“Mmm, speaking of surprises, I made you something.”
“You did?” She pulled sharply back to gaze up at him in delight, throwing them off balance as Christos attempted to turnthem again. They staggered together, Christos carefully tucking her to his chest as they fell sideways in a heap on his bed.
“Yes,” he answered casually, as if his face wasn’t half pressed into the sheets.
Mags laughed and rolled onto her back, looking up at his ceiling. They had painted it some decades ago; a parody of the Sistine Chapel with the cherubs all bearing the faces of their friends. Instead of Jehovah and Adam, Christos had insisted they insert themselves, reaching across the space to brush fingertips.
The longing in their painted expressions sent a warm pang of affection through her, tightening her throat and lungs. She turned back to lay facing him, head pillowed on her folded arms. “You’re the sweetest.”
“Only the sweetest?” He pouted. “Not the funniest, or smartest, or most handsome?”
“All that and more,” she acquiesced, tapping his nose with the tip of her finger. “Now where is my gift?”
He smiled and reached over her to his nightstand, rummaging briefly in the drawer. Mags breathed in his cologne, a fresh and earthy mix of sage, mint, and smoked cedar. To be here with him, wrapped in his arms and his scent... It felt like comfort and home.
“Here it is,” he muttered triumphantly, and pulled back to present her with a finely carved wooden lily. It was delicate and beautiful; its stem painted a deep green, the gently curling petals painted white with a deep red center spreading upwards. “I know you’ve always been fond of lilies.”
“White lilies symbolize purity,” she murmured, heart pounding in her chest and tears threatening to spill. “And red symbolizes romantic love.”
“I know.” Christos smiled at her, and it made Mags smile back reflexively.
The way he looked at her, like she was the most precious thing in the world... it was equal parts gratification and torture.
“You shouldn’t have made this for me.”
“I would do anything for you, my flower.” He brought his hand up to stroke her cheek gently. “You need only say the word and I’m yours to command.”
“And who is a whore to command the Prince of Heaven?” Mags sighed, and her smile faded away as she pulled away from him and rolled onto her back.
“This same sadness,” Christos watched her with sad eyes and spoke with a soft and soothing tone. “Your past doesn’t define you, Mags. You’re more than the names you’re called by cowards and ignorant fools.”
“You’ve been telling me the same thing for centuries.” She swallowed hard. “You’re right, as usual. You’ll have to forgive my mood, it’s been…a difficult day.”
“Tell me what’s troubling you,” he urged, reaching to pull her in with arms made strong by physical labor, folding her snugly against his chest. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and she giggled when his close-cropped beard tickled her face. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” she brushed off his apology. “It’s nice to feel normal right now. It’s helping.”
“What happened? You know you can tell me anything.”
So, she told him; about the terrible, disjointed vision that had wrenched her from a deep sleep and left her retching into her trash bin for hours, about Luce’s naked grief, her memory of Christos’s words to her so long ago, and about their desperate hope Jehovah would choose to help.
“Okay,” Christos said carefully when she had finished, wiping fresh tears from her cheeks with gentle, calloused fingers. “When I saidanything, I wasn’t expecting that. I was hoping it was more along the lines of a broken scrying basin—I could fix that much more easily.”
She made a muffled noise into his shirt but said nothing.
“Mags,” he said, scratching at his beard—a sign of his anxiety, she knew. “You know he’ll never agree with this.”
“I know.”
“What you’re suggesting…”
“Iknow.” She was regaining her composure now, and with it her resolve. She saw Luce’s pained and broken expression whenever she closed her eyes. “But I have to try.”
“You’ll have more success if you can sway Gabriel to your side.” He spoke with the air of someone who knows he’s wasting his time.
He was right. “No,” she said flatly.
“My father highly values his opinion.”
