Chapter Three
Eve
I woke to something on the wind, a whisper or flutter of wings, perhaps.
It took a hazy half second to remember where I was—the moors, an old manor house called Mirkwold, a housekeeper for a master who stayed in the shadows, in a musty old bed—and I lurched out of the old-fashioned box bed, opening the wood doors and crawling out into the freezing cold servant’s chamber.
Shivering in my stockings and shift, I threw on my heaviest clothing and tucked my shawl around my shoulders. This place was draftier than a wicker basket. Even the key I wore around my neck was cold.
I had spent the rest of yesterday evening poking around the domestic wing with a brass candlestick, eyeing the layers of dust. I even found mildew growing up one of the exterior walls in the pantry.
Yawning, I tripped down the stairs to the kitchen and started a fire.
The pile of kindling was low, and the pile of firewood even lower.
How did anyone live in this house without freezing to death?
I ended up drinking tea and eating a hard biscuit while huddled near the fire, a screen helping trap the heat.
Was I supposed to bring him breakfast? What did the Herald of Death even eat?
I sighed, rubbing my forehead. This mission might become more trouble than it was worth.
Once thawed through, I searched the outdated kitchen for cleaning supplies and realized this kitchen didn’t even have a stove. Only a fireplace. I gritted my teeth. My family was by no means wealthy, but I was accustomed to cooking with modern methods.
A moldy potato rolled across the floor when I opened the pantry. I huffed in frustration. Something had to change and had to change today. What was wrong with these people?
I spent four hours cleaning the kitchen and pantries, scrubbing the dust and mildew and decades of old soot. I did find and polish some beautiful copper pots, but had no idea what food to put in them. By lunchtime, I had accomplished one room in this manor. One room.
My stomach growled, but there was nothing to eat but another hard biscuit.
My bedchamber took an hour. I inspected the bed-sheets with a critical eye, and decided I’d have to spend a week boiling and bleaching all the linens in the house. If I wanted to make a good impression on my new master, I needed to focus on the rooms he frequented.
That meant the Great Hall.
After I filled a bucket with soapy water using the pump in the back garden, I stared at the floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows of the oriel in dismay. I had to clean that? It had to be twenty feet high. These windows would take all week.
My fear of the Herald had faded quickly, replaced with baffled frustration. Why would such a powerful and holy creature live like this? Sighing, I considered kicking the bucket over, grabbing my valise, and running away—not back home.
But if I failed, Zor would track me down and punish me before the entire congregation. I needed to please him, and then I’d disappear while he was busy gloating.
My hand drifted to the key around my neck, gripping the warm length out of habit.
Slowly, light shone through the stained glass I had reached.
Blues, reds, and greens scattered across the dusty floor.
I stepped back to admire my work—less than one tenth of the whole display, but what I’d accomplished looked beautiful.
I couldn’t tell what picture the stained glass painted, but the little corner I’d uncovered seemed to be wildflowers in a meadow.
A renewed sense of purpose swept through me, chasing away the exhaustion and aching muscles.
I could do this; I could make this beautiful again, and it would be my work and it would stay done.
My bucket of water turned gray again. I hefted it up and walked through a side door toward a courtyard hemmed in by the house and two rows of trees. I stepped outside and froze.
There, sheltered under the bare branches of the trees, stood my master.
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t even blink for fear he would disappear.
He was…beautiful. He was angelic.
I hadn’t expected that. My mind refused to accept it while my body couldn’t move on from the realization. I gripped the pail so tight the handle dug into my skin.
He stood in profile to me, face raised to the sky.
Hair the color of night tumbled down the sides of his face, unkempt and wild.
His skin, naturally pale, was pink in response to the cold, for he wore no shirt.
None at all. Broad shoulders turned to a well-defined chest and abdomen, evidence that while the church might call him the Herald of Death, he was very, very alive.
Leather trousers covered powerful, long legs.
His face was beautiful. Tragic. The line of a broad forehead and prominent nose traveled down to a square jaw. I wished I knew the color of his eyes.
The stories were true.
But this man was no human. He wasn’t a monster, like Zorababel had warned me. He was an angel.
Wings as white as snow sprung from his back. The crests were nearly equal to the crown of his head, and he was a tall man. Those wings, folded tightly against his bare back, swooped down until the primaries stopped inches from the ground.
My heart ached—literally ached—at the sight.
I must’ve breathed, must’ve gasped, or made some other noise, for he went still, as still as a predator, and then his head turned and he pierced me with his gaze.
Eyes the deep, soulful green of a pine forest pinned me where I stood.
I understood why Zor’s grandfather called him the Herald of Death, though my body thrummed with life when he looked at me. That intense stare, those finely cut cheekbones, the angelic wings, and the latent power within this otherworldly being all spoke of a power over life and death itself.
Was he from Erlik? Was he a god, one we hadn’t known existed? All I knew was I could not bear the weight of his gaze, and yet I could not turn away.
Had Zorababel lied to me? Or had he not known? Those questions were nearly a constant refrain in my head for years now, so it should not surprise me that he’d lied—or been misled—about this otherworldly man with wings. But, then, some monsters were the most beautiful creatures. Which was he?
“You.” His voice was soft but deep. “What are you doing here?”
“I–I’m getting water.” I held up my bucket as proof.
His wings twitched. “I did not expect to see you today.”
Clearly not. Heart thumping, I dropped into a curtsy, the bucket of water sloshing and getting the hem of my apron wet. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Ser.”
His eyes flashed and he stepped toward me. His bare feet moved silently over the moss-covered cobbles of the courtyard
Oh no, he’s coming over to meet me. I wasn’t ready for this. I was a terrible liar, and I couldn’t tell him why I was truly here. My eyes flicked anywhere but his face, landing on his wings. My breath came in shallow, uneven pants.
The master stopped right in front of me. My eyes jumped back and forth between his bare chest and the wings peeking over his shoulders.
My mouth went dry. I set the bucket on the ground, afraid it would slip from my suddenly sweaty hands. By all four gods, he was even more gorgeous up close. Tragically beautiful. I was a drab little sparrow beside a swan.
“Gabriel.” He was tall, well over six feet, and his chiseled jaw could rest on the top of my head. His eyes had the faintest wrinkles at the edges, and stern, deep lines bracketed his mouth, as if he’d forgotten how to smile. He seemed to be in his mid thirties, which made no sense at all.
My mind still wasn’t working with all that unearthly beauty focused on me. “Beg pardon?”
His jaw worked and he folded his arms across that muscular, expansive chest. How was he not cold? It was November, for goodness’ sake. “My name. It’s Gabriel. Not Mr. Ser.”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. It finally caught up to me. “The, uh, job posting in the newspaper. It said you were a reclusive gentleman named Ser.”
His skin had goosebumps. I had the sudden urge to reach out and warm them away. “My manservant likely chose that because it’s a shortened title for what I am: a seraph.” He spoke with a faint accent I didn’t recognize.
I nodded, eyes wide and innocent as if I’d never considered that. Zorababel had guessed it. It’s why he’d told me to apply for the position, because it was one of the clearest clues that this “reclusive gentleman” was who he wanted.
Gabriel’s green eyes never left my face, though I wished they would. I didn’t want an angel to see my human flaws. “Will this be a problem?” Little plumes of breath escaped his smooth, inviting lips. Why couldn’t I look away from those lips?
“Problem?” I squeaked.
“That I am not human,” he said slowly. “That I am a seraph.”
Oh, that. He must think I’m an idiot. I shook my head even though it was very, very much a problem for me. I had been prepared for a wizened old monster or an otherworldly sinister creature, among many others. I had not prepared for this masculine, virile angel.
My body wanted to cant toward him, wanted to feel those big, strong arms around me, wanted to touch his wings.
No. No. This wasn’t the plan. I could not be attracted to him. Zor would murder me if I ruined his plan, and I didn’t wish to ruin my own plan, either.
I licked my lips, thinking of a response.
His eyes darkened, narrowing in on my mouth. He leaned forward.
Did he feel it, too?
No, it didn’t matter. I pushed onward. “I have heard stories of your kind but never truly believed them.” That was…
mostly true. I wasn’t about to tell him my entire upbringing in the Church of the Love of His Divine Saints had been full of speculations about him, the leader of the winged monsters. Angels.
I forced myself back to the conversation at hand. “I will stay.” Only as long as I have to, though.
His lips pursed and his chest expanded with a deep breath.
“If you decide you cannot tolerate working for me, do not run away into the night. The moors can be dangerous for those unused to them. I expect complete discretion from you.” His eyes hardened.
“Complete. I will be severely angry if my privacy is violated. That is why you are earning such generous wages.”
I am? Zor had handled all the correspondence and negotiations with the manservant. I had just gone where I was told.
I nodded. “And what duties do you expect of me, sir?”
One hand waved vaguely. “Housekeeper duties.”
“Such as?” I pressed. I could keep a normal-sized house.
That’s one of the reasons I was betrothed despite not being a good catch otherwise.
But a manor? On the moors? No, I was used to the outskirts of Lownden.
I was used to living among the church community, serving the men alongside other women—my friends, my family.
“Cleaning?” It came out as a question, but by the rigid set of those bare shoulders I didn’t think he meant it to be.
“But what rooms do you wish me to prioritize? The Great Hall? Your chambers?”
His eyes widened and alarm passed across his face—at least, that’s what I would’ve called it if he were human. “No, leave my private rooms for last. The Great Hall can be your first focus.”
“What about cooking? What did your butler do?”
“Very little,” he said dryly.
“There’s not much left in the pantry or larder. Should I make a shopping list? What do seraphim eat?”
His nostrils flared and his lips pressed into a firm line. “What is this inquisition?”
I nearly took a step back. But no, I was a new Eve, I was forging myself stronger and better. So I lifted my chin. “I’m your housekeeper and your cook. I need to know what you eat.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Seraphim do not eat much. When I do, I source my own food from the sky.”
My stomach growled. I slapped a hand to it, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
He frowned at my middle. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”
“No.” I flushed. “That’s a human hunger noise.”
“You may eat when you feel the need,” he told me magnanimously.
I hesitated.
For being a hermit, Gabriel read human faces well. “What?”
“Like I said, there’s not much food. I have perhaps enough for tonight’s meal.” The thought of the hardened, dry bread made my mouth pucker. “May I go to the village tomorrow and purchase food? For both of us?”
He nodded.
“Thank you. I have a trunk at the inn, too. I’ll pick it up when I go,” I babbled. His gaze was making me nervous again.
I bent over to pick up the bucket. It was heavier than I remembered, and I tilted forward, wildly off balance. The key fell out of my bodice, dangling around my neck.
The mossy cobblestones careened toward me. Perfect. In front of the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, too. I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the bucket drop to catch myself. Water splashed over my dusty skirt.
Suddenly two hands, burning hot and strong, halted my descent.
I barely held back my squeak as Gabriel pushed me upright again.
One hand braced my shoulder, the fingers long and curved across my arm.
Heat shot through my arm at his touch, chasing away the chill of the November day.
His other hand had landed on my left breast.
My eyes bulged when I registered the hand cupping my bosom. It scorched through my dress, corset, and chemise, straight onto my skin and my heart beneath it. My mouth fell open as I stared at Gabriel the seraph, my master, the lord of the manor, and finally found my footing.
His eyes, green fire, burned as he stared at me. Gabriel seemed to notice his hand placement at the same heartbeat I did, for he froze. His gaze drifted down to my bosom.
My body responded. I felt lit on fire, a passion flaming to life I didn’t think existed.
His lips parted. His eyes fluttered, and his black lashes contrasted against the pale pinkness of his cheeks. His thumb brushed the inside curve of my breast. I nearly leaned into his touch.
He released me.
Ice doused my body. I gasped for breath at the loss of sensation as I grabbed my necklace and stuffed it back inside my bodice.
“Watch your step,” he growled, and whirled away. “I don’t need an injured human in this house.”
I stared as he stalked away, confused and fascinated and horrified in equal measures.