The Blue Door - By Christa Kinde Page 0,35
the awkward silence with activity. Holding up a finger to request patience, he laid aside the recorder and chose one of his other cases. As he flipped open the latches, he met her gaze and announced, “You will probably like this, Prissie.” A new instrument was brought to light, and the angel returned to his seat, settling it across his lap.
“Is that a real harp?” she gasped.
“A small one, but yes,” he replied, amusement lurking in his dark eyes.
“Can you play?”
“I can,” Kester assured as his fingers wandered aimlessly across the strings, plucking out a soft cascade.
“I mean, would you play something?” she rephrased. “Please?” With enviable ease, he returned to the tune he’d played earlier, weaving the gentle melody through an accompaniment of open chords. Awed, Prissie whispered, “It’s like you’re a real angel.”
“Just like,” calmly agreed Kester.
11
THE UNSEEN REALM
Shouldn’t we be grateful for some quiet?”
“The sudden change is suspicious. Why would the enemy retreat?”
“Could they have found it?”
“Ephron knew, didn’t he?”
More questions than answers were brought before the group gathered in the sanctuary behind the blue door. Finally, a voice filled with gentle authority cut across the rest. “What do you think, Myron?”
As every eye swung in his direction, the red haired Worshiper sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Baird?”
“At least once more,” his captain replied, as his fingers slid over each facet of the stone set into the pommel of his sword.
“Let me ask you this, then,” Baird inquired. “Why would you want my thoughts? I’m no tactician.”
“You do not fight, but your eyes have seen many battles. I would like your perspective.”
“Are you calling me old?” the redhead asked with a mischievous smile.
“Are you avoiding my question, Myron?”
The Worshiper’s hazel eyes grew unusually solemn, and he turned his gaze toward the shifting lights that formed their sky. “In my humble opinion, this is the lull before the storm. All of hell is about to break loose.”
The following afternoon, Prissie begged a ride into town with Grandma Nell, who had errands to run. “Do you have your purse?” her grandmother quizzed.
“Yes,” Prissie sighed.
“Make sure to show Koji the landmarks around town,” Grandma continued.
“I will.”
“Thank you for the ride, ma’am,” Koji offered once he’d exited the mini-van.
“So polite,” Grandma beamed. “Stay together, and when you’re done, wait for me over at the bakery.”
“Yes, Grandma,” Prissie dutifully answered. “We’ll be fine.”
With a wave, Nell pulled away from the curb, and Koji turned expectantly to her. “Where are we going?”
“Here and there,” she replied vaguely, striking off along the sidewalk.
He hurried to catch up. “What do you intend to do?”
“My best friend’s birthday party is this Saturday, and I need a gift to take.”
“You have not mentioned a best friend before.”
“I’ve known Margery since preschool,” Prissie explained. “She and I have always been friends.”
“Then the search for her gift must be a matter of great importance. May I help?”
“It’s not that big a deal,” she protested. “And I don’t need any help, but I’ll show you around West Edinton when I’m done.”
“I know all about your town,” Koji declared matter-of-factly. “However, you could show me the parts you like best.”
She looked at him blankly. “What for?”
“I know many things about you from observing,” the young angel remarked. “I would like to hear firsthand what matters to you.”
Prissie looked around uncertainly, then pointed at the town hall. “Other than Dad’s bakery, my favorite place in town is the gazebo outside the library.”
Koji’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Why?” he inquired.
“It just is,” she replied with a huff. “Come on, we’ll start over here.”
She led the way to a card store that doubled as a gift shop. The place smelled like soap and candles, and there were decorative flags and windsocks hanging in the front windows. Prissie breezed past the spinners of stationary and racks of cards without a second glance, preferring to wander up and down the aisles of knickknacks. After a few minutes, she arrived in front of a glass case filled with figurines and pursed her lips in concentration. “One of these would probably be good.”
“What are those?”
“Angels, obviously,” she replied. “Margery has collected them since she was a baby because her middle name is Angel.”
“How strange,” Koji murmured, gazing intently into the case.
“I like these,” Prissie remarked, pointing to a set of four small statues depicting the seasons. Winter’s angel wore fur-trimmed robes and a crown of snowflakes; summer’s was dressed in a sleeveless dress and garlanded in daisies. “It’s