Archangel's Heart

With Lumia so close, they should’ve had a thriving economy supported by custom from the stronghold. Instead, it appeared Lumia preferred to bleed them dry. Though . . . They have to pay enough for the goods they take that the town doesn’t go under—because Lumia needed the town—but I bet you it’s nothing close to market value.

Having finished their first snack, Raphael bought them juices made fresh by another roadside seller working from what looked like a semipermanent cart. He paid with a coin that had the juice man’s throat moving convulsively as he swallowed. “What was that coin?” she asked after taking a drink of the cold, refreshing liquid.

“Angelic currency, accepted worldwide. He can exchange it for his local currency at any exchange house or bank—and the coin I used will equal triple the cost of the drinks.” A brush of his wing over her own. “I’m afraid, Guild Hunter, that I assumed you knew about it and just preferred to use local coin.”

Frowning, Elena said, “You know, I have noticed those coins over the years but I guess I had no reason to pay attention.” A pause, before she lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. “You think it’s a good idea to pay with that here? I’m not sure he’s going to get fair value from whoever it is that does the exchange.”

“Angels do not handle the exchange,” Raphael told her. “Mortal financial institutions are kept apprised of the exact value of the coins—and they understand what will happen if they short anyone. Each coin is linked to a particular archangelic territory, and all transactions are monitored via a computer network that, in my case, connects back to the Tower.”

“I should’ve known.” Raphael had always been one of the archangels most in step with the world. A lot of that was because of Illium—the blue-winged angel was fascinated by technology.

Having finished their juices, they put the disposable cups in a nearby trash receptacle, then walked deeper into the market, taking in the reactions all around them while maintaining their impassive fronts. It was about ten minutes later that they discovered a hole-in-the-wall operation that was selling what looked like fresh-made tagine, each creation in its own tiny clay pot with the characteristic conical lid.

The kitchen, busy with two fast-moving bodies, was behind the large square window from which a smiling, dark-eyed woman passed out the food, prettily painted chairs and tables set out on either side of the restaurant window.

“Do you think your mom and Tasha would like some?” Elena asked, standing in line behind the stooped shoulders of an elderly couple who’d clearly not noticed the angelic pair behind them.

The counter clerk, meanwhile, was trying frantically to mouth at the couple to move away—at least until Raphael shook his head at the hyperventilating woman. “I will ask.” A pause before he said, “Mother tells me she convinced Tasha to go a short distance and bring them back mint tea and a plate of sweetmeats. They don’t need anything else for the moment.”

In front of them, the elderly man’s age-spotted hand held a tremor as he tried to pay for the food he’d purchased. It was the tremor of a life long lived, not fear, and when the money slipped from his grasp to flutter to the ground, Elena thought nothing of bending down and picking it up.

Turning, the man went to smile . . . and caught sight of her wings, of Raphael. His face turned sheet white under the sun-dark brown of his skin. Scared he’d have a heart attack, Elena smiled as gently as she could, touched him on the upper arm in silent reassurance, then placed the money on the counter.

By this time, the man’s wife was staring at them, too.

Eyes a little bleary, the elderly woman suddenly smiled a smile so dazzling it was breathtaking and stepped toward Elena. Tears rolled down her cheek, her water-logged but joyous outpouring incomprehensible to Elena but for a single word: “Majda.”

I’m asking Tasha to translate, Raphael said, while the woman went as if to throw her arms around Elena.

Jerking to life, her husband started to pull her back, but Elena was having none of that. She closed her arms and her wings around the woman’s fragile body with care, the elder’s bones like a bird’s under her touch. The woman cried and continued to talk, and her hands, they patted at Elena as if she was a daughter long lost come home.

When Elena drew back after a long moment, folding her wings once more to her back, the woman’s face was incandescent with joy and wet with tears. Elena wiped those tears away with gentle fingers.

Tasha says this woman is calling you Majda’s blood. Madja was her friend’s child, and when she was lost, it broke her parents’ hearts. They died far too young. Raphael paused as the woman spoke again. She is so happy the child survived.

She has to be talking about my mother. Elena knew she’d been reaching from the start when it came to Majda, but it simply didn’t make sense to her that the two of them would share such similarities without being related. And now, another piece that fit. A child. “I want to tell her the child was my mother, that her name was Marguerite.”

Tasha came through, giving Raphael the words Elena needed to say. When she spoke them, the elderly woman sobbed again and hugged her, while repeating Marguerite’s name over and over. It was at least a minute later when she drew back and began to speak to her husband.

Patting Elena’s hand afterward, she beamed and stepped back.

Elena wanted so much to ask her more questions, but the fear in the husband’s eyes stopped her. She wouldn’t hurt this sweet couple, wouldn’t repay the woman’s affectionate welcome by terrorizing her husband.