“I have my work.”
“But you won’t tell me what this work is, will you?”
“It’s my work, Michael. It needn’t concern you.”
“And from where do you receive your orders, Venn? God? Or a higher authority, in your mind—yourself?”
Venn now stepped into the older priest’s view. In silhouette, with the lowering sun making a corona around his head, his eyes could not be read behind their dark glasses, which looked now like skull sockets in his white face. “That is a cruel joke, Michael, and in poor taste.”
Clare did not continue. He had heard odd things about his fellow priest. Some of them unnerving. He moved past the younger man toward the house. “I’m going to join the other guests, now,” he muttered.
“Enjoy yourself,” Venn told him, watching him go. He then turned toward the knots of people laughing and conversing about the garden and grounds, and drifted toward them like a cloud’s shadow across the green lawns.
* * *
The woman Lucetta brought from the house to meet Father Venn was remarkable in two ways. For one, she was beautiful. Though small in stature, she was shapely, and her dress of Jersey cloth clung tightly to her waist and arms. As was the popular style in this year of 1883, the back fullness of the dress was lower than previously fashionable, but still given bulk by cascades of ruffles. Mrs. Fawley’s dress, more formal, swept a train of white ruffles behind her across the grass. The other woman’s dress was largely black.
Her hair, a thick bundle above her head, was as dark as his own, her flesh as pale. Her eyes were as large in her face as those of a child; a dark-eyed, solemn child. Her mouth was small, but he couldn’t decide yet if it were merely composed and dignified or a sullen pout.
The other remarkable thing about the woman approaching him was that she had wings, as sleek and tapered as those of a falcon, sprouting from her back.
“Father,” Lucetta Fawley said, “you told me that I was the patron saint of our little potter’s field, but I couldn’t take that credit alone. Please let me introduce to you my friend whose idea this benefit truly was—Emma Garland.”
Venn took the woman’s slim, cool hand. “Delighted. So you, then, are also a guardian angel, Mrs. Garland.”
A small smile flickered upon the young woman’s lips, which Venn could no better read at this close distance. “It’s the Christian thing to do, Father.”
“Oh, please excuse me a moment, would you?” Mrs. Fawley fretted, noticing the arrival of yet another new group of guests.
“Certainly,” Venn told her. “So, Mrs. Garland, what inspired you to suggest this fund- raising event to your friend Mrs. Fawley?”
“We’re both widows, Father. The mutual loss of our husbands makes us sensitive to the condition of these poor indigents.”
Her wings were lovely in themselves, and made her exquisite doll-like beauty all the more striking. She was like some dark angel made to surmount a madman’s Christmas tree. The wings were black, but shaded to silver at their tips. Or so he guessed, through his red lenses.
Without his spectacles, however, he would not be able to tell the true colors of those wings…for without them, he would not be able to see the wings at all.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss. When did your husband pass away?”
“Oh, it was long ago, I’m afraid.”
“How dreadful. And yet you’re still so young. You must not have had much time together. A tragedy.”
For several moments, the woman only gazed up at him, her eyes as impossible to read as her lips. His eyeglasses could reveal those wings sprouting through the material of her gown, but could not reveal to him the thoughts behind her features.
“I’m new to this town, Father, but I’ve not seen you before. Are you a newcomer yourself?”
“I’m from Candleton. And yourself?”
“Summerland.”
“I’m not sure I’ve been there.”
She smiled. “It’s quite far from here.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been to Candleton. That was where that cathedral burned so badly last year, wasn’t it? Oh dear—that wasn’t your church…”
“Indeed, I’m afraid it was.”
“Oh no…”
“Yes, it was quite mysterious. Some say there are dark forces at work in Candleton. Two of my fellow priests died in the fire.”
“How terrible. Yes, I’ve heard some say your town is thoroughly haunted. And wasn’t the cathedral built upon one of those ancient straight paths? I’ve seen the standing stones in your town…”
“It’s a very old town.”
“Was the cathedral ruined beyond repair?”
“I’m afraid so. But you see my spectacles?”
“Yes. They’re interesting.”
“I had them made from the stained glass of one of our cathedral windows. It was a powerful place, our church. I thought seeing through this glass would lend extra vision to my sight.” He smiled at his own joke.
“And does it?”
“Yes. It does just that. So, Mrs. Garland…when was it you last visited Candleton?”
“Oh…really I don’t recall. It was some time ago. The cathedral was standing the last I saw it.”
They had begun to stroll together, toward the garden. Venn noticed that, though the air was lush and still, a continuous soft breeze seemed to ruffle the dark feathers of the woman’s wings.
“Have you ever raised funds to have other potter’s fields blessed and their plots properly marked?”
“No. This is the first time.”
“And why this one?”
Emma Garland stopped and turned to face the priest. Even smiling, her true expression lay hidden and mysterious to him. “You ask quite a lot of questions, Father.”
He feigned a look of distress. “Do I? I’m terribly sorry. I don’t mean to be rude…”
She began to lead him toward the garden again. The sun was burning its way below the edge of the earth, and the garden was blue with the gloom of summer evening. Still, the priest did not remove his eyeglasses.
“Don’t apologize, Father. I enjoy your com- pany…”
The garden as they moved through it had been abandoned but for a young couple they startled, seated on a bench in an amorous embrace. Straightening themselves, they rose and departed briskly. Watching them go, Emma Garland smiled. “To be young and in love again.”
“You’re still young, Mrs. Garland. Aren’t you?”
The woman lifted her eyes to his red lenses, the smile draining from her lips. “I’m not as young as I look. But you know that, Father Venn. Don’t your spectacles show me for what I am? Do they show me as a rotted corpse?”
“You’re quite lovely, to be honest.” Venn tried not to swallow the saliva that flooded his mouth. He didn’t want her to see his adam’s apple nervously shift.
“I died with my husband, Father. In 1829.”
“How did you know what my spectacles could do?”
“As you can see mysteries through them, Father, so can I. I can see your eyes through them.”
Venn wished that the sun would last a while longer. The red lenses made the garden purple and as dark as a garden at the bottom of the sea. And like some phosphorescent fish, the pale face of the woman before him seemed almost to glow luminous.
“When the cathedral was burning, I saw a winged figure through the window,” Venn told her. “I didn’t know if it were an angel come to lead our souls away, or a dark angel who had come to destroy us.”
“I can’t help you with that, Father. I wasn’t that angel.”
