The Alleluia Files (39 page)

Mystified by Gretchen’s odd response, and hoping Omar didn’t notice it, Lucinda spoke in a quick, bright tone. “He’s come to rusticate for a few days and escape the grueling pace of the mainland. He says Bael may come to Angel Rock sometime in the future when
he
needs a vacation. Won’t that be nice? Has he ever been here?”

“Not that I know of,” Gretchen said, still in that strained voice. “I don’t recall that any of the Archangels have ever come to the island.”

“Lucinda has been telling me of all the pleasures in store for me,” Omar said. “She laughed, but I confess, I did not expect so much! If I go out fishing and I’m successful, what do I do with my catch? Bring it back to the Manor for cooking?”

“Oh, yes! Emmie loves to make fresh fish. But you have to
catch enough to feed all the guests, because we wouldn’t want anyone to feel slighted,” Lucinda said.

“So if I only catch two, I should throw them back before we head for land.”

“Unless they’re two
very big
fish,” she said solemnly, and then the two of them laughed, Gretchen gave them the smallest, unhappiest smile.

“Yes. How enjoyable for you,” Gretchen said, seeming to speak almost at random. “Excuse me, Omar. I must go find Jackson. Lucinda, I’m sure you’ll do what you can to make our new guest comfortable.” And she hurried off.

Omar looked after her with a small frown. “Well! She seems very upset about her destructive bugs.”

Or something
, Lucinda thought. “Aunt Gretchen gets very focused on something, and that’s all she can think about,” she said lightly. “But she’s a wonderful hostess. Let’s go back to the house so you can unpack. Lunch will be ready in another two hours. Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

So Omar was settled in and introduced to the rest of the guests at the noon meal, where he managed to charm even the prim Mrs. Temple. Lucinda didn’t see him again until dinner, because she got swept up in the orchard frenzy, and spent the entire rest of the day under the apple trees with Jackson and her aunt. They sprayed all afternoon, covering themselves with a noxious, choking chemical residue, and she never saw a single bug.

But she had cleaned herself up by dinner, which she looked forward to for the first time in nearly a month, and a very pleasant meal it was, too. Omar enthralled every guest with tales of the Eyrie and descriptions of the Gloria, painting vivid pictures of the great events and popular angels, and fielding all the questions the others put to him.

Except one. “And who’s to be the next Archangel?” Mrs. Temple asked as dessert was being served. “Has that been decided?”

Omar looked grave. “The god has not yet spoken on that issue, which concerns my father greatly. All the oracles have been consulted, but Jovah has chosen not to answer this particular question.”

“And what happens if no Archangel is named before the next
Gloria? It is next year that the new Archangel should sing for the first time, am I not right?”

“Indeed you are. My father, of course, is willing to carry on his duties as long as is necessary—but he has served nineteen years, and grows weary. He is as eager as anyone to see the next man—or woman—chosen.”

“Do you think it might be a woman?” Ed Jomarson asked.

“Historically, the Archangel has been female roughly a third of the time,” Omar said. “We have had several male Archangels in a row, so—yes, I think the chances are good that the god will select a woman.”

“Mercy?” Lucinda asked.

Omar spread his hands in a diplomatic gesture of denial. “Mercy is not an old woman, but she would be by the time she had been Archangel for twenty years,” Omar said. “Most often, the Archangel is in the prime of life—thirty or thirty-five, often young enough to still bear children. Delilah, of course, was barely twenty-five when she took over the role. But I do not remember any Archangel who was older than forty when he or she was named to the office.”

“Then who?” Lucinda asked. “Are there many female angels between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five living in Samaria?”

“Oh, there are several—quite lively, intelligent women, too. We’ll just have to see what Jovah decides. It may be months before he lets us know. And it may be tomorrow.”

“This is quite intriguing,” Mrs. Temple said, quivering a little in her seat. “It makes it seem so much more exciting when you hear about it all firsthand. Now I cannot wait to see who is chosen.”

That conversation ended the meal, and they all moved by common consent to the parlor. The Jomarsons and Mrs. Temple instantly went to work on their play, arguing in low voices over the wording of a line of dialogue. Three of the other guests got out a board game, and four others dealt out a hand of cards.

“That appears to leave you to entertain me,” Omar said to the angel. “I spy a harpsichord in the corner. Is it too much to hope that you are allowed to play music at night, or will we disturb the others?”

“No, no disturbance!” Ed called out. “In fact, we consider
our evening quite ruined if Lucinda doesn’t play for us at least an hour.”

“Will you?” Omar asked her again.

“Gladly. Unless you would rather play? We have music, if you neglected to bring any.”

“I’m not good on a keyboard,” he said, following her over to the instrument. “A flute I have mastered with some gracefulness, I like to think, and I’ve been practicing on a lyre, but I don’t have either with me.”

“Well, you could sing,” she said, seating herself on the bench. “For I know you have the skill for that.”

He had picked up a book of music and was flipping through it. “Let’s see. I know this piece, and this one, and—here. One of my favorites. Do you know it?”

He set the open book before her. “But this one is so sad!” she exclaimed.

“No, no, sweet and wistful. You don’t want to play it?”

She ran her fingers over the opening chords, minor and dark. “I’ll play it. You take the melody.”

She let him sing the first verse solo, playing the accompaniment very softly, and she had to admit the piece was more moving than she remembered. Or perhaps she was swayed by the power of his voice, gorgeously grieving over the words of heartache and loss. In any case, she felt like crying before the chorus was reached. She added her voice in ghostly treble counterpoint, and the room instantly seemed haunted by echoes of sadness. She continued singing harmony through the second verse, and the third, and when they finally wrapped up the final chorus, the mood in the whole room was one of profound dejection.

Lucinda herself sat a moment with her hands on the keyboard, recovering her good temper and quite unable to speak. Omar sat beside her, seemingly lost in a reverie of his own. It took a voice from across the room to break the silence.

“But, Lucinda, can’t you play something happier?” Mrs. Jomarson asked plaintively. “You’re making my heart break!”

Murmured assents from the others caused Lucinda to toss her hair back and summon up a smile. “You see?” she said to Omar, and without consulting him, offered up the chords for a completely different song. This one was lively and fun, full of looping melody lines and a tricky harmony. He laughed, but
joined in, and allowed her to pick the next few selections as well.

“I see we have completely different styles,” he said several songs later when she paused. “I have been accused before of having a sober turn of mind, but you’re the first one who’s forbidden me to choose
any
of the music.”

“And it seems so unlike you,” she said, allowing her fingers to wander at random over the keyboard. “For you seem to be such an amusing, entertaining man. But your music—! I remember now. At the Gloria you did a very solemn piece as well.”

“They say a man’s true nature is revealed in his poetry and his song,” he said lightly. “Whatever else he conceals about himself is inevitably revealed in verse.”

“And is that true of you?” she said, looking at him sideways. “Are you a sad man in your secret, concealed heart?”

“Sad?” he repeated. “I would not say that. Serious, yes. These are serious days. A man needs to be earnest and sober.”

She thought of the voyage to Angel Rock on
The Wayward
, the attack by the Jansai, Reuben’s contention that the Archangel encouraged such piracy. She thought of the Jacobites, hounded from Samaria at Bael’s instigation. She wondered what the son thought of the father’s policies. Serious days, indeed.

But she smiled at him. “But you must meet grave challenges with a serene heart,” she said. “You must seek happiness where you can. A joyful song floods my whole body with delight. That makes me stronger,”

He gave her a deep, deferential nod, almost a bow. “You seem formed for joy,” he said. “That makes you delightful to be near.”

She surveyed him a little more speculatively, but her smile lingered. “And you have a very graceful way of flattering,” she observed. “By week’s end, I shall be so under your spell, I shall begin to believe you when you say things like that.”

“Why wait that long?” he murmured. “Believe me now.”

She laughed aloud, pleased despite herself. Before she could make an answer, some stray movement at the corner of her eye turned her attention to the door. Aunt Gretchen stood there, seemingly rooted in place, staring across the room at the couple by the harpsichord. Her angular face seemed bony with worry; her dark eyes were sharp with concern. Her hands twisted in her apron, furling and unfurling it with completely uncharacteristic
disregard for an item of clothing. But she was not looking at Lucinda. Her gaze was fixed on Omar.

Lucinda glanced again at the Archangel’s son. And what could Aunt Gretchen possibly know about Omar that would make her stare at him as if he was bad news direct from Jovah? Omar had opened a book of music and was idly flipping through its pages. He did not seem to notice the intense, despairing gaze that was trained on him from across the room. He found a selection that pleased him and offered it to Lucinda with a smile. She played it, but this time her heart was not in it. She could not imagine what, but something was greatly amiss.

Yet Gretchen said nothing to her the next morning, by which time most of Lucinda’s odd uneasiness had evaporated. Omar had elected to spend the morning on one of the boats (promising to bring back a basketful of fish), so he could not disturb them with his presence. By the time he returned, sunburned and happy, Lucinda had managed to forget her aunt’s strange reaction of the night before. She welcomed him into the kitchen, she incorporated his fish onto the night’s menu, and she shooed him out of the house so she and Emmie could finish preparing the evening meal.

Which was delicious, and everyone said so. Afterward, the Jomarsons and Mrs. Temple cornered Omar to see if he’d be willing to take a part in their play, to which he agreed. He spent the rest of the evening huddled with them, discussing his part and the rehearsal schedule. Lucinda was surprised to find that she was a little disappointed—she had enjoyed his company the day before—but she amused herself playing card games with the other guests.

And two whole days were gotten through in this manner; and she had only thought of Reuben three or four hundred times in those two days; and she would see him again in as little as twelve days, perhaps. So she was not unhappy.

The next day, all the cast members commandeered the newly sprayed orchard and practiced their lines and argued over stage directions. No one was allowed close enough to overhear a word of dialogue, so Emmie and Lucinda took lunch out to them, left it a hundred yards away, and scampered back to the house, laughing.

That evening after dinner, Omar did manage to break free of
the playwrights and join Lucinda at the harpsichord again. “They’re charming people, but do give me an hour’s mercy!” he whispered in her ear. “I really cannot abide one more discussion about Jack’s proper pronunciation—my character is named Jack, you see—or why he simply wouldn’t say such a thing, though I think he would. Had I known how grueling this would be, I would never have agreed to take part.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure you’d be completely bored if you weren’t doing the play.”

“I wouldn’t be bored, I would be exploring the island with you,” he said promptly. “Do you realize I have scarcely said a word to you for a whole day? I didn’t realize that was the bargain I would be required to make.”

“When do you perform?”

“Tomorrow night. Here in the parlor, I believe. I suppose we can seat twenty or so in the audience, though it will be a tight fit.”

“Yes, we’re supposed to invite everyone from the Gablefront to come for dinner and the theater. I think it will be fun.”

“And the day after tomorrow? Can I have your complete, undivided attention?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she demurred. “But I can show you around the island.”

“Good. It’s a promise. Save the whole day for me.”

They sang two songs together, a compromise of styles, for they chose some of the familiar folk songs that everyone loved despite their sad themes. Not wishing to alarm Gretchen again, Lucinda closed the instrument after the second song and suggested they join the others in a card game. And so the evening passed with a pleasant conviviality, and Gretchen, when she looked in, appeared to be content.

The next day the actors spent completely in seclusion while the staff of the hotel prepared for the evening’s entertainment. Jackson, under Gretchen’s direction, rearranged all the furniture in the parlor to create a makeshift stage and three rows of seats. Emmie and Lucinda cooked, baked, marinated, and grilled for what seemed like hours. Celia sent over two trays of desserts with a note promising ten people for the evening’s festivities. Lucinda caught herself wondering what she should wear. Such excitement over a silly amateur play!

But the evening was fun. Celia, Hammet, and their eight visitors
arrived promptly at six, and the expanded dinner table was quickly alive with conversation and laughter. Everyone lavishly praised the meal, and the wine flowed freely. The actors perhaps imbibed a little more than the others, for a few of them declaimed their lines over dessert, causing Ed Jomarson to leap up and clap his hand over his leading lady’s mouth.