where a squat old woman sat at a table peeling potatoes, the filthy skins dropping from her knife onto a spread- out newspaper.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.
“This is Mr. Chandler,” Montagin announced as they entered the kitchen, and Remy watched as the old woman jumped at the sound of his voice. “He has some questions to ask you, and I would appreciate if you answered them.”
Montagin then looked to him. “I will be in the study if you should need me,” the angel announced before turning to go back the way they’d come.
“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Chandler?” the woman asked, pushing back her chair as she started to stand.
Remy watched her, and knew at once that she was blind. It was no surprise to him; Angels who functioned on Earth had a tendency to surround themselves with the sightless. There was something about the affliction that lent itself to the service of Heavenly beings.
Some said it had something to do with the sightless being able to see—
“That would be very nice, Ms. . . . ?”
“Bridget will suffice,” she said with a pleasant smile, fingers gently laid upon the tabletop as she moved around the furniture to get to the stove, where a pot of coffee sat.
She poured him a steaming cup of the dark liquid and carefully set it down in front of him without spilling a drop.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked. “Or would you prefer milk?”
“This is fine,” Remy said, picking up the cup and taking a careful sip. It was some of the best coffee he’d had in ages. Madeline would have called it rocket fuel it was so strong, but that was just the way he liked it.
Bridget continued to stand there, fingertips resting atop the table.
“Excellent coffee, Bridget,” he told her, expecting her to find her way back to her chair; but she continued to stand before him, sightless eyes gazing off into the kitchen.
“Glad you like it,” Bridget said, again with a tender smile. “It’s one of my special talents.”
Remy wholeheartedly agreed and took another drink of the scalding brew, the older woman still standing in front of him. He was about to ask her if there was something wrong, or something that he could do for her, when she began her question.
“Would it be forward of me to ask to touch your hand?” Bridget asked.
For a moment he didn’t understand, but he quickly came to realize that she wanted to
“Normally I have far better manners than this, but in you I’m sensing . . .”
Remy did not wait for her to finish. Instead, he reached out, gently taking her hand in his.
“How’s this?” he asked, watching the expression upon her face change.
“Oh my,” Bridget whispered, her cheeks beginning to flush pink. “You’re lovely.”
“Why, thank you,” Remy said with a laugh.
The old woman then lovingly patted his hand and returned to her seat.
“And why haven’t I seen somebody like you around here before?” she asked as she lowered herself down into her seat, and felt out a potato to begin peeling again.
“Let’s just say your master and I don’t run in the same circles,” Remy said.
She seemed to accept that, nodding in understanding.
“Mr. Montagin said that you have some questions for me,” she said, her knife expertly separating the skin from the body of the potato.
“I do,” Remy said. “When was the last time you had contact with Aszrus?” he asked.
She stopped her work, thinking about the question.
“Last night, before supper,” she said. “I was going to make a roast chicken, but he told me not to bother— that he was going out for the evening.”
“And that was it?” Remy asked. “You didn’t speak with him again?”
“Only briefly, when he asked if I would make him shepherd’s pie for tonight.” Her smile was beaming. “He loved my shepherd’s pie.”
“I’m sure it’s something amazing,” Remy responded, finding all of this absolutely fascinating. Here were angels of Heaven, creatures not known for their love of humanity’s ways, embracing many of the habits for which he himself had been ostracized by his kind.
“Perhaps if you and the master could put aside your differences—at least long enough to have a good meal—you might be able to see just how amazing.”
“That certainly is something to consider,” Remy said, finishing up the most excellent cup of coffee, and rising from his chair. He reached across the table to touch her hand again. “Thank you so much for your time, and the coffee.”
She told him that he was most welcome, but as Remy pulled his hand away, she grabbed hold of his fingers in a passionate grip.
“Why exactly are you here, Mr. Chandler?” Bridget asked. “Is everything all right?”
Remy could sense her rising concern, and did everything in his power not to let on. It was still too early for the fate of her master to be revealed.
“I’m helping Mr. Montagin with an investigation,” he told the concerned old woman. “As soon as we’ve gathered all the facts, I’m sure we’ll be speaking again.”
Remy felt bad that he couldn’t tell her more, but was afraid that if he did, things would soon spiral out of control.
She released his hand without another word, and he left her there, staring off into space, alone with her curiosity and concern.
Remy found Montagin in the foyer of the home, finishing up his talk with the remaining staff.
“And if you should remember anything out of the ordinary, please do not hesitate to inform me.”
The random assortment of men and women, young and old, all sightless, responded that they most assuredly would, and proceeded to slowly go about their duties.
As Remy watched them he could see that there was some hesitation there, that some of them were attempting to get up enough courage to ask what this was all about. He used the opportunity to inject himself into the scene, canceling out their opportunity.
“Mr. Montagin,” Remy said aloud, announcing his presence.
He watched those who had not yet left rethink their next action, then disappear into the house along with their curiosity.
“Anything?” Remy asked.
“If they did hear something, they’ve chosen not to talk about it,” Montagin answered. “Was Ms. Worthington any help?”
“Bridget?” Remy asked. “No. She had a brief exchange with the general last night before he went out.” He kept his voice low in case there were any ears close by.
Remy took hold of Montagin’s elbow, steering him back toward the study and the scene of the crime.
“What now?” Montagin asked. “If we report this to the proper authorities, you know what the outcome will be.”
Remy knew exactly what would happen; it was as sure as dropping a lit match into a bucket of gasoline.
The forces of Heaven were looking for an excuse, any excuse at all, to begin another war with the legions of the Morningstar.
“We need to keep what’s happened a secret as long as we can,” Remy said as they stood in front of the heavy wooden doors leading into the study.
“I’m not sure how long that might be,” the angel assistant said. “Aszrus had certain responsibilities.”
“They’ll need to be canceled,” Remy stated.