ANSEA — The Ways of the Lord Are Inscrutable

Ansea was having a wonderful dream.

It was warm. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, turning the walls golden and spilling across the blanket. Birds sang somewhere outside. Soft music played in the background, delicate and airy, as though someone were gently plucking the strings of a harp.

There was a familiar smell in the air. Freshly baked rolls, perhaps. Or apples from a childhood long gone.

Ansea smiled.

How lovely.

After endless shifts, operations in the middle of the night, and people who, for some reason, believed a surgeon ought to be available twenty-four hours a day, she was finally dreaming about something pleasant.

She opened her eyes a crack.

An angel stood beside her bed.

A real one.

Snow-white wings, a soft glow around his head, and a face almost too beautiful to be real. He seemed made entirely of morning light.

A gold Rolex gleamed on his wrist.

Ansea smiled sleepily.

Funny sort of angel. Even wore a watch.

“Oh… Am I in heaven?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah…”

She peered at him through half-closed eyes.

“So I’m not dead?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good.”

She sighed contentedly, pulled the blanket up, and rolled onto her other side.

“Then I’ll go back to sleep.”

What a wonderful dream.

She really ought to see how it ended.

First came a siren.

Ansea frowned without opening her eyes.

Then another.

Several sharp cracks came from outside the window.

She pulled the blanket over her head.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Couldn’t she even get a decent night’s sleep in her dreams?

Then something slammed into her apartment door.

Hard.

So hard the walls shook.

Ansea flinched.

A second blow followed.

Someone shouted outside. Gunfire erupted.

She rolled sharply onto her back.

The angel was gone.

A man stood beside the bed.

The same beautiful man from her dream. Only now there were no wings, no glow, and he was dressed in elegant dark clothes.

He was checking his watch.

Ansea sat up, clutching the blanket.

“Who are you?!”

“We have to go.”

“WHAT?!”

Another blow struck the door.

Ansea pressed herself against the headboard.

Her heart hammered.

Wake up.

Come on. Wake up!

But the bed was real. The sheet beneath her fingers was real. So was the cold air drifting in through the half-open window.

She pulled the blanket up to her chin.

“Who are you?! How did you get in here?!”

“Ansea, there’s no time to explain. We need to leave.”

He opened her wardrobe, pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater, and tossed them onto the bed.

“Get dressed.”

She stared at the clothes.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

Another blow hit the door.

Wood splintered.

A fresh burst of gunfire came from the street.

Ansea jumped out of bed.

“What’s happening?! Who’s out there?!”

“The police. Among others.”

“WHAT POLICE?!”

“Hurry.”

Her hands wouldn’t cooperate. She tried to get one leg into her jeans, got tangled up, and nearly fell over.

Something crashed against the door again.

Ansea grabbed her handbag, pulled on her sweater, and shoved her feet into her shoes.

The man was already at the window.

He flung it open.

And suddenly, wings appeared behind his back.

Enormous.

White.

Utterly impossible.

Ansea froze, her handbag still in her hand.

Dear God.

This couldn’t be happening.

The man turned towards her.

“Come on.”

He held out his hand.

Ansea looked down.

Six floors.

Far below were police cars, armed men, and several vehicles positioned across the road.

Behind her, the door splintered again.

She looked at the man.

Then at the wings.

Then down again.

No.

Jumping out of a sixth-floor window with a complete stranger who was clearly insane was the very last thing she intended to do with her life.

But staying here somehow seemed even worse.

“You… you’re not going to drop me, are you?”

“No.”

“Promise?!”

He looked at her.

“Ansea, I can fly.”

Another crash came from behind them.

The door was beginning to give way.

Ansea seized his hand.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

He swept her into his arms.

And stepped out of the window.

Ansea screamed.

The sky turned upside down.

Streets, cars, rooftops flashed below.

The wind struck her face.

She threw her arms around his neck, clung to him desperately, and squeezed her eyes shut.

For a moment, she was certain her heart had stayed behind in the bedroom, six floors up.

And then everything disappeared.

Ansea was staring at her hands.

They were resting on a table.

Perfectly ordinary hands. Ten fingers, neatly trimmed nails, a small scar near her thumb from her student days.

They were trembling.

A cup of coffee stood in front of her.

A bus drove past the window. Somewhere at the back of the café, a coffee machine was running. Someone laughed. Cups clinked.

Ansea slowly raised her head.

A man was sitting opposite her.

The same man.

So handsome that women at neighbouring tables kept forgetting who they were supposed to be talking to.

Dark hair, calm eyes, a face with nothing out of place. A light shirt, an elegant jacket, and a watch she now recognised.

Rolex.

From the dream.

She reached up and touched her hair.

A mess.

She was wearing jeans and a sweater. Her face felt damp, as though she’d just washed it.

When had she managed to get dressed?

How had she got here?

She vaguely remembered cold air, wings, rooftops, her own scream.

Then fragments. A street. The man saying something. Water on her face.

And now—the café.

Ansea looked at him.

“That was… you?”

“Yes.”

“This morning?”

He nodded.

She swallowed.

“In my apartment?”

“Yes.”

For several seconds, she stared at his shoulders.

“You had wings.”

“I did.”

“We were flying?”

“Yes.”

Ansea looked away.

Out of the window.

The bus stopped and let its passengers off. A woman crossed the road with a dog. Two schoolchildren shared a bread roll on the pavement.

Everything was real.

Unbearably real.

“Have I lost my mind?” she asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then what was that?”

Suddenly, her stomach lurched.

She went pale and pressed a hand over her mouth.

The man calmly pushed a glass of water and a small blister pack of tablets towards her.

“I know.”

Ansea looked at him.

“Know what?”

“That you’re about to be sick. These are for nausea. Look at the packet. You know this medication.”

She read the label automatically.

Familiar.

Ordinary.

And somehow that made everything even more frightening.

The man pointed towards the back of the café.

“Toilets are on the right. I’ll wait here.”

Ansea sprang to her feet.

She barely made it.

She sank to her knees in front of the toilet, hardly feeling the cold tiles beneath her.

She was sick.

Even when there was nothing left, her stomach kept heaving.

She sat there with her forehead against the wall, trying to get her breathing under control.

This is impossible.

It can’t be happening.

I’m just exhausted.

She had barely slept the night before. There had been a difficult operation, then another one.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

Maybe someone had slipped her something.

Maybe she was still lying in bed at home, and her brain was treating her to the most expensive, most idiotic dream in the world.

Ansea struggled to her feet and went to the sink. She turned on the cold water, washed her face, then looked up.

A pale woman with wet hair stared back at her from the mirror, utterly lost.

“Right…”

She gripped the edges of the sink.

“Ansea. Calm down.”

Her reflection looked terrified.

“You’re a doctor. You know one impossible morning doesn’t make you insane.”

A pause.

“There has to be an explanation.”

What explanation?

She had no idea.

But there had to be one.

She opened her handbag and took out tissues, her powder compact, lipstick, a hair tie.

All familiar.

All hers.

Her little worn make-up bag. Apartment keys. Phone. A supermarket receipt.

Not one of these things had anything whatsoever to do with angels.

Ansea suddenly looked at the receipt with tenderness.

Milk.

Eggs.

Coffee.

Normal life.

She almost cried.

Then she got angry with herself.

“Fuck, what’s wrong with me?!”

She washed her face again, tied back her hair, and straightened her sweater.

She examined the blister pack she was still holding, took a tablet, and swallowed it with some water.

She had to go back.

Listen to this man.

Maybe he was a hypnotist. Maybe a con artist. Maybe the whole thing was some elaborate, unbelievable prank.

She just needed to work it out.

She looked into the mirror.

“Right. Let’s go.”

She took a step towards the door.

Came back.

Picked up her handbag.

Nothing to be afraid of.

She opened the door.

There were now two men sitting at her table.