Amalia
the archangel
The room Amalia is given for her meeting is large - cavernous, even - flanked by towering pillars and stained glass motifs depicting wars and scenes from a history come back to haunt them all. Normally musty and reeking of incense, today the smells of stone and age are masked by herbs and spices. As promised, food lines a far wall, set on a table beneath an image of the twins of Rae. Curried pumpkin koftas, various flat breads, pickled vegetables, yogurt sauce, chai, a dessert of ginger cake-
To anyone who knows her well it will be quickly obvious that Amalia is stressed.
The Angel herself sits at the round table that serves as centerpiece of the room, her spot marked by a mug of tea and a collection of books and papers and hastily scrawled notes. Her halo is scarcely visible in the well-lit room, and her braided hair is flush with small gold flowers. She is focused, writing down some last minute notes, but when the first of her colleagues arrives she is quick to rise in greeting, stepping toward them with a grateful smile and an invitation to sit and eat.
To anyone who knows her well it will be quickly obvious that Amalia is stressed.
The Angel herself sits at the round table that serves as centerpiece of the room, her spot marked by a mug of tea and a collection of books and papers and hastily scrawled notes. Her halo is scarcely visible in the well-lit room, and her braided hair is flush with small gold flowers. She is focused, writing down some last minute notes, but when the first of her colleagues arrives she is quick to rise in greeting, stepping toward them with a grateful smile and an invitation to sit and eat.
she's just like the weather
can't hold her together
can't hold her together
