The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven

by Harmony L. Courtney

  “How did you…? How dare you suggest…?”

  The doctor’s raised voice startled Calico a moment, but suddenly, the woman was crying again, nodding her head. “It was horrible,” she acknowledged, “and I always figured God put me in those spots. I mean, who else could have?”

  “But God wouldn’t purposely make you go through pain, even if… even if He allows more than we can handle” Romeo said quietly. “He gives all of us free will. Sometimes, our decisions hurt others, and sometimes, their decisions hurt us, or our decisions hurt ourselves, but… Doctor, that isn’t the same as God wanting it to happen.”

  The doctor nodded, her blonde hair tumbling forward as she looked down.

  “I guess I never really thought of it that way,” she began as one of the nurses called her name from behind them. "I'll certainly have to think about it,” she said, standing abruptly. “Forgive me, but I must go. And,” she looked into Calico’s eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss. I can’t even imagine.”

  Calico nodded at her.

  Words refused to come.

  She still held tight to Romeo’s hand, but Kaleo’s had slackened and finally let go of hers during the conversation.

  As she watched the doctor walk away, Calico felt her heartbeat increase, the reality of what was happening hitting her with full force.

  Until Heaven, she would never hear her son call her Mommy again. And even then, would he?

  Until Heaven, she could never look at him eye to eye, face to face, and show him how much she loved him… how much she loves him still, and will always love him.

  And until Heaven, perhaps she would never know what decision the doctor was going to make, or if Kaleo was an angel in disguise, or if she was just seeing strange things in her time of distress.

  “It’s not you, Calico,” she heard suddenly. “I am, indeed, what you think I am. It isn’t just in your head.”

  “Huh,” she heard Romeo asking as she tried to give Kaleo a shaky smile.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  Thirty Two

  Vancouver, Washington… July 27, 2025

  Paloma waited until she heard the door click behind her daughter, then carefully slipped from the sheets she had wrapped herself in and toward the front entry window. Peering through the blinds, she waited until Cherish was out of sight before going about her coming tasks. Turning away from the window, she pondered her options.

  She knew she couldn’t do anything too strenuous. It’d be obvious.

  Deciding that a snack was first priority, she moved into the kitchen as the phone rang. Rushing back to the bedroom where she’d left it, she noted it was Edward, took three deep breaths, and then told the phone to answer the call.

  “Hey,” he said when the holoscreen blipped to life. “What took so long? Did I wake you?”

  Not wanting to lie, but not wanting to give herself away, she shrugged. “I was awake, it’s alright. Cherish just left to spend time at the Morrisons’ place and the boys said they’re off to watch a movie. We’re about to leave for Israel… I could hardly say no, but they have to show us their tickets when they get home,” she told him in a rush, hoping he wouldn’t press what took her so long.

  If he knew she’d been sneaking out of bed once the kids were gone, now that Kristof was at her old condo, Edward would certainly be unhappy with her. Doctors’ orders are doctors’ orders.

  She sighed.

  Edward looked her in the eye, seeming to gauge what she had told him.

  “You let them go to a movie without one of us,” he asked her. “But doesn’t that go against everything you’ve said about the topic? How, because you and Jason didn’t go alone that the boys shouldn’t, either?”

  Paloma’s eyes widened.

  Is that what he thought her stance was?

  “I just meant that, until our parents died, we never went alone to the movies. You heard Jason… when they died, we practically gorged on movies for the next two years. He still does, when he gets the opportunity; he and Mark both,” she told him, thinking back to when they’d all met.

  Had he forgotten all the movies her brother and Mark Jeffries had watched with him, or had him watch, to prepare him to better understand the world around him? Had he forgotten that movies helped him make sense of things after he’d been transported through time and needed reference points in order to seem normal; to interact with the world around him; with the people of Portland?

  Edward sighed this time, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  Paloma saw tears in his eyes and images of all they’d been through together flashed through her mind; images of her parents intertwined with those, and of Miss Isabella.

  She felt defeated.

  And as confused as she was over all this anxiety business, she was thankful for the stress level going down several notches before their big trip. But how could she explain that while it reduced her stress, it added different stress?

  How could she voice her fear that something would happen to one or both of them? That as their first trip beyond the West Coast approached, she’d had nightmare after nightmare of her parents’ deaths; nightmare after nightmare of leaving her children orphans, as she and Jason had been left orphans.

  Nightmare after nightmare of never finding the truth they had been seeking, and of things going so badly in Israel they got detained, or worse.

  How could she tell him that, in spite of the excitement coursing through her veins, there was an underlying fear she had never felt before as an adult. A fear she hadn’t felt since Miss Isabella had sat down with she and Jason to tell them their parents wouldn’t be coming home; wouldn’t ever hug them again; wouldn’t ever be able to tell them they were loved again.

  How could she tell him that she sensed a foreboding worse than she’d ever known?

  “’Loma, are you alright,” she heard as through a tunnel. Shaking her head to clear it, she looked up at the holoimage screen and saw the worry on her husband’s dear face; the downturn of his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth flagging toward his jaw.

  The unshed tears threatening to spill from his handsome eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m-”

  “I know I should stay and help train the new guys, but something tells me you’re not fine. I’m speaking to Jason, and I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said, interrupting her.

  “But I’m fine, just-”

  “Don’t lie to me, Sweetheart. It never works,” he told her, causing her to blush. “I’ll see you in less than an hour.”

  “So, talk to me,” Edward asked his wife once he’d settled into bed next to her, thankful for the fan and air conditioner that cooled the room down a good nine or ten degrees from the main part of the house.

  “There’s not much to say,” he heard Paloma mumble, her face buried against his shoulder.

  He could feel her tears seeping into the tee-shirt he’d changed into, and didn’t buy her story for a minute. Something was dreadfully wrong, and if she wouldn’t be forthcoming, then all he could do was be patient.

  When he’d arrived, it was evident she’d already been crying; already tried to hide what was happening in her heart and mind.

  She never hid from him, so what was the deal?

  “Is this about Israel,” he asked softly, closing his eyes as she tightened her arm around his belly more than usual; threaded the fingers of her other hand in his; dug her head into his neck and shoulder as though she could hide there.

  She shook her head.

  “The movie,” he asked, knowing he was pressing.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “But sooner than later, we need to,” he said gently. “I need you to open up to me and we need to get this out in the open,” he continued, feeling tears prick at his own eyes.

  She shook her head again. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t, or won’t,” he asked, impatience warring with grace inside of him.

  “I ca
n’t,” she told him again as she snuggled in even closer. “Not today. I just can’t.”

  With a sigh, Edward looked down at the mass of whitening red-blonde hair, the roundness of her shoulder, the curve of her hip, and turned his eyes to the heavens.

  God, give me wisdom and whatever else I need, he prayed silently, because I have no idea what’s going on, and if I don’t, then how can I help her?

  Have you considered this might be for Me alone to help her with, he heard whispering in his spirit. That maybe there is a reason you’re here for her today, and that reason is just physical comfort? That I am and will be her True Source? And I will be… but you need to trust me.

  Edward closed his eyes once more, nodding in what he hoped was an imperceptible manner.

  “What’s that for,” Paloma asked him, pulling away far enough to look at him.

  Though he kept his eyes closed, he could feel the trace of her gaze caressing his face even before she disentangled her fingers from his and stroked it along his jawline. He could still feel her tears dripping down onto his tee-shirt, knowing that the forest green of it would look nearly black where they had fallen.

  “Just praying,” he murmured. “No worries. God’s got this… whatever it is, He’s got it.”

  The silence in the room was palpable as they lay there side by side. When she didn’t respond; didn’t move a muscle, he opened his eyes and looked at her; watched her face process something that seemed to torment her.

  “No worries,” she asked. “Really?”

  “No worries,” he reiterated. “God’s got it.”

  He watched her nod, but the look on her face said she wasn’t convinced.

  Edward struggled with what to say; what to do. He reached for her hand again and drew her close.

  What else could he do?

  Thirty Three

  Paris, France… July 27, 1707

  Mary Stuart glanced over at the sleeping form of her daughter, Louisa, trying to decide what she needed to do.

  Staying with the girl’s guardians had been a blessing and a hassle, but if she left, she might never see her daughter again. It was difficult enough not seeing her son, thanks to the young man’s impertinence.

  She knew he’d done only what his father, James, would have wanted, but did that make it right?

  Sighing, Mary moved quietly to gather up a few things in the heat-soaked room, thankful for once that Louisa had stayed up so late. It would give her time to think; time to make sure she did what she should; time to pray.

  Maybe it was time to visit Maurice and Roisin, or even seek the advice of Françoise… ask her to allow her access to Madame Guyon, her mentor. Rumor was the woman was still imprisoned, but living with her son somewhere in Blois, but without asking, she wouldn’t know, would she?

  And even if she did, Françoise certainly didn’t owe her anything of that magnitude.

  Mary shook her head.

  No.

  As much as she wanted the advice of the older woman; the woman who had so influenced her friend and queen, it was impractical.

  Behind her, Mary heard Louisa stirring and carefully picked her way toward the door.

  That she had to retrieve the clothes she’d lent to her daughter in the event of running into unexpected royalty made her edgy and when her daughter whispered her name as the door between them shut, it took all she had not to return to her. Louisa was old enough to know right from wrong; she was old enough to marry; she strung men along only to refuse their proposals…

  Mary was confident her daughter would be alright without her for a few weeks.

  The young woman had plenty of council, knowing she’d be next in line for the English, Irish, and Scotch thrones if only she married, and yet, she did nothing of the sort. She played with men’s hearts as though they should have seen it coming.

  She’s a coy one, my Louisa, Mary thought as she made her way down the nearby stairs. For a moment, she thought she heard her daughter calling for her again, but knew she must be imagining it: royals didn’t yell down stairwells. It just wasn’t done.

  And yet, Mary remembered a time when James Francis and Louisa regularly did just that; a time when Edward…

  Drawing in a shaky breath as a flash of the man she’d refused in favor of his father flooded through her. She paused a moment at the bottom of the stairs to catch her breath.

  Mother Mary, what have I done, she asked herself for the millionth time as she let a shaky breath out and took yet another. I love my children, but to have been so harsh toward Edward, I just don’t know what… possessed me, what… what it was that caused me to listen to…

  Her heart galloped within her as tears began to prick the corner of her eyes, and she sat down, not caring that there were a maid and butler nearby eyeing her. Not caring that her good clothes were now touching the floor; she knew the floor had been cleaned earlier in the day, but even if it hadn’t been, Mary was beyond caring about the triviality of it.

  Because, really, it was all frivolous. Pretense. Trivial in the broad scope of things, and she was tired of it.

  No longer did it make a difference to her what the people around her thought. She wanted to, but it had drained out of her like water from a barrel. And for once, she was going to allow people to worry after her if they wanted, but she was done.

  Other than prayer, she didn’t even wish to communicate anymore. Life had taken its toll.

  Maybe if she’d married Edward, she would feel differently, but she hadn’t. Maybe if she’d gone to the convent, her life would be better, but it felt too late for that.

  Too late for anything significant.

  Too late to be a help to any of the loved ones who were messing their lives up.

  Royally.

  Thirty Four

  Perpignan, France… July 27, 1707

  Gaspar looked down at his sleeping son, noting the boy’s tiny cheeks wiggled as he drew in and exhaled breath. With Galya’s arm around him, and his little body tucked up close to her face, her hair moved gently against the breeze of his breathing.

  “Fernand Timothy Delacroix Aiton… Timmy,” Gaspar whispered slowly, stroking the top of the infant’s still nearly-bald head, “you sure did cause a lot of anxiety, and I’m so glad you and your mother are alright.”

  Careful not to wake either Galya or Timmy, he bent low and kissed each of their foreheads, holding his forelock out of the way to prevent it from tickling them. As he moved to go, he heard his wife stirring. He paused, taking his breaths in as quietly as he could; as even as possible.

  As much as he himself needed sleep, he knew they needed it more, and he would give them that time. Soon enough, Timmy would be hungry again, or need changing, and Galya had insisted that, though they’d needed to hire a wet-nurse, she would take care of him in all other ways.

  When she’d learned that she wasn’t able to feed the baby, Galya had gone from ecstatically exhausted to nervous. And after being poisoned, who could blame her? The poison was a large part of why the doctor didn’t believe it was safe for her to perform that particular duty, but he hadn’t warned any of them beforehand.

  Galya had tried twice, and neither time did it seem that Timmy was getting all the nutrition he needed, and so finally, four hours after he was born, she consented to allow the doctor to bring in a woman who was close to weaning her own child; a woman who lived four miles out, and whose husband had suddenly died a few days before; a woman who needed a job and protection as much as they needed someone to help with Timmy’s feedings. And so, nineteen year old Lucienne Duchamp, her two year old daughter Honorine, and her five month old son Michel-Yves, had moved in by that evening, to everyone’s relief.

  “Gaspar,” he heard Galya whisper after several seconds.

  Turning to greet her, he was thankful for the smile that melted its way to his heart with immediacy.

  “Est-ce que tout est correct,” she began again when he turned to sit in the chair nearest the head of the bed, with the door be
hind him. He could hear Adele and Amabel giggling in their playroom just two doors down. “Combien de temps ai-je été endormi? A la wet-infirmière été ici pour nourrir Timmy, ” she asked quietly, not taking her eyes off of his in the dimming light.

  “Oui,” he assured her. “Mrs. Duchamp was here less than an hour ago, and he is doing alright. You needed the sleep.” He smiled down at her even as a frown made its way to her sparkling brown eyes – eyes that held the mysteries of Israel and the past – and frowned with her. “What’s wrong,” he asked her.

  “Did no one change him? Did no one make sure that he-?”

  “Solange was here, and she was able to care for Timmy in those duties. Do not worry, my Dove,” he tried to reassure her. “When you sleep, my sisters, Mrs. Duchamp and I have it all under control,” he told her, cutting her off for the first time in months, knowing that was a lie.

  Nobody but God had control; not really. Why had he said that? To make her feel better?

  Galya smiled at him and reached a still-weak hand toward him. Meeting her hand part-way, he moved their hands so they were laying on the edge of the bed so she could save her strength.

  “Cela est vrai? Tout est bien sans mon aide? ” Her dark eyes became even more sparkled as tears began to fall gently onto her cheek. Timmy began to stir next to her, and immediately, Gaspar moved to pick him up.

  Galya stopped him. “Wait,” she said, halting him before he’d done anything but stand. She turned carefully onto her side toward the baby, and Gaspar could see her wince; hear her taking deep breaths.

  Why wouldn’t Galya accept his help? Had he done something to disturb her? Said something that upset her? What was this about not needing her? Of course they needed her… they all did. Not just Timmy, but he and Solange and Suzette; Suzette’s children. Even Mlle. Delphine, the Duchamp family, and the doctor needed her in their own ways.

  Without Galya, Gaspar wouldn’t have thought twice about reducing the help in the house to minimum, and so even these people’s jobs – their livelihoods – in some way hinged on her.