Page 44 of Harnessed in Gold

He finds 1 Kings 19 and holds out the book between us, but I have to scoot closer to him in order to see the print.

In the reading, the prophet Elijah wants to give up. No one listens to him; they all want to kill him. He’s ready to lie down and die. So, big surprise, God commands Elijah to do what all good Biblical prophets do: hang out alone on a mountain for forty days and nights. And there God comes to him—not in the wind that shook the mountains, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the “still small voice.”

I’ve heard that phrase, “still small voice,” twisted and abused more times than I can count. I never knew it came from such beautiful verses as these. Well practiced at analyzing the written word, I interpret the story: we can find God in the smallest,most commonplace and unassuming corners. There’s divinity in these places. Magic.

A magic that, until I met the man next to me, I didn’t know existed. All my life, I’ve been sensing it and running away from it, not understanding what it was. I guess, at the very least, I can be grateful to Leo for that—for opening my eyes to magic, and to the truth that I’m one of the rare people who can use it.

I blink out of my reverie to find Leo looking at me, eyes soft and lips parted. Because—oh my god—I’m smiling at him. Why am I doing that? Heart stuttering, I hastily look down. Our thighs are nearly touching, his hand resting in the crevice between them and the open Bible lying on his palm. Ever so slightly, the corners of the soft leather cover tremble. Somebody’s nervous. We’re both nervous? I don’t know; I can’t separate his emotions from mine.

I’m too flustered and preoccupied to pay much attention to the sermon, although I pick up on Pastor West’s rising emotion and the urgency of his admonitions. In the purposeful silence that follows, Leo scrubs a hand down his face and straightens his tie, thrown off balance, I suspect, by all the oratorical passion. Someone coughs, and the organ starts up again. Elderly gentlemen in suits and ties process down the center aisle, pausing every other row to pass a wicker basket for the offering.

Leo fumbles for his wallet, but I grab his arm. “Is that real money?” I whisper. “Or is it glamoured?”

When he frowns, I open my purse, and as the basket reaches us, drop in a five. It’s not enough, but it’s the only cash I have, and we’re not giving these people a dinner napkin. Even if no one will ever know what it really is, I feel like God, whom I’m not even sure I believe in, would.

“Thanks,” Leo murmurs.

I nod and study his profile as he leans forward to grab the hymnal. High forehead and thick brows, straight nose, full mouth, and square chin. And round ears, of course. How much of what I’mseeing is a glamour? A heaviness settles on my chest. There’s no way to know what’s real with Leo. A fact I’d be wise not to forget.

A short while later, as the organ’s pipes sound the final chord of the closing hymn, Leo and I shoot one another the same look.

It’s showtime.

The elderly couple next to me introduce themselves and ask if we’re Brownhill students. In front of us, the baby asleep on his dad’s shoulder wakes with a hiccup and studies me with sweet, moist eyes. Meanwhile, the middle-aged man beside Leo praises his singing and urges him to consider joining the choir.

Leo and I nod and smile and say all the right things, but inside I feel rotten. I’m here under false pretenses, being warmly welcomed into a community to which I’ll never return.

I’m a deceiver wearing no less of a glamour than the faerie beside me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Leoand I file out of the sanctuary, trailing the majority of the congregation into the pastor-handshake receiving line. But there’s no sign of Jean West.

After greeting us, Pastor Gerald, as he insists on being called, invites us to stick around. He calls over his shoulder, “Carl, will you show this nice couple to the coffee and donuts?”

One of the white-haired, mustachioed ushers steps up to cheerfully lead us through a maze of hallways and down to the church basement. Clusters of people stand or mill about, sipping from styrofoam cups and licking donut frosting off their fingers, while children run between their legs, slipping on the linoleum in their dress shoes.

With a hand on my back, Leo nudges me to the food table. In open boxes sit the donuts, each one cut inelegantly into fourths, probably with a plastic knife. I lay a quarter each of plain glazed and blueberry cake on my napkin. Leo snatches an entire half of a strawberry frosted. Of course.

I ask him, “What’s with you and pink icing?”

He fights a grin. “I like strawberries.”

“Real strawberries or fake strawberry flavor?”

“Whatever I can get.”

“I don’t think the icing on animal crackers is strawberry, exactly.”

“Then what is it?”

I shrug. “Sugar-flavored?”

“That’s good enough for me.” He pops a bite into his mouth and sighs in ecstasy.

“You don’t have food like this back home, do you?”

“No.” He swallows. “But our real strawberries taste like they’ve been kissed by the gods.”