“Well, yeah, but the priests get all bent out of shape if you hang out inside during the day. They got stuff to do, you know.”
“I won’t get in the way. I have to stick my arm into a closet.”
“Why?”
“It’s for a girl.”
“Hey.” Both Doug’s hands went up. “Say no more re amore. You go put your arm in a closet, and I’ll be waiting right here when they toss your ass back into the cold.”
“Sure.” Hurrying along the side of the sanctuary, he found himself really loving that word. It was a good, all-purpose sort of a word. “Sure,” he told himself softly. It could mean anything. Passing a niche holding a statue of Mary cradling an infant Christ, he smiled up at her. “Sure,” he said.
“And just what does that mean?” she demanded, shifting the baby to her other hip.
“You know…”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked. Stand up straight, Samuel, don’t slouch. And what have you done to your hair?”
“Um…” He touched his head. He hadn’t done anything to his hair. Had he? “I, uh, have to go put my arm in a closet.”
“Fine. Just remember to clean up when you’re done.”
“Sure. I mean, okay.”
“Teenagers,” the statue sighed as he hurried away.
“I refuse to believe my subconscious had anything to do with this,” Diana sighed.
“Beg pardon, Miss?”
“Never mind.” She settled back in the furs, left arm held out, coat shoved up, mitt shoved down. As they came out from under the trees and started across a rolling expanse of snow, the glowing angel’s hair taped around her wrist began to fade. When she pointed to the right, the driver, a pure white Alaskan Malamute, leaned out, barking, “Gee! Gee!”
The seven Mounties in the traces angled to the right, the sled came around, and the hair began to glow strongly again.
The Mounties were fresh and running well. They were making good time.
Standing in the basement of St. Mike’s with his arm stuffed into a broom closet, Samuel wondered why his hand was getting cold.
“There’s the trading post, Miss. Smells like we’ve found your exit.”
Diana sniffed at the frigid air, then rubbed her nose with the back of her mitten. “All I can smell is aftershave.”
“I had the Mounties groomed this morning.”
“Let’s just not go there, okay?”
The hair taped to her wrist blazed, and an answering light waved up and down at the trading post door. It disappeared for a moment then, just as Diana was beginning to worry, it reappeared again. A closet, wardrobe, armoire, or the like was necessary to enter the Otherworld but any door would do for a way out. Under normal circumstances, walking into the trading post with an intent to travel would put her back in her bedroom, but Samuel straddled both worlds as a metaphysical construct, and could, therefore, anchor an exit. Diana had thought out the theory very carefully.
Checking the ancient texts…
Consulting the mystic oracles…
Watching the National Geographic special on PBS…
Actually, the idea had come to her at two a.m. when a particularly loud whir/click from her clock radio had pulled her from a dream where she seemed to be either Sharon Stone or Barney Rubble. Which was in no way connected to anything much.
Since here she was and there was Samuel, the theory seemed sound and nothing more would have been accomplished even had she checked, consulted, and spent the evening with public television instead of Laura Croft.
By the time the sled pulled up in front of the trading post, Diana had untangled herself from the furs. Swinging both legs over the side, she sank up to her boot tops in the snow, staggered and would have fallen had the husky not stretched out a foreleg to help her. “Thank you.” Balance regained, she moved away from the runners, just barely managing to resist a totally inappropriate urge to rub his tummy.
“Glad to be of service, Miss.” He touched the edge of a pointed ear with one paw, whistled to his Mounties, and rode off into a convenient and localized sunset.
Diana watched them disappear, then climbed the thick plank stairs toward the light. Which disappeared.
Samuel rubbed his arm where the door kept closing on it and wished the Keeper would hurry.
The light reappeared, and from beyond it, Diana heard a voice say: “Why the hell does that damned door keep opening?”
Then the light disappeared again.
“Ow!”
Appeared.
“There’s nothing wrong with the damned latch.”
Disappeared.
“OW!”
Appeared.
This time, Diana had her mitten off. She reached into the light, felt fingers close around hers, and kicked the door open.
She heard the unmistakable hollow impact of wood hitting forehead, half an expletive, and then she was standing in a dim basement staring into the gold-flecked eyes of the angel. She could see the light he was made of, and that was good, but that wasn’t all she could see, and that was bad. Standing almost nose to nose, she realized he wasn’t much taller than she was and unthreateningly attractive in a boy band sort of way.
“Thanks for hurrying,” he muttered, releasing her hand and cradling his arm against his chest.
Diana blinked. “Are angels allowed to be that sarcastic?”
“Apparently.”
“Hey! What are you kids doing down there?”
They turned together to face the middle-aged nun stomping toward them.
“Please, excuse us, Sister. We were just leaving.”
She stopped in mid-stomp. “Right. Fine. Get going, then!”
“You can’t do that to a servant of the light,” Samuel protested as they hurried up the stairs.
“Yeah, I can. Just did.”
“But you’re not supposed to.”
“Did you want to explain what we were doing down there to Sister Mary I’ve-spent-more-years-teaching-teenagers-than-you’ve-been-alive-so-don’t-give-me-any-lip?”
“Her name is Sister Mary Francis.”
“So what? Look, Samuel, some things you can explain to Bystanders, some things you can’t. Pulling a Keeper out of a closet is totally can’t.”
They retraced Samuel’s path along the Sanctuary. He carefully avoided eye contact with the statue of the Holy Mother.
Half a dozen pigeons waited with Doug on the front steps.
