The Broken Window (9 page)

Kester’s lips quirked, and his long fingers plucked a few notes from the harpsichord. Almost immediately, Baird launched into a ringing solo. “O Death, O Death, where … where is thy sting?”

The line repeated, but the second time through, Kester’s baritone rose up. “O Grave, O Grave, where … where is thy victory?”

To Prissie, it sounded as if the two Worshipers were singing different songs, but the notes wove together and occasionally meshed. It was like a game of tag, with the two
melody lines chasing after each other. All too soon, it was over. Disappointed, she peeped at the music and complained, “It’s so short!”

“Again?” Baird offered. Prissie nodded hopefully, and he twirled his finger at Kester. “Reprise!”

This time, she was able to follow the weaving melodies better, which only added to her appreciation. “Amazing,” she whispered when the pair brought the song to its triumphant conclusion.

Immediately, the redhead leaned over the top of the piano-like instrument and wheedled, “Since I spoke in threes, let’s sing in threes?”

“Switch parts?” Kester suggested.

“Now you’re talkin’!” Baird agreed, rubbing his hands together.

Before his apprentice could resume, a deep chuckle rang through the sanctuary. “A musical taunt for the enemy?” Harken called.

“I’m feeling sassy,” Baird replied, shoving his hands into his pockets with a sheepish air.

Harken’s grin broadened as he took a seat. “By all means!”

As the third rendition of their duet wove its way into Prissie’s heart, she followed Koji down the stairs and into the pew next to Harken. “Good evening,” she whispered to the shopkeeper.

“It has been,” he returned, patting her shoulder.

After the two Worshipers finished their threefold excerpt of Handel, Kester closed the harpsichord and waited while Baird wandered the platform, singing under his breath. The lights along the sides of the sanctuary started to flick off, leaving only the front of the sanctuary lit, and the redhead
raised a hand at the janitor. Russ waved back and went on with his duties, leaving them to their fun.

Baird stopped his meandering, closed his eyes, and lifted his voice. There was no accompaniment this time, and his melody rose right to the ceiling, filling the sanctuary. Kester was soon humming along, and Baird beckoned for his apprentice to join him at center stage.

“What language are they singing in?” Prissie whispered.

Harken’s smile was nostalgic. “Hebrew. Would you like a translation?”

“Yes, please.” She scooted closer to the Messenger.

Harken shared the lyrics in a low voice. “It is good to sing praises to our God; for it is pleasant, and praise is beautiful.”

As she watched Baird and Kester, Prissie couldn’t have agreed more.

“He counts the number of the stars; He calls them all by name,” Harken continued.

“He does?” she murmured, startled by the notion.

“Indeed,” breathed Koji.

“He gives snow like wool. He scatters the frost like ashes. He casts out His hail like morsels. Who can stand before His cold?”

Prissie glanced toward the windows. It seemed an appropriate song to sing in winter, and as it drew to a close, she said, “The words were pretty. Did Baird write this one?”

“No,” the shopkeeper replied with a small smile. “That was the 147th psalm.”

“Oh,” she murmured, embarrassed for not recognizing the passage. “So … where’s Milo?”

“He had some matters to attend to,” Harken replied offhandedly.

“Something dangerous?”

“No more than usual.”

Worried in spite of Harken’s calm, she pressed for more. “Are Taweel and Omri with him?”

“Yes, Prissie.” With a steady gaze, he added, “Have faith.”

T
aweel stood at a point where the path split two ways and glanced uncertainly at his companion, whose raiment gleamed dimly in the utter darkness of the tunnel. “This way,” Milo said, taking the right turning.

“Are you certain?” the Guardian inquired gruffly.

“I’ve never had a problem finding my way to a recipient,” the Messenger assured. “When I am Sent, the way becomes clear.”

“Same here.”

Several minutes later, Milo sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. “I’d mind the darkness less if I could pass through it more quickly. Is Omri okay?” At the sound of his name, the little yahavim zipped forward, circling the Messenger twice before returning to his perch on Taweel’s shoulder. Chuckling softly, Milo said, “I’ll take that as a
yes.
”

Nearly an hour passed before the narrow tunnel brought
them to a precipitous ledge. The path curved off to the right along the edge of the cavernous chamber, leading up to the heavily chained stone square that blocked the entrance to the Deep.

“
Finally
!” Milo breathed. Spreading his arms wide, he fell face forward into the chasm.

Taweel watched without comment as his companion dropped out of view, and a few heartbeats later, a blaze of blue light exploded past, climbing in exuberant loops toward the roof of the chamber before banking into a tight spiral back down. With a swift flick of his wings, Milo rejoined his teammate. “Feel better?” Taweel inquired, sounding amused.

“Much.”

Together, they trekked up the wide path to the grinning Protectors flanking the gate. “Not used to the dark?” inquired one in a friendly way.

“Nope,” Milo admitted honestly. “The close quarters were making me restless.”

The second cherubim nodded understandingly. “What brings you to the Deep? Few Messengers are Sent where their voices can reach.”

Raking his finger through long curls, Milo replied, “One of my teammates has been lost in darkness for a long time. I suppose I wanted to see for myself what he has endured.”

Exchanging a quick glance, the first Protector spoke up. “Ephron?”

“Yes!”

His companion wiggled his fingers coaxingly in Omri’s direction, softly remarking, “Your hair is the wrong color, but you must be just as brave as the one we seek.”

“You know about Lavi?” Milo asked, glancing excitedly at Taweel.

“Of course,” the guard replied seriously. “Thanks to Tamaes, I doubt there is a single angel in shouting distance who has not heard about the Observer who was taken … and the stray yahavim who knows how to find him.”

The other Protector said, “We all watch for signs … and hope to be Sent.”

Milo pressed his hand to his heart, murmuring, “I, too.”

Even kneeling on her windowseat, Prissie had to stretch to reach the series of hooks screwed into the sloping ceiling overhead. With great care, she slipped a ribbon loop over one, suspending a precious Christmas ornament in front of the window. Sitting back, she admired the swaying treasure, a whimsical glass confection Aunt Ida had sent from Italy.

Koji sat cross-legged on her floor, quietly watching her fuss with the arrangement of her collection. The night before, they’d pulled names out of a hat for the family gift exchange. Prissie had
hoped
to pull the young Observer’s, but instead she’d drawn Tad. From many years of experience, she knew her big-big brother was tough to shop for. Most years, his siblings got him practical gifts like gloves or slippers. She wondered if she could do better. Glancing at Koji, she casually inquired, “So who did you get?”

“Get?” he echoed, not following her train of thought for once.

“Your secret Santa name.”

“I understood that the results of the drawing were
intended to remain a secret,” the young angel replied, a trace of rebuke in his tones.

“Well,
yes,
but you could tell me,” she coaxed.

“Then it would not be a secret,” he gravely replied.

He had a point. “Well, I’m not going to tell you mine, either.”

“I would not ask it of you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, but I’m just stating it for the record.”

Koji’s dark eyes took on a shine. “Thank you for your consideration.”

“Are you teasing me?” she grumbled.

“Indeed,” he replied with a small smile.

Prissie shook her head in exasperation. Angels had the oddest sense of humor. Either that, or Koji was spending too much time with Tad. With a thoughtful hum, she reached for the next ornament in the box she’d brought down from the attic. Maybe she should look for an impractical gift for Tad this year, something he would appreciate because of who he was instead of because of what it could do.

“Your family’s tradition is different than your class’s tradition,” Koji ventured. “I am unsure of the purpose of the elephant gifts.”

“
White
elephant,” Prissie corrected. “And they don’t really
have
a purpose, except maybe to be silly.”

“I do not understand.”

“They’re not
real
presents,” she explained. “I mean, we’ll wrap the gifts and everything, but they won’t be anything nice. We give things no one needs.”

The concept seemed to boggle the angel’s mind. “I do not understand.”

Prissie shrugged. “All the presents go on a table, and when it’s your turn, you choose one. There’s usually some kind of game that gives you the option to steal someone else’s present. After a few rounds of stealing and swapping, that’s it. You’re stuck with whatever you’re stuck with.”

“What motive would you have to steal a useless gift?”

“It’s not really stealing,” she said in exasperation. “It’s just a silly, old-fashioned game that the teachers always seem to choose! For instance, last year, Ransom really hammed it up. He opened a frilly shower cap, the kind with polka dots and a ruffle around the edge. Even though it made him look ridiculous, he claimed that it was just what he’d always wanted. No one had the heart to take it from him, and he ended up wearing it all day long.”

“Why?”

“For the fun of it?” Prissie replied dubiously. “He’s never serious about anything. At least, he wasn’t back then.”

“So it is possible to enjoy gifts that are pointless in nature.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Koji’s expression cleared. “Then elephant gifts
do
serve a purpose. They allow you to enjoy the company of your classmates.”

“I guess.” She sighed. “The best white elephant presents are either mysterious, funny, or embarrassing.”

“I will endeavor to amuse my classmates,” he promised.

Prissie frowned. “You’d better let me be in on this one, just to be safe. Your sense of humor is very … angelic.”

With a mildly surprised expression, he replied, “Thank you.”

The tractor clattered to a stop, and Prissie’s older brothers jumped down in order to set a short set of stairs into place. They usually used this trailer for hayrides during harvest-time, but today, Grandpa Pete had pulled most of their family clear out to the back forty in order to choose this year’s Christmas tree. Only Grandma Nell and Grammie Esme had stayed back to make sure there was coffee and cocoa ready when they returned. “Ready to strap on the old tennis rackets?” Grandpa Carl asked, giving his footgear a playful swing.

Jude giggled. “That’s a
snowshoe,
Grandpa!”

Prissie stepped into her own snowshoes and listened in on more of her grandfather’s trademark balderdash. “Few know it, but I was a lumberjack in my youth!” he boasted.

“For real?”

“Would I kid you, kiddo?” the old man countered. “Why else do you think I have flannel pajamas?”

Her youngest brother puzzled that out. “‘Cuz they’re warm?”

Prissie giggled softly, then glanced at Tad, who was waiting on Jude. Playing up to his audience, Grandpa Carl confided, “I was famous back in the day … had a pet ox, to boot!”

“Named Babe?” Tad asked blandly.

“You see?” Grandpa Carl said triumphantly. “Your brother remembers!”

“You named your ox after a pig?” the six-year-old asked in disbelief.

Momentarily flummoxed, their grandfather rallied by asking, “Are you telling tall tales, Jude? Next, you’ll be saying we’re here to chop down a cherry tree!”

“No, a
pine
tree!”

Prissie shook her head and turned to Koji, who’d been
strapped into snowshoes by Beau. “If you walk normally, you’ll trip yourself,” her almost-twin explained. He demonstrated the proper stance. “Keep your feet shoulder-width apart, and you’ll be okay.”

The Observer stood and took a few cautious steps. “I understand. I appreciate your assistance.”

“Yep,” Beau acknowledged, tromping off after Grandpa Pete and their dad, who already had a head start toward the far hill.

Waving Koji over, Prissie pointed at a gentle slope about a quarter mile to the west of the newly-plowed road they’d followed back into the orchard. “We’re going over there. It’s the tree garden.”

Pete Pomeroy had been growing the family’s Christmas trees since the farm had been passed to him by his father. Prissie’s dad had been small, money was tight, and Grandpa Pete thought it foolish to pay for something you could grow yourself. He regularly added to the stand of mixed evergreens by transplanting stray seedlings onto the roughly triangular slope leading up to one of their property’s tree-lined boundaries.

The air was crisp, and the sky was clear as they crunched over drifted snow. Everyone was laughing and talking at once, so Prissie figured it was safe to ask, “Are we okay?”

Koji replied, “This is much easier than ice skating.”

“Not that,” she said in exasperation. Nodding in the direction of the fairgrounds and the ridge beyond, she muttered, “You guys said that we’re close to trouble here.”

He gazed around with a neutral expression, then quietly stated, “Fear not.”

Prissie didn’t find his gentle evasion terribly comforting.

“How is a tree selected?” Koji inquired.

“Height, shape, the number of branches for hanging ornaments,” she listed. “Anyone can suggest their favorite, but Momma has the final say on which tree comes back with us. Once she makes up her mind, she’ll tie her scarf onto one of its branches, and that’s that.”

“I see.”

Once they reached the pines, the tree-hunters scattered, and Prissie eagerly lost herself in the evergreen maze. The trees had been planted in a zigzag pattern, so she meandered among them, letting her mittened hand brush over compact needles. Grandpa kept the trees neatly sheared, so each one had excellent potential. Choosing was usually difficult.

Out of the corner of her eye, Prissie caught the flutter of fabric and turned to see who’d followed her, but no one was there. Frowning slightly, she glanced around at the tracks in the snow. At least two other people in snowshoes had come this way before her. She could hear Koji’s voice just beyond the next row of trees, where he seemed to be talking with Zeke. The eight-year-old was only too pleased to show their newbie the ropes. With a smile and shake of her head, Prissie began her own search for the perfect tree.

The sharp scent of pine filled the air because Grandpa Pete had already begun nipping boughs to make wreaths for their front doors. Closing her eyes, Prissie took a deep breath, releasing it with a sigh; when she opened them, she once again caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. “Who …?” she muttered to herself. Jedrick had assured her that the Hedge had secured their home, but did that mean just the house, all of the barns, or the entire orchard? Maybe it was time for her to find Koji.

Executing a neat turn in spite of her snowshoes, Prissie aimed in the general direction of Zeke’s voice, but before she made much headway, a deep shout sent her heart into her throat. Green light burst into a set of widespread wings as Jedrick exploded into view, sword drawn as he dropped out of the sky. Automatically ducking, Prissie crept closer to a nearby spruce and peered past its branches. The Flight captain was engaging an opponent she could almost see. The occasional dark ripple that gave away its position never quite coalesced into a figure. Her desire to reconnect with Koji doubled, and she turned to call out to him, only to be confronted by an orange flare. “Tamaes too?” she whispered, truly frightened now.

Glancing around nervously, she couldn’t decide which way to go. If she could see fighting on two sides, chances were unseen turmoil was on
all
sides. Edging as close to her sheltering pine as its prickles allowed, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on Tamaes. Her Guardian fought with a grim resolve that was fearsome to see.

Just then, Grandpa Carl and Jude tromped past, laughing and talking about pinecones, completely oblivious to the battle raging around them. The disparity wrenched at her soul, and she almost wished she were blind to the truth.

A sweeping blow from Tamaes’s gleaming sword appeared to be enough to dispatch or drive off his opponent, for he turned then to check on her. Prissie waved from her hiding place, and his expression softened into a smile just before his gaze sharpened, and he scanned the area alertly. “Koji!” he called, his voice carrying across the tree garden. Moments later, the young Observer scuffed through the pines on his snowshoes. “Stay with Prissie,” Tamaes commanded.

“I will!”

With a curt nod, the Guardian took off in Jedrick’s direction, and Prissie gratefully locked arms with Koji, whispering, “What’s happening?”

“A few Fallen appeared shortly after we arrived,” he explained. “Jedrick was nearby, so he is lending his strength to the Hedge.”

“Nearby?” she furtively echoed. “Why would a Protector be hanging out in the back forty?”

Koji hesitated before explaining, “Jedrick’s responsibilities keep him close. We should not linger.”

“But we can’t
leave
!” she exclaimed. “My family’s here!”

“I only meant that we should rejoin them,” he assured.

Knowing that her brothers would be running back and forth to Momma, it made the most sense to get to her. “Is that way good?” she asked, pointing to where she could hear the sound of her mother’s voice.