Finding Heathcliff

Fifty

"Who are you?" Michael asked Astrid the moment the three of them were alone, his voice surprisingly tender.

"I'm Astrid, the niece of Arcturus, the future Queen of Eurovea," she recited, feeling so confused by the archangel's repeated question that she stepped back from him, meeting Azrael, who had taken a step towards her, halfway.

"Tell me who you really are," Michael insisted, his stubbornness suggesting that he knew something Astrid didn't.

What was she supposed to tell him, what did he want to hear? she wondered, searching her mind for something, anything else that she could tell him.

"Her angel side is incredibly strong," Azrael said, his arm coming to rest over her shoulders protectively, pulling her closer, "but she has no idea who her real parents were, how she got to be brought up by Arcturus as the heir to the throne."

Michael nodded, his eyes never leaving Astrid's.

"I have a letter for you." Astrid recalled suddenly, realising that she had left it in Azrael's room.

"I admire Arcturus' choice of his ambassador, if nothing else." The archangel laughed as if Astrid was the funniest thing he had seen in a long while. "You bring me his letter and then forget about it..."

"It's not from him, and it was to be a secret, or so I thought," Astrid said, raising her eyes to Azrael, finding him looking down at her, surprise filling his seafoam irises. At least she managed to hide the letter from everyone.

"So? May I see the letter?" Michael prompted, pulling Astrid from the reverie she had fallen into when her arm brushed accidentally against Azrael's wing. The feeling was indescribable; the simple touch made her skin tingle, and the blood racing through her veins sing, while her mind exploded with images she wished she could keep to herself. He looked even more magnificent than before with the white wings, and the love and respect of her, which she felt emanating from him, was intoxicating...

"It must be in my room, right, Astrid?" Azrael asked, scattering her thoughts before Michael would read them too. He should have taught her to shield her mind from anyone but himself, he would never want to miss a single thought of hers, he mused, wishing they had more time together, wishing she belonged to him and he could show her how much better her fantasies would feel in reality...

"In my luggage, in one of my books," she agreed, forcing herself to look back at the archangel despite her blazing cheeks.

"Azrael?" Michael prompted, and the moment Azrael's wings wrapped around her, the three of them vanished from the large chamber and materialised in Azrael's much smaller room.

Astrid staggered as her feet touched the floor, her heart thrusting against her ribs, scared like the two doves, leaving Azrael's shoulder in a whirlwind of wings to settle on the mantelpiece above the empty fireplace. She didn't know that angels could do this, but she knew next to nothing about angels in general. That reminded her that Azrael wasn't a fallen angel anymore and that he would be taken away from her soon. The thought filled her eyes with tears as she disentangled herself from his arms and wings and walked towards his bed, where she had noticed her bags lying on the floor.

She pulled The Book of Angels from beneath her clothes and walked back to Michael, passing him the letter she had found easily among its pages.

A gasp escaped the archangel's lips as he saw the neat, feminine handwriting, and to Astrid's surprise he traced each of the letters forming his name with his finger, caressing them, before he collected himself and opened the letter fast, as if he couldn't wait to read it.

Astrid looked at Azrael enquiringly, but he only shrugged and wrapped his arm around her waist as they stood in front of the archangel, waiting for him to finish reading.