The Blue Door - By Christa Kinde Page 0,8
demanded a pacing angel with a drawn sword. “She is confused, frightened!”
“Gently, my friend,” soothed a serene old-timer with snowy white hair. “We do not yet know how far into our midst Miss Pomeroy will be drawn. Her acquaintance with Koji may be the limit of her involvement.”
“That is enough to draw the wrong sort of attention!”
“Alas, that is so.”
The gentle admission cooled the warrior’s temper. With a pleading look, he asked, “Why has it been given to her to see such things?”
The old one merely shook his head. “Who can know the mind of God?”
Once the large stack of boxes was transferred into the shed, Harken set Beau to work opening the ones that needed to be shelved. As soon as the teen was caught up in his task, the shopkeeper took an armload of leather-bound tomes and moved to the far alcove, beckoning for Milo and Koji to follow. The mailman scooped up a few more books and joined the older angel.
Koji’s face was a portrait of confusion. “She does not believe in us?”
“That’s what she said,” Harken replied with a patient smile.
“But that will not change anything,” the boy pointed out.
“I know that,” the old man said, pointing to himself. “And you know that,” he stated, gently tapping Koji’s chest. “However, many humans believe that they can influence reality with what amounts to willful blindness. If they are confronted with something that doesn’t appeal to them, they often refuse to acknowledge it.”
“So she is going to ignore us until we go away?” Koji asked.
“That’s the sum of it,” Milo agreed, scrubbing wearily at his face.
Koji looked between the two adults and asked, “Are we going away?”
“No, young one. Things cannot go back to the way they were before.”
“Will she tell?” Koji asked worriedly.
“I don’t think so,” replied Milo.
“She isn’t going to go around telling people about something she doesn’t want to believe herself,” Harken explained.
“Have you ever had to reveal yourself to a human before, Harken?” Milo asked curiously.
“Not for many years, and then only in dreams,” his mentor replied. “I wonder at the purposes of bringing this girl into our midst.”
“She did not seem very pleased,” Koji unhappily pointed out.
“She might be a little scared,” Milo suggested.
“Of us?” the boy asked.
“Perhaps a little, yes,” Harken agreed. “But I daresay she’s struggling with disappointment as well.”
Milo drooped visibly. “Some of this is my fault. Could I have handled it better?”
Harken clapped his shoulder. “No, my boy. We’ll give her time to get over the surprise; in the meantime, I will ask for direction.”
“Yes, that’s good,” Milo said resignedly, then looked to his comrade. “I’ve always treated her the same as everyone else.”
“I know,” soothed Harken. “But now you don’t have to.”
“I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it,” Prissie muttered over and over as she hurried past the local paper, the post office, and the town hall, which housed a tiny branch library. Story time was underway in the big gazebo that stood out front, so she checked for cars and dashed across Main Street, heading for the comforting familiarity of Loafing Around, her father’s bakery.
Though Prissie didn’t know all the details, she’d overheard enough snippets of adult conversation to know that Grandpa had a hard time accepting his son’s career choice. Pete Pomeroy had wanted his only boy to take over the farm and orchard, carrying on the family business, but Dad had gone to cooking school instead. The tension between them had eased considerably with the birth of Pete’s first grandson. Grandpa poured all his love for the orchard into Tad, and by the time the little guy was four, he’d tell anyone who asked that he was going to be a farmer. Momma said it was hard to tell if Tad loved the farm because he loved it … or because he loved Grandpa. In the end, it hardly mattered; Pomeroy Orchard’s future was secure.
The bakery offered a bit of everything, but Jayce Pomeroy’s specialty was bread, and they were famous for their dinner rolls. Soft, light, golden-brown potato rolls had been the Saturday Special since day one, and people actually lined up for them. It was the closest thing Main Street ever had to a traffic jam. Two years ago in shop class, Prissie’s next older brother Neil had made Dad a sign with routered lettering; it was proudly displayed on the bakery’s front door and invited patrons to Get Your Buns in Here.
Prissie frowned at the sidewalk until she neared her destination,