(begin)Mr. Griggs made a great show of delight at seeing them again. “Did you have a nice walk? Oh good. Such a lovely day for it. And you really do have the gardens to yourselves today, don’t you? It’s always nice when it’s a quiet sort of day like this. Of course it’s lovely in the summer too—simply crowds of people. So nice for the children especially, you know, to see the places they’ve read about. Some two dozen books Miss Vollinger wrote, and do you know not a single one of them has ever been out of print. Whole generations, you know, parents and children, growing up on the same books. A tradition, you see. Here, do come inside and I’ll show you the house.”
Ellen followed behind Bryan. The anteroom was filled with rich shadows and shafts of sunlight. “The last of their line they were, Miss Vollinger and her brother Lord Russell. There’s his portrait on the wall, there, with the red hair. Quite an adventurer, he was, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The family came to England with the Norman Conquest, originally...”
They followed Griggs around the rooms and up the winding staircases to the guest rooms and bedrooms, all filled with bygone elegance. In time they climbed the narrow staircase up to the attic room.
“This was Miss Vollinger’s writing room, you see. Everything just as it was. We’ve got her desk roped off, over there—I will have to ask you not to touch, of course—and her easel against the wall there. Let’s get a bit of light in...”
Griggs went to the single window and drew back the curtains. Ellen heard herself gasp. The view was exquisite; all the gardens lay below, making subtle patterns of color twined with pathways. Beyond the estate, fields of barley gave way to rolling hills, soft with heather.
“You can see all the way to London from here,” said Griggs. “At least, when it’s a clear day like today. There’s the motorway, you see, and there’s the city beyond. Some nights you can make out the lights in Piccadilly.”
Ellen gaped. It wasn’t like being in a plane, though the patchwork quality of the landscape was similar; she felt close to everything she saw, almost at one with it. It was beautiful. It was breathtaking.
She heard Bryan’s voice. “Coming, Ellie?” She looked away from he window. Bryan and Cynthia were at the head of the stairs with Griggs.
“In a minute. I’m—just going to rest for a while.” She smiled wanly. “You know, enjoy the view.”
“All right. Meet us downstairs.”
Then they were gone, their footfalls and Griggs’ jolly racket spiraling down the staircase. The fields, all green and yellow, held her transfixed. Just visible on the horizon was a black sketch of the city. And there near its center, rising like a golden flame—
—was the Angel.
She saw it, it was there. She did not dare to let her gaze waver. So far away! A tiny gilt speck in the distance, and yet she felt its every detail as if it were engraved in her brain. The fall of its robes, the tornado of wings, the smile with its perfect peace. If only she were a little closer...
Ellen reached down and hoisted up the window. The wood was swollen, and rose with a jerking creak. She put both hands on the sill and boosted her legs out onto the roof, then squirmed through the casement. She sat on the ledge for a moment, staring, smiling, then rose and began to walk forwards.
In the ante-room, Bryan looked away from the portrait of the last Lord Russell and at his watch. Quarter of two. “The gift shop will be open soon,” he said to Cynthia.
“I left my purse in the car,” she said.
He handed her the keys, and she walked out the great doors into the drive. Bryan paced the room distractedly, half-listening to Griggs prattle, wondering what was keeping Ellen. Then he heard Cynthia scream.
He dashed out the door to where she stood, staring upwards in terror. Bryan followed her stare. High above, he could see Ellen moving slowly along the roof. Slowly, precisely. Like a sleepwalker.
“Ellie!” he shouted. “Come down from there! Ellie, don’t!”
Ellen did not look down. Bryan heard Griggs’ heavy tread upon the stairs and knew that he should be running, too, running to help Ellen. But something rooted him to the spot. The pitch of the roof was steep, but Ellen’s step seemed sure and light. Then Bryan heard her speak, very softly.
I can see it. I can see the Angel, she said.
He spun wildly, staring at the spot where Ellen’s eyes pointed, looking to see what she might see. There was nothing; the gardens and fields, the motorway beyond, London’s ugly sprawl on the edge of vision.
With every step, Ellen felt the Angel’s presence nearer. Not just a statue, but the presence of the Angel itself. The presence of divine love, of endless peace, immanent as she walked on. Right foot. Closer. Left. Closer still.
From the ground, Bryan watched Ellen edging ever further out along the shingles and flashing. So delicately she walked. One foot. Then the other. So precise. Now Cynthia was running for the stairwell; Griggs the caretaker had boosted himself out the casement and sat awkwardly on the ledge, shouting at Ellen.
“Miss! For God’s sake, Miss, come back ‘ere!”
But Ellen didn’t seem to hear. Steady as a mountain she walked on, face turned to the view of the city, her eyes fixed on something that Bryan could not see. He watched her, transfixed, as she stepped forward again, stepping like a circus aerialist; and then she brought her foot down, and there was no more roof beneath it.
It seemed to Ellen that she fell very slowly, turning gently like thistledown. As she fell, she was content with the sight that she’d wanted to see for so long; the Angel’s face. Its gaze, its loving smile, filled up her head, crowding out anything else.
Then the smile fell away, and Ellen saw, behind the Angel’s face, another—the true face of the thing that had led her on so far; but by then, it was much too late to scream.
...
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