Finding Gabriel Read Free

trailed behind her, the pitter-patter of his enormous paws deafening within the silence. “On my word, that f-fire is nearly black,” Miriam said, rubbing both palms together. “Mighty cold night, if I may s-say.” More silence weighted the air as Miriam rekindled what was left of the flames. The embers came to life with a vivid sparkle and ascended into the black abyss of the chimney. As little girls are wont to do, Emmaline’s eyes widened as she oohed and aahed at the spectacle. Overcome with a burst of affection, Ariah surrendered to a small grin and rose to her feet. In her absence, the chair eerily rocked back and forth in a ghostlike motion.
    “What are you two d-d-doing awake, anyhow?” Miriam questioned.
    Ariah’s heart grew heavy. Miriam’s stutter rarely faded and worsened when she felt burdened by anxiety. “Oh, neither of us could sleep.” Ariah arched her back and spared a moment to ruffle Oliver’s floppy ears. They were thinner than parchment and nearly translucent. He was not a pleasant thing to touch or look upon; his light gray fur was patchy, molted, and coarse – and Ariah adored him all the more for his ungainly flaws. The brute bore a gentle heart, and, even more, he’d gifted her daughter with two invaluable things: laughter and companionship. “Handsome, ol’ gentleman, you are,” Ariah said to Oliver. “The beau of all Paris!”
    A gigantic speckled tongue rolled out of his mouth while he basked beneath the praise. Drool poured from his jowls and splattered onto the worn floorboards. Ariah gasped, picked up her skirts, and stumbled backward.
    “Oh, Maman! Look!” Emmaline gripped her chest as giggles shook her body.
    Eyeing the mess, Miriam sighed and paced over to the cupboard. The wooden door creaked open, revealing rows of copper tools caked with rust, shovels and picks, an abundance of medical supplies, cooking utensils, and meticulously stacked linens. Ariah couldn’t help but smile as her sister collected a rag from one of the suspended pegs. It was all very ritualistic and orderly – something that was infinitely comforting to a person who feared change.
    “I must disagree,” Miriam replied at length. Brushing off her skirts, she gripped the torn rag between her fingertips. Kneeling beside Oliver, she proceeded to wipe up the slobber. Then she rose to her feet and returned the rag to its home inside the cupboard. “He may b-be old indeed, but he’s far from the likes of a gentleman. Lord as m-my witness, only hours ago, the wretch stole half my s-supper without a trace of s-shame.”
    “Oliver, is that true?” Ariah inquired of the creature. “Why, you ought to be ashamed!”
    Oliver’s oversized head merely lowered. Without another backward glance, he prattled back to the hearth, flopped down with an old man’s groan, and reclaimed his spot by the fire.
    “Aw … you hurt his feelings, Maman. Look – he’s awfully sad!”
    “Well, I’m very sorry, Oliver. I didn’t mean any offense. You know I can’t resist your charms.” Ariah rubbed both palms together, urging heat into her bones. Shoving away a fallen curl, she took a moment to observe her child. Emmaline snuggled against Oliver in a loving embrace, the nightdress hanging from her slender body in harsh and irregular folds.
    Her eyes fell to half-mast while she gently fondled the wiry tufts of his coat. Then her breaths grew deep and regular as sleep nearly overcame her. “Can’t I stay here, Maman? With Oliver? Oh, please?”
    Ariah’s heart melted into churned butter as Emmaline added with an irresistible pout, “See … he can’t climb onto the bed no more.”
    “Sure, Emma, darling. Stay as long as you like. You and Oliver just relax by the fire.”
    A rush of sadness overcame Ariah. She lowered to the floor and stroked her daughter’s back with tentative touches. Emmaline’s delicate rib cage rose and fell beneath her fingertips. Long-ago images of Emmaline roughhousing with Oliver