The dark color of the walls and floor, the coziness of the décor… all of it had me sinking into the mattress. I couldn’t understand in the least why he couldn’t sleep here.
I silently watched him start another small section of tiny designs on his leg before finding my voice again, the rhythm of the quill point against his skin hypnotic.
“That’s my scroll,” I whispered.
He paused, peering closer at the marks he was leaving. “Is it? That was not intentional.” He glanced over at me. “May I use your design, Phin?”
For some reason, the idea made me want to cry again. “Yes. Of course you can.”
“Thank you.” His mouth twitched into a gentle smile, and he continued.
My eyes strayed from him to the huge vase on the table. It was packed full, flowers and greenery spilling over the edges of the pottery.
“The bouquet is beautiful. Where did you get all those flowers?”
“Vassago and Greta picked them up in Aymonroux.”
“Oh.” I smiled as a happy memory bubbled up. “The shop would sometimes gift the ones nearing the end of their bloom that hadn’t sold to the church. Father would have me put them in little vases at the ends of the row of pews.” The uneven lip andoff-kilter handle hinted that the pottery was likely his. “Do you have them in a pitcher?”
The tips of Tap’s ears went pink. “Yes. I was in a hurry.”
“Well, it works perfectly.”
“As a vase perhaps, but as a pitcher it falls a little short. I forgot to put on a spout or even narrow the lip so that it would pour well. I went through a phase of making functional vessels—pitchers, pots, cups. Thankfully my skill improved as I went along.”
“Maybe I need to visit that workshop. I always wanted to see if I could make a bowl or plate,” I said, which earned me a smile. “They smell nice. The flowers.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Irises and tulips,” I said without hesitation. “They always bloom early and aren’t afraid of a little frost or snow. Once those flowers start to break the soil, I know I can hope for warmer weather soon. And the color, of course; both come in lovely shades of purple.”
“Very logical. I’m afraid there aren’t any of either in this bouquet.”
“That’s alright. My only complaint about them is they don’t have much of a fragrance. And these are nice, something in there smells lovely. I’m not a fan of most greenery.”
His mouth twitched, and he looked up from his work. “I gathered.”
“But the bits of ice leaf and fern they use in the bouquets don’t bother me.” He dipped his quill in the pot of ink and looked away, focusing on his work. I appreciated that he was trying to put me at ease, take the pressure off me. It allowed me to find my words much easier. “There was… an incident, in the gardens.” Tap’s silver gaze flitted to mine, the quill in his hand tilted away from his skin. “I had just turned sixty. Because I went back and forth so often between Earth and Heaven, the way I aged wasn’tas predictable as being in either place all the time. On top of that, any angel born around the time I was is… different.”
“Different?”
I nodded and sat up, needing something in my hands as a distraction. I poured myself a tea and picked up one of the little finger sandwiches he’d brought. “My mother guessed it was a response to the angels not being made.”
Tap’s head tilted. “Is it an illness? Are adult angels becoming unwell? Dying?”
I shook my head. “From what I understand, established angels don’t seem to be as affected as newer generations. But the bestowing of wings on new arrivals isn’t working. New angels are not being made.”
“That sounds rather desperate indeed. For how long?”
“I’m not sure, but as long as I can remember.”
“You said your generation is different?”
I swallowed, focusing on the smear of tea leaves in the bottom of my cup that resembled a crescent moon. “Yes. We’re… equipped… for more earthly types of reproduction.”
“While not all were, that’s been true of quite a few of the angelic line for a very long time. Nephilim wouldn’t exist otherwise.”
“Not like this.” I fidgeted. “Many of us now have a very pronounced fertility cycle. Like some animals have.” I could see the questions flit across Tap’s intently focused face, but he remained silent. “Some have one every month, others just a few times a year.” I explained to him as I had to Greta, that when you succumb to it, you are completely indisposed for at least a few days.
