She moved to leave, but Angela grabbed her by the wrist.
Before the young woman could argue with her, more noise whispered through the hallway. It was faint, but it reminded Angela of a predator’s hiss, cool with frustration. Vaguely familiar.
“What is it?” Angela said. “A cat in the building?”
The student let go of the knob, seeming to resign herself to staying for a while.
Angela left her and picked up the broken knife handle left on the bed, pitching it into the trash bin to rest in peace with its other half. “My mother had a cat. Pearl. She caught mice in the basement and left them at my parents’ bedroom door. Like a gift, to show what a great hunter she was.”
“Yes,” the student said, gently turning the door lock with a free hand.
But she didn’t look very convinced.
“I suppose that is a way of showing affection.”
Three
Angela was wrapped deep within the embrace of her newest dream.
Sleep had come, the world vanishing with it, taking her to a better tableau of illusions.
There he was, the beautiful angel with the bronze wings, almost as distinct as in her portraits. She could have been wrong, of course. “He” could just as easily have been a “she,” and that probably made more sense considering his delicate features and poised mannerisms, the gentle way he could blink those large eyes. But there was an authority in his steps that always made her think otherwise, and his face commanded her to simply watch. Not listen or understand.
As usual, he had nothing to say to her.
His was one in a pair of eternally voiceless recordings, whisking in and out of her mind, intruding when she expected them least. Tonight the angel with the bronze wings leaned over a round desk made of glass, writing with a pen in some kind of blocky script—all circles, interconnected lines, and angles. He wore a form-fitting ivory coat, its fabric pristine even compared to the gleam of his feathers. Rubies dangled from chains woven through his hair.
Angela opened her invisible mouth to speak. To call to him.
He looked up from the desk, setting down the pen. He was turning his head, his winged ears fluttering gently.
He saw her.
No.
He was looking past her at someone else. Someone who literally walked through her invisible body to stand in front of him, her unearthly silver dress reflecting all the light. A young woman with flowing curls of hair, tall, mild-mannered, her hands clasped modestly above the knee, had arrived to confront him. But the angel straightened immediately, and he was not only taller than this new person but distinctly unhappy. Those pink lips pursed into a tightly controlled frown.
The woman pointed behind him—to a gray figure in the distance—but he shouted at her and dismissed her with a wave of the hand, surprisingly angry.
Then she was stepping aside, facing Angela with the distinct sense that they saw each other. They were suddenly in front of a gigantic staircase of light, each step clearer than diamond.
But most astonishingly of all, Angela knew who she was looking at.
Four
Grant, we beseech Thee, that the One who is destined to bring Iniquity will perish in the eternal flames. Oh, God, help us in our hour of greatest need. When the Ruin approaches, be not far from your children. Amen.
—CLOSING HYMN, FRESHMAN INTRODUCTORY CEREMONY
The student with the chestnut hair was named Sophia.
She had no living relatives, Angela learned. No personal belongings that amounted to anything valuable. The more they had talked, the more she became a mystery, and the night ended with her dancing in and out of Angela’s dreams as elegantly as the bronze-winged angel, her outfit suddenly an exotic dress of silver taffeta. But Sophia was a real, live, flesh-and-blood human being who could speak when she was spoken to, responding to a person’s feelings with practiced delicacy. The angels, of course, were always moving out of Angela’s reach, never truly glancing at her when she questioned them. Impolite and impressively untouchable.
Meanwhile, in the background, Sophia listened, smiled, and genuinely cared.
It had only been a day, and Angela feared she was developing a terrible infatuation with her, not understanding why until she awakened and noticed one of the dolls on her dresser. It was a Victorian-era miniature with a china complexion and vacant gray eyes. Her curls dropped to her waist in a waterfall of chestnut, their shorter strands snagged behind a black velvet headband. Nearby, like a blur in the corner of Angela’s vision, Sophia sat on the opposite bed, her own gray eyes lingering on the even grayer rain, its drops slanting onto the rooftops and framing the city with morning fog. Curls dribbled down her back, shiny and tempting, their ends gathered with a thin black ribbon. She’d folded her hands, settling them on top of her lap, looking like she was waiting for someone to pick her up and dress her. She’d never gone back to her own room after all, probably too frightened to leave after finding the rat at the door.