food, maybe even fig cakes?”
“I don’t want fig cakes.” Paili threw her arms around Sapphira. “I want you!”
Sapphira patted her lightly on the back. “We’ve been over this. I’ll visit you whenever I can. I promise.”
Paili looked up at Sapphira, her eyes glistening. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll check on your progress in a couple of days. Everything will be fine.”
Paili squeezed more tightly. “But what if they don’t like me?”
“How can anyone not like you? You’re loving, you work hard, your speech is normal now, and you’ll probably age right along with the other girls here in Glastonbury.” Sapphira pushed her gently away. “Trust me. The local gypsies told me these people take in hungry strangers all the time, so I’m sure you’ll be all right. But you must never, never tell anyone about where you’re from, even if you think they might already know. Got that?”
Paili nodded meekly and turned toward the modest home, a noticeable tremble in her hands. Sapphira pulled the wooden cross from her belt and knocked on the door. After a few seconds, the door swung open revealing a stout, red-haired woman holding a lantern. With soft, round cheeks and chin and bright shining eyes, she seemed just as friendly as she had been during the evenings Sapphira had spied on her.
“Well, who have we here?” the woman asked, probing the darkness with her lantern. “Another pair of lost gypsy girls?”
Sapphira backed away a step into the darkest shadows and lifted her cross. “We are not gypsies, dear lady, nor are we lost.”
The woman waved toward the inside of the house. “Well, lost or found, you are welcome to our supper. My husband’s not home yet, but he won’t mind.”
Sapphira whispered to the cross. “Give me light.” Fire sprang forth, illuminating everyone on the porch.
The woman staggered but caught the door frame before falling. She seemed ready to drop to one knee, but she hesitated and stared, wide-eyed. “Are you . . . an angel?”
Sapphira deepened her voice and added a solemn cadence. “What I am is not important. You have been watched from afar, and because of your goodness and mercy, both to your fine husband and to your fellow citizens in this village, your childless state has come to an end.”
The woman covered her mouth but made no sound.
“This girl needs a home,” Sapphira continued, laying a hand on Paili’s shoulder. “If you are pleased to take her in, she will become your daughter.”
The woman set her lantern down and gathered Paili into her arms. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!” She hugged Paili close, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Very well.” Sapphira stepped back a few more paces. Then, wrapping her arms around herself, she whispered, “Give me light.” Her entire body exploded into a human torch. The woman lifted Paili into her arms and lurched back through the doorway. Sapphira commanded the fire to cease and dashed into the dark road.
The gloom of a cloudy night draped the outskirts of Glastonbury. Sapphira shuffled toward the city’s famous towering hill and the monument that had replaced the church of Michael, the same portal location where she had left Elam years before. Another descent into the dismal world below lay ahead, then another reemergence at the ghostly mining level. Finally, she would climb up the elevation shaft and wind through the corridors leading to the museum room where Acacia would be waiting . . . alone.
Sapphira plodded forward, hoping to delay her return to the lower realms. She took a well-trodden path that promised no obstacles to a traveler who knew its twists and turns. With tears flowing, she counted her slow, careful steps out loud while struggling to conquer her tortured thoughts.
“Nine . . . ten . . . eleven. Seven more until I turn. . . . Of course Paili will be fine. Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . after all, now she can eat good food instead of old cabbages and dried beans . . . sixteen . . . seventeen . . . and that woman is so sweet . . . eighteen . . . Turn here.” She pivoted to the left and continued. “One . . . two . . . All my other sisters are happy now. Four . . . five . . . six . . . so Paili will be happy, too . . . seven . . . eight. And Acacia and I won’t have to worry about her getting so sick again.