The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven

by Harmony L. Courtney

  The kingdom of God; the throne room of God was not a room at all, but in the center of a valley of beauty too incomprehensible to put into words within his mind. And surrounding the thrones were angels, thousands if not millions of them. Many were laying prostrate on the ground; others were on their knees, and in their midst, Edward could see a handful of what looked like people.

  Could this really be?

  Were they truly coming face to face with God Almighty, and living to tell about it? Or would they remain here for eternity, away from their children and other loved ones?

  “You will go back, for you will carry a message to the world,” he heard Arieh – or was it Ari’el? – say as the twin angels walked before them, their heads bent low.

  In similar deference, he bowed down his own head, not looking at anyone or anything anymore, but simply following his feet where they took him. And they took him to the back of the central throne, upon which the feet were shaped like crosses and, daring to glance up, he saw that the same rainbow eucalyptus wood had created this seat of glory, and within it, an amber inlaid cross, with rubies dripping from it like drops of blood into what looked to be an open pit.

  And on the other side of the cross inlaid on the throne – one on either side, were the eyes of a lion.

  A shiver ran down his spine once more as he put his hands over his face and sunk to the ground. Could he even walk to the other side?

  It wasn’t possible, was it? That here he was, at the foot of the cross and at the throne of the Christ, at one and the same time? Had the cross been a throne unseen, or had it been a foreshadowing of it?

  And did it matter in the long-run, or was it the key that pieced the whole of belief together?

  Sixteen

  Paloma could hardly contain herself as she approached on trembling feet.

  There were so many angels, she couldn’t even dream of counting them. But there seemed to also be people among them.

  She could sense them, more than see them.

  And the thrones, each so different, with symbols upon them that made her weep even more. Could she take another step? Could she keep her eyes on what was before her, or would she, like her husband, fall down? She noted that Justice had raised his arms to the sky, and Masao had bowed his head. Her brother gripped her hand and, somehow she had not released it; had not yanked it free.

  In this setting, yanking couldn’t happen. It was a place of unification and love, not of discord, wasn’t it? And so how could she deny Jason the one thing she could give him right now?

  Suddenly, she heard a familiar wailing. It reached deep inside of her, conjuring up memories that sifted through her like wheat, quickly and pointedly, sharply.

  Another rose up, and a third, and she sensed Jason’s grip tighten even more as they slowly walked forward, toward the throne on the left where the sound seemed to emanate from.

  And then, she saw them.

  Jason moved to run but Paloma’s feet could no longer carry her. He dropped her hand and moved forward as she slunk to the ground, unable to move another pace.

  “La Mia dolce Paloma, è proprio questo,” she heard one of them say.

  And it was true; they were here. It wasn’t just in her mind.

  Her parents; her brother Jesse; Miss Isabella; her grandfather and aunt. They were there to greet her. And how did she even know it was Jesse? But it had to be.

  She just knew.

  He moved so fast, his pudgy little legs careened into her, and his fattened arms swung around her neck, and then, he was kissing her cheeks and Miss Isabella, younger than Paloma ever recalled seeing her, came to her and knelt beside her and wept over her in joy.

  Jason was surrounded by their parents, and there were others running to Edward and the others; some, with faces she recognised, others, not so much. But in each set of eyes she saw unspeakable joy beyond words, and nothing but touch could express it.

  “Sapevo che sarebbe venuto e ci sarebbe un altro ancora. Ho detto la tua madre, e ho detto a tuo padre, Paloma e Jason, esse saranno... un giorno, verranno,” she heard Miss Isabella mumble into her shoulder as they embraced. “And you did. You are both here, and somehow still in your fleshly bodies, and not your resurrected ones. What is this about,” the woman continued.

  “Well, I don’t know how to say this, because I’m not… I don’t know precisely what caused….”

  Paloma’s words were stilted; hesitant. How could she explain what she didn’t know?

  But didn’t she?

  There was no way she could lie. Not in Heaven.

  Not in the presence of the Mighty One Who always knew the heart and mind.

  For she and her loved ones, they had searched for the origins of the mirror and found it, to the best of their ability. And they had been overcome with all they had learned.

  Paloma didn’t recall whose idea it was to bring it outside into the sun, but what would be going on if they hadn’t? And what was happening back on Earth with their friends and family there? How long had they been waiting for her and the men to return?

  Had it been minutes, hours, days, weeks, years?

  If they were in non-time here, then what was going on inside of time? And which time was it happening in?

  Was this the transition point for those who had gone through the mirror? Had they somehow bypassed a myriad other things and places and in some fashion bounced off of Heaven and into the time they were secondarily chosen for?

  More people began to move toward them, a few at a time, and Miss Isabella and sweet little red-headed Jesse, who couldn’t be more than three, each held one of her hands and drew her forward toward the approaching ones.

  She could see that the same was happening with Masao, with Jason, Edward, and Justice; loved ones had gripped their hands and begun to walk them closer to the triplicate thrones, the backs of which they still faced. And then, she closed her eyes as she approached.

  Would she burn up in the glory of the Lord’s presence to face Him, or would she live?

  Though she wanted to remain, her thoughts flitted to her children. What were they doing right now? How were they coping with yet another drama in their lives, and in their family?

  The angels that had escorted them thus far moved toward the thrones ahead of them, bowing reverentially before the Godhead she could not yet see, and her heart raced as tears flooded down her cheeks once more. The nearer she got, the more she sensed the rightness of this moment and yet, something gave her pause, as well.

  What it was, she didn’t understand, but did she need to?

  The God of the universe had brought her to this time, this place, with these people, for a reason.

  Nothing happens without a reason, she reminded herself. No relationship, no moving together of hearts and lives. These come from above, and solely that. Hasn’t He called us all to live in harmony together, and to love one another as He first loved us? So whether it be time together or time apart, whether it be something we understand or not, there is always a God-ordained reason. There has to be…

  Slowly stepping closer in the throng of people and angels that now surrounded her – surrounded them all – she gave in and fell face first, not daring to look up into the eyes of the King of her heart.

  For how could she?

  Praising Him was easy. It came from her heart, rising within her, to her throat and out of her mouth without any hesitation. And she had no idea how long she lay there, but when she was finished, she was ready to praise Him even more.

  “It is time to listen now,” she heard Ezer say beside her.

  How had he gotten so close to her again in the crowd?

  Did she care?

  But she opened her ears, keeping her face to the ground, as a voice she recognized more than any other began to speak.

  Seventeen

  Perpignan, France… May 10, 1707

  Gaspar waited until he was sure Galya had gotten something to eat and kept it down before going about his daily tasks.

&
nbsp; Mlles.. Delphine and Sonya had reported that Elodie St. Pier had grumbled through the whole task of preparing a meal for the lady of the manor, as he suspected she would.

  So, what was he to do with her? Give her one final opportunity to correct things, or nip the misbehavior in the bud today?

  After losing his cook of many years, he could not well afford to keep a cook around who, from the start, caused dissention in the kitchens. It certainly would not do at all.

  So, how was he to broach the topic with her and release her, and find yet another third cook?

  That would be the thing to tackle once he was finished with balancing the books, making sure the gardeners were on task as directed, and that each of the men who ran his various properties were addressed and the letters posted.

  Galya – her tiny frame barely filled out as yet with her pregnancy - reclined close by on the new divan he’d ordered for her, as they had moved the couch from the music room into the parlor between their bedrooms.

  She had been, in her spare moments, getting lessons prepared for Amabel, Adele, André, Aubert, and Anatole-Henri so that when the new tutor arrived – would that really be another three days from now? – there would be no room to argue the materials.

  In spite of how awful she’d been feeling – though she tried valiantly to hide it, he couldn’t help but notice – she had done an amazing job, tending to his nieces and nephews and heading up this project to prepare for the tutor to come. And he certainly hoped the new teacher – a burly, intelligent Scotsman named Graeme Lennox who had moved to France with his family at the age of fourteen after his father had passed on, so that his mother could re-marry a Frenchman – would be well-suited to tutoring here.

  The man had taught in Paris and London, as well as in two smaller towns, and his references were impeccable. There was nothing to suggest anything untoward about him, and there had not been a single complaint about the services he’d rendered.

  Gaspar picked his quill pen back up to work on a third letter, listening to Galya singing softly to herself as she went about her task:

  Il se peut que nous ayons jamais et toujours et à jamais

  Un ensemble en Vous, Seigneur

  Un ensemble en Vous, Seigneur

  Peut nous être agréable à vos yeux

  Comme un ensemble, pour le reste de nos jours

  Aimer pleinement, de toujours

  Montrer aux autres le chemin de votre coeur

  Et peut nous plus jamais, jamais l'amour que Vous avez

  Pour Vous sont plus élevés, plus royalistes que tout

  Créateur de toutes choses, et de tous les coeurs, l'

  Un qui nous lient à la fois

  Dans le temps et dans l'espace

  Peut-on encore et toujours être agréable

  Agréable à vos yeux et du coeur, Oh Dieu ensemble

  Tous nos jours, n'importe ce que vient

  N'importe comment il ressemble, ou des sons, ou qui se sent

  A un moment donné, quel que soit

  Ce qui peut Semblent venir entre nous, Oh Dieu

  Nous réunir de nouveau, pour toujours et toujours

  It was a song he’d heard her sing before, a few times, and each time, it touched him to the core. It drew him in further, into the prayer that it was, and his heart burst within him at the sound. The sorrow and joy that intermingled within carried him to another place, entirely.

  Was it a song she had made up in her heart, or had it originally been Hebrew, and she’d translated it?

  What had happened in her life in Israel, prior to crossing time in the mirror, that would bring about such a prayer? Had someone else hurt her heart? Had there been death she had not mentioned? It must have been brutal sometimes, and yet, she did not speak often of her time before the transference into his time.

  Things had been difficult, he knew. He’d read accounts in the Bible of people who lived only a few years, and could only imagine what life must have been like.

  Her own Uncle Timothy had gone through much, and Paul, the seer-apostle who had taken him under his tutelage, even more. That had to affect how she lived her life, even if only indirectly. Their attitudes – had she ever met Paul? – had to have been evident in her presence, and brought about both her faith and her concerns.

  He just wished she would discuss what happened with him. What was it that she was not telling him? Was it because she didn’t have the words to express what she was thinking and feeling, aside from in song, or was it that she didn’t know if he could take what she had to say?

  Signing the letter, he blew on it, daubed the ink carefully, and set it aside with the first two.

  Just one more, and then, I will need to have that discussion with Mlle.. St. Pier, like it or not, he told himself as he pulled another piece of parchment out for the missive to his furthest vineyard man and set about to writing it. The sooner he was finished, the sooner he’d be done with the conversation he dreaded having.

  He hated dismissing people in his employ; it left a bad taste in his mouth, like rabbit stew that had been overcooked, or oatmeal that had been left out too long.

  But do so, he must, like it or not.

  His wife’s and their unborn child’s health both depended on someone reliable and understanding and willing to serve, even if it meant sometimes taking away from the main meal preparations. There had to be a way to find someone more speedily than last time, and better suited.

  Perhaps this time, he should have his sisters join him in the interviewing of potential new hires for the kitchen. They loved Galya as though she had always been there, and would sense if someone had ill intentions. Or better yet, perhaps he needed a male cook for his third; someone who had children of his own, and would be sympathetic to what they were all going through.

  That would be the thing, he thought as he continued with the note he was working on, pausing to think about how to word his query. A chef de cuisine; someone that could rise in the ranks, as well as be an empathetic voice in the kitchen. For Lord knows the cooks I’ve been blessed with do well at their jobs, but are not the most maternal of women.

  That settled, he put pen to parchment, finished the missive, and signed it, thankful to have finished the task at hand. After it dried, he slid each into an envelope, addressed them, and readied silver wax to seal them with his family crest.

  “Galya, can you come here for a moment,” he asked once he’d accomplished the task.

  As she moved to sit up, setting aside the book she was reading, she cried out in pain, and he pushed his chair back, rushing to her. The chair fell over with a thud as he reached her, knelt on the oaken floor, and braced his elbows on the brilliant red divan on either side of where she sat, setting his head in her lap and whispering words of comfort to her. Words that came from deeply inside of him, from a place he didn’t even realize existed until that moment.

  “Whatever’s going on, we will get through this,” he told her, seeing the look of sheer terror in her eyes. He raised his voice loud enough to call for a doctor to be summoned, and soon heard feet rushing toward them as he began speaking softly to her once more.

  In his heart, he began to pray, and the cry of his heart was as richly vivid as her song had been.

  Prayers for her safety, and for the health and safety of their child; prayers that they would both live, and not die. Prayers that, somehow, some way, no matter what it took, He would bind them closer through what was happening and give them a good, long life together, the pair of them and their child.

  And it was then that he noticed Ms. St. Pier at his side, weeping and repeating over and over again that she was sorry. That she didn’t mean it, that God should take her instead.

  What had the woman done?!

  He roared his displeasure, his arms going around his wife more securely, and the woman next to them ran away, out of the room, while his nieces came up on tiptoe and set down in quiet. He could sense their eyes upon his back, but they said nothing to him, and then, finally,
after what seemed to be hours of her whimpering, a doctor arrived and pried Gaspar's hands from Galya’s waist, told him to go sit with the children, and went to work.

  What had happened, and what had Elodie St. Pier meant when she’d begun apologizing?

  He could no more sit still without an answer than he could have let go of Galya without the help of the doctor.

  Fuming, he raced from the room and stormed into the kitchen. Mlle. St. Pier was not there; the Mlles. Delphine and Sonya looked at him quizzically, and he asked where he could find the woman.

  “Well, Sir, she came through here like the devil hisself be after her and gone run off somewhere, saying something was her fault and she was sorry,” Sonya whispered to him when he finally paused long enough to listen. “And we didn’t know what were happening, save a doctor being called. Is everything alright,” she continued, her green eyes filmed over with unshed tears and her face white as the cleanest of sheets.

  “Madam Aiton is ill, and I mean to find out what caused it. If either of you know-”

  The women shook their heads before he could even finish what he was saying.

  “Can you tell me if anything is missing that shouldn’t be, from the stores. Anything that could make a pregnant woman sick, or lose her child?”

  “We banished anything that would create a problem soon as we understood you were to be a father and mother together, Sir,” Mlle. Delphine told him. “But it were taken back into the cook’s quarters to be used by the three of us, so it didn’t go to waste,” she said again. “I will gladly go now and see what might be missing, but keep in mind, there is a wide garden out there of things that could cause problems, and not just bring good.”

  The last part of her words struck Gaspar as though he were hit in the gut, and he sighed, trying to recollect everything in the garden that he’d heard over the years was not to be ingested when women were carrying, but his mind wasn’t coming up with a list.

  “Can you make me a list,” he asked Mlle. Sonya. “A list of what is healthy, and what is not? Something to refer to, in the event nothing is missing,” he continued, grasping her hands tightly, as if his life depended on it.