Chapter 4
Chapter Four
They traveled in silence down the cavernous halls of the palace for a time, the echo of their footsteps mimicking the hard pulse in Mags’s wrists.
She wished the queen would say something—she never knew what to say to the other woman.
Even before they attained immortality, Mary had intimidated her.
Didn’t every girl seek the approval of her partner’s mother?
Joseph had been jovial, relaxed, and charming, but Mary had always had an air of distance, of having been touched by something other and left among the mundane.
“Tell me," the older woman finally interrupted Mags’s racing thoughts. “How is my son?”
They both understood that she wasn’t asking about Christos. “He’s well. Misses you, of course.”
“Of course.” She smiled, but the shadow of grief had fallen over her beautiful face.
Mags’s heart ached for her and the deeply sad truth of her loss. To lose a child was an awful thing, but to have your child removed from your life and know they lived just beyond your reach? It had to be agony.
“I wish that I could go to him.”
“What stops you? Your husband?” The words slipped out before Mags could consider how impulsive they were. But a familiar frustration burned in her chest.
“Yes, my husband.” Mary cut her eyes aside to Mags, and her gaze was as chastising as her tone—and perhaps a touch wounded. “You would do well to remember he rules this domain, Mary.”
“What I remember is that he allowed my brother to die in agony so his son could make a spectacle of restoring him. He allowed me to die, not to mention your own sons. I am not so quick to forgive, and it amazes me that you are.”
“You all returned to life.”
“Of a sort.” The words were bitter in her mouth, the smoldering anger in her chest coaxing her to uncharacteristically free speech. “And how well has it worked in your favor with your children?”
The Queen came to an abrupt halt, and Mags stumbled in her haste to do the same. She realized immediately that she had gone too far.
“I sat at the cross with you, Mary.” Her tone was frigid and low. “I wept at the stone and tended a grave for three days without any certainty. Do not presume to question the manner in which I carry my grief.”
The words cut her like knives, and Mags swallowed harshly. “I beg forgiveness, your majesty.”
A long pause stretched, until Mary shook her head. “You need not. Sometimes I forget you are still so very young at heart.”
“It was rude to question your feelings,” Mags insisted. “Or your marriage.”
“In a way, I admire your openness.” She lifted a dainty hand and stroked her knuckles gently across Mags’s cheek. “No one speaks to me like a person anymore. I’ve become a figurehead and an accessory. I remember a time when I too possessed such fire, though it feels like a distant dream now.”
She resumed walking, Mags at her heels, and they soon approached the chapel.
The hallway opened into an atrium that served as the grand foyer of the palace.
The chapel doors were to their right, opposite the main entrance and nestled between two staircases sweeping up to the second floor.
Across from them, another hallway led to the west wing of the ground floor.
They paused in the center of the atrium, and Queen Mary offered Mags a small smile. “For what’s worth, my son is made better by your presence. He’s always happiest with you at his side.”
Mags flushed. “You flatter me.”
“Well, I have always been quite fond of you.” She looked over Mags’s shoulder. “Though unfortunately I believe this brings an end to our time together.”
Mags turned to see the doors of the chapel parting, swinging wide to allow Michael to step out of the shadowed sanctuary.
Queen Mary shooed her off. “Don’t let me keep you, but do come by more often, darling. It gets so lonely sometimes.”
“I will,” Mags promised. She caught the Queen’s hand and squeezed gently before they parted ways.
Michael closed the doors with as much effort as she would employ to close the cover of a book, even though they soared nearly twelve feet to the arched ceiling and were made from thick, sturdy oak.
He was a hard man to miss, even if Mags hadn’t known where to find him.
Tall even for a Seraph, he towered over seven feet, with flawless sun-kissed skin and a mop of unruly honey-colored curls like those painted on cherubs.
In contrast, he sported a perpetually stern expression—as if he knew whoever fell under his steely gaze had done wrong, and he intended to reprimand them appropriately.
And all of this was bordered by massive, tawny wings sprouting proudly from his broad shoulders.
He paused to touch the carved wing door handles almost reverently.
Mags approached with purpose in her stride and steel in her own gaze.
She was determined to win him to her cause, and while she hoped he would make it easy for her, she knew Michael could be.
..set in his ways. Especially when it came to matters involving Lucifer.
“Michael,” she called out brightly, and he turned abruptly, somehow managing to make startled recognition annoyingly attractive.
“Mags!” He opened his arms for a hug, and she smiled warmly as she stepped into his embrace. “How have you been?”
“Not well, I’m afraid,” she said, her smile dimming and taking his down a notch with it.
“Something is wrong.” He swept his gaze over her face and quickly discerned the severity of the situation. “Tell me immediately.”
“Do you have a scrying basin? It’s better if I show you.”
“Come with me.”
They moved swiftly through the halls. Michael’s step quickened by impatience to hear the news, but he made a conscious effort to slow enough that Mags wouldn’t be dragged behind him.
She did her best to enjoy the view through the massive stained-glass windows as they walked, the beautiful soft pinks and deep blues that offered tinted glimpses of a sunny beachside, but she found her own thoughts troubled by the news she had to deliver.
She knew she was about to visit painful revelations on another dear friend.
Michael paused before a smaller door, yet still one far grander than Mags’s petite form required.
She wondered what it must be like, to have a stature so grand that the palace had been specially crafted to accommodate it.
She found it annoying having to climb things to reach any sort of height, and she assumed the Seraphim probably found it just as frustrating having to duck through doorways.
They, however, were likely less inclined to throw tantrums about it—a state Mags was often resigned to, much to Luce and Christos’s amusement.
They passed into a space like a small theater.
Several rows of stone benches padded with plush burgundy cushions descended in tiers, spiraling around the circular room.
A squat marble pillar was situated in the center of the sunken floor, beneath a massive glass skylight that allowed clear midday light to spill into the otherwise shadowed room.
The pillar was unusually shaped, and it took Mags a moment to realize it was not one solid piece of marble, but two halves joined, carved in the form of small children.
A boy and a girl both stood facing each other, with arms uplifted to hold an ornate basin of wrought gold filigree and rosy-pink glass.
She blinked in wonder at the sight. “How have I never seen this place?”
“It is new,” Michael informed her brusquely. He was a man of few words at the best of times, and it tended to be worse when he was stressed.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured reverently, releasing his arm to approach the basin and running her hands ever so gently along the smooth, polished edges.
The surface of the water within seemed to shiver with tension, and the shiver that rolled down her own spine was from more than the faint chill that pervaded the cavernous room.
Power exuded from this artifact, indicating that it had been crafted with spells and components woven into its form.
She wouldn’t need to request any amplifiers, it seemed.
Michael frowned, gesturing with a sweep of his bell sleeve to the basin. “Please, no more delay.”
Mags swallowed harshly around the sudden tightness in her throat, nodding sharply. No posturing with Michael—he had no patience for moods and idiosyncrasies, hers or anyone’s. One more deep breath and Mags brought her palms together with a clap.
Immediately, she understood this scry basin was a much more powerful artifact than she had thought.
The heat from the fire ghosted over her face, embers kissed her skin.
The tang of blood and hot metal assaulted her nose.
She gasped and her hands flew to her lips as if to smother the sound before it could be heard.
They were not only viewing her vision but standing in the nightmare from all those years ago, brought to life around them.
This room was not designed for simple showcasing, she realized with a mixture of horror and awe.
It was meant for spectacle; for overwhelming people in sensation and visuals.
She began to tremble despite herself. It was a vision, nothing more, but her senses were caving under the onslaught of stimulus.
The sights, smells, sounds—it was beginning to feel horribly real.
A warm hand on her shoulder brought her back to herself, and she glanced up, instinctively leaning into the comforting grip. Michael squeezed reassuringly, steadying her with his presence. Mags took a deep, slow breath.
“Explain,” he prompted gently, eyes soft with concern but mouth still tightly pinched with impatience.
She nodded, lifting a trembling hand to point at a figure in the distance. Mercifully, he was facing away from them. She wasn’t sure she could handle the sight of his eager grin and laughing eyes right now. Michael paled at the sight of such wanton carnage, strong jaw clenching with anger.