by Mary Stanton
Bree followed her into the small bathroom and watched as she brushed her glowing hair.
“You’re looking a little peaked, honey. I was thinking maybe you and I could take a weekend off. Maybe go on up to that nice spa near Asheville.”
“I’m all right,” Bree said absently. “But you’re on for the spa weekend. As soon as this is all over. Tell me something. You and Daddy spent some time with White, didn’t you?”
Francesca made a face. “He was after us for a donation to that damn museum of his. So yes, we did. For Cissy’s sake.”
“There’s a piece of jewelry that’s connected to his case. I’m not sure how, just yet. It’s a cross. It looks very old. Silver, inlaid with lapis, coral, and jasper. About this big.” Bree held her forefinger and thumb apart. “And very ornate.”
Francesca put down the brush. “What?”
“A cross. It’s called a pectoral. It may have once been attached to a silver chain. It dates from the Holy Roman Empire. The first Christian emperor, Justinian?”
Francesca knew something about antiquities. “Prosper White never had anything like that that I ever saw. But your birth mother did. Leah. She was a volunteer on a dig out in Istanbul more than thirty years ago with Scholield Martin and Terrence Kennedy.”
Thirteen
Armand Cianquino lived six miles outside Savannah at Melrose, a cotton plantation built by a notorious slaver in the early nineteenth century and converted into apartments by a banker from New Jersey in the latter half of the twentieth. The huge, old place faced the Savannah River. It was built in the Southern Colonial style. Its broad verandahs, gracious oaks, and extensive rose gardens usually delighted Bree.
Not this evening.
The setting sun left sullen tails of orange in the western sky. A few stars poked through the oncoming blanket of dark. The moon was a wan splinter of light. Bree pulled into the graveled driveway and sat for a moment in the darkened car.
She had an orderly mind. She had a gift for detachment. Both traits were crucial to her success as an advocate in the temporal and supernatural worlds.
Leah had a cross like the one in this case.
“This,” she said to Sasha, “has thrown me for a loop.”
Francesca had been bewildered at the intensity of Bree’s questions. No, she hadn’t seen the Cross since; it wasn’t in Franklin’s effects after he died. Leah had worn it until she became pregnant with Bree. Then she began wearing the necklace she had left to Bree: tiny gold scales of justice cupped by a pair of wings.
Bree had that necklace on now. She touched it. It lay against her breast.
Sasha butted his head beneath her hand. She cupped his ears and smoothed the silky fur over his skull. She had called this meeting of the Company, and she was determined to get answers.
First, she would think this through.
Then she’d ask coherent, logical questions.
She wasn’t a praying woman, but she prayed now, briefly, for courage and compassion both.
Armand’s apartment was one of two on the ground floor of the sprawling old house. Bree had never seen any of the other tenants. Maybe there weren’t any live ones. Local legend had it that Melrose was haunted by ghosts, although Bree had never seen either the beautiful slave murdered by the son of the original builder nor the suicidal lover of a pirate chief. Armand Cianquino would have been a match for either.
Armand had taught the history of law at Bree’s former school. He’d been respected as a historian, feared as a professor, and retired with honors after a long, successful career. Like Bree, he had held another, secret profession. He was the director of Beaufort & Company. He had been director of the Company when Leah and Franklin had done what she did now. For all she knew, he’d been director during the first case cited in the Corpus Juris Ultima: Lucifer v. Celestial Courts (Year One).
There were lights in the ground-floor apartment overlooking the river. The Company was assembled there, waiting for her.
A line from an old movie drifted into her head—Roy Scheider as the obsessed choreographer staring into his bathroom mirror each morning: “It’s showtime, folks!”—and Bree repeated it to herself under her breath.
“Come on, Sasha.”
She let herself into the foyer. The pine floor was highly polished as always. Fresh lilies sat in the vase on the credenza underneath the stairway, filling the air with scent. She knocked on the door and waited, hearing the whirr of Armand’s wheelchair over the wood floor. He opened the door.
“My dear. And Sasha, too. Welcome.”
Old habits of respect were hard to lose. Despite her fury and her concern, Bree bent and dropped a kiss on his head. “Professor.” She wanted to say he was looking well, but he wasn’t. Age laid a heavier hand on him every time she saw him. He looked exactly like the old silk screens of Confucius, the Chinese sage.
“Just leave your coat on the couch. We needn’t stand on formality, do we? We’re meeting in the library, as usual.”
She tossed her coat on the white leather couch and followed him across the room, Sasha at her heels. His living room was spare. The white leather couch faced mullioned doors that overlooked the river. A reading lamp curved over the back of a comfortable recliner. There were no rugs, to allow for the unimpeded movement of the wheelchair.
The library was located at the far end of the living room. The doors were made of rosewood, heavily carved with ornate spheres and the Scales of Justice. The wrought iron fence surrounding the Angelus Street office featured the same design. Bree pushed both doors inward, then stepped back to allow Armand to roll through.
The library never changed. The glass doors directly opposite the entrance from the living room opened onto the terraced gardens outside. A fireplace had a roaring fire against the evening chill. Except for an oil lamp at each end of the long table in the middle of the room, the fire provided the only light in the room.
The long east and west walls held books: books of all kinds and of all descriptions. Editions of the Koran sat side by side with translations of the Torah. There was every possible translation of the Christian Bible. Hand-stitched volumes of the Hindu Vedas were tucked between books on religions Bree had barely heard of.
The long table in the middle of the room was heaped with strange and exotic objects. An ancient sword lay underneath a jumble of bowls, trenchers, pieces of armor, and a couple of knives in short scabbards. A huge bronze birdcage sat in the middle of the table. The door was open. Bree greeted the brown owl inside. “Hello, Archie.”
“Go home,” Archie said. “Go home, go home, go home.”
Bree was never sure if the familiar greeting was aimed at her or if the bird was expressing a desire to be elsewhere. One of these days she’d ask him.
She pulled out one of the heavily carved chairs grouped at the table and sat down. Sasha cocked his head at Archie and wagged his tail. Archie shrieked at him. Armand rolled to the head of the table.
They sat silently for a long moment.
Three of the four unoccupied chairs began to fill with columns of light that whirled and spun like noiseless fireworks. Green. Blue. Violet. The lights coalesced into vaguely human forms.
“I, Rashiel.”
“I, Dara.”
“I, Matriel.”
Ron, Petru, and Lavinia shimmered and became flesh. The fourth chair—Gabriel’s chair—disappeared in a brief flash of silver. When the light returned, the angel himself stood behind it. He was tall, and the flickering from the oil lamps and the fireplace made him seem taller still. He was beautifully built, with the shoulders and chest of a boxer. He gave her a cocky salute.
Armand lifted both his hands in what may have been a benediction. “There has been a significant temporal event since we last formally convened. I believe it’s this event that has brought our advocate here.”
The owl clacked its beak. “The key. The key.”
“Patience, Archie. Bree. You asked that we meet. Perhaps we can take care of your c
oncerns first.”
Bree stood up. She had one severely tailored black suit she used in court. She wished she had it on now instead of her skirt and sweater. She also wished she’d taken the time to make notes. She said, formally, “I came to request clarification on the rules of conduct that apply to my position as the current appeals advocate.” She waited, but nobody said anything. She cleared her throat.
“First. A client has requested that I represent him. Taking his case on might endanger my own family. I’d like assurances that I can turn down such requests.”
“You may, of course,” Armand said. “It is a matter of your own conscience.”
“Second. If I do take on his case, does the kind of protection I have”—she nodded at Gabriel—“extend to my family members, too?”
“As far as physical threats are concerned, absolutely. There is, however, a caveat. We cannot protect you or anyone else from temporal actions. We cannot, for example, extricate your aunt from her current difficulties.”
“Third,” Bree paused and bit her lip, almost afraid to bring the relic into the open. “I’m tired. Perhaps that’s why I’m feeling so uncertain. So . . . dislocated. As if I’m somewhere else instead of here.”
“You have doubts,” Armand said with great kindness. “About your mission? The Company? About yourself? We cannot help you with that. It’s part of the human condition.”
“Doubts.” Bree thought about this. “Doubts about what I’m here for? No. I was fated to do what I do. Doubts about whether I can continue? Some. It’s a tough job, and I wasn’t fully aware of the kinds of sacrifices I’ve had to make. Other kinds of doubts?” She hesitated. “Yes. For instance, I’m not sure you’re telling me everything I need to know. I want to know about this Cross of Justinian. It’s got some kind of horrible power. Is it dangerous?”
Archie clicked his beak and cried, “The key!”
Lavinia said, “Oh,” very softly. Although she didn’t move from her chair, Bree felt the soft touch of her fingers against her cheek. “All you have to do is ask us, child.” She turned to the others, her face sorrow filled. “It’s us she’s having doubts about, Armand.”
“I’m in the middle of a scary case. It involves my aunt, whom I love very much. Not an hour ago, I learned that it may involve my birth mother. I’m out of my depth. I don’t know what kind of help to ask for. I don’t know what kind of help you can give me.” She looked at Armand. “Professor. I’m a temporal. You seem to be a temporal, although of a special kind. You others . . .” She looked directly at them, one by one. “This case is heading beyond celestial jurisprudence into something else. You’re angels. Why can’t you fix this?”
Sasha pressed himself against her knees.
“This business of this . . . artifact. And Leah.” Bree’s lip quivered. She clamped it between her teeth, then managed. “You know about that?”
“At the time of her death, Leah had in her possession the key to a gate that should never be opened,” Gabriel said.
“The Cross of Justinian?” Bree said. “It’s a key?”
“There are several keys.” Armand passed his hand over his mouth, troubled. “But you think that the artifact known as the Cross of Justinian is one of them?”
“Is it?” Bree demanded.
Nobody answered her.
“I don’t know anything about the relic. It’s supposed to be a fake. But somebody stole it from my bag this morning. Why would anyone steal a fake? And how can it be a key? A key to what?” She looked at them again, one by one. Then she said firmly, “I want some answers.”
“I will attempt to explain,” Petru said. “This”—he struck the oak table—“is formed of matter! I am formed of matter. The same matter. Divine energy transforms matter into you, dear, Bree, and me, and this table, and that bird.” He pointed at Archie. “It is all the same. And! It is all very different!”
“Not me,” Archie said, fluffing his wings indignantly. “I’m special.”
“A little humor is often thought to be a good thing,” Petru said with mild disapproval. “But you see my point. All things are created of the same matter. All things are different.”
“I don’t think Archie was joking,” Ron said. “But we all see your point.”
“I don’t need a lesson in celestial metaphysics,” Bree said. “And I don’t see the point. I don’t even see the relevance of what you just said, Petru.”
Petru seemed unoffended. “It is highly relevant. The key is matter. It can take many forms. It may have taken the form of the Cross of Justinian. It may not have. Ha! Now, if you will permit, Director, a replica of the Sphere would be very helpful to illustrate further explanation.”
Armand nodded. He cupped his hands. A glowing ball of light appeared between them, hovering just over the table top. The bottom of the ball was a black so deep that the eye was lost in it: the Dark Sphere. The top—the Crystal Sphere—was an achingly pure, celestial white.
“I will begin with why the Company cannot ‘fix this,’ as you put it.” Petru stroked his beard, got to his feet, and began to pace up and down. With a stab of affection, Bree realized her friend was in his pedagogical element. She glanced at Ron, who winked at her.
“As you know, there are spheres within the Sphere. What you do not seem to know is that only angels are directly involved with those in the temporal world. There are celestials far above us in the angelic hierarchy who would, indeed, be able to fix this. But there is no route for them to do so.” Petru paused, and passed his hand over the crystalline brilliance at the top of the Sphere.
“At the very top is the Light, the Lord, Allah, Buddha, Jesus . . . temporals have given the Light many names. They have cloaked the Light in many manifestations, given the Light many temporal attributes. But there is only One, fixed, eternal, and indestructible. It is the very stuff of the universe.
“There is a ladder that stretches between the life that is Light and the nothingness of the Dark. The ladder connects the six Spheres. We are born, each of us, in the very center of the ladder. All life, temporal and celestial, is a journey on the ladder. There are those who choose to climb up. There are those who choose to climb down. Each rung is a struggle. There always comes a time in the struggle when one says: ‘No more. It is too difficult. Here I must rest. I must stop. I must stay. I cannot go on.’ Wherever one is in the journey, it is there that one stays. That is the path of Souls.
“The ladder connects the Spheres. What are these Spheres that are the objects of our journey? The Light is the very top. The Apex. The goal to which most souls aspire. A very few souls have reached this top and become one with the light. Allah, Jesus, Buddha, and a few mighty others. The great religions of the world celebrate the achievements of these few.
“Below the Light is the First Sphere. Those souls that remain in the First Sphere have been called Seraphim, Cherubim, and princes of Thrones. These beings are the guardians of the Light, and their task is praise. Their gaze is directed upward. They do not look back. Their concerns are only with adoration.
“Those that stop at the Second Sphere are Dominions, Powers, and Virtues. They are overlords. Their gaze is directed across the span of the Sphere and its many universes, both temporal and celestial. Their task is to assure that the celestial journey continues.” Petru paused and looked at his companions. “There is only one of us here, I believe, who reports directly to the Second Sphere, or has even seen those who inhabit it.”
Still standing behind his chair, Gabriel bowed gravely at them.
“The Third Sphere is where we reside, dear Bree. The Angels, Archangels, and Principles. We are members of the Company and the Courts. Sensiel, Matriel, Rashiel, and I, Dara, and our angel brethren are directly involved in the affairs of humankind. We angels are limited to the past and present behaviors of those in the temporal world. We cannot see into the future. That is above us. We cannot see into evil. That is below us. This is why we cannot ‘fix it,’ as you have asked. We are not sure what ‘
it’ may be. We are here to aid, support, and fight on your behalf. But the character and direction of the task is up to you. It is, if you will pardon a descent into the homely, the job of being human.”
“I say hooray for a descent into the homely,” Ron grumbled gently. “Honestly, Petru. You will go on and on.”
Petru settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose. “I am boring you, dear Bree. I apologize.”
“No, no, not at all. This helps a lot. Please go on.” She smiled, her heart lighter than it had been all day. “And on and on, if you need to.”
Petru resumed his pacing and his lecture. Bree thought she heard a tiny sigh escape from Lavinia. “Now, you may ask, what of the Dark Sphere and those who journey—not upward, but downward? What of those who voluntarily give up the essence of Light, atom by atom, to journey down the ladder to a final and eternal emptiness?” He pointed his forefinger dramatically at the floor. “Again! They occupy spheres within spheres.
“At the very end is nothingness. The Sixth Sphere. Eternal death. The black of nonbeing.
“In the Fifth Sphere are those who were—long ago—Seraphim, Cherubim, and princes of Thrones. These beings are no more. They have become as Beelzebub, Lucifer, and Astroth. They gave up life in the Light for death in the Dark. They do not praise the Dark, but damn it, eternally and without ceasing. They do not concern themselves with anything but that, thank God! We do not have direct dealings with them.
“The beings in the Fourth Sphere were once Powers, governors of Dominions, and Virtues now made Sin. They interfere but rarely in the temporal world, but when they do, chaos and revolution reign. I am afraid that the problem you came here to lay before us may be a matter of interest to them. I hope that I am wrong.
“We share the Third Sphere with fallen angels of our kind. It is these demons, imps, and monsters who make up the Opposition. It has been their task to interfere with the lives and deaths of temporals.”
“The topology of the Spheres in a very large nutshell, Bree,” Ron said. “Well expressed, Petru. If a little lengthy.”
