A Midwinter Fantasy by L. J. McDonald, Leanna Renee Hieber, Helen Scott Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

an altar and windows with golden stained-glass angels lining the walls beside unornamented pews. A painted dove of peace floated on the back wall.
    “So strange, to come here and not have it open to our sacred space, eh?” Michael asked. “Strange, to have this simply be a chapel. So strange to be
normal
.”
    There were two alcoves in the back, like those that would house baptismal fonts but less elaborate; this was built a Quaker institution and thus there was no great pomp in the style. The founder of Athens had his tomb here and had left space for another. Rebecca had long ago abdicated her natural claim to it, not wishing to live floors above her imminent grave. None of The Guard had ever dreamed it would eventually be the resting place of their dear friend Jane, but it gave them some small comfort to know that she was close, that her mortal coil was interred here in this space that had been the doorway to so many incredible things, so near the raw power that had once driven their lives together.
    Michael and Rebecca approached the tomb bedecked in fresh bouquets: other Guard had paid their respects. Rebecca stared at the flowers, her hand to her lips.
    “They’re all those yellow favourites of hers . . .”
    “For as self-involved as our group has been, we listened to small yet important details,” Michael said with quiet pride. He offered his bouquet for Rebecca to do the honours.
    Her blush had returned. “And some remain oblivious . . .”
    Michael was unsure what exactly she meant.
    “Pray over her, Vicar. Please,” Rebecca insisted, closing her eyes.
    Michael searched his mind for appropriate Scripture and found it in Corinthians, an adulation suitable to the Grand Work that in recognizing separate gifts had created their family for life: “‘Some people God has designated in the church to be, first, apostles; second, prophets; third, teachers; then, mighty deeds; then, gifts of healing, assistance, administration and varieties of tongues.’ We miss you, Jane, you and your gift. All of our designated gifts left with you. We hope to somehow honour your name as we live on without you. We . . . we wish to see you again, but not if that would cost you your peace. Be our angel, Jane. You always were.” Michael looked up. “Oh, Heavenly Father, I hope you recognize what gold you’ve collected unto your bosom.”
    He felt a cold draft and glanced around in anticipation. But . . . there was nothing. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Surely Jane was at peace; gone to the arms of a long-lost love. He could not begrudge her that. What more could they wish for her than love and peace? It was selfish, wanting to see her again. He forced back tears.
    Rebecca’s face was unreadable. She moved to a pew and sat. Michael joined her, keeping a decorous distance though he yearned to slide close and put his arm around her. Just for support, for commiseration, for contact. He yearned for simple contact. How could it be too much to ask?
    The silence continued. Perhaps it was the sanctity of the church setting that was keeping them quiet, but Michael felt a riptide roiling deep within him, struggling and churning.
Please. Say something. I don’t know how to begin, Rebecca. You know how I feel; I’ve already confessed. Your silence makes me believe it was all in vain. I admitted my love, but what are yougoing to do with it? Insist you still that you were the one God should have taken? Can you possibly know how that pains me?
    The quiet continued. Michael felt himself drowning in it. They were too old. They were too broken. It was too late for them. Any relationship they could cobble together would be a joke. He was second best and always would be. Knowing what they knew about the afterlife, even death wouldn’t change that. He felt a heretofore uncharted depth of melancholy, and speaking his love aloud now seemed its own death sentence.
    The room grew frigid, and a harrowing wind burst through, though there were no open