Read Archangel for Free Online Page A

there of her own free will.” She twisted around to face Rachel. “You would come, of your own free will, wouldn’t you?” she asked wistfully. “I would pay you whatever you asked.”
    “You would not have to pay me very much,” Rachel said, very low. “I would come gladly—if you would make me free.”
    The rest of Mary’s wedding day passed, for Rachel, in something of a blur. Once she escorted the trembling girl down to the chapel, she had to hurry back to the kitchens, for there was so much to be done that additional workers had been borrowedfrom the homes of Jethro’s powerful friends. Not for a moment did Rachel stop slicing, chopping, stirring, cleaning and running.
    But whatever her task, her mind was far from it. She tried to crush down her rising excitement, but Mary’s artless offer had given her a fierce hope such as she had not indulged in for five years. It was stupid—she knew it was stupid—to believe Mary had the power, or the will, to effect the sale merely because she wanted it; clearly, this was not a woman used to getting her own way. But if Lady Clara did not object—and why should she?— and if Daniel was agreeable—and why should he not be, new-married bridegroom that he was?—it was just possible that Rachel was about to step onto the long road to freedom. At last, at last.
    But it was foolish to believe it really would happen.
    But it could. It could.
    Only once during that endless, harried day did Rachel break stride in her work or wrench her mind away from that delicious, terrifying vision. Shortly after the chapel bells tolled high noon, music washed over the house from above—multiharmonic vocal music so exquisite that Rachel felt her hands falter on the chopping block.
    “What is that?” she whispered to Anna.
    “The angels,” the woman whispered back. “Singing to Jovah to ask him to bless young Lord Daniel and the lady Mary.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Above the house. On the wing. Is it not the most beautiful sound you have ever heard?”
    Indeed it was, and Rachel had heard fine singing before. The bright brilliance of the soprano line was warmed by the rich alto voice; the tenor notes wove through them like metallic thread, and the basses flowed beneath them all like a dark river. Rachel closed her eyes, remembering music. Her hands continued laboring of their own volition.
    And then she stopped moving altogether. A single male voice broke through the choral murmuring and painted the air with color. The lyric line was one of happiness and hope, but Rachel felt her heart twist as if the man sang of tragedy; that was how elegant his voice was. When the chorus responded with its carefully measured intervals, she actually gasped. The soloist’s voice disappeared into harmony and she felt her breath spiral awayfrom her, felt her head grow light. For a split second, as his voice ceased, she felt her own pulse hammer to a halt.
    “Jovah will certainly grant happiness to the young ones now,” Anna leaned over to murmur. “How could he not, after such a concert?”
    But Rachel scarcely heard her. Opening her eyes, she was shocked beyond measure to find herself in the cellar kitchen of a Semorrah house, dressed in rags, bound by a chain and working like a slave. She had, for a few moments, literally forgotten where she was.
    Between the wedding, the luncheon banquet, the afternoon reception, the dinner and the grand dress ball, the guests did not have much of a respite either. An hour or so before midnight, when the chatelaine told Rachel that Lady Mary needed her services to undress for the night, the slave dried her hands, tied her hair back and ran up the three flights to the suite reserved for Daniel and his bride. She half-expected to find Mary sobbing and exhausted, for it had been a day to try the most robust woman, which Mary was not; but it was a calm and hopeful young bride who awaited Rachel in the large and dimly lit chamber.
    “How did you fare today?”