into the corners of the room, at the doorways, and even out the windows, half expecting Koji to appear. It wasn’t the same as earlier, when she felt as if she was being watched. No, this time, it was the uncanny knowledge that she probably was being watched, even though she couldn’t see or hear the watchers. The sudden self-consciousness was making her jittery.
Prissie was so caught up in her inner turmoil that she started violently when a dark hand reached past her to turn off the tap and rescue the overflowing pitcher. “He stayed behind,” Harken offered in a low voice.
“Wh-what?”
“Koji,” the old gentleman explained. “He stayed behind this evening because we thought you might be uncomfortable—seeing the unseen.”
“Oh,” she breathed, glancing at the table, where Milo was deeply immersed in a discussion of the West Edinton Warriors’ chances in their division this coming year. The mailman had shed his official postal service uniform in favor of a casual shirt in a shade of blue that really did wonderful things for his eyes. He gestured broadly while he talked, comfortable in their midst.
Prissie had always felt as if he belonged to them, but she was no longer sure that was true. For some reason, Milo’s smile hurt, so Prissie went back to not looking at the man … angel. “Why did everything have to change?” she asked in a tight voice.
“Nothing’s changed, Prissie,” Harken corrected. “You’re now seeing certain things the way they truly are.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, there is,” the angel assured. Very gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder, and she tensed, but grudgingly met his eyes. “I have a message for you, child.”
“From who?”
Prissie darted a quick glance at Milo, but the old man shook his head and said, “First of all, don’t be afraid.”
She swallowed hard and gave a little half-shake of her head. “If you say so.”
He pulled his hand away with a sigh. “I told you, Prissie, I’m only the messenger.” She tentatively met his gaze, and Harken nodded approvingly. With calm solemnity, he intoned, “Priscilla Pomeroy, the time has come for you to give away some of your trust.”
4
THE STUBBORN STREAK
A bent form scrabbled along a dank passage and slipped into a small chamber whose entrance was hidden in the cleft of a rock. “There’s a development, my lord,” he announced in a hoarse voice.
“What now, Dinge?” inquired a figure seated upon a heap of boulders in the center of the cave.
“I overheard some saying that a message has been delivered.”
His leader leaned forward, and a faint dissonance, like the sour note in a musical chord, echoed off of the walls. “To whom?”
“A fourteen-year-old girl.”
A misshapen shadow lurking in the pitch sneered, “Probably just a two-bit molly-coddler soothing away nightmares.”
“No,” snapped the news-bringer, drawing himself up importantly. “I would not waste our lord’s time on something so trivial.”
“What then?” prompted the leader on his tumbledown throne.
“A firsthand encounter,” Dinge revealed excitedly. “A message delivered in person.”
“Means nothing,” jeered the naysayer. “What’s a girl of that age going to do, huh?”
Dinge hissed his outrage. “Murque, you fool! Don’t you remember what happened the last time a message like this was dismissed?”
“Uhh … what?” he replied dimly.
“A virgin conceived,” smoothly replied their leader.
“What’re the chances that’ll happen again,” grumbled Murque, earning a scathing look from Dinge.
The central figure rubbed small circles against his temple with the tips of graceful fingers. “Which Messenger?”
“Harken.”
Their lord stilled. “Oh?”
“Yes, lord.”
“That definitely changes things,” he mused aloud.
The first Sunday of every month, First Baptist Church hosted a potluck dinner following the morning service. Prissie’s mother and grandmother were firm believers in bringing enough to feed your own family with some to spare, and since there were ten Pomeroys to account for, the procession from the parking lot to the church’s basement kitchen was always a long one.
Mr. Pomeroy and his three teenage boys were weighed down with piping hot pans wrapped in towels, and Zeke and Jude brought up the rear, swinging bags of Loafing Around’s famous dinner rolls. Grandma Nell took possession of the pie carrier, and Mrs. Pomeroy precariously balanced a platter of brownies on top of her Bible and notebook, though it was rescued by an usher and passed along to one of the efficient kitchen ladies as she walked through the door.
Milo was one of the greeters this Sunday, and he stepped forward with open hands and a warm smile. “Good morning, Miss Priscilla. Can I help?”
Prissie sailed right past him holding her nose