Free Angel of Ruin by Kim Wilkins

strength.
    “That’s enough, that’s enough. I have a special project for you to work on today, Deborah,” he said, resuming his erect aspect, his head slightly tilted to the side.
    She replaced the comb and moved to the desk. His desk was adjacent the fireplace; an elaborately carved piece of furniture Father had owned since childhood. “Certainly, Father. Is it Latin? Greek?”
    “No, it is English. It will be the greatest poem in the English language.”
    Deborah found her writing tray on top of the desk, next to the inkwell and the bronze-inlay human skull in which Father stored his pens. She selected one and checked its point. “Poetry, Father?” Deborah had so far only taken letters, or worked on her father’s prose tracts about politics and religion.
    “A poem in the style of Virgil, or Homer. I have been composing it for some time, but I am now ready to arrange it into a clear form. Retrieve the pages in the second drawer.”
    Deborah did as he asked. In the drawer she found a tied collection of papers covered with the writing of his previous assistant. Across the first page,
Adam Unparadised
was written.
    “May I read it, Father?” she asked.
    “I insist that you do,” he said. “Read it aloud to me, from the start.”
    She returned to the short stool before him and made herself comfortable. As the sun rose and weak sunlight made its way into the room, as Liza woke and brought them bread and tea to break their fast, as Father sat listening with an expression wavering between smug self-satisfaction and artistic distress, Deborah read. The poem told a story of angels and paradise, God’s love and man’s temptation. In places it was beautifully written, in others awkward enough to make Father cringe. The narrative was disjointed, jumping from one scene to another with little attention to continuity. But Deborah knew they were the bare bones of something which would eventually be magnificent. She had worked with Father since childhood; when he was ready, he would make her read the same lines, the same passages, over and over, effecting tiny changes until they were perfect.
    When she had finished, the sun was full in the sky and her throat was hoarse from reading.
    “What do you think?” Father said quietly.
    “My opinion, Father? Why, I am only your daughter.”
    “What do you think?” he repeated, more urgently.
    “It is extreme splendid,” she said, immediately knowing she could impress him with more than praise. He valued a considered reply, even an intelligent criticism. Although his vanity was appeased by those who toadied to him, his intellect always cried out for dialogue.
    “But is it worthy of an epic? Will it eclipse Virgil?” he asked.
    “It am certain it will, when you have finished it. Only …”
    “Only? Only what? Have you a criticism?” His head was cocked to one side, almost in a defiant gesture.
    “Father, the title speaks of Adam being unparadised. But was not paradise lost to us all?”
    He nodded. “Yes, yes. I have been unhappy with the title. I shall think upon it. Good work, Deborah.”
    “Thank you, Father,” she said, positive that she must be glowing with pride.
    “We will start work on it tomorrow morning. No, the following morning, for tomorrow is Lord’s Day. I have plans to add more drama: the war in Heaven, the casting out of the rebel angels. Magnificent and thrilling. Now,” he said, as though suddenly embarrassed that he had revealed too much of himself, “we shall continue with your Greek lessons.”
    “Father,” she ventured, “I am hoarse from reading. Could we not take a walk instead? It is a beautiful day.”
    “A walk? Yes, I suppose we could. I suppose it matters not that Betty is away.”
    “Certainly not, for I can guide you just as well.” His embarrassment, Deborah knew, stemmed from thefact that he had to hold her hand to walk with her. He was not given to any physical demonstrations of affection. Deborah could count in single