Angel_Without_Wings

Angella halted on the bottom stair, hands resting on the rail�s curled end. Her eyes, searching behind her mask, finally found the young duke, leaning against the pillar across the hall. He had removed his mask, but she would have known him even with it. She propped her chin on her clasped hands as she studied him. He was tall, and broad shouldered. His fine, handsome features were accented by thick black hair, in a queue at his neck. Had he not been there, she would have locked herself in her room with Chaos. He would never remember a slender shadow watching from the silk shrouded windows as he past, the blue and silver canopy of the royal barge over him. And yet, he had looked up, and she could have sworn he met her eyes. And he had smiled; a wistful smile it had seemed to her. Now Angella wondered why he frowned.
She might have stood watching him so all night, but then he looked up in her direction, met her eyes, and smiled. She bent her head immediately and turned to slip into the crowd, but a voice forestalled her.
�Excuse me.�
Angella turned, holding her breath. It was him. His shoulders, broad at a distance, seemed an impossible breadth up close. She sank carefully into a graceful curtsy. The duke smiled, holding out a hand.
�Will you give me the pleasure of this dance, mademsola?�
Angella kept back a gasp and rose smoothly from her curtsy. She took his outstretched hand. �Your grace,� she said. �It would be an honor.�

The young duke, Francis Alvarez, led Angella Kelvaeyn onto the floor to lead the dance. From the angel carved pillars near the water patio, the Grand Duke watched the delicate, graceful young woman with an appraising gaze.

That night Angella was woken by the scream of Sara, her mother�s maid.
She tumbled from her bed, a disgruntled Chaos mewing as he untangled himself from the rumbled blankets. She ignored him, darting into the corridor and the room beyond.
�Sara, what�� Angella stopped in the door. Chaos peered around her leg, twining around her ankles. She didn�t notice him. For one horrible moment, she could not move, or breath. �Mama!� She wasn�t aware of the wail that burst from her, wasn�t aware of Amos, Sara�s husband, when he lifted her from where she had fallen as her knees gave. He put her back in her bed, and Chaos curled against her chest, purring comfortingly. She buried her face in his fur, slender hands curling into fists.
Her wordless cries echoed through the large house, and across the waters of the canal, where Francis Alvarez sat up in bed, wondering what had woken him.

She was dead. Angella sat limply in her rooms, black skirts arranged around her neatly. She was dead. Weeks later it still echoed painfully through her mind, and she shut her eyes against the sting of tears. The practice of a lifetime kept them from her cheek, and after a moment she looked down at her folded hands again.
Sounds from beneath her balcony startled Angella out of her reverie, and she lifted her head, listening. There was the sound of her father�s rough voice. She leaned her head against the back of her chair. It had taken her a long time, when she was a child, to realize that her father avoided her because he was ashamed of her face. She had wondered, once or twice since she came to that realization, whether he loved her anyway.   Without an answer, she had cut herself off from the part of her that needed that love. Just as she now worked to wall off the part of her that ached for her mother�s return, for the gentle acceptance of all that she was and could be, for the unquestioning, cherishing heart of her mother. For several minutes she battled the tears. One escaped and slid down the plane of her cheek, but she dashed it away. Her mother was gone, and would not come back. Her father was ashamed of her. Brutally, she forced acceptance on herself, and then sealed off that secret place within her that could not accept, and cried out for love, for gentleness. Love.
Her hand was surprisingly wet, from that single tear. Carefully she rid it of moisture, wiping her face as well. Her father would be coming up soon. She rose from her seat, and went to her armoire of rose-carved mahogany.   She let her touch linger on the gossamer of her silken gown, then forced her hand away, searching the darkness for a scarf. She found it; the diaphanous black gauze clung to her fingers. Angella wrapped the dark fabric over her hair, drawing it over her face until only her eyes showed, as though she were one of the eastern princesses carved in relief on the sandalwood panels of her father�s shipboard cabin. She had only been there once, and that visit had convinced her of his shame. Shutting her eyes, she cut off the memory, stopping the well of tears before they began.
Angella Kelvaeyn straightened her back, preparing to meet her father.

The slender boat glided through the canals, black prow cutting the water with ease. The soft curls that escaped Angella�s scarf fell over the green velvet of her new dress. Her father sat opposite her, his heavy brows drawn down as he studied the buildings they past. Boarding school. Somehow it sounded so ominous. She twisted a loose curl around her fingers. How could she go to boarding school, leaving behind everything she was familiar with? Perhaps it was better, for in the month it had taken her father to return, she had wandered the house often, lost in a daze. More than once she had caught herself staring through tears at a painting, a vase, anything that reminded her of her mother. And that was everything. She pulled her hands from her hair and clasped them in her lap.
Her distracted gaze wandered from one thing to the next, her memory recording details with surprising clarity. Like a prisoner, she thought suddenly, about to be locked away from the rest of the world. Would she miss it? Not likely, but all the same�her eyes hungrily took in the clear sky, the glinting of the sun off the water.
The boat bumped gently against the water steps of an imposing stone building, and Angella was snatched back into a world of grief and sorrow.
     The boatman offered his callused hand to steady her as she stepped onto the first stair. Her father had already strode to the massive, green painted doors and lifted the heavy bronze knocker. Three booming knocks -- Angella could hear them echo in the hallway beyond. She shivered. The door cracked open, and a small, dark-eyed girl in a white apron and black dress peeked out. She hurriedly opened the door all the way and step back, mumbling �Come in please, sir� in a timid voice to the floor. He swept past her, standing in the outer hall with fists on hips, waiting expectantly with one eyebrow cocked. Angella followed more slowly. She saw the maid stare at the scarf hiding her face, and then duck her head again quickly. As she passed the door, Angella ran a hand over the knocker. A lion�s head, the symbol for courage. She cast up a silent prayer, then went to stand quietly behind her father.