Free Of Shadow Born by Dianne Sylvan Page B

I just come and sit here. She and I understand each other.”
    Deven laid a hand on the piano’s lid. “I understand.”
    Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
    He smiled. “I lived in medieval Ireland, remember? I come from the time of wandering bards who were magically bound to their harps . . . back when it’s said the Faery folk still lived among mortalkind. Mothers had to hang charms over their children’s cradles lest the babes be snatched away, an Elf-child left in their places.”
    Miranda looked at him curiously. “Is that where you came from?”
    His stomach clenched, and he started to snap at her the way he had Jonathan for asking something similar, but Miranda seemed to recognize she’d put her foot in it, and said, “I’m sorry . . . I just meant . . . healers can’t be that common. I bet someone had the idea, back then, that you weren’t . . .”
    “Human?” he finished for her. The instinctive anger—and fear—that rose up when anyone made mention of the subject of his birth faded back into amusement. “Yes. Why do you think I spent so much time at church? It was the only place I could be alone with God, who loved me . . . or so I thought.”
    “So are you . . .” She sighed, shaking her head. “Never mind. I don’t know what I was going to ask, but it probably would have pissed you off.”
    He smiled slightly. “It’s all right, Miranda. It isn’t your fault . . . It was a difficult childhood I had, and it never really got much better. My mother died giving birth to me. She was cold and still . . . until the midwife laid me on her breast, and five minutes old, I healed her. Half the village women saw her come back to life. From that moment there were eyes on me, whispers, knowing glances from the priest. My mother was terrified of me . . . the Faery boy, the Elf-child . . . the demon child. You can only be told you’re damned for so long before you start to believe it, even when your soul cries out it’s a lie . . . A dozen voices drown out the single voice of a child.”
    Deven frowned. He’d never spoken about his childhood to anyone—not even Jonathan, at least not to this depth. No one knew about his mother.
    Miranda’s eyes were bright with tears, and she leaned on his shoulder, her hand wrapping around his arm protectively. “That shouldn’t have happened to you,” she said. “They should have been grateful God gave them a healer.”
    Dev leaned his head against hers. “Perhaps. But they were only human, after all.”
    They were silent for a moment before Miranda asked, “Do you really think I can do this?”
    “If anyone can, you can. I suppose the question is, do you want to?”
    “Would you think less of me if I said I don’t?”
    “No. I wouldn’t either, in your position.”
    “But I have to,” she concluded.
    “For David?”
    “And for me. I have to believe I’m here for a reason, Deven . . . as many times as I’ve come close to dying, as much as I’ve lost, there has to be a point to it all. There’s something I’m here to do . . . and if I have to do it alone, I’ll just have to figure out a way to keep walking.”
    The Prime sighed. “I hope you’re right. I hope there’s meaning in all of this. But whether there is or not, Miranda, you’re not alone.”
    She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you.”
    Miranda turned back to the piano, her hands moving down onto the keys. Deven started to rise and leave her to her communion, but she looked up at him, and the pain in her eyes made him stay, remaining at her side on the bench while she sang softly, the weight of her sadness drawing tears from his eyes as well.
    Till my body is dust and my soul is no more
    I will love you . . . love you . . .
    * * *
    Jonathan hung up the phone with a sigh and leaned on the pasture fence, looking out toward Isis and Osiris, who were grazing contentedly, happy to be back home like everyone else. He