. “I will be. I am. Thank you for rescuing me.”

“I won't look for you tonight,” he said. “But I'll be back in a week or two.”

“You'll be here again tonight?”

He put his hands on either side of her face. “Please don't come,” he said, his voice very low. “I am so afraid for you.”

“We'll see,” she said, and kissed him again. Then she let her feet take the full weight of her body and stood on the stairwell, only her head and shoulders above the roofline. “I'll be fine,” she added and began her descent.

Another ten steps down into total blackness and her feet found solid floor. Above her, she heard Obadiah fit the door back in place. She listened till she caught the sound of three running footfalls on the roof above, then the quick
swoosh
of wingbeats. Her imagination, surely. She stood for a moment at the door leading into the hallway, listening. But there seemed to be no one astir. She pulled the door open and stepped into the empty corridor.

It was a matter of three minutes to glide through the hall, creep down the next stairwell, and hurry the last hundred yards to her own room. Once inside, she stood there a few moments, panting, her back against the door. The sweet god of heaven must love her above all creatures. She could not believe she had successfully negotiated the hazards of this night.

Exhausted and weak with nerves, she wanted nothing but to fall onto her mattress and sleep for a hundred hours. But she had learned already the dangers of unguarded sleep. First she quickly changed into bed clothes, then hid her boy's attire in the bottom of her dresser. She wet an old cloth with water from her nightstand pitcher and scrubbed off any faint traces of charcoal that might remain on her face. Only then did she allow herself to lie on her bed and give herself up to dreaming.

Her eyes opened only a few hours later. She would have liked to sleep till noon, but there were consequences for such foolish behavior. They would think she was sick, and dose her, or think she was lazy, and assign her all the least pleasant tasks of the day. So she forced herself up, promising herself a nap later, and dragged herself down to the water room to wash and dress. She could hear voices the length of the hall as the other women headed downstairs for breakfast. Everything was silent by the time she emerged newly clean, dressed in a fresh jeska, and absolutely starving.

She hurried down the stairs, following the scent of food and the sound of light laughter. It would be dangerous, of course, but if the angel was going to be here another night—he might not return for weeks, she could not wait so long to see him again—and now that she had a second way into the house, a secret way—

At the door to the dining hall, Jerusha met her with a cry of rage and a slap upon the face.

Rebekah froze where she stood, shock making every detail vivid. The room contained about eleven women, all of them staring. Someone dropped a pan, and it clattered on the floor. The smell of burning bread pushed an acrid thread of scent through the hearty aromas of cooking meat and frying eggs.

“You lying little
tramp!
” Jerusha screamed, grabbing Rebekah by the arm and slapping her a second time across the cheek. “The minute your father returns this evening, I will tell him what you've done, and he will throw you from the house.”

A murmur of surprise and speculation from the women in the room. Rebekah could not look at them. She stared up instead at her mother's stormy, furious face.

“What—what have I—”

Jerusha slapped her a third time, though Rebekah tried unsuccessfully to flinch away. “Midnight—one o'clock—I come to your room. The baby is screaming, and I need your help. I need to sleep. But you're not there. You're not in the water room or the kitchen. You're nowhere in the house. Where can you be, a young girl in the middle of the night?”

Now the response from the crowd was full of dismay and condemnation. Whispers and words flew around the room.

“But I—” Rebekah stammered.

Jerusha shook her so hard her vision blurred. “Were you out in the garden? No, for I looked! A cold night, but you might have come down with a fever and searched for a cool place to calm your blood. No one was in the garden, but the gate was unlocked. Someone had unlatched it sometime in the night.”

Gasps and a rising buzz of speculation from the listening women.

“I don't know who—who opened the gate,” Rebekah said. “I was—I didn't leave this house! I was—”

Jerusha hit her again, even harder. Rebekah felt her cheeks spangle with bruises. Her heart had compacted itself to such a small, desperate ball that her chest was tight with pain.

“You liar! You awful, wicked, lying, dreadful girl! Where have you been all night? Who have you been with? What terrible things have you done?”

Rebekah could not answer. Her mind would not frame the lie; her lips could not shape the words.
I am dead,
she thought, and prepared for the next swift blow.

“Jerusha, you foolish, hysterical woman,” came a dry voice from the hall behind Rebekah. “What crazy ideas have you got into your empty head now?”

Jerusha jerked Rebekah away from the doorway, and Hepzibah stepped through. The old woman looked frail and exhausted, as if she had had no more sleep than Rebekah had, and needed it more.

“No crazy ideas,
awrie,
” Jerusha said in a low voice, her fingers tightening spasmodically on Rebekah's arm. “Just a wretched truth. My daughter so far forgot all her training, all her dignity, all her worth, to sneak from this house last night. She was gone for hours,
and I do not know how she managed to return, because I locked the gate behind her and expected to never see her again.”

Before Rebekah had had time to digest that terrible piece of news, Hepzibah laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh, to be young and full of fantasies again,” she said in her gravelly voice. “You stupid woman, don't you know where your daughter was last night? She was with me.”

Jerusha was so astounded, she dropped Rebekah's arm. Both of them stared at the old woman. Hepzibah patted Rebekah on the shoulder.

“I know I told you I didn't want anyone to know about my back,” she rasped out. “But, Jovah's bones, child! I didn't expect you to take a beating on my behalf.”

“I—I didn't know what to say,” Rebekah choked out.

Hepzibah nodded. Her sharp little eyes were fixed on Jerusha's face. “I can't sleep. Night after night, I can't sleep,” the old woman said. “Your daughter—who is a
good
girl, and you're too dull to see it—your daughter has come over many a midnight to rub oil on my back. Last night wasn't the first time she fell asleep on my mattress, and I felt too guilty to wake her and send her back to her own room. Let her sleep, poor thing. An old woman can't grant a young girl too many favors.”