A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [13]
Because she did not know where to find her friends, she was hesitant to go out into the night and search for them. Her melancholy did her the disservice of supposing them assembled and having a grand time without her. Not that the party could ever again be complete. Not without Jane, their modest Healer, their keen judge of character and quiet recluse, The Guard’s steadfast hope and Rebecca’s dearest friend.
“What is wrong with you, Headmistress?” she chided herself. “Pull yourself together; you’ve an institution to run. You’ve never been unable to perform that venerable duty. Oh, but for the grief and these nerves . . .”
There was just so much to feel—something she’d attempted for years to avoid. She needed help sorting out the guilt-ridden, lonely, excitable and confused mess that was her present state of mind. But, to this end, she had no idea where to turn. She would once have gone to Jane, to sensible, stalwart Jane, since she most certainly couldn’t have turned to Alexi, both her friend and her greatest agony. But Jane had gone to the angels, to be eternally by the side of the man she loved; she had no further time for the sorry human lots of those back in London.
Rebecca allowed herself a moment of supposition: What if Vicar Michael Carroll came and called upon her? What if he roused her from melancholy as had been his job for twenty years, confessing again the new shock of his love to her? Yet, she’d ignored everyone who had knocked upon her door, even Michael. She simply couldn’t talk, exist or relate. She did not feel, after everything she had done and what was left of her soul, that she deserved such adoration. Not by such a kind and wonderful man. Surely there was something better for him than her tired, misguided self.
Tucking herself beneath her covers, shifting but not daring to let go of Marlowe, she shuddered. The air was full of murmuring whispers, like the voices of angels—or of ghosts. After years of dealing with spirits in silence, the whispering did nothing for her nerves. She had faced down demons and was weary from the toil, so if there were indeed supernatural forces breathing down her home, she prayed that these were angels.
Christmas. The holiday was all about angels. On every street corner were carolers; Christmas trees, all the rage since Prince Albert’s use of them, sparkled in windows. Candles adorned sills, welcoming wassailing and friendly company; glitter and firelight beckoned angels to tend the lost shepherds and sheep of London and tell them of miracles.
She’d seen many unbelievable sights over the course of the Grand Work, but she wasn’t sure if any of them had been angels. Sure, she’d seen winged things, and the godlike forces that drove the Grand Work had their angelic qualities, though they remained more of myth and legend. None of them called themselves angels and they didn’t quite act like what she’d expect of one. So she couldn’t say she believed in the creatures—being a practical woman despite how little she found strange—as she couldn’t vouch that she’d encountered any.
Nonetheless, Rebecca had long held a secret hope every Christmas tide that an angel would come to her, just like in the stories, and point to a star of reassurance. It would be a private prophecy, just for her, and one that promised she might one day be able to unlock herself, to feel the sorts of warmth, joy and celebration that the rest of London so effortlessly benefitted from during this holiday.
Thus, this year, as she had for many previous, though she felt her betraying, tortured heart unworthy, she allowed herself a desperate prayer that a miracle of this season might save her from herself.
Chapter Three
“Alexi, darling . . . we cannot go on holiday just yet,” Percy said as her husband took great care to settle her next to him before the fire in his study. As she’d told Michael, he had been achingly tender with her since they’d found out about