Free Miranda's Revenge by Ruth Wind Page B

sunglasses.
    â€œOh!” she breathed. She halted for one long moment, the glasses in her hand, then drifted forward as if reeled in by the altar itself. As she caught the full spectrum of it, her mouth opened and she let go of a small, delighted laugh. “Oh!” she said again, and touched her heart.
    The church itself was not large, just a classically designed cross with the chancel at the back and a single center aisle with old, dark, wooden pews to either side. Windows were cut high on the walls on either side, and they were set with earnest but not particularly well-done stained glass of biblical scenes.
    But the altar was huge, wooden, with a dozen niches. The style was adamantly Spanish colonial, with carved flowers and cherubs and winding vines and mournful looking male faces. It had been well-cared for, with fresh paint on the orange and blue flowers and the white robes of the monks and the shining pink and orange robes of the Lady, her arms and head dancing with butterflies. Carved ones, painted carefully to resemble the local mourning cloaks, and real ones, their wings moving on currents of air as the Madonna smiled down kindly.
    â€œIt’s spectacular,” Miranda whispered, hungrily devouring details of color and proportion. “The niches are fantastic.” It drew her closer and closer, her hands over her heart, camera forgotten. Bowls of flowers in single colors, orange marigolds, blue pincushion flowers and shell-pink roses, sat on a table before the altar. Racks of candles flickered.
    James came quietly behind her. Miranda felt the heat of his body down her spine, pooling around her left shoulder blade, her hip. “Worth seeing?”
    â€œIt’s much older than the church,” she said with certainty. “Mexican, maybe 1800s?”
    â€œVery good. It’s Santa Fean, 1802.” His voice resonated through her collarbone, into the thin cartilage of her outer ear. His breath touched her neck. Like a warm butterfly.
    Miranda brushed the spot. “How do you know that?”
    â€œIt’s famous,” he said. “Carved by a priest who was known as an advocate for the Indians. He was killed eventually, under mysterious circumstances.”
    â€œI wish I could touch it.”
    â€œLet’s find the priest. I’m sure it will be all right. You’re an artist.”
    Standing before such a magnificent carving, Miranda knew the smallness of her art. “No, I play. This is art.”
    â€œYou stay and admire it. I’ll find the priest or someone to ask if we can touch it.”
    Miranda nodded, sinking into the first pew to absorb it. She put her tickling palms together, feeling a peculiar lure on her neck. What would it be like to create a real altar? In a Santa Fe importer’s shop, she’d seen a collection of Tibetan altars, many of them ancient, and those had affected her this same way. She felt both humbled and inspired, challenged and enchanted.
    So much love.
    Which was why, of course, she could not ever create such a thing. She was too cynical.
    James returned, smiling, and gestured for Miranda to approach the altar. “He said it would be fine, that we should be respectful and be careful of the candles.”
    â€œHe did?”
    â€œI know him,” he admitted with a twinkle in his eye. “We were at seminary together.”
    â€œAh. The brotherhood thing.”
    â€œYes.” He tucked his hands behind his back. “After you, señorita. ”
    â€œI’ve never been on an altar,” she said, feeling odd as she stepped forward and passed the low wooden railings that marked the priest’s area. It somehow did feel more holy, and the altar itself was so insistently drawing her forward that she had no time to think about just how odd she felt. Her palms practically burned to feel it, and she reached out with both hands and pressed them to the wood, as if her flesh was putty and she was imprinting the