Fallen Angel

Chapter 4.1

It was near dusk, and Joan grew more impatient by the minute. She plucked at the grass to keep herself busy, taking in the waterfall's sound and the birds fluttering around her. But her mind always went back to that one place, that one moment, that one person.
Finally, she heard a rustle behind her, and an old woman came out of the bushes. Though her face bore the wrinkles of a seventy-year-old, the fair beauty she had been in a previous life was still beneath the surface. Her hazel eyes were filled with kindness, but that did not take away the authority she commanded when needed. Her long grey hair was bound with ribbons, and she wore the simple garments of a farmer's wife. On her hip, she carried a small bag, usually used by apothecaries.

"You better have a good reason for dragging me all the way out here," spoke the old woman. "I did not die a young girl as you did, ma fille."

"Forgive me, maman. But something is going on, and I need your counsel."

Joan had witnessed from above as her mother, Isabelle Romée, fought to have her exonerated of the charges that had led to her death, taking her plea to the Pope himself. Never had she seen her mother so brave and fierce. 
She remembered being summoned to Michael's Villa one day for what she believed would be another scolding. Instead, she found Isabelle there, talking to Michael and Gabriël. Isabelle had been allowed in the Vale as she was deemed of value. Her wisdom was not the kind to be learned from books, but from life itself. She could help in the Scola and the Hospitium, and help keep an eye on her rebellious daughter. They could not meet often, though, which made the moments together more precious.
Isabelle approached her daughter for an embrace, smelling of the sweet fragrances of freshly cut herbs. It reminded Joan of home.

"Alors, what is so important?" asked her mother. "Your message sounded urgent."

"It's not urgent," said Joan. "But it's something that cannot be discussed in a public place. We can talk privately here."

Isabelle's expression hardened. The look she gave her daughter instantly made Joan feel like a child again.

"Joan, what are you involved in that Michael can't know about? Have you done something? Something to work against him?"

"No! It's got nothing to do with Michael himself. Only... if he were to know -"

"Stop talking in riddles, girl," demanded Isabelle. "Tell me what's going on, immédiatement!"

"I-It's Gabriël. He... I..." Joan stammered incoherently. 

"What about Gabriël?"

"He's been poisoned."

"Yes, I know, Joan. I'm treating him with Raphael," Isabelle responded impatiently. "What of it?"

"I... I'm worried about him. What if Raphael's treatment doesn't work? What if it destroys him? We don't know what happens to the Archangels when they... when..."

She pressed her quivering lips together and swallowed. Her mother's stern gaze wavered. Isabelle put a comforting arm around her daughter.

"Calme-toi, ma fille. It will work." 

"But what if it doesn't?" Joan couldn't bear to even think of it.

"It will. Or do you doubt Raphael's skills? Or mine, for that matter?"

"Of course not. I just... worry."

Joan could tell her mother felt there was more. She averted, but still noticed the look from the corner of her eye. Isabelle regarded her with scrutiny, her head slightly tilted. Then she gasped. She gripped Joan's hands and pulled her closer as if to make sure the secret was kept in the space between them.