Salt repleted my lungs the day I was reborn.

Carried to shore I saw an angel who at first I thought bore wings of satin. When I opened my burning eyes she was nothing but a girl of youth, slender and small. Her brown hair traversed down the side of her tan neck, drenched in water along with the rest of her clothes. The two of us breathed in this renewal, my lungs choking in desperation for air and her breath steady yet strained. Her physique blocked the sun from my gaze but in my confusion I saw a ring of light around her head, shining as the brightest star on a black sky. As I looked at her attempting to blink the pain away, she merely smiled as if I were a miracle. There was a haunting mark of destiny in the way she stood over me, her hand caressing my drenched hair from my eyes.

“Welcome back, dearest soul. You are quite the miracle.”

Her sweet voice put me to sleep in an instant and I neglected the fear I once held, knowing that if Death were to come for me once more, it would wrestle first with her.

I know now, readers, that I almost failed to do the same for her.

A boy cannot often boast about his guardian angel that stayed, but mine did. The entirety of the truth was it was rather I who remained in the Landor House through her charity. It was a large property on the highest of ocean cliffs, the water ravaging the stones beneath as the air was cleansed with a morning and evening mist. Through constant prayers and murmurings of the servants, I quickly learned this was a House of God, and admitted only his most willing disciples through a vast generational legacy. Landor was a prominent wealthy family of the Church with decades of priests, ladies of charity, supplicants of holy wars, and ministers of the truth. It was my angel, Clementine, who pleaded my purpose here, for they would have rather depicted my arrival as the mark of something sinister.

My saturated clothes gave my position away as a diminutive youth of little means and talents. They did not ask from whence I came- rather if my parents were still bound to this mortal realm. I shook my head full of saltwater- a feeling that has never truly disappeared and continued to muddle my thoughts for years. They did not ask another question for a fortnight. There was talk of a religious blessing that might bestow a mark of propriety on my life, yet her Father never spoke nor regarded me as a person in his House, much less a servant. I was a ghost to all of the family and workers, but not to Clementine. My angel bid me rest but never entered the small quarters where I was stationed, and there I waited for the new person I was to be. It was a room of little consequence and while my memories were polluted, I acknowledged the sentiment of pride to have a space of my own for the first time.

One morning I was eating the serving of figs the maids brought for my breakfast when a strange man appeared. He reeked of alcohol and animals, his mustache and beard devoured by grime. His countenance left me unsettled but I met his grim gaze, awaiting his orders.

“How old are ye, boy?”

“Ten,” I answered honestly, for this I knew. My name and recollection of memories distant in the stars were mine to recollect, but when put to focus they dissolved as a mere reflection over ocean water- never truly there or too far from my reach.

“Ye know about horses?” I shook my head. “Ye don’t know what a horse is, ye dumb-witted clodpate?”

I soon realized my mistake but was given no chance of recovery. Before I spoke he grabbed me out of bed, thrusting me down the luxurious halls to the paltry stalls.

My new life was admitted as a dense boy of little talent, of no consequence.

Same as before.

The brightest news was that Mr. Harren was not a monstrous man, but rather miserable and disinterested in life. He fulfilled the daily tasks of grooming, picking hooves, tossing the hay bedding, saddling or dismounting the Landor riders and guests - yet there was no fervent desire for anything. I saw him as a shell of a man, and as a young boy with a second chance at life, this troubled me greatly. I feared to become him- to become something so unlike myself that I had no love or desire in this life.

Yet as I repeated his tasks and shadowed his methods, a part of my soul accepted this straightforward channel of an ordinary existence. There existed a peace in conformity, of knowing what was expected of you upon each morning.

The other part of me was well resisted, as it seemed that Clementine was desperate to save my soul once more in an alternative plane, and often she would waltz into the stables to complete her profound and spiritual mission. Only it wasn’t through God she did as such- no, her fervent desire for my salvation came from some higher calling that had no name or memory.

Destiny haunted the both of us until the day we died.

Clementine was the only Landor family member comprised of equestrian talent, even at her youthful age. She often talked of the stallions she would tame when older, although, with her determination and fire in her eyes, I knew she might succeed at the age of twelve. When the two of us were together there was a strange power in our beings that all our dreams could be accomplished, despite our prisons of status. Although one could argue her position gave her an abundance of possibilities, her birth as a woman and into a prestigious holy family left few prerogatives to explore the world outside these boundaries.

Clementine rode every Wednesday—perhaps a few extra rides if her studies were complete—and Mr. Harren volunteered me to chaperone her on her journeys. I never fully absorbed the knowledge of caring for horses, let alone riding them, as it took a year to finally settle into the mare I accompanied my angel with.

The first week I started with horses, Mr. Harren never spoke of Clementine nor of her habits, so I was pleased to be involved with them. Yet the horses took a long time to adjust to my presence. At first I thought they embraced those they recognized, but that first week even Mr. Harren expressed concern. He said they had sensitive souls and yet were also great judges of character – I cared not for what the horses feared in me, other than I needed them to comply for the sake of remaining in the Landor’s favor. Over time the horses would not hesitate upon my touch or soothing words, but their eyes never relaxed upon my presence, blinking and watching me intently.

Clementine came down the cliffs one morning, happy with an adventurous spirit when Mr. Harren paused in the stables.

“Yer father said ye should not be riding no more, miss.”

Clementine in her childish spirit rolled her eyes, sticking her tongue out at him. A howl of laughter burst from my lips but I soon caught it, my hands covering my mouth in quick regret. My angel smiled at me, amused at my enthusiasm for her disregard for politeness. I never knew Mr. Harren to be a man of wisdom, but this day he spoke something true, although I could not care at the time.

“One day, Miss Clementine, that spirit of yours is either gunna kill ye or get ye in serious trouble.”

Mr. Harren expressed that horses were easy to handle and docile, yet Clementine was the most troublesome stallion of all in the family. The two of us were contraries in human form; Clementine tended to fight against the injustices placed against her as a woman and one in such a Godly household, intent on riding despite the societal rules that disdained her talent as promiscuous. She often spoke vehemently about the way I was treated compared to the other servants, given leftover food and sleeping a mere two or three hours a night, and despite the lack of change in her family’s hearts, she ever persisted.

I was quiet on my front, although curious at her sense of injustice. The strength she held seemed impossible for me to ascertain and grasp as my own. At this youthful age, I was more content to learn the ropes from observation, discerning what paths others followed before making a decision when I was older.

Clementine discussed often her religion and God, how while the hymns and works of Him echoed into history, it was not without the suffering of others. I knew naught of what she spoke but nodded empathetically at her constant articulations. While she was critically engaged with the world around her at the mere age of eleven, she maintained a bright smile and angelic aura on each of our equestrian rides. I admired her smile and I believe she admired my naivety of the world before me. Such was our relationship, one on my end that grew into a childish romance despite my limitation of house and rank.

I remember the day she turned thirteen, a celebration of her future triumphed in the House as I remained in the stalls tending to the guests’ horses. My heart ached to attend, a violent passion to intercede past the boundary of class to just watch her entranced with joy and music. Yet as I hummed the merry tunes and brushed the stalls, I turned to find her watching me. Clementine stood in the stable’s archway, leaning against the frame in an outfit hastily put together as a riding ensemble. Our eyes met but her lips did not part to speak, nor did they grace me with her traditional smile. Brown eyes glazed like the ocean, but no tears fell with her great strength. It did not take words for us to communicate, as the pain absorbed the room and congested what little clean air survived there.

“If you are not engaged,” she started, as her gentle requests always do, “I would very much like to ride.”

Behind her the world stood dark and grey, the sea mist invading the land rather than occupying the complementary abyss. She observed my eyes gaze over her shoulder, aware of my internal turmoil to her unusual request- but I remained silent as I prepared her horse. The stallion she wanted most for her birthday never arrived- and there was an unspoken air that it would never come. Her childhood steed grew in age but depleted in strength, enough for her journeys but nothing more. She feared retiring him, for the way Landors treated animals at the end of their life was to expedite it, and it was the only time I was ever requested to manipulate a rifle.

I still remember the afternoon when shots rang out for a retired mare and several cows, the taste of blood filling my mouth from harshly biting my tongue. I lowered the rifle slowly, examining this new profound sense, and discovered underneath the shield of ordinary disregard for human emotion, the smallest trove of delectation. Whether it was the violence disguised as a charity that originated from my hands, the power of such a weapon for a boy who had none, or the chaos of life and death- I know not which excited me most. No sooner had I examined this sentiment, that I then buried it swiftly to a small corridor of my soul and it has not attempted to escape.

I desired but also dreaded if such a task were granted to me to absolve Clementine’s horse; that to send him to the finality of the grave those dreary feelings would return as I hurt the one person I truly cared for. It was not that she would disregard my role- for at this moment in time the two of us understood each other in this world, and what we were destined for.

“You will ride with me?”

I awoke from that dark rumination as I assisted her onto the horse, which steadied its legs to carry her augustly. A quick acknowledgement of her request led me to attend to my steedquickly and we trotted out of the stables and into the cool mist. The air was heavy and thick with the fog, often found on the forest floors but this night was strange indeed, as it rose above to our shoulders and shuddered us with a mysterious crisp.

Clementine’s thoughts remained unsounded at this time, a strange encounter compared to our customs of conversation and companionship. While we were close in age, we shared many differences and yet this did not deter her from seeking my company. Our horses matched tempo, but as we approached the barren pines stripped of color and life from the harsh coastal storms, the horses grew apprehensive of this dark contrast of their ordinary rides and slowed themselves. I looked around through the branches as if the trees would suddenly turn alive and swallow us whole. Clem appeared startled but for a reason entirely different, and I watched as her body mimicked a similar posture I once knew. She was running away from something I could not anticipate nor comprehend- yet there was a renewed fire in her eyes burning with hate.

“He’s here,” she said, her brown hands turning white gripping the leather reins.

“Who?” I asked, observing the misty air for a sign of invasion.

“God.”

There it was- a hideous presence in the air- the oxygen thickening as the land around us grew quiet. Our horses had stopped abnormally parallel to each other, and Clementine met my gaze. The hate evaporated from her when she turned to me, leaving a strange reverence that gleamed in the circles of her brown eyes. Her tan countenance turned red with embarrassment as she altered her sight to the barren ground. No sound could be depicted other than the breathing of Clementine, the horses, and I- for while our pace has been steady, our breaths heaved as if exhausted. Perhaps we were, as I never felt more drained, not since the day I drowned, struggling to keep my smaller body afloat amongst the waves.

Yet as soon as the horror arrived, it fled from our unification as I touched her hand.

“I apologize,” she whispered, yet I was not sure if this was directed at me or God. Then she adjusted her posture and body as she was directed to, a stoic elegant presence devoid of emotion. I knew her as Clementine, yet the world wanted her to be Lady Clementine and berated her for a moment of innocence and laxity. She clicked her tongue and motioned her horse forward, and I simply followed behind uncertain of our destination. The third presence- God, a monster, or both- did not seem to follow, but I fear he latched onto me that night…forcing me down a path away from Clementine, but also away from my true destiny.

“My father granted me two choices today.”

Her voice was flat and her body regal and tall for thirteen, saddening me greatly. I followed her in silence and understood the emotion I mistook prior: she was not running away but running towards something she had lost. Even though her hair, her attire, and everything about her was the same this evening before we departed, Clementine was no longer the girl I knew full of youth and vigor to fight against her limitations. My time was short to arrive at that similar destination, although not yet known to me.

“Should I be grateful to choose?”

“I do not understand, Clem,” I replied although it was rather like a shout ahead. She was a close distance but profoundly far away from my heart. Her horse hesitated into a brief stall, but Clementine did not allow the hesitation, clicking her horse forward. There was a quick but disappearing vexation tensed into her physique as she continued.

“Women of lesser privileges are not granted options, they simply fulfill their roles,” Clementine explained. “Yet here I am with a choice- and I do not feel the better for it. I am to either serve man or God.”

Without my comprehension or intent to act, I found my horse beside hers, although I did not meet her face. She knew from my deficiency of response I knew not of what she meant. At a time now as I write with further education, I disdain with sadness for the boy I was with little means of knowledge nor understanding of the complex thoughts of the human soul.

“I am to marry or serve the Church,” she clarified.

“Are you not rather young to marry?” I asked incredulously, and my face must have mimicked this sentiment as she erupted into sudden laughter. I feared she would not stop until sobs enslaved that dear sound of hers, but even now there was no innocent merriment to her laugh.

“Not as of now, silly,” she smiled, grateful for that opportunity to arise in her future. “I am quite young.”

After a brief pause, I responded with another question.

“Do you not want to marry?”

Her chest heaved with a deep and sorrowful sigh, yet she did not respond as no answer came to her mind. I watched her wrestle with her ideas, her forehead scrunched into deep thought. The silence accompanied us on our journey with no destination, although the horses seemed compelled to their typical route as I recognized the way home.

“Your choice was not your own, to stay and work here,” Clementine clarified, explaining the motion of her thoughts but I could not follow. “I feel...I know- when I pulled you from that water you were destined for something greater. And now I stand with you, feeling that same distant call to a purpose unknown.”

It frightened me to hear the tremble in her voice, although it did not resemble terror but pure despondency. I heard at length every Sunday from the Landor House, as even all servants were required to attend, the sermons and lengthy rituals designed centuries prior. The power of Landors and God were one, and I often saw that in my Clementine when she pulled me from that water. I accepted her as an angel of this God, and while she often told me of this purpose she sensed in me, I always assumed this was an angelic foresight.

Yet now I was not so certain...again I echo I was never certain of anything at this age.

“Is it not with God?” I queried into her heart and found resolution there. She nodded swiftly, our gazes meeting once more.

“It is beyond that...if such is possible,” she whispered. “Something hidden in a cove of this world, waiting for us in the shadows. I do not feel God fight for me as if he acquiesces me to find this purpose alone- yet with these two choices I fear I do not know which shall lead me down this path. Is it easier, Henry? To not be granted alternatives- to be thrust into a future and design ourselves to fit appropriately to these roles?”

I nodded in reply, yet something stirred inside me to open my heart to her. I could not confess the truth of young love to Clementine, to confuse her in this moment of her future. I was not a boy of any means to care for her nor allow her to diminish her qualities and talents for my simplicity. No- I trembled at the fact that I knew what I was to speak of echoed into that hidden corner of the world, that incomprehensible purpose...and I was now to run from it again.

“My head is brimming with ocean,” I recounted, to which she understood the reference to my occasional pain. “I see black skies and stars but feel the waves continue me forward, as they did that day you rescued me. I follow their pattern, sense their motions, and comprehend the strength of the next pull and in my calculation, there is nothing but dread in my stomach as I wait for the next wave. Another wave follows, and it always will, Clementine. I know when I reach shore, perhaps I will find that purpose you speak of- but perhaps our fate is left best to those tides.”

I sense I started favorably, my words spilling from my mouth from some divine reservoir enthralling her and shocking myself with such prose. In the end, I fear it did not soothe her troubled mind as I anticipated as the curves of her lips pouted gently.

“He who decreases the moon and stars to shine by night- who stirs up the sea so that its waves roar-” Clementine recounted. “God moves the waters, Henry. I find doubt in them- with you and myself. If I am not a woman of God then I am not a Landor- what am I to be?”

Her crises of identity depressed my heart. At this moment I knew there was no practicality to my answers, but in my honesty, I attempted to soothe her better than metaphors or poetry: truth.

“Would you not be a Landor should you marry? You would carry his name instead.”

She paused to contemplate.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

“I suppose not...”

“And if you married, you would not be forced to a Godly role, yes?”

“Unless I married a minister or other congregational lead- then I must be a Godly wife,” she sighed. “There are multitudes of choices within this option- layers of decisions that are once again decided for me yet open simultaneously. I can take the one prerogative I have to select God, and then there’s nothing left but his divine plan to follow- or I accept marriage and the uncertain tides to come.”

It took a few more moments of silence, just the gliding of our horses against the cold floor before the stables were back in sight. The mist remained thick and heavy and if it were not for the instincts of our animals, we might have been lost forever. I felt that Clementine wished that to be so.

“There is no answer,” she announced with a sarcastic pride. After I removed myself from my steed, I carefully assisted her off her horse. She held my hand tightly, even after her heavenly feet met the hay and dirt of the stable floor. The other hand stroked the horse’s neck, gentle and kind before squeezing mine with equal warmth. “I hope you at least find your answer, Henry.”

She departed quickly and I watched her walk up the path toward the House before disappearing into the mist that seemed to follow her. I thought it all peculiar, the mist, the black skies with gleaming stars, the way the spires of the House stood tall...the way my Clementine so beautiful and above us all, was held a captive to all around her.

It was a year later I stumbled upon a new path, one that might lead me to the answer Clementine and I sought. I did not know what she told her father that night- however, her visits to ride since grew scarce. Upon delivery of a neatly packaged parcel to the stables, I went up to the House to find the foreman- why this package was granted to me and not the House, I do not know, but I felt a purpose in escorting it to the proper hands.

As I climbed the rocky steps up the precipice of the multitudes of cliffs the House stood upon, I ventured to think this deliveryman feared the journey, and there was a moment of glee that filled my steps in hopes that inside I would see Clementine, even for a brief passing. The wind blew strongly and the light was blinding as I turned to look out at the ocean.

There amongst the distant cliffs roared the waves against a strange sight. I peered with stronger intent, a hand covering above my eyes to block the sun. Against the rocks appeared a wooden mast, mimicking an ancient shipwreck as the wood no longer looked brown but ordained by the sea water and moss.

No matter how hard I attempted to study my past, it was an empty void. Even upon glancing at this shipwreck, no memory stirred, and no emotion warmed my soul. Perhaps this wreck existed long before I did, or perhaps this was all a trick of the light.

It mattered not, only the thought of seeing Clementine once more filled my heart. I verified my shoes were as neat as possible before quietly traversing the House foyer when I spotted someone new and peculiar.

The man was hunched over on his knees, grey curly hair spilling down his shoulders underneath an olive cap. His hand pressed the paintbrush against the wall, gently creating strokes of the landscape before me, a congregation of sorts with Saints and angels above them. It was certainly unfinished but I was more than impressed, quietly watching him from my corner. A servant passed behind the artist between us, glancing balefully my way before I motioned to the parcel in my hand. She appeared to understand and changed directions to find the foreman, as it was better for her to be seen around the House than me. I did not mind waiting, for while she was not pleasant, I was entranced by the way this man worked.

While unable to witness his initial progress, his talent for creation paralyzed me as I looked at every feature possible. Many faces were fragmented, their clothes having more detail than their unformed bodies. The divine above this crowd were only distinguishable by their designated circle behind their heads, a dull yellow I knew would soon be bright and heavenly. I could see it all now the vision behind this painter despite the work necessary to continue, but the mere thought of his finished work brought tears to my eyes. It had nothing to do with the landscape or picture- I feared this man could paint horses or blades of grass and I would still comprehend the awe and treasure of his talent. There was something steady and controlled in his movements, his presence in the room superior and confident yet intimidating for my small stature.

The foreman arrived and caught me off guard, my body startled before quickly handing him the package. He awaited with it in hand and motioned me to find my way back to the stables. I swallowed and nodded in disappointment, entering back onto the precipice aware there was not a window to spy from. When I looked back at the ocean, I did not recall if I ever noticed the shipwreck against the rocks then, or any time after. The ocean didn’t seem as real nor inviting as this man’s creation- I knew this was blasphemy against God but I almost seemed pleased by it on my way down.

I conjured several excuses to enter the House and observe the artist from a habitual distance. The statue of God always greeted me entering the Landor House, watching my sin as I snuck down the halls. My heart still stirred in hope to find a moment with Clementine and share my enthusiasm, but she never appeared. I feared my angel departed without saying goodbye or that her father knew of my heart’s secrets and strictly kept her veiled from my inferiority.

Servants were less frequent during the afternoon, granting me ample opportunity to watch him. Strange and delightful it is to watch creation unfold before your eyes, as if I was a terrible and secret witness to an unfathomable act.

I loved the silence in which he worked, for there was no music nor humming accompanying his duty to paint, just the sound of the bristles on the wall. In his patterns, I started to recognize the different techniques to create texture, the way his wrist would flourish or halt to find the right measure of perfection. Wonder encircled me each time I witnessed him, for I was curious if he was born of talent or trained- can one be practiced in creation?

On the artist’s palette was another inception of yellow hues and shades. I watched as he spent minutes crafting the perfect color, encircling the paint with white or alternatives until he captured his perfection. The use of every bone in his body- every move calculated and precise- and the mural even in progress stood in decadent splendor. The yellow he painted over the saint circles shone as the light intruded from the window above me, the sun breaking through the daily cloud storms above the ocean.

I grew suddenly startled seeing my shadow plastered among his perfect display. It was a rotten black form of my head, as while I was a short and small child, I saw it grow across the wall and mural. My first and innate reaction all my life was to run-yet my feet did not follow my heart as I continued to stand frozen in place. My eyes met the artist’s back, waiting for his eyes to catch this shadow marring his work, yet his body did not betray him. He persevered on in silence as if he did not see my grotesque blemish upon his majestic piece.

My shadowed head remained, short of the line of priests and figures on the wall, too far to reach the angels and saints that climbed higher. Darkness rotted into the mural, destroying this artist’s work with my mere existence in this House of God. The dread of my presence being known frightened me, more than the knowledge that what I was doing was immoral. Shame clouded over me like an ocean mist and tears silently fell from my eyes. My head understood that my place and status would not have a place for me in the Landor House....perhaps anywhere past this ancient crevice above the ocean. In return, my heart spoke about the crimes of witnessing creation as it happened, and there was that dreadful sensation of power. The memory of shooting the dying horse and cows, and standing in a line waiting for their execution, I now saw the priests on the wall lined up in correspondence. I assumed my disgust from that memory to be the power over death, but as I saw my shadow stain the painter’s work, I realized it arose from the power of life. Whether to take or create, they were two of the same coin and I stood as a mere boy burdened with this thought.

His hand lifted to the black shadow on the wall, his arm now shielding his creation from my stain on his world. His paintbrush was lifted yet stalled, as the ghastly yellow liquid was close to falling from the precipice. It was despicable, the wrong shade of yellow above his place of interest, the wickedness of my presence. A strange repugnance flooded me and I was again the target of its pain. I dirtied this mural, his creation- I was a plague upon this Earth.

“It is not right!”

Whether I spoke of myself or this mistaken artist in his color choice- I dare not know. No matter what Clementine said I could not shake the weight of my insignificance. No matter that I was already granted a second chance at life, I was nothing.

My existence in this realm also tainted those around me, and I was far the better to be out of their reach, especially my dear angel. The artist turned around curiously, as if all this time he knew I was there. His eyes spoke not of judgement, nor of any horror in my claims- they were alight with life and a strange pride.

My feet finally grew wings, turning swiftly behind me to the open door as I flew out of House Landor, amazed at how the cliffs did not return me to a watery grave as I descended them swiftly.

I awoke the next day refreshed but aware of a shame buried deep within me. My thoughts returned to Clementine, sweet Clementine who dreamed of a larger life than I had. Perhaps she was the source of this horror, that I was not the boy she dreamed I could become, or that our paths no longer crossed to that great destination she spoke of.

It felt terrible to reject not only the idea of her vision but also her, but I thought as a boy it was wiser to distance myself from the vulnerability that arises as a mortal. I know now, readers, how terribly mistaken I was.

As I cleaned the stables, I recalled once more the similarities with my experience in killing the Landor animals- the sharp aversion intertwined with pleasure. That pleasure in power- particularly authority over life and death. I now understood my deep desire for purpose and status in a world I was not encouraged to grasp. What fascination was there in destroying the creation I found beautiful, my presence a mere cloud of abomination, tainting that of God? What was I to Him that betrayed my rebirth with desolation and scorn?

In my cloud of thought, I heard a sweet voice talking with Mr. Harren. I could not see above the stable wooden walls nor determine concise words but derived it was my Clementine. My sin returned, a strong feeling to reprimand myself and beg for her forgiveness for these terrible thoughts and feelings against her wishes.

Before I could drop to my knees beside the horse, Mr. Harren walked inside. What a fool I would be! He looked my way with a benign disappointment, holding his hand for the broom I held tightly.

“The Lady wants to see ye,” he motioned outside. In his words were the strangest of goodbyes that I did not yet comprehend. I nodded eagerly but felt a strange twin tenderness in return as I passed him, feeling his eyes latched to my passing presence.

Birds chirped around Clementine standing in what little grass remained around the property, her gaze upward to the sun. The heat and rays were harsh that day yet she basked in it as if it were a pool of liquid gold. Her skin bronzed with shimmer and beauty, her white dress swaying against the red flowers barely surviving in the ground below.

“Henry!” she smiled once she heard my footsteps. Her gaze did not depart the clouds, but her hand covered her brows to shade her eyes. “My, the world is yellow today.”

Upon her words, I thought of yesterday's misfortune and swallowed my desire to burst forth misdeeds.

“Ye-yellow?”

This time she looked at me, in the same way as her enchanted gaze at the sky.

“Yes silly, yellow.” She took my hand in her satin glove, undisturbed by the dirt and grime that might transfer. “You have been requested.”

We walked together up the cliff to the House, the sun burning with no wind nor breeze to soothe us. I gaped at how Clementine in a lovely dress with sleeves and some length would not suffer under this heat as I did with dull trousers and a working shirt. My angel was in her element full of radiance- for the sun was rare on these shores. She looked older beyond her years, not in an that ancient angelic way, but designed with makeup and attire to latch onto adulthood before her time. It saddened me to know this to be the plot of her parents and not of her desires.

“Requested?”

“Yes, for some work in the House,” she clarified. She turned to look at me with an unprecedented expression, one I could not decipher. Her eyes softened as she fixed a piece of my hair. Clementine did not adjust the rest of my appearance that sorely needed it, my clothes wrinkled and shoes worn out. Her eyes met mine with conviction when she completed her task.

Clementine breathed deeply before she mirrored my expression of confession, yet I knew naught what she would dare confess, this angel who I believed could do no harm.

“I know the stables are not ideal to most, and while I could not have you leave suddenly so soon after finding you, Mr. Harren always complained about not having help,” she admitted. “The truth is... he never needed it, and I hope he did not make you suffer for his lackluster desire to work. He was my uncle’s friend, another charity case and I thought perhaps you were mine.”

“Am I not still?” I pleaded, desperation dripping from my words. Yet she laughed heartily as if she was worried she had spoken falsely.

“Perhaps, but I pulled you from that ocean as an equal, Henry. I fear that perhaps our certain...indulgences with our time together have encouraged such sentimentalities....”

When I did not encourage her desired response, dismay clouded her from me. I soon comprehended that a choice lay ahead that may depart us, but now she stood in the reality of our world that she was a Lady and I insignificant to the causes-and not even our deepest wishes would counteract the divine power of God’s plans.

This time her sorrow drowned her from the words she would often affirm to the pair of us- that there was some place where we stood as equals or describe the wonderous vision she had of me. When I stood with her in that vision, I felt it to be true, but I never once told Clementine that the feeling disappeared when we departed, and the absence of her presence grew a different emotion to her grand design: indifference.

I loved Clementine more than anything- I knew the love of my distant parents and felt the tugging and swells of my heart with my angel- but as we stood before the ocean that decided our fate on the cliffs of Landor House, I decided that her vision buried itself in the innermost corner of my heart, a place my soul could not find nor align to. I loved Clementine but with my lack of comprehension of her grand design, I felt undeserving not in loving her but being loved by her.

Tears formed in her eyes and I took her hand softly into mine, squeezing our fingers together so they would never pry apart, despite how I felt privately. Clementine composed herself well due to her training, the stoic nature of a godly woman not swayed to sentiment. Her eyes revealed that deeper secret to which she never conveyed to me, a sweltering ocean of tears she kept at bay.

“There is a painter who has noticed your observations,” she announced, revealing the work I was to do. I felt a mimic of that terror during my last surveillance of his work, yet in the presence of my angel, a mist of clarity and peace washed over me. “Mr. Quinn is in need of assistance with some of the smaller details and thus requested someone petite. While I was to offer your services with his request, he solicited me for a shabby boy reeking of horses. Seems he had you well selected before I could even suggest it!”

She began to drag me forward, hand in hand, the fate of our destinies continuing up the cliffs. The clouds of dust and grime covered the sun, small rays of yellow escaping the narrow threads of sky vapors. I thought of Mr. Quinn- now that I knew his name- and the terrible paint...

Perhaps this was a test of God?

“Is my smell that terrible?” I asked.

At the front of the Landor House, the front doors were surprisingly shut. Perhaps the quality of the air was not on par with the expectations of the House, and it rejected the dirt and inferior. Clementine did not wait for the foreman and opened the door for me. In her sudden strength I startled, and when I looked to her face, saw the flashes of anger in her eyes.

“Dear Clem, I hope you are not angry with me.”

A deep sigh that imitated a soft cry left her lips as she held the door open behind her back, welcoming me inside. I did not enter before her, as it was customary for the members of the House to enter first. Clementine waited.

“You should not ask about your smell, Henry,” she declared with little affection in her voice. It was monotone and low. “You have an opportunity with Mr. Quinn- he could grant you whatever you desire! He could teach you how to paint the world how you see it, how we see it. Instead, you are worried about your smell and your character as if that will progress you along where you will thrive.”

Sometimes I wondered if I was born foolish... perhaps daft of what was to be expected of me. Fragments of my life before were childhood dreams and now I understood Clementine was angry that I was not only all but blind to her vision, but any sort of future beyond the two of us. The only sentiment I understood was the dread of not being beside her, one I hoped I could bury far enough inside that it would not resurrect its ugly head.

“I will do what you ask,” I reaffirmed before she indignantly released her hand from mine.

“No, Henry, you will do this because you desire it, to be more than where I placed you in my own selfishness. To rise to-” she paused and I knew it was the lyricism of her visions that plagued her tongue, clawing its way to be heard once more. “-To find happiness in whichever you choose but with security and options.”

Never granted a choice, her hate and contempt for her life reflected into a mine. Choices drowned us both, Clementine and I. Her insecurities with her own future glowed on her skin in the House of Landor, yet she still awaited me to enter. The door she held open against her body was tall and heavy, one I never touched but seemed would break her slender arms- and it was out of relief for her that I entered first. I observed the halls to ensure no servants were watching, but the house was quiet save for Clementine’s shaking breaths. To my right at this entrance inside was the marble statue of God- it was not through the strands of beads and a cross in his hand nor the stance of haughty air declaring all into Landor House. It was in the eyes of judgment I found God and I despised him. My gaze met the blank whites of his eyes, carved perfectly, and I accepted his path begrudgingly, for I knew naught what else there was anymore.  

There was no guarantee my desire to stay with Clementine in these stables would grant me forever with her- only chain me to the beaches I was rebirthed from. Here, in the unknown landscape of paint and distant love, the decision I knew Clementine wished me to take, I vowed to carve my own destiny. Not for God, not for desire or avarice, and not for Clementine although I hoped this path would one day cross hers again.

It was my choice, the first one I ever made as a boy- I resolved to work for Quinn regardless of where this path led.

The air grew lighter as I turned away from God and Clementine stood at my side. Her anger disappeared in an instant, exchanged for perhaps a sorrowful contentedness, and I strongly desired to hold her once more.

“Is that him?”

I was startled thinking the statue of God had awakened for his wrath with the aired question, but no, it was Mr. Quinn in the hallway of marble and blues. His shirt and pants were covered in paint, and his beard and hair as disheveled as mine. In some ways, it was looking into a mirror of the future, although I hoped I would not be as unpleasing as him aesthetically.

“Yes, Mr. Quinn,” Clementine cheered, a smile returning to her tanned and freckled face. God and I witnessed her change as the Lady of the House in mere seconds, a quick mask she could press to her face. Her lips parted to continue yet she paused, realizing that it was no longer her role to speak for him. A break of her performance occurred when she nudged me with her elbow and I almost fell over, a laugh daring to escape.

“Yes, hello,” I mumbled, clearing my throat and adjusting my stance. “I am Henry.”

Clementine’s face pinked with amusement but she moved her hands elegantly behind her back, awaiting the response of Mr. Quinn. He looked unamused but his eyes recognized us for what we simply were: children.

Clementine and I saw that reflection with the truth that not only were we losing each other, but our youth would soon be a distant memory.

“Well…hurry along now.”

I followed Mr. Quinn’s voice to the hallway, realizing Clementine did not follow. I glanced back at her once more, and she never looked less of a child since. Her long brown hair wavy and glossy, the details of her dress exquisite, the smooth lines of her gentle face. The clouds outside evaporated for a mere moment, shining the sun through the windows of the House, yet in the circular welcoming lobby, Clementine for the first time stood in the shadows, just on the mere edge of the light on the tile floor. The light of yellow entered, shining on Mr. Quinn and I even as we left the lobby towards the mural wall.

He did not speak as he watched the sun rays reflect on his creation, the yellow circles around the saints appearing as bright as they had entranced me upon my first glance. I observed his depiction of now what appeared like farmers or common people desperately grasping their hands above the angels in search of...something. I agreed it was incomplete and required much work, an inner voice spoke to me although I knew not of any artistic critique.

“What do you think they are searching for?” Mr. Quinn asked. I looked up at him, as he was tall- or perhaps seemed so for a boy of my stature. My eyes expressed my doubt when he asked me again, the pair of us looking at the painting.

I pretended to examine it a moment longer, although the answer was with me when I first realized the direction of his work.

“Belief...I think.”

Mr. Quinn said nothing.

I later learned that Quinn, similar to Mr. Harren, was a man of little words. He spoke through his work, and as I sat beside him brush in hand, I too did not speak much else after. I watched his strokes and methods once more, and he mixed the paint for me before offering the palette before me. A drop of paint dripped onto my clothes, a strange baptism that neither of us acknowledged. He waited patiently, although there were minor shakes in his hand as I dipped my small brush into the color of rusted red. I brought it to the wall, unsure of how it would feel on this strange plastered surface, and started with a cautious light touch.

Quinn demonstrated with actions as I learned how to paint beside him in the House of Landor. There is nothing I can say in my writing about the pride and accomplishment I felt at the end of each day, reaching the limit of our shared creation. It was through our work together that he asked me to be his apprentice, to travel to his next location in Italy when the work was complete. I accepted eagerly, now understanding the fervor of my destined path that Clementine desired for me. While I could not speak to what the future held, the art of creation I was learning from Quinn was a stronger conviction to my purpose not attached to faith, despite the depiction of this current mural. It was faith in myself and my capabilities that I knew Clementine would be proud of.

Yet I know now that this path without her would only lead to my reformation.

At the end, I remember taking a moment to pause at the fine details of the common folk I developed on the murals, their faces distraught and desperate. In one woman I saw the details of my Clementine, a face I had not seen in some months. Her lessons grew rigorous and busy, although it was often that the Landor House was filled with important people of wealth and rank. Our work always stopped during festivities, the music filling Quinn and my alone time with reading and writing. Quinn taught me everything about this world with strict but gentle reproach, and I am ever thankful for his presence in my life. I prayed, to whom I do not know, that Clementine was blessed for solidifying our union and that her fate was as fortunate as mine.

I looked back at the angel above this crowd. She was Mr. Quinn’s work and nothing like my Clementine- the face was soft and round with gentle youth, but the eyes were that of God. For the first time I disregarded this sense His judgement and superiority - perhaps believing the lies that all men were created equal. Maybe that was our sin as humans…corrupting that initial message.

“Do they find it?”

Mr. Quinn looked up in surprise at my words, as I maintained a quiet disposition often unless I needed clarification or assistance.

“Find what, dear boy?” Sometimes in his words, I found the strangest gentle touch.

“Belief.”

He rose to meet the same gaze and perspective I held over the mural, close to finished perfection. It would need a final gloss and cleaning of the finer details, but the story was clear and true.

Their land was on fire, a centered angel of light and rescue as their path of salvation. Their hands competed with each other desperate to grab this small angel. Red and yellow blazed in my eyes, and I no longer regarded yellow as ghastly as it once was. As I was.

“We will know when it is truly done,” he announced, although the two of us knew that even our final touches of this work would not alter the truth of what I discovered.