Quatrain by Sharon Shinn Read Free Book Online Page B

closer. I pushed through one more tangle of people and found myself standing behind the back row of chairs, with a clear, unobstructed view of the stage.
    My eyes went instantly to Stephen. His tall, slender body was so familiar; those narrow white wings made a compact silhouette behind his body as if they had been folded down to the smallest possible shape. There had always been such intensity to Stephen. It had always seemed as though his muscles were corded, his hands were clenched, his wings were quivering with readiness. He had always appeared to be on the verge of—something. Speech. Flight. Anger. Laughter. Declaration. Renunciation. Whenever I was with him, I always found myself leaning forward just a little. Just as everyone in this crowd leaned forward, listening to the angels sing.
    My first thought was that he looked no different than he had when I’d met him twenty years ago. But as I stood there, hungrily staring, I gradually realized that that wasn’t true. His curly brown hair still fell almost to his shoulders, but it was a little thinner, a little darker. He was still slim, but he had filled out more; his body had a man’s weight now, not a boy’s. His expression was more set, more severe. If I were closer, I was sure I would see a few permanent lines carved down his cheeks or edging his eyes.
    He was my age, of course, or close to it—a year my junior, which I had never let him forget. I was the sophisticated young woman who could estimate the worth of a jewel merely by cupping it in her hand; I had bedded my first angel when I was sixteen. His father had sent him from Monteverde to Windy Point so he could gain a little sophistication of his own by serving with the Archangel-elect. He wasn’t a virgin when he arrived, but he might as well have been. He understood so little about the games between men and women.
    He learned them all rapidly and very well.
    I wondered how many women he had loved in the years since I had seen him last. I wondered how quickly he had lost his soulfulness, his sweetness, his sincerity. Was he by now as jaded as Raphael, as insensitive as Saul? Would I recognize his heart as instantly as I had recognized his face?
    I studied him as he sang. He stood a little apart from the other performers, all of whom looked to be Sheba’s age or even younger. He seemed to be watching them, as if they were children climbing the branches of a tree and he was afraid they would fall. As if he was standing directly beneath them, his hands already half lifted to catch them when they tumbled down. Perhaps this was their first public performance and he was guiding them through it.
    Perhaps one of them was a son or a daughter, and what he was showing was not concern, but love.
    I put a hand to my throat as if to hold back the sound of weeping.
    It was impossible that such a small movement across such a large room filled with so many people could have caught his attention. And yet something turned his gaze my way. I saw him recognize me and then freeze immobile. His eyes bored into mine; he actually missed a note of the music. The soprano sent him one quick, expressive glance of astonishment, while the tenor faltered and then manfully caught up. The alto, rapt in her own luscious melody line, didn’t seem to notice.
    It was only half a measure, and then Stephen’s voice steadied, underpinning the whole complex composition again. The soprano gained the courage to fling her voice up half an octave, and the song finished up on a wildly exuberant flare of eighth notes. The audience erupted into applause, and most of those lucky enough to have chairs surged to their feet, whistling and cheering.
    The whole time, Stephen did not take his eyes from mine.
    There were calls for an encore, and the younger angels seemed willing, but it was clear Stephen wanted to get off the stage immediately. Still watching me, he motioned to someone out of my sight line, and a heavyset young man climbed the stairs to take