by Tamer Lorika
“What kind of stories?” Jeanne asked, because she thought that was what was expected of her. And she was curious. The stories were the crux of it all.
“All kinds,” Ms Milovskaya replied. “Sometimes they were about faeries and pixies, or girls who lived with lions, or northern lights.”
This was not the answer to Jeanne’s question.
“Sometimes,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Sometimes she told us stories about guardian angels.”
Jeanne felt her entire body tense. Her mark grew ice cold and, though the fear was irrational, it was momentarily blinding.
“I see,” Jeanne managed to breathe. She set her mug on the table lest she spill it. “What…what did your grandmere say?”
“Wonderful things,” Ms. Milovskaya replied. “Things I wanted to believe in. Promises that everyone had an angel, and the angel was always watching us, would be there if we ever truly got into trouble.”
Jeanne did not reply.
“She believed in the stories, too, Grandmere did. She believed with her whole heart. Do you know what her last words were?”
Of course Jeanne did not know, but that was the point, wasn’t it? That Jeanne did not know, that she was completely confused and so scared, the world was falling to pieces.
“She said, right out loud ‘I’m ready to go home, Leo,’ then smiled and died.”
Jeanne nodded jerkily. “She had something to believe in. How…how nice. Not all of us have that.”
Ms. Milovskaya shook her head. “But her stories weren’t just legends of rescues and comfort. She told us about all the things angels could do for us—they could kill. They could resurrect. They could be with you every moment. They could…” She took a deep breath. This was what she had been leading up to, Jeanne could see. “They could burn. They could burn someone and mark them as theirs forever.”
The panic intensified, then fled Jeanne’s body. She was numb all over, an empty shell tingling for something to fill it. What was happening—what did Ms. Milovskaya know, what did she understand? Would this be trouble, was she lost now? None of the questions penetrated very far because Jeanne couldn’t feel the stab of anxiety she was sure she should have. She didn’t feel anything at all.
She didn’t even pretend to not understand.
“What else did Grandmere say?” she asked.
“That the marked were special and isolated and feared and hated, and that they were the luckiest of us all.”
“Of course,” Jeanne whispered. “Of course they are.” She put her face in her hands but did not cry. For a moment she just closed her eyes.
“Jeanne? Are you all right?” Ms. Milovskaya asked worriedly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She moved to sit next to Jeanne and put a fluttering, awkward hand on her shoulder.
Jeanne shook her head silently, utterly confused and scared.
“Am I…is it true, then? About the angels?” Ms. Milovskaya asked.
Jeanne nodded.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Ms. Milovskaya said in a whisper. “Believe me—my intention was never to frighten you. I’m sorry. I just thought…if it was true, you might be needing someone…’feared and hated,’ that’s what Grandmere said. I’ve seen the way the children talk and spit, and I’ve heard what they’ve said about Tabitha being sick, and I just wanted to make sure you were all right?”
No need to be afraid, I won’t let them take you away.
“You really won’t tell?” Jeanne asked into her palms.
“You will keep my secret—I can’t do anything less for you.”
Jeanne looked up at her, eyes red and face pale. “I’m just scared. Jericho is already in trouble—if there is a stir, I’m afraid the Auditor will—”
“Jericho? Is that the name of the angel?”
“Yes.” It was odd to hear Jericho called an ‘angel,’ though—weren’t angels white-robed creatures with huge wings and halos? “She is my guardian. I’m not sure what to say beyond that.”
“And the Auditor…?”
“Will take her away, I’m sure of it. He will leave me alone again and I don’t think I can bear that. Please—she isn’t supposed to have done this.” Jeanne’s hand was at her cheek, unconsciously, feeling the comfort in knowing someone was with her, if only for now.
“I will keep it a secret. I promise, Jeanne. And if you need to—now that I know, you can talk to me. I won’t mind. After all, Marianne—Ms. Roma—seems comfortable sharing our secret around you.”
Jeanne nodded, smiling softly. “Thank you. That means a lot. I still wish Jericho could be here always.”
“She cannot?”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“What does it work like?”
“I…don’t know. I just wait.”
“That is a sad way to live.”
Jeanne sniffed slightly; her nose was running, from the coffee and the cold outside. “No worse than a sailor’s wife. No worse than a soldier’s girl. At least I know she won’t die. At least I know she exists—that is why she marked me.”
“Was there a doubt before?”
Why did Ms. Milovskaya always know what questions Jeanne did not want to be asked?
She was saved from answering by a knock on the door, although both of the people in the room knew what the answer was, could perhaps even guess at the story behind it.
“Jeanne still here?” Ms. Roma asked, leaning against the door with half a bottle of local wine clutched in her hand.
“Yes, Marianne, she is.”
“I had better leave,” Jeanne said. “Maman will expect me for dinner soon.”
Ms. Roma smiled sunnily and waltzed into the living room. “Thanks, little girl,” she said with a laugh.
“Your mother…” Ms. Milovskaya said. “She doesn’t mind?”
The question could have been, “She doesn’t mind that you are out late?” But of course it was an inquiry about Jericho.
“It will take her awhile,” Jeanne said with a sad smile.
Ms. Roma looked bewildered, Ms. Milovskaya pitying. Jeanne took her leave.
* * * *
Jeanne had another dream, a real dream, a dream about Jericho.
The creature—she still could not reconcile her form with the idea of an angel—was in a room that looked to be a dormitory, with a bed and little else. Jericho lay stiffly on the bed, staring at the ceiling, as if waiting for something. Jeanne had never seen the creature sleeping, and wondered if she even could. She was not sleeping now.
A door—one Jeanne had not noticed before now—slammed open with a sound like rushing wind. The Auditor stood framed in the threshold, lightning sparking in his gaze.
“You have been found out,” he said coldly. “There will be a trial. You are compelled to attend.”
Jericho turned her dark eyes to stare at him. Jeanne gasped to herself. Jericho’s eyes were so…dead.
“You will not take her away from me,” Jericho intoned. “You cannot.”
“We will see. It is up to the Council now.”
“You cannot.”
“You have done many things you cannot,” the Auditor retorted. “I suggest you do not argue.”
“I will argue when I wish,” Jericho spat. She had not yet moved her body, only her dead and dark eyes.
“Then look to be spending an eternity without your precious Ward.”
The door slammed closed and Jericho was on her feet, throwing herself at it, suddenly crying out.
“You can’t take her away, you can’t do this to us—I won’t let you. I promised; I won’t let you!” She jerked at the handle but it was obviously locked; there was no give. Giving out a wild yell, she screamed, cursing in her strange and unintelligible language that made fire surge through Jeanne’s brain.
“Jericho!” Jeanne called, invisible and silent in this state. She tried to move, to put hands on the creature and calm her just as Jericho had calmed her so often, but it was just not possible, she had no body to
move.
“Jericho!” she tried to yell. “Please, it will be all right.”
She strained forward with every fiber of her consciousness—for a consciousness was all she possessed—trying to get to Jericho.
“Jeanne.” Jericho’s head shot up—did she hear? Was she aware? “Jeanne, you shouldn’t be here.”
“Jericho, please, calm down.”
“Jeanne you can’t be here. Wake up. I’ll be with you very soon. Please, wake up—”
“No!”
But Jeanne was dismissed, the connection broken, her consciousness ripped away from the dream and forced into a blackness and Jeanne screamed, woke up screaming, desperate to run to Jericho because Jericho had looked so scared—
“Jericho!” she yelled. “Jer—”
Her voice cut off with insistent pressure against her lips.
“I’m here,” was the breathed response when they parted.
“Jericho, it’s not fair you are scared,” Jeanne cried, throwing herself at her guardian and pinning her to the bed. “I can protect you, I can, so don’t be scared.”
“Jeanne, you’re shaking.” Jericho gripped the girl’s forearms just as firmly as the girl gripped hers.
“You got in trouble again and it’s my fault. I saw you when I was dreaming and you were afraid—”
“Jeanne, calm down, please, you’re speaking too fast.”
“Sorry.” Abruptly Jeanne stopped, biting her lip and dropping her head.
“Jeanne…” Jericho shook her head. “Jeanne, I was scared. But I heard you and I know I will do anything to keep you by my side.”
“I just want to be able to comfort you like you comfort me.”
“You do. You’re what keeps me strong, I promise.”
“How easy it is to believe you.” Perhaps in another world, the words were unoriginal, would seem fake or stilted or harlequin.
That world, however, was not formed to hold the innocence of the moment. To the both of them, the words were exactly what the other needed to hear.
It was quiet enough to hear muffled phonograph music through the walls, where the couple next door played something vague and full of scratchy violin that clashed with the beating of their hearts—three/four time instead of the erratic spasm of their own chests.
One two three, one two three, one two three.
“Jericho,” Jeanne breathed. “JerichoJerichoJericho…”
“Yes?”
Jeanne smiled so big, she thought her heart would burst. “May I have this dance?”
“Oh.” The shock on Jericho’s face could almost be adorable.
Jeanne didn’t give her a chance to agree, just stood and pulled Jericho with her to stand in the center of the room. She put her hand under one shoulder, the other on Jericho’s waist, and smiled again.
“Follow my steps. I promise not to tread on you—can you trust that?”
“Easily.”
One two three, one two three—Jeanne didn’t count out loud. Neither of them were in step. That was what made it beautiful—they stumbled over each other and fell so the other was the only thing holding them up, and they laughed far too loudly long, long after the music faded next door.
Tonight Jeanne did not feel tired, did not feel that inescapable pull of lethargy that ripped her away from Jericho every night they were lucky enough to meet. They danced, moving against each other slower and slower, warm skin against warm skin and flannel in between. That was all right, for now.
It was early in the morning, and even if the windows were tightly shut, the morning sun would not cease to come up. It did not matter if Jeanne was desperate for the night never to end.
“Jeanne, close your eyes.” Jericho said, suddenly, urgently.
Jeanne immediately did as she was told. She felt Jericho trying to push her away, but she simply clutched tighter. “Tell me.”
“I’m fading—it’s morning and I’m fading.”
“Will you come back?”
Silence, and Jeanne smiled as she felt Jericho gasp in surprise. “Of course.”
“Don’t be scared—I’m not.”
Oh, that laugh—it lasted even after the rest of her had faded and Jeanne was left with nothing in her arms. Such was their connection.
* * * *
The next day was Saturday. Jeanne had fallen asleep a little after the sun had come up, and she woke again to a sight at once unwelcomed and happily familiar.
“Time to return the favor, meanie,” Paris said with a pout as she took a flying leap onto Jeanne’s mattress.
Jedrick leaned on the door, smirking at the squeal Jeanne let out.
“Off off off,” she moaned into her pillow. “Paris…”
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“River,” Jedrick said.
“It’s cold,” Jeanne protested, still utterly asleep.
“We’re not swimming.” Paris sighed in exasperation, climbing over the bed to get to Jeanne’s drawers and pull out something suitable for her to wear. “Just walking. I’m bored and Jedrick’s bored and we’re not going to let you sleep if we want to be entertained, so you might as well just come along.”
“Did Maman let you in?”
“You are completely out of it in the morning, aren’t you?” Jedrick asked, bemused. “Your grandmother let us in. I think your mother is still asleep—it’s only seven or so hours.”
“Why so early? Jeanne moaned, running fingers through her hair.
“I told you, we’re bored,” Paris answered.
“Fair enough—Jedrick, leave,” Jeanne slurred.
As soon as he was a suitable distance away with his back turned—none of them even moved to close the door—she stripped off her nightgown and buttoned her skirt and blouse as best as she could. Paris unbuttoned it and re-fastened it correctly, without the skipped hole. All three clambered downstairs in less than a minute.
“Now, now, don’t leave without eating,” Gramaman said, quietly, more quietly than Jeanne had heard her speak before. She put three bowls of warmed lima beans on the table. Paris and Jedrick made faces. Jeanne raised an eyebrow.
Gramaman smiled. “Just eat them,” she suggested.
They did as they were told.
Jeanne smiled. Gramaman had used up the last of the sugar to make lima bean porridge, and it tasted much better than she thought it had any right to. She clapped her hands together. “You found it. You found the perfect recipe.”
“Well, I did now, didn’t I?” Gramaman asked happily. “You others agree.”
Both nodded politely, but Jeanne could tell they were not unpleased. The promise of sugar could do that.
“Now shoo, I know you have some big plans for the day, although it’s beyond me what they could be. Too old to be chasing after little ones, now.”
“Thank you, Gramaman.”
The others nodded and tripped out the door in a fast clip, setting off across the sunflower field towards the river.
* * * *
It was the beginning of October now, and the trees were suffocating themselves until they wore the thick mantles of gold and striking red Jeanne so loved. She could hear the crunch and snap of dead leaves beneath her feet as she stomped first through dying sunflowers and then through the bustling grove of weeping willows beside the river.
Jeanne tried not to think they were near the part of the river where she had buried the kitten. She sent a silent, little prayer for its safety, hoping it would eventually find its way to Jericho.
“It’s cold,” Paris complained, rubbing her hands down her arms.
“Why didn’t you bring a sweater?” Jedrick asked. “You even made Jeanne bring a sweater, but you didn’t bring one?”
“I forgot,” she sniffed.
At the same time, Jedrick and Jeanne grabbed her forearms, glomming close to her. “Better?” Jeanne asked quietly.
“A little,” Paris conceded with a sideways quirk of a smile.
They w
alked a little farther, and Jeanne breathed deeply, happy and together with people she cared about.
“Jeanne,” Jedrick said quietly. “We want—I want…are you all right?”
Well, that particular question was unforeseen, but Jeanne looked up to see both of her friends staring expectantly at her, faces upturned and slightly worried.
“Of course. I’m—of course I’m all right. What makes you think any other way?”
Paris untangled her arm from Jedrick to touch Jeanne’s cheek. “What do you think?”
“Ah,” she said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Jeanne, you hear what people say,” Jedrick told her. It was not a question.
“I don’t think it matters much.”
“But we do!” Paris interrupted. “It matters a lot!”
They had made their way to a solid rock ledge that leaned precariously over a slow bend in the river. Jedrick led them to sit at the edge and they stared out over the water, feet too short to touch the surface. There was silence for a time, and Jeanne didn’t know what she could say.
“We just care about you,” Jedrick declared finally.
“I know. But this isn’t something you need to worry about.”
“Jeanne—they’re saying you’re a bad omen!” Paris yelped. “They think you bring evil. They blame things on you, they blame Tabitha—”
“Tabitha?”
“She’s gone, Jeanne, her whole family is—just disappeared. No one knows what happened.”
“I don’t…it will go away. They just don’t understand.”
“Of course they don’t understand! Because you won’t trust anyone—something happened and you won’t even tell us.”
That was Paris, shrieking, and when the shrieking stopped, there was something that had to fill the space where it had been, and that caulking was anger and fear and bone-chilling silence.
“I’m not trying to—”
“Maybe you are bad luck. Maybe they’re all right—they don’t want me to be with you, to hang around with you,” Paris said, her voice catching and going too fast.
Jeanne and Jedrick watched her work herself up. “Monique, and the others…?” Jeanne asked.
“A girl is gone, Jeanne, the same day you came to school with that incredibly mysterious scar on your face, and you expect us to believe you had absolutely nothing to do with this?”
