When Pippa was five,she’d survived the measles.
The epidemic had ripped through the remote little English village where she’d lived, and afterwards it was said her survival was a blessed miracle.
She remembered her mother laying her cool hand on her forehead, soothing her, feeding her spoonfuls of soup with soft, soaked bread. She’d been so feverish that the dreams she’d had were colourful nonsense. In between brief bouts of waking, she was aware the doctor had been in the room, talking in hushed tones to her parents, who stood by the window. She remembered the sun flooding through the round window panes, glinting on her mother’s hair, as if surrounding her with a halo.
Like an angel, she’d thought. Like a beautiful angel.
That had been the last time she’d seen her mother alive, for she, too, succumbed to the measles, and died before Pippa herself had fully recovered.
Her father had been broken; Pippa herself numb,confused. Surely Mama couldn’t be gone; surely, she couldn’t leave like that without saying goodbye…
Then she felt herself lifted, and she did not like the feeling of being disoriented, of falling.
She made a sound of distress. A low voice murmured something, and it was black once more.
The next time she awoke, she felt something cool on her forehead.
She strained to open her eyes, but they refused to obey. Her eyelids were heavier than lead, and her limbs no longer seemed to be her own.
Papa, she thought. Surely, it must be him sitting next to her by the bed. Or Mama.
It felt good, the coolness. The gentle patting on her cheeks, her hand.
She felt warm and safe.
And she fell asleep again.
Pippa opened her eyes, blinked, and closed them again, for the light hurt.
When she opened them once more, her eyes focused better, and she saw a figure sitting by the light source, which, she figured, must be a window.
It was that of a lady, girl-like almost, gracefully bent over something that must be embroidery. Her straight flaxen hair was tied back in a low knot, and a few strands of hair curled over her ears. Her profile was serene, almost Madonna-like, and she looked vaguely familiar. She wore a white dress; her movements were calm.
She must have died, Pippa reasoned. For now, she saw angels.
She was quite content lying there in the warm, soft bed, looking at the angel as she sewed.
Pippa closed her eyes again. Only to find that the lady was still there when she opened them.
She noticed some other things: that the room was quite splendid, really. The ceiling had stucco; the windows were tall and elegant, and the bed in which she lay was a lovely canopied bed, similar to the one Klemens had?—
Klemens!
At one point in her dream, she’d dreamt that Klemens had been there, lifting her, carrying her, murmuring to her, and she’d clung to him, not wanting to let him go, never letting him go…
If she had died and were in heaven, and Klemens wasn’t here, then she’d rather return to earth where he was, thank you very much.
She sat up.
The lady looked up from her embroidery and smiled.
Pippa blinked at her. “You’re a person.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “I should hope so.”
Pippa licked her dry lips. “I mean, I thought you were an angel.”
The woman laughed, and it was a light, amused sound, like bells.
