Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 127

“But,” Mary went on, “Lord Winterly has come to call every night this week, and in his company, under my supervision, your sister has received from him some palliative tonic—his best claret, I was told. Indeed, it must be, for Milli appears to recover instantly after each serving. It was by your leave that he brought her here in the first place, thus did I not question his assiduities, nor did I discourage the wine—such as it was—that he administered, for the poor girl’s relief was quite manifest.”

Markus had mentioned not a hint of these nightly visits. What was she to think? There was no question as to the nature of the ‘palliative’ disguised by the claret. But from his blood memories she knew he had spoken the truth about vampyres guarding their blood jealously, so if he was sharing it with Milli, then Emma had to assume it was a selfless act—it was for Emma that he did so, for she knew he harbored little love for Milli.

She considered her cousin’s staid and practical features a long moment. Mary had been right to admit Markus and allow him to continue healing her sister.

“What sort of Christian would I be,” said Mary, “if I allowed myself to be ruled by prejudice? If I allowed my beliefs to be colored black or white by the opinions of others?”

Emma snorted. “Are you sure it wasn’t his fine claret that colored your beliefs?”

“No, I much prefer sherry.” Mary leaned back with a chuckle. “I partook of none of what was offered to Milli. What’s that German proverb—I know how you love your proverbs—about the dove and the crows?” She tapped her bottom lip, thoughtful. “A dove that nests with crows will come away with black feathers?”

“No, it comes away with a blackened heart,” Emma replied.

“No, indeed! Consider instead that it never belonged with the doves in the first place and was ever a crow at heart.” She took Emma’s hand in hers. “You are who God made you. Do not try to live among the doves, Emma, when you are something altogether more untamed.”

“Heavens, Mary, that savors of encouragement!” She dropped her gaze. “But can God, in His mercy, be reconciled to such a love as I bear? Lest we forget, He cast Markus from grace.”

“I think it is not wise to guess at God’s motives, for good or bad. Ay, He cast your Markus from heaven, but who are we to judge it a curse or a mercy—He cast his child out to live among the fallible creatures he could most identify with, did He not? Is that not a mercy? He sent His dove to live among the crows and nightingales where he belonged; He gave him the black wings he so desired so that he could cleave to the night. Your Lord Winterly belongs more to earth than to heaven, and it is here, among the rest of God’s earthly flock, that he found you, dearest Emma. Perhaps He loved His creation so much that He placed him here to find his heart’s twin in you. And now it is only for you to find your flock, whatever the shade of their feathers, or whether they thrive in the night or flourish by day. There cannot be night without day, both have purpose. Both are essential in nature. And sometimes the moon and the sun share the same sky.”

Even the raven nearby, it seemed, was leaning closer to listen to Mary.

“Does not every earthly creature deserve redemption?” she continued to say. “Is your vampyre’s love for you not, in itself, his own redemption?”

Emma reached into her pocket, her hand closing over the signet ring. The ring seemed to possess a life of its own, for it slipped loosely onto her thumb, warm and comforting, as though it belonged there. “Do you truly believe he loves me?”

“I do. Perhaps that unfortunate letter was merely his pride and hurt coloring his true meaning. It is evident that even immortals are as prideful and fallible as we.”

Emma allowed that to be possible. She released a heart-fetched sigh and patted her lashes dry with her sleeve. Had she not likewise allowed her own pride and hurt to blind her? There had been such truth and sincerity in his countenance the night he’d confessed his love. He needn’t have confessed it at all, for he’d already won her virtue and her blood, hadn’t he? Not if it had all been a farce from the start. She’d given her virtue freely enough—nay, willingly—along with her heart, so perhaps Mary was right.

“Now let us see if we can improve that German proverb.” A determined look came into Mary’s eyes. “Light feathers or dark feathers, it doesn’t matter—a nightingale is no less beautiful because he sings to the night. The dark does not judge his drab plumage, nor is the moon less splendid because she thrives in the dark. On the contrary, I say both are more beautiful because they belong to the night and lend it some light. I think you cannot have light without understanding the dark.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Emma. She had a better understanding of her own nature now than she ever had before she’d met Markus.

“Moreover,” Mary continued, “sometimes we see ourselves best between one state and another: in that silver glow of dawn and dusk. In the grey. That is where wisdom dwells—in-between.”

It was a long moment before Emma felt herself equal to speak through the lump welling in her throat. “Oh, Mary, you truly are a saint!” She was reaching over to draw her cousin into her arms when she became sharply aware of an uncanny rippling along her spine. Alarmed by the sudden rush of wings, Emma froze and looked up at the raven as it fled from its perch.

Mary suddenly cried out in terror.

At the same instant, Emma felt her ears explode with a burst of pain and instant deafness. Then she was hurtling through the