"But what about us?" Evan demanded. "Eden marries, I inherit the property, and I make sure provision is made for

  Paul—but what about this one? If it's another son? How many more brothers am I going to have to support?"

  My father's scowl grew blacker. "You should be grateful if it is a son, more assurance that the property will never

  fall into hands outside of the family," he said. "And if it's a girl—well, there are plenty of alliances left to be made once

  we've decided where to settle Eden."

  "But—how are you feeling?" I asked my mother. I did not want to reiterate Paul's ungracious words, but she was a

  little old to be bearing a child, and her health had never been robust. And she had seemed so frail in the past year or so

  that more than once I had wondered if she might be developing a serious illness. "Have you been sick in the

  mornings? You've seemed tired, but I never thought—"

  "Fine," she interrupted. "I was sick a little at first, but now I'm hungry all the time." She laughed. "I'm sure I'll be as

  big as the mansion itself by the time the baby comes."

  "And that will be when?" Evan asked. He was still pouting but, mindful of my father's eyes on him, was trying to

  appear more positive about the announcement.

  "Six months from now," my mother said. "In the summer."

  Adam, who had sat silent all this time, now stood up and swept his pointed wings behind him. "This is grand

  news, indeed," he said in a solemn voice, and lifted his wineglass toward the ceiling. All of us hastily snatched up our

  own drinks and made a toast in my mother's direction. "To you—to your health—to the child you bear. My heartfelt

  congratulations."

  He sipped from his glass, then stepped around the table to plant a kiss on my mother's cheek. She smiled and

  blushed again and looked as happy as I had ever seen her. My brothers and I, recognizing a successful gesture when

  we saw one, also went over to give her our kisses. When I leaned in to press my lips against her cheek, I noticed that

  my father's hand was holding hers under the table. I kissed him as well, for good measure, which surprised him so

  much that for a moment he didn't know what expression to put on his face. Then he smiled at me and nodded.

  "This is good news for the Karsh clan," he said, speaking to everyone but seeming to address me.

  "Joyful news," I said. "I can't wait till summer."

  BY the time summer came, however, none of us were quite so joyful. Adam left us in the spring, called back to the

  Eyrie by an Archangel who clearly did not care what made a Karsh family happy and what did not. The good news was

  that Adam had recommended, and Gabriel had approved, the notion that my father no longer needed angelic

  supervision. Thus we no longer had an outsider sitting at our family dinners and overseeing my father's business

  transactions. This pleased my father no end, but the rest of us found we were a little sick of each other's company. I

  was delighted to get away to Monteverde for a couple of weeks. Evan made his own visit outside the family walls,

  spending some time with the Fairwen family in Semorrah to learn the ways of river trading. When he came back, he was

  more insufferable than ever, going on about ship cargos, hull requirements, portage problems, and other even less

  interesting topics. Paul and I ignored him when we could, but my father and my grandfather seemed to find him

  invaluable, and the three of them could constantly be found together, discussing business.

  My mother was very near the end of her term by the time Evan and I returned from our travels. No matter how

  healthy she had been earlier in the pregnancy, she was not doing at all well now. She had gained more than fifty

  pounds and always looked deeply uncomfortable; her face was invariably drawn into a slight frown, as if she was

  never completely out of pain. She moved slowly and awkwardly around the house, and once she sat down she was

  reluctant to rise again for any reason. I developed the habit of bringing a food tray to whatever room she happened to

  be sitting in around meal time, but this late in the pregnancy, she had started to lose her appetite. "I can't," she said

  more than once when I tried to convince her to eat. "I'll just—I can't."

  A month before my mother was due to deliver, my father installed a midwife in the servants' quarters, and this

  woman didn't seem at all worried about my mother's lack of interest in food. "She'll be fine, baby'll be fine," said the

  midwife, who was as old as my grandfather and the most serene person I'd ever met. She seemed strong as a peasant,

  despite her age, and had the most capable-looking hands imaginable. I could picture her cooking, sewing, farming,

  woodworking—there seemed to be nothing she would not be able to accomplish with those hands. I was glad she

  would be there to help my mother, but I still could not help fretting, just a little, about the difficulties of the labor to

  come. I knew some of the damage a baby could inflict on its way into the world, and I worried every day about some

  new disaster that could occur in the birthing bed.

  As it turned out, when the baby was born, I realized I had not worried enough—and certainly had not worried

  about the right things.

  MY father and my grandfather were out inspecting the fields when my mother's labor pains started. The midwife

  had brought in her daughter to assist her the day before, "having a feeling," she said, "that the event is coming soon

  and might not go so smoothly." She commandeered the services of two of the upstairs maids, not letting them into the

  birthing chamber, but sending them scurrying around the house to fetch water and linen and other more mysterious

  items. I was not allowed inside, either, but I waited as close as I could, in the room adjoining my mother's, and listened

  to the sounds of grunting and moaning and weeping that issued from inside. This was dreadful, worse than I'd

  imagined; I never wanted to have a baby if it meant going through all this. But the midwife's voice remained calm,

  gentle. Not by a word or inflection did she indicate that anything about the labor was frightening or even unusual.

  Until, about two hours after the process had started, she emerged to find me lurking just outside the door. "Ah,

  you're still here," she said in her unruffled voice. "Good. I want you to do me a favor."

  "Is she all right? She sounds—so horrible—"

  "All women sound so when they're trying to push a baby out," she said tranquilly. "But there is a complication I

  wasn't expecting. Nothing for you to worry about, but I'd like you to do something for me. Raise a plague flag over the

  house, will you? We need to call down an angel."

  I stared at her. Her wrinkled face seemed entirely peaceful, her eyes were unflecked with horror. "A plague flag," I

  repeated. " A plague flag. But—if she's all right… if nothing's wrong… I don't understand."

  "It's just that I think we're going to need an angel here," she said. "The sooner the better. Do you know how to

  raise a plague flag?"

  "There's a special pole on top of the house," I said. My heart was beating painfully fast and my mind was blank

  with terror. "I can—the steward can help me. Or the butler. We'll—it'll be up in a few minutes."

  She nodded. "Good." She reached out to touch me on the cheek, but reassurance was one thing that capable hand

  could not provide. "Don't worry," she said and disappeared back into the room.

  Well, of course I was worried. I raced down the steps, calling in a panic for the servants to come help me, come

  now, there was trouble, my mother was dying. As soon as he heard what was needed, the butler dispatched two of the

  footmen to find and hoist the plague flag. It was a huge rectangle of bright red fabric, designed to catch the attention

  of an angel flying overhead. It signaled anything—sickness, death, emergency—any crisis beyond the ability of

  mortals to solve. I could not remember a time in my life we had ever needed to fly it, but my grandfather told tales of

  calling down angels when illness wracked the household or rain threatened to flood the fields.

  And the midwife had determined we needed an angel now.

  I tore back up the stairs to see how my mother's situation had changed and found my way barred at the hall by one

  of the servants. "She doesn't want any of us inside," the girl said. "She said to tell you everything will be fine."

  "Everything will not be fine," I said sharply. "Why can't I see my mother?"

  "She said you should watch for angels instead."

  "But—it may be hours—it could be days—before an angel comes flying over the house—"

  "I think she doesn't want you in the room."

  I protested a while longer, but the maid did not relent. Moving more slowly now, I turned down the hallway and

  headed to one of the unused bedrooms on this level of the house. Stepping out onto the balcony outside the

  windows, I leaned against the railing and watched the sky overhead. It was a fine, warm day, thick with sunlight. From

  this vantage, I could see the yard and gardens, lushly green. I could see the long, looping avenue that led from the

  main road to our front door. And I could see miles of sky overhead, empty of clouds, empty of angels. I craned my

  head to watch in all directions.

  It was late afternoon before I saw the first movement on the horizon, and then it appeared in a less welcome

  direction—a cloud of dust on the road, no doubt raised by my father and my grandfather on their way home. Would

  the midwife allow my father in the room with my laboring mother? How could she keep him out? Would she tell him the

  truth about whatever danger of death or infection threatened my mother? What would he do then?

  When they got close enough, I could make out the figures of my father and grandfather, bent low over the horses'

  necks and riding hard. They must have seen the plague flag; they knew, whatever it portended, it was trouble.

  When the riders were only a few minutes away, angels descended upon the house.

  My attention had been so fixed on my father that I had forgotten to keep up my constant scanning of the sky. So I

  was startled when the winged shadows fell over my face and I suddenly looked up to find three angelic figures

  suspended in the air before me. One was Ariel; two I did not know.

  "Eden," Ariel called. "What's the trouble here?"

  I gestured wildly as if I could sweep them inside with my hands. "My mother—she's in labor—the midwife

  demanded that we call down an angel, but she won't say why."

  Ariel's expression altered; she exchanged quick glances with her companions. She nodded at the male angel

  hanging in the air beside her. "Go on downstairs," she told him. "Greet Joseph Karsh at the door. Tell him we have

  been called down to aid his wife. Don't tell him why."

  "But why have you?" I demanded as he canted his wings and dropped down toward the ground to meet my father.

  "Step back inside the window, will you?" Ariel asked, not answering my question. I backed into the house. She

  beat her wings with a swift, hard motion, came close enough to touch her feet to the railing, balanced for a moment,

  then jumped onto the balcony. The female angel with her copied her motions; in a moment, they were both inside.

  "Where is the birthing chamber?" Ariel asked, all business.

  "What's wrong with my mother?" I whispered.

  Ariel smiled at me and, like the midwife, laid a hand against my cheek. This kind gesture reassured me no more than

  the midwife's had. "Nothing's wrong," she said. "But things are about to get unpleasant."

  "Please," I said, still whispering.

  She studied my face a moment. "I am guessing that the midwife has realized that the baby your mother is carrying

  is angelic. Not your father's at all."

  I just stared at her. Downstairs, I could hear a commotion at the front door, the sound of my father's voice raised in

  argument with the third angel.

  "And angel births can be very difficult for the mother. But even more-—they can be, if they are unexpected, very

  difficult for the man who believed he was the child's father."

  "Adam," I breathed.

  Ariel nodded. "Most likely. He has fathered a number of children in high-ranking households across the three

  provinces. I am sorry for this, Eden. But the midwife did right to call us. We will protect your mother. And we will take

  the baby back with us to the hold. No mortal can raise an angel child. We will offer your mother the choice of coming

  with us or remaining here. I am afraid life at the Karsh household is about to become very strained, indeed. Now where

  is the birthing chamber? We must arrive there before your father."

  Silently I turned and led them out of the spare room and down the hall. The servant girl guarding the door fell back

  in relief when she saw Ariel and her companion. "There's been screaming," the girl offered. "I've never heard anything

  like it."

  "I have," Ariel said. And, pushing past the maid, she entered the chamber that had been forbidden to me. I heard

  one sharp, despairing wail from my mother, and then the door closed between us again. The noise from below was

  growing louder, or else my father was drawing nearer, shouting at everyone as he charged up the stairs. I leaned my

  head against the wall of the corridor and closed my eyes, waiting for the world to fall down around me.

  * *

  THERE followed the most ghastly week of my life. I cannot describe the way my father's face turned from fear to

  fury when Ariel emerged from the labor room and coolly told him what she had told me. I do not want to think about

  how he launched himself in an attack on the angels, how he was physically restrained, how he became a prisoner in his

  own house while my mother gave birth and recovered. I don't want to dwell on my own apprehension and confusion

  and rage and sadness during those days. I don't want to relive that time at all.

  I was only allowed to see my mother once, for she was very weak. Even I knew how rare and difficult the birth of

  an angel could be; many women died during that violent passage. My mother had not died, but she had come close,

  and even five days after her son was born, she could scarcely speak or stand. But she had asked for me, and they had

  let me in. It was late afternoon, but the curtains were mostly drawn and the chamber was dark. I could barely make out

  her ghostly face against the white pillow. I could barely see the small, wrapped form lying beside her on the bed.

  "Eden," she whispered when I tiptoed in. "Oh, I have missed you these past few days. Do you hate me? Do you

  forgive me? Please come kiss me and say it will be all right."

  At that I stumbled the last few feet across the room and dropped onto the bed beside her. "I've been so worried," I

  sobbed. " I was so afraid. How could you do this? How could this happen? Did you love him? Will you leave us? Oh,

  Mother, I am still afraid—"

  She shushed me and stroked my hair and let me cry into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she said, over and over. "So

  sorry. And yet I love my son so much already, I would do anything to keep him safe—"

  When I grew calmer, I sat up and we talked for nearly an hour. She did not want to discuss Adam and the time she

  had spent with him. She merely said, "I do not regret it, not one hour, and I do not regret whatever turmoil comes

  after."

  "You never loved my father," I said.

  She looked at me. "I tried," she said. I nodded. He was not, in fact, a man that anyone could truly love.

  "Are you going to Monteverde?" I asked.

  She nodded. "I must. They will take him whether or not I go, and I have to be with him. You can come, if you like.

  Ariel has said so."

  It was as if light blossomed inside my chest, rendering me luminous and giddy. "I can? To live with you among the

  angels?"

  "The boys, too, except—except—I do not think that Joseph will let them go."

  "He might not let me go either." I took a deep breath and forced my excitement to die away. "And I cannot come.

  Not just yet. Once you are gone, and your angel child with you—I must stay a while. There will be much to do in this

  household to set things right."

  She sighed and laid her head back on the pillow. "Things will never be right in this household," she said. "They

  never were. Only when Adam was here."

  And even then, I reflected, everything had been wrong. I did not say so; it was clear she was too weary to talk any

  longer. I sat beside her another few minutes, watching her eyes close and her face loosen, listening to the easy sound

  of her breath as she slept. Then I bent over her body to look into the small, closed face of her sleeping son. My half

  brother. An angel. I lifted a finger to trace the smooth, delicate skin over the tiny features of his face. Still sleeping, he

  frowned and twitched away. I pulled back my hand and stood up. Once I had kissed my mother on the cheek, I crept

  from the room. I did not see her again for two months.

  Those were grim months at the Karsh house, and more than once I was sorry I had decided to stay. My father's

  mood was so foul that my brothers and I frequently forsook family meals and got all our food at odd hours from the

  kitchen. My grandfather seemed shrunken somehow, suddenly old and tired beyond description. I was the only one

  who seemed capable of running the household, so I gave the cooks their menus, the house servants their instructions

 

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