“We’ve moved lots of heavy stuff, and nothing like this ever happened before.” The younger workman, who wore jeans and a sweat-stained RC Cola T-shirt, sounded spooked.
The older man had a bearlike build and a gruff voice. “I tied that knot myself. The rope slipped like it was covered in butter.”
He made the sign of the cross, and Nora’s gaze shifted back to the sculpture.
It was an angel. A winged angel.
Her right wing was intact, but there was a patch of rough marble where its left wing had been. As Nora stared at the wounded angel, she involuntarily brought her hand to her own shoulder. She could feel her burn scars through her thin shirt. The angel’s scar reminded her of lunar rock. It was nothing like hers, which looked like jellyfish and small octopi, forever suspended in an aquarium of skin.
She heard someone breathing hard behind her and glanced up to see Sheldon offering his hand to the woman.
“I don’t usually pant like a golden retriever when I meet people, and if I help you up, I promise not to lick you.”
The woman gave him a grateful smile and took his hand.
When she and Nora were both on their feet, she introduced herself as Celeste Leopold. “This is my store. Mine and my daughter’s. Bren’s inside and probably has no clue what just happened to Juliana.”
“Is that the angel’s name?” Nora asked.
Celeste cocked her head. “Angel, saint, healer, cunning woman. She’s had many titles.”
Nora and Sheldon introduced themselves and told Celeste about Miracle Books. By this time, the workmen had picked up the angel’s detached wing.
“Where do you want this, ma’am?” asked the older man.
“Put it in the window, please.” Celeste said. Her tone was surprisingly light considering how upset she’d just been. “I’ll use it as a display. There aren’t any mistakes in art. Only marvelous new creations.”
As the men carried the wing inside, Sheldon mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily.
“Go back to the shop and put your feet up,” Nora whispered to him. “You’re as white as that angel.”
Sheldon bobbed his head at Celeste. “Excuse me, neighbor, but when my skin goes from Greek god bronze to blanched almond, it’s my cue to leave. I hope the rest of your move is uneventful.”
While Celeste thanked Sheldon for his concern, Nora stared down at the angel.
The hair that framed her face was wavy and fell all the way to the embroidered belt at her waist. Attached to the belt was a thick chain. The chain reached the hem of the woman’s floor-length skirts, and the last link was broken. The angel’s hands were cupped, and the stalk of a leafy plant was tucked under her left arm. Though she reminded Nora of the statues in European church naves, there was something modern about the woman’s expression.
She isn’t humble.
The angel’s gaze was direct. Unflinching. Her chin was raised. Was she confident? Or defiant?
“Does Juliana have a story?” she asked Celeste.
The question clearly pleased Celeste. “She sure does. It’s my story too. And my daughter’s.” Her face glowed with pride. “For many generations, the women in my family have been called Juliana. Sometimes, as a first name. Sometimes, as a middle name. That’s how important she is to us. She and I are centuries apart, but we share the same passion. She devoted her life to healing, and almost all of her descendants have followed in her footsteps.”
The workmen reappeared on the sidewalk with more rope. They eyed the sculpture warily before winding rope around her torso.
“What’s with the chain?” one of them asked.
There was a far-off look in Celeste’s blue eyes. “Some say she was chained to a devil. Others say it was a dragon. Since I sculpted her, I decided to set her free.”
The younger workman frowned. “Why not just get rid of the chain?”
Celeste glanced at Nora before answering, “Because once you’ve danced with a devil—or been burned by dragon fire— you don’t ever want to go near those things again. The chains are there as reminders.”
“Shit, I’d rather tie a string around my finger,” the man said.
A movement in the window directly above the store’s entrance caught Nora’s attention. Shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, she looked up and saw a milk-pale face and dark eyes peering down at her. The ghostlike vision drew a finger across its throat before smiling in delight.
Suddenly, Nora’s burn scars began to tingle. The sensation started on the back of her hand and traveled up her arm to her neck. It crept over her cheek and forehead, even though a plastic surgeon had erased those scars over a year ago.