Archangel Read Online Free Page A

question his wisdom and his kindness—or to importune him, as she did now, to unleash his powerful destructive wrath.
    “O Yovah, if it be thy will,” she prayed, her voice a whisperbut fierce for all that, “call down thy curses on this thrice-damned city. Strike it with fire! With thunderbolts! Cover it with storm, and flood it with the raging river! Let everyone within its borders die, and let every stone be washed away to sea. And let me stand on the riverbank and watch.” She took a deep breath, scowling at the now-empty bridge. “Amen,” she added, very softly, and turned back toward Lord Jethro’s house.
    Late in the afternoon, Anna sent her to Lady Mary’s room. “For her own woman’s come down with some fever, and she can’t seem to dress herself. No, nor style her own hair—”
    Rachel stared at the bondwoman. “Well,
I
don’t know how to style a lady’s hair,” she said.
    “Well, you can do up the back of her dress and make a curl with the hot tongs, can’t you?”
    “I can do the buttons, I suppose, but I’ve never—curling tongs!”
    Anna pushed her out of the kitchen, where they had both been helping the cook, and in the direction of the great stairs that led to the living quarters of the gentry. “Do what you can. Lady Clara says the little one’s near hysterics.”
    Still protesting, Rachel allowed herself to be pushed from the room and wearily began climbing the three flights to the guest rooms. The lady Mary was to wed Lord Jethro’s son, Daniel, on the following morning in a ceremony that bid fair to be the most lavish Semorrah would see this season. Already the palatial house was full to overflowing with visitors from all three realms— wealthy Jansai merchants from eastern Jordana, the Manadavvi landowners of Gaza, the craftmasters of Luminaux and angels from all three holds. Indeed, someone had said the Archangel had arrived the night before, although Rachel had not laid eyes on him. Not that it was a sight she pined for.
    In the midst of all this confusion, the lady Mary looked like a lost soul. Her father had accompanied her when they arrived three days ago, and then promptly disappeared with his host to discuss politics, economics and fishing vessels. The young bride had no mother or sisters or friends, and the lord Daniel had not appeared interested in entertaining her, as the match was a financial one, not romantic. Rachel had actually found it in her heart to be sorry for the girl—small, mousy, hopeful and frail—andshe was not a woman who generally wasted pity on any of the gentry.
    Her impatient knock on Mary’s door was answered by a quick “Come in!” uttered in a high, childlike voice. Rachel entered. The lady Mary indeed looked as if she might start crying at any moment. She was standing in her petticoats and chemise, shivering before a small fire, attempting with her hands crooked behind her back to wind her long, thin hair into some kind of knot. Nonetheless, she was trying desperately to hold onto her dignity.
    “Can I help you?” the lady asked in a polite voice.
    Rachel almost smiled. “I’m Rachel,” she said, coming in and shutting the door. “I was sent to help
you
.”
    The lady dropped her hands. Her face was suddenly eager. “Oh, could you?” she exclaimed. “My poor girl is so sick, and she’s the only one who ever does my hair, and helps me with my clothes, and she knows just how all the layers go, and I just don’t think I can manage it myself—”
    “I don’t know about the layers,” Rachel said, stepping forward. “And I’ve never done much with hair. But I’ll do what I can.”
    “Thank you so much. Really, I just—thank you.”
    Rachel had dropped to her knees before the fire. “Let me stir this up a little. You look half frozen.”
    “A little chilly, maybe,” the girl murmured. “I didn’t know how to make it burn again—my girl usually does that.”
    Does this “girl” have a name?
Rachel wanted to ask, but she