Archangel's Sun

12

Eons Past

“Papa! Papa! Look what I can do.” Light shot from Sharine’s small fingers to crack one of the stones that littered the wildflower-strewn mountainside. “See!”

Black eyebrows drawing together over his eyes, her father crouched down to touch the rock. He drew back his finger with a hiss, the pad of it red. Face falling, Sharine pressed her lips gently to it. “I kiss it better,” she said, having learned that from the mother of her friend who lived the next mountain over.

Her father didn’t smile, just took her hands in his and stared at her palms. But there was nothing there now, no hint of the pretty fire. “It’s inside me,” she told him, bouncing on her feet. “All fizzy and hot.”

Her father wasn’t like her friend’s father, who laughed and took her for rides on his back. Sharine’s father was old in a way that made her bones ache. She was too young to know how to put that into words, but she felt the weight of his age like a looming black cloud on the horizon. She knew he loved her—she felt that, too—but it wasn’t the same as how other fathers loved their children.

“We need to fly home to your mother,” he said in his deep voice, his eyes the same sunlight shade as her own but with streaks of brown.

Sharine wanted to play longer on this mountainside, with the sun shining so bright that the wildflowers appeared to glow, but she knew there was no point in arguing or dragging her feet. The last time she’d tried, her father had left her alone until she “came to her senses” and flew home. It might be fun to play alone here, but then she’d miss him and mama and go home and they’d be disappointed with her behavior.

Sighing, she flew up. She couldn’t fly as smooth or as straight as her papa, but she could stay in the air the whole way home now. Before, she’d used to fall, or have to rest. But her wings had become stronger over the past year, though she was still puffed, with her heart going boom-boom, when she landed in the stone courtyard of their home.

“Mama!” she cried as she ran inside, excited to share her new trick.

“Sharine, sweetheart, how often have I told you not to run?” Mama’s words were mild, the smile she sent Sharine’s way kind . . . and tired. Sharine’s mother was always tired. It was just the way she was—Sharine had no memory of a time when her mother wasn’t on the edge of exhaustion.

“Sorry,” she said with a smile and slowed down. “I showed Papa my fire. Can I have some food?”

Her mother’s sky-blue gaze went to her father, her golden hair rippling and the light purple of her wings restless, but they didn’t speak until after Sharine’d had her snack and was outside. But she was bad and she tiptoed back to near the window so she could listen. She knew she shouldn’t, that it was bad to listen in on other people, but no one ever had interesting conversations around her and she wasn’t a baby anymore.

“Her fire?” Mama murmured in her husky-soft voice.

“Yes.” Papa’s deeper tones. “She’s showing signs of an offensive ability. It may be that our daughter is destined to be a warrior.”

“I can’t believe it, not with how she loses herself in her art.” Sharine’s mother sounded as if she was smiling, and that was nice. “It’s apt to be a remnant from my mother. She served Qin until she decided to Sleep.”

“But so young?” Papa murmured, the sound of his wings moving as he opened and closed them familiar and comforting. “Offensive abilities don’t appear in children for a reason. She could hurt a friend or playmate without intent.”

A pause before her mother said, “Yes, you’re right in that. We shall have to teach her to never use her abilities. At least until she’s older.” Endless tiredness in every word. “I don’t know if I’ll make it, my love. I ached for a child when I was young and full of life, only for fate to bless me when I see nothing of interest in the world any longer but for you and our daughter.”

Sharine deliberately stepped away from the window, and walked over to her mother’s flower garden to begin pulling weeds. “They shouldn’t talk that way.” Eyes wet and hot, she ripped out a weed. “I hate it. I do.”

She was old enough to understand they were talking about Sleep. Not normal sleep. Sleep that went on for ages and ages and ages. It scared her. Angels weren’t like the mortal children she’d been told about but had never met—angels took a long time to grow up. What if Mama and Papa left her while she was still only half a grown-up? What would she do then? She’d be all alone.

Maybe if she listened and minded better, they’d stay longer.

“I won’t use the fire,” she promised the flowers in a wet, quavering whisper. “I’ll be good. I’ll be the best little girl.”