For Sara, the hours of the day had always passed slowly. Bound to her chair, there wasn't much she could do to pass the time. There were no other girls in the orphanage her age, so she had little companionship. True, she loved to read. She had a fine hand with a needle. She enjoyed painting. But they were all leisurely occupations, and none of them made the hours hurry swiftly by.
Sometimes, Sister Mary Josepha came to sit with her, regaling Sara with stories of her childhood inSicily . Sister Mary Josepha had been the oldest daughter in a household of ten daughters and two sons. She told of milking cows and goats, of gathering eggs, of shaving her younger brother's head because he threw her favorite doll down the well.
But on this day Sister Mary Josepha was tending the babies, and the other nuns were busily preparing for the Sabbath. And never had Sara yearned for the hours of daylight to end as much as she did now. For Gabriel would come with the darkness.
She was too excited to do more than toy with her food.
"Is something wrong, Sara Jayne?" Sister Mary Louisa asked.
Sara glanced up guiltily. "No, Sister."
"You've hardly touched your supper."
"I'm not very hungry. May I please be excused?"
Sister Mary Louisa and Sister Mary Josepha exchanged glances; then Sister Mary Louisa nodded. "I shall be in later to help you get ready for bed."
With a nod, Sara went to her room and closed the door.
She was the only girl in the orphanage who had her own room, a fact she had never appreciated more than now. They had told her it was because she was the eldest, because it was difficult to carry her chair up and down the stairs, but Sara thought it was because they knew she would most likely be in their care for the rest of her life, a fact Sara had gradually come to accept years ago as she watched one child after another leave the orphanage for a new life.
It had been painful, watching couples come to the home, watching them pass her by with hardly a glance when they realized she was crippled. She couldn't blame them for wanting younger children, children who were whole. But it had hurt just the same.
With a toss of her head, she put such thoughts aside. What did it matter now, when Gabriel was coming?
She brushed her hair until it gleamed like a newly minted gold coin, and all the while she kept glancing at the veranda doors, knowing it was too early for him to appear, yet growing more anxious with each passing minute.
Sister Mary Louisa came in to help her get ready for bed, helping her with the chamber pot, helping her into her nightgown, helping her get into bed.
"Don't forget to say your prayers, child," the nun said.
"I won't, Sister. Good night."
"Good night, Sara Jayne. God bless you."
The minutes ticked by, and still he didn't come. She heard the tower clock chime eight, heard muffled voices as the sisters herded the other children upstairs to bed.
Gradually, the house fell silent. She heard the clock chime nine, ten.
Had he forgotten? Or simply changed his mind? Perhaps he'd never meant to come at all.
She was about to extinguish the night light when she felt a breath of air whisper past her cheek. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him outlined against the veranda door.
"Gabriel! You came!"
"I said I would, did I not?"
Sara nodded as happiness welled up inside her.
"Have I come too late?"
"No."
She held out her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, he crossed the room. And then, to her utter astonishment, he dropped to one knee, took her hand in his, and kissed it.
The touch of his lips swept through her like wildfire.
Images imprinted themselves on her mind: the black silk of his hair, the dry warmth of his lips, the width of the shoulders beneath the voluminous folds of the black cloak.
And then he lifted his head, and she gazed into his eyes.
Fathomless gray eyes that seemed to see into her and through her.
Eyes filled with an immeasurable anguish that went deeper than sorrow.
Abruptly, he rose to his feet, as if he feared she had seen more than she should. His hand disappeared inside his cloak and reappeared with a book.
"For you," he said.
It was a volume of poetry, exquisitely bound. The pages were of fine parchment edged in gold leaf.
She would not have cared if the book were old and ragged, not if it came from him. But this... aside from her music box, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
"Thank you." She gazed up at him, clutching the book to her breast. "Will you read it to me?"
"If you wish."
She held it out to him, felt a shiver of delight race up her spine as his hand brushed hers. After removing his cloak, he lowered himself to the floor, his back braced against her bed.
Opening the book, he began to read. The poem was a song of unrequited love, filled with dark imagery and sensual innuendo.
His voice was deep, resonant, mellifluous. It conjured up images of moonlit nights, of faraway places and forbidden desires, of fair maidens and armored knights on white chargers, of love lost and love found.
The lamplight cast deep shadows over his profile and haloed his hair with silver.
He turned the page, and his voice filled the room, winding around her, cocooning her, until she was no longer a helpless invalid, but a fairy queen holding court on a golden cloud, a sea nymph riding the back of an enchanted porpoise, an elf dancing on the petal of a fragrant blossom.
There was magic in his voice, in the wondrous rhymes, in the very air around them.
She gazed at his profile and saw an arrogant warrior riding fearlessly into battle, a swarthy outlaw demanding justice, a proud knight in tarnished armor.
She had no idea how long she had been staring at him before she realized he had stopped reading.
She felt the color rush to her cheeks as his gaze met hers, and she felt suddenly confused, as if she had just awakened from a dream. It had all seemed so real, and as she looked deep into Gabriel's eyes, she realized that he had been the warrior, the outlaw, the knight in tarnished armor.
Gabriel stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Her eyes, as blue as the sky he had not seen in over three hundred years, were no longer the eyes of a child, but the eyes of a girl on the brink of womanhood. In a single glance, he noticed for the first time that there was no longer any hint of girlishness in her face or form. Her lips were full and naturally pink. Her neck was slender, graceful. Her hands were soft and smooth, and he felt a sudden shaft of heat spiral through him as he imagined her arms holding him, her hands caressing him.
She took a deep breath, and he noticed that she had taken on the full, pleasantly rounded shape of a woman.
But most startling of all was the realization that she was looking at him as if he were a man.
In a single fluid motion, he rose to his feet and dropped the book into her lap.
For a long moment, he held her in the heat of his gaze and then he reached for his cloak. The dark wool swirled around him like fog on a dark night as he settled it over his shoulders, and he was gone.
"Gabriel?" She blinked several times, wondering if she had, indeed, dreamed the whole thing. She picked up the book, still warm from his touch, and laid her cheek against the cover.
She hadn't imagined it. He hadbeen there.
Closing her eyes, she prayed he would come to her again.
He melted into the rising mists of darkness, welcoming the cold of the night, embracing the chill wind that blew off the river.
He had read to her from an ancient book of poetry, and she had stolen into his heart and caught a glimpse of his soul. She must have seen the darkness there, an emptiness that was deeper and blacker than the bowels of hell.
Why hadn't she been afraid?
Others had looked into his eyes and run away in fear; those who had not run fast enough, or far enough, had died.
Why hadn't she been afraid? How could he ever face her again?
He felt the anger rise up within him, and with it the lust for blood, the urge to kill.
He tried to ignore it, but on this night the hunger would not be denied.
Like a dark wraith, he prowled the near-deserted streets until he found what he was looking for, a homeless drunkard lying in the stinking refuse of an alleyway.
Like the angel of death, he hovered over the man, his long black cloak shrouding them in darkness as silent as the grave...
Sated, yet filled with self-disgust, Gabriel stormed into the long-neglected monastery where he had made his home for the past thirteen years. It was dark and gloomy inside, and he was content to leave it so. He had other dwellings: an ancient castle inSalamanca , a spacious apartment on a secluded street inMarseilles , a cottage in the Highlands of Scotland. The castle was his favorite abode. It was even older than he was, but he had refurbished it inside and out, until it again stood upon the hill as proud and glorious as it had once been.
But this place... he found it ironic that one as cursed as he should dwell within its walls, that a place that had once been hallowed by the presence of hundreds of righteous, God-fearing men should now be inhabited by a demon most foul.
Crosswick Abbey had once been a beautiful edifice, home of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart, but now the whitewashed stone walls were gray and crumbling; the stained-glass windows that were still intact were dulled by years of dust and neglect; the cross that had once adorned the steepled roof had decayed long since.
Why hadn't she been afraid?
He walked past the chapel, past the long row of small, cold cells, into the high-ceilinged room that had once been used to welcome visitors to the abbey. It was the largest room in the building save for the chapel.
He dropped into the huge, high-backed chair he had taken for his own. For the first time in decades, he was filled with self-loathing for who and what he was. What right did he have to survive at the cost of another's life? What right did he have to inflict his presence on a child as pure and sweet as Sara Jayne? She would be horrified if she knew what manner of creature came to her in the dark of the night.
He stared at the blood on his hands, and knew he could not see her again.
She waited for him the next night, and the next. And when a week passed and still he did not come, she refused to leave her room, refused to eat, or to drink anything except a little water now and then.
With the covers pulled up to her chin, she stared at the veranda doors, waiting, knowing he would not come.
Sister Mary Josepha and Sister Mary Louisa hovered over her, begging her to eat something, weeping softly when she refused to answer their questions. Kneeling at her bedside, they prayed for her soul.
"What is it, Sara Jayne?" they asked time and again. "Are you ill? In pain? Please, child, tell us what's wrong."
But she couldn't tell them about Gabriel, so she only shook her head, silent tears tracking her cheeks.
The doctor came, only to go away shaking his head. She overheard him tell the good sisters there was nothing physically wrong with her; it was only that she had lost the will to live.
And so she had. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Soon, she would no longer be a burden to anyone.
He stood on the balcony and stared at the rain, wondering why it reminded him of tears, and then, riding on the heels of the wind, he heard the sound of weeping.
Between one breath and the next, he was down the stairs and out the rusty iron gate, running with demon speed through the night, her name like the prayer of the damned on his lips.
He vaulted the wall of the orphanage with ease, crossed the grounds as silent as a shadow. Pausing at the veranda door, he peered inside. She lay beneath a heavy quilt, as still as death.
The complete absence of sound within the room echoed in his heart like thunder.
A wave of his hand opened the door and he stepped inside, then hurried to her side.
"Sara!" He threw back the quilt and lifted her into his arms. Her skin was dry and cold; her lips were blue. "Sara!"
She was dying. The knowledge struck him to the heart. She was dying, and it was his fault.
Without stopping to think of right or wrong, without pausing to consider the consequences, he opened the vein in his wrist and pressed it to her lips.
"Drink, Sara," he urged.
He waited for what seemed an eternity, but she didn't move. Frantic, he forced her lips apart, held his bleeding wrist over her mouth, and stroked her throat to make her swallow.
Not too much, he thought. He didn't want to initiate her, only bring the color back to her cheeks.
He removed his wrist from her mouth, and the wound healed almost instantly. "Sara?"
Her eyelids fluttered a moment and then she was staring up at him. "Gabriel?"
He cradled her against his chest, relief rushing through him. "I'm here."
"You didn't come. I waited and waited... and you didn't come."
"I won't leave you again, cara."
There was a bowl of broth and a glass of water on a tray on the bedside table. The soup had gone cold, but he warmed it with the heat of his gaze.
"Sara, I want you to eat this."
"I'm not hungry."
"Please, cara, for me."
"All right..."
Obediently, she swallowed several spoonfuls of the clear broth.
"No more," she murmured.
He put the bowl on the table, then drew her into his arms again. "Sleep now."
"Will you be here when I wake?"
"No, but I will come to you tomorrow night."
"On your honor, you promise?"
"I have no honor, cara, but I promise I will be here tomorrow night."
She summoned a faint smile, then, with a sigh, her eyelids fluttered down once more.
He held her for as long as he dared, his fingertips drifting over her hair, sometimes caressing the gentle curve of her cheek, until he felt the distant heat of the sun making its way over the horizon.
Only then did he let her go.
Only then did he admit that he would do anything, even surrender his own life, to keep her safe.
She woke feeling better than she had in months. Inexplicably, her legs felt stronger, and even though she attributed it to her imagination, it seemed as though she could feel the blood flowing through her useless legs. Sitting up in bed, she wiggled her toes, something she'd never been able to do before.
The sisters proclaimed her recovery nothing short of a miracle.
Her appetite had returned, as well. Sitting at the breakfast table a half hour later, she ate everything Sister Mary Carmen placed before her, and then asked for more.
She didn't miss the surprised looks that passed between Sister Mary Carmen and Sister Mary Louisa.
Later, sitting outside, she watched the younger children at play, and for the first time in her life, she wasn't jealous of their ability to run and jump.
Lifting her face to the sun, she offered a silent prayer to God, thanking Him for the beauty of the day, for the gift of life, for Gabriel...
Unable to help herself, she laughed softly as happiness bubbled up inside her. Gabriel had promised to come to her that night. More important, he had promised never to leave her again.
Later, she read a fairy tale to several of the children. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to spend the rest of her life here, Sara thought as she turned the pages. She could become a nun, if they would have her; if not, they might let her stay on and teach.
She paused in the story, looking over the top of the book into the faces of the children sitting on the grass at her feet. Such sweet faces, innocent and trusting, so eager to love and be loved.
Six-year-oldElizabeth smiled up at her, her eyes alight with anticipation as she waited for Sara to finish the story.
She could be happy here, Sara mused. If she could never have a child of her own, at least she could have children around her, children who needed love. And who could sympathize with them more, understand them more, than she?
She read another story, and then waved good-bye as Sister Mary Josepha called the children away. It was nap time.
Left alone, Sara gazed at the flowers that bloomed in wild profusion along the walkways. Today, with the sun shining and her heart filled with the certainty of seeing Gabriel, life seemed wonderful, perfect, filled with promise.
Today, with thoughts of Gabriel crowding her mind, anything seemed possible.
"Hurry to me, beloved," she whispered. "Hurry to me."
