Immanuel's Veins by Ted Dekker Page A

been damned and dispatched to the flames than let her know even an inkling of my thoughts.
    â€œIt’s a beautiful garden, don’t you think?” she asked. “The red roses are God blushing, Mother says.” She motioned to a bed of roses to our right. The garden was terraced with roses and tulips higher, leading around to tall hedges that formed a small maze before spilling out the back to a forest. We were headed the other way, toward the house itself.
    â€œWhy would God blush?” I asked, not caring the least why. My mind was on her hand squeezing my elbow.
    I could not have felt so reduced by a woman I hardly knew. I wasn’t a pubescent upstart, after all. I was Toma Nicolescu, the lion, the one who directed the lives and deaths of thousands.
    â€œGod blushes when we thank him, she says. And in Moldavia we are always thanking him because we are surrounded by his very best.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYes, oh.” She cast me a sideways glance as we ascended the stone steps toward the fountain. “I hope what I said back there was acceptable.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI didn’t mean it, of course.”
    â€œYou didn’t?” But I knew that she’d said the bit about showing me her affection to rescue me from my pending demise. So what was I asking?
    â€œShould I have meant it?”
    â€œI . . . Well, no. Which part?”
    â€œThe part about you having interest in me.”
    â€œHeavens, no! What would give you that idea?”
    â€œThat’s odd. I could have sworn you—”
    â€œNo,” I insisted. “No, I have no interest in you, madam.”
    We rounded the fountain and walked toward the main door, which led into what had been the ballroom a few nights earlier, now filled with soft chairs and ornately carved tables and gold candlesticks—a richly furnished living room.
    I was mortified, though I should have been ecstatic that she’d given me the opportunity to forever separate myself from her affection.
    I dared to look at her face, and unless my imagination was taking over again, she was blushing. “It wouldn’t be proper,” I said.
    â€œNo. But apparently it’s acceptable for your man.” She was looking past me to a spot in the garden where Alek was whispering something in Natasha’s ear. The sister threw her head back and laughed.
    â€œYes, of course,” I said. “That’s Alek.”
    â€œAnd Natasha.”
    â€œYes, and Natasha,” I said. Her tone struck a new chord in me. One of sorrow. A siren calling out to my own loneliness.
    When one lonely person finds another, there is a knowing between them, and in that moment I knew Lucine yearned for love, a deeper kind than what her sister sought. I knew that her heart cried out for the warm embrace of another soul.
    I knew that she was asking me to be that soul.
    And the instant I knew it, I knew I would confess all. That very night, when under a white moon I would kiss her hand and win her heart.
    â€œBut I could as well,” I said. Or perhaps I blurted it, I forget now.
    â€œCould what?”
    â€œWell . . . it’s not forbidden.”
    â€œWhat isn’t?”
    â€œIt’s . . . You must realize that Alek and I have been fighting side by side for years. I trust him, and he me.” I was babbling like a fool. “It was a wonderful ball,” I said.
    Lucine removed her arms from the crook of my elbow and clasped her hands behind her back. “You enjoyed that, did you? Killing the man?”
    â€œNot at all, that’s not what I meant. The whole time was really very nice. Thank you for showing me everything.”
    â€œMy, I must have had too much to drink. I don’t remember showing you anything.”
    I had to laugh, if only to keep from blushing. So I did, uproariously, holding my breast. Too much I think. I noticed her peculiar stare and coy smile.
    We had come to the door leading into the