The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  Serafina bounded to her feet. “Your Highness, I am most dreadfully sorry.”

  The woman actually smiled. “Did you not hear your mother warn you of the time?”

  “My mother came into the room?”

  “Three times. I signaled her away.”

  “Highness, I . . .”

  “I have been observing you as you worked,” the princess said thoughtfully. “It is uncommon extraordinary to see a young lady with such astonishing beauty be so totally given over to a profession that requires selflessness.”

  Serafina nodded her understanding but could think of no appropriate answer.

  “Might I be permitted to see your work?”

  “It is not yet finished, Highness.”

  “Nonetheless, I wish to see what you are doing with such focused intent.”

  Serafina backed away with a small curtsy. “If you wish, madam.”

  “Thank you.”

  As the princess rose and stepped around the easel, Serafina watched the woman study the painting. For long minutes she stood in silence, her expression giving nothing away.

  Then the princess whispered, “Oh, to be faced with all the roads not taken.”

  “You do not care for it? Highness, I could—”

  The princess silenced Serafina with an upraised hand.

  “You, my dear young woman, have a gift. It is not just a gift of the eye and the hand. Artists the world around have that.” She faced Serafina, and her visage was unclouded for the very first time. “You have been gifted with a caring heart. And for your sharing of that unique gift, my dear, I am deeply grateful.”

  The princess swept up her dress and moved toward the front door, where her attendant stood. She nodded her farewell to Serafina’s parents, then stopped in the doorway and asked, “When do you expect to complete this work?”

  “A week at most, Highness. Perhaps less.”

  “I shall count this among my most treasured possessions.” She started to turn away, then added, “I only wish it were possible for you and I to become friends.”

  Night or day meant little inside the jail. The horse thief moaned over his injuries, until the jailer reminded him he was due to hang in three days’ time. “You won’t be bothering nobody’s sleep much longer,” he said with a cackle. Gradually the man’s cell went silent, until the only sounds in the gloom were the sputtering torches and the constant drip of rain.

  There were two jailers. The one who watched over them at night scarcely ever moved from his chair in the front room. The day jailer fed them and made his rounds with a surly sense of responsibility and dark humor.

  Late that afternoon, the jailer returned to Falconer’s cell. The man’s greasy hair fell over his forehead, partly masking the intense gleam in his eyes. Falconer saw how the man had to fight himself to come forward, but said nothing. Falconer rose to stand before the bars.

  The jailer’s face contorted, and Falconer knew he wanted to joke, to curse, to scorn the prisoner and his faith. But the same force that dragged him forward kept the jailer silent. Instead, he merely handed the Bible through the bars.

  Falconer accepted the book with a nod. He pitched his voice low, saying what he had been thinking about since the jailer’s last departure. “One of the writers of this holy Book was a man named Paul. Some of what he wrote was sent from a prison just like this one.” Falconer turned the pages as he spoke. “You’d think he would complain about being jailed for his beliefs. But Paul felt very different about things. Would you like to hear what he wrote to the church in Philippi?”

  The jailer did not respond. Nor did Falconer expect him to. Falconer shifted the Book about until the torchlight falling through the bars illuminated the page, then read, “‘He which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ: Even as it is meet for me to think this of you all, because I have you in my heart; inasmuch as both in my bonds, and in the defence and confirmation of the gospel, ye all are partakers of my grace. For God is my record, how greatly I long after you all in the bowels of Jesus Christ. And this I pray, that your love may abound yet more and more. . . .”’

  Falconer lowered the Bible. “He is imprisoned, yet he writes of love and hope and joy. What makes it possible for him to speak this way? Isn’t that a wonder worth examining?”

  Falconer came even closer to the bars. He could see the sweat glistening on the stubble covering the man’s hollowed cheeks. Close enough to hear the ragged breathing and see the pain in his eyes. And the hunger.

  “Every breath has fresh meaning for followers of Christ. Be it a breath drawn in prison or in the open air, it is still a breath of freedom.” He lifted the Book into the space between them. “In Paul’s earlier days, the Bible tells us that he went about breathing out murderous threats. That defined me as well. You know that is true. One look at my face and you know I’ve been where you are now, and still further into the pit. Now look at me. Jailed, stripped of everything, yet I still am able to breathe out my love of God.”

  The jailer’s trembling tore his whisper to shreds. “I done so much wrong.”

  “Tell God, brother. He wants to hear you and heal you.” Falconer paused a moment, then added, “Will you let me pray with you?”

  The jailer did not kneel. Instead, he came crashing to his knees. “I done so much wrong!”

  Falconer reached through the bars and rested a hand on the man’s filthy tunic. “Lord, O Lord, hear the call of this penitent sinner. He confesses his sins before you, and he is sorry.”

  “Yes, Lord! I’m foul! I’m sorry!”

  “Tell me your name, brother.”

  “Carl.”

  “Brother Carl, do you confess your sins before God and man?”

  The jailer gripped the bars so fiercely the cell door rattled. “Heart, don’t fail me!”

  “Do you ask the heavenly Father for forgiveness?”

  The jailer raised his head a fraction, revealing his terror. “Will He give it to me?”

  Only such a man as Falconer could meet that man’s gaze. “Ask Him and see.”

  “Lord, O Lord, take away my awful sin!”

  “Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”

  “If He’ll take the likes of me, I do, I do!”

  Falconer reached for his cup and extended his hand through the bars. “Then I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Rise, brother Carl. Rise up. That’s it. I embrace you in the faith, my brother. Yes. Now go and sin no more.”

  Jeb Saunders sat beside his brother Cody on the bench that fronted the tippling inn. Rain fell in a steady colorless sheet off the roof ’s overhang. Cody leaned back against the wall and snored gently. The man had an animal’s ability to store up sleep. He acted when he needed to, and there wasn’t anybody Jeb would rather have guarding his back in a scrap. But when there was nothing doing, Cody could ease his mind off the day as easy as a dog curling up in front of a good fire. Jeb had always envied his brother’s ability to let the day go. Jeb was too much a thinker to take things so easy. And there weren’t many days that had gone down as hard as these last few. Tied to a hardscrabble town like Danville, snared and held fast, they might as well be trapped in the same cage as Falconer.

  A man stepped out of the rain. He thumped his boots to clear off the red muck, slipped off his slouch hat, and started down the wooden sidewalk toward Jeb.

  Jeb whistled once. It was little more than a quick intake of breath, but enough to draw Cody from sleep. Without moving, his brother tracked Jeb’s gaze to the approaching man. Cody remained leaning back, his eyes covered by the brim of his hat. His hand eased around to grip the handle of his pistol. Jeb heard the soft click of the trigger being pulled back.

  The stranger approached them, his face giving away nothing. He carried with him a certain aura, of one who enjoyed bringing death.

  He was neither tall nor particularly big. Yet his frame held a massive quality, a tension just waiting to uncoil and stri
ke. “You must be the Saunders brothers.”

  Jeb couldn’t place the accent. “That depends on who you might be and why you’re interested.”

  “My name is Vladimir.” His boots, trousers, shirt, vest, and hair were all one solid black. His eyes, however, were wintry smoke—almost clear they were so light. Yet they revealed nothing of the man within. Jeb had the impression of looking into windows without a room behind them.

  “I seek a man,” Vladimir said.

  “Yeah, well, ain’t nobody here but us.” Cody slipped the cocked pistol from his belt and aimed it at the stranger’s gut. “You’ll be looking elsewhere if you want to see another sunrise.”

  Vladimir paid the pistol no mind. “I seek the same man as you.”

  “I’m telling you, that ain’t of any interest to us, so you best—”

  “Hold on, now, Cody. Hold on.” Jeb smiled at his brother. His empty, dangerous smile. “This feller ain’t done nothing to rile us. Not yet.”

  “I ain’t sharing my take with nobody.” Cody’s response to the stranger was as visceral as that of an angry dog. “Especially the likes of him.”

  The stranger spoke with a raspy voice. “I have no interest in your reward money.”

  “There, you hear that?” Jeb nudged his brother. “Pack that shooter back where it belongs.”

  Reluctantly Cody slipped the pistol back into his belt. “He riles me, is all.”

  “Even so, let’s hear him out.”

  “I will pay you,” the stranger said. “In gold.”

  “That so.” Jeb eased himself to his feet. He disliked looking up to anybody, especially when they were talking business. “Well, you know who we are and you know the man is holed up in the jail down by the town hall. Soon as the judge declares him guilty of freeing slaves and hangs him, we get paid. The problem is, the regular judge is laid up with something awful, and the new judge is busy at the other end of the state.”

  “The sheriff won’t pay us until we testify,” Cody complained. “So we’re left sitting round here, with our gold in someone else’s pocket.”

  “I have no interest,” Vladimir said, “in waiting for this judge.”

  “That so.” Jeb grinned once more at his brother. “Out for a little revenge, are we?”

  The stranger did not respond.

  “Well, maybe you can tell us one thing. Just to show we’re dealing from the same deck of cards, you understand. What’s the feller’s name you’re after?”

  Vladimir spat out, “He is called John Falconer.”

  Chapter 30

  The afternoon following the princess’s final portrait sitting, Nathan and Serafina took advantage of a sudden break in the weather and walked for miles. They did not return until dusk was gathering. It seemed only natural for Nathan to let his boots dry by the fire and join the family for a light supper. He was not so much invited as simply included, the sort of gesture one would make to a long-time friend.

  Their conversation continued until the candles burned low. Mary and Gerald had long since bid their farewells and retired to their respective chambers. The rest of the family remained in the parlor. The fire was ignored until it almost went out. Nathan went for more firewood and rekindled the flames, taking over the duties as if he had been part of the household all his life. Serafina was the only one who took any notice.

  When the fire burned well once more, Nathan remained on his knees before it. He said to the flames, “Unless we can pinpoint Falconer’s location, the document supplied by the princess remains utterly useless.”

  “Worse than useless,” Alessandro Gavi corrected. Clearly the same thought had been running through his own mind. “I feel as though a flame has been lit within me. I wish to go racing off with it.”

  “But in which direction,” Nathan said, still to the fire. “For what purpose?”

  Bettina made to rise. “I for one am so weary I can scarcely keep my eyes open.”

  “I could not hope to sleep,” Alessandro said. His gaze was dark and so intent it was hard for Serafina to tell whether he was looking at Nathan’s back or the fire or something only he could see. “Daughter, I would ask a favor of you. Before my wife retires, do you think we might pray again together?”

  Serafina watched her mother sink back onto the sofa. “Of course, Papa.”

  “I am so distressed I feel as though I shall never find peace again without . . .”

  “Without God,” Serafina finished softly.

  “Precisely.”

  “Would you say the words?” he now asked.

  Nathan resumed his seat upon the sofa opposite Serafina, next to Alessandro, and nodded to her. “Your father asked you, Serafina.”

  She bowed her head, but no words came. She sought inside her mind and found the only words she could think of were in Italian. So it was in her mother tongue that she began, “O gentle Jesus, my Lord and Savior, the One who came to me in my darkest hour. O the giver of everything in my life that holds meaning, the maker of heaven and earth. I beg you, great Lord of all. Come to us now.”

  Her mother began weeping softly. Serafina went on, “We are very helpless, great Lord. You are strong when we are weak. Wise when we are blind. You search in the darkness of earthly pain and worry. You love us when we do not deserve it. You promise peace and wisdom and light. Illuminate our way forward, great Lord. Give us peace.”

  She heard a strong breath from across the room. She now changed to English. “Most of all, dear Lord, we pray for our friend. Our brother. The man who feels strongest when walking the path of danger. You know his name, great Lord. If I say it, I shall not be able to continue this prayer. So I ask that you speak the name for me. I ask that you find him and protect him.”

  Her father spoke then. A low sound with a slight tremor. “John Falconer.”

  Serafina clenched her hands tightly. Still she prayed. “We ask for a miracle, great Lord. We ask you to reveal where he is. We ask that you keep him safe. We ask that you bring him home. In the name of your Son we pray. Amen.”

  She was slow to raise her eyes. When she did, she found Nathan looking at her. He spoke very slowly, “I have heard some of the world’s greatest orchestras play the music of the ages. Never, though, have I heard a song quite so lovely as that.”

  Unshed tears created an illumination around his figure. “Are you weary?” she asked him.

  “Tired, yes. Sleepy, no.”

  “Would you mind—would it be possible for me to do a sketch of you?”

  Nathan seemed to find nothing out of the ordinary in her request. “If your parents do not mind.”

  “I have no interest in retiring,” Alessandro said to his wife.

  “Nor do I any longer,” Bettina agreed. “Though I might doze off here upon this sofa.”

  Serafina rose to her feet. “I shall just go get my pad. No, don’t move, Nathan. Don’t move.”

  There was no mystery to this new sketch. Even before she finished outlining his eyes, she knew precisely what she wished to portray.

  She sought to capture Nathan’s balance between strength and weakness. Pain and peace. Hope and worry. Wisdom and human frailty. Earthly responsibility and childlike trust. Hidden and revealed. This equilibrium defined him.

  Serafina finished the first sketch, dropped the page to the floor, and started anew. She rose to her feet, crossed the room, and retrieved the Bible she used for her studies with Mary. She handed it to Nathan and asked, “Would you please begin reading?”

  “Aloud or to myself?”

  Her father retrieved her sketch from the floor and said, “Aloud, if you please.”

  “Certainly.”

  Her father lifted his gaze. “Daughter, this is truly wonderful.” “Thank you, Papa. No, Nathan, you can look later. Just please remain as you are and read.”

  But as he began reading, she did not resume her sketching, rather stared at the empty page before her. Her hand was poised, but she was listening now to two different voices. One was Nathan
reading the Word. The other was somewhere deep inside herself.

  Falconer had asked her once if God ever spoke to her. She had considered it from the standpoint of her Lord imparting a message, not of God presenting a challenge.

  She finally began sketching again. As she worked, in the drawing she saw her answer revealed.

  The mystery was in herself. Not in her subjects, the people she studied and drew and brought to life upon the page. She was called to begin living beyond her past, its mistakes and pain. To accept that she could fulfill God’s destiny for her life. In truth, she carefully looked within and realized even the wound was gone.

  There was no reason she could not love anew.

  She looked up at Nathan Baring across the room.

  He stopped reading to ask, “What is it?”

  She only smiled and shook her head, turning back to the sketch.

  He asked, “May I see what you have done?”

  She took the page from her father’s hands and offered it.

  Nathan rose and came to stand beside her, looking at it a very long while. Finally he said, “Is this how I look to you?”

  “It is most certainly a remarkable likeness,” her father said. “She has captured you.”

  Serafina turned to look up into Nathan’s face. The light in his eyes connected to a new light she felt growing within herself.

  The process of farewells took a good deal longer than necessary, yet neither of her parents, still seated in the parlor, seemed to mind. Serafina stood in the front hall with Nathan near the front door.

  She asked, “Would you care to take the portrait of your mother with you?”

  “I could.” He paused, as though the matter required deep deliberation, then said in a low voice, “But if I were to leave it, I would have an excuse to return tomorrow.”

  “You do not need an excuse, Mr. Baring.”

  His smile required no further words.

  “Would you like to take the sketch of you?” Serafina wondered.