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"Miss Worthington? Miss Bradshaw?" Miss Moore asks. They shake their heads. "Gracious, what is to become of the Empire when
we do not read our best English poets? John Milton, born 1608, died 1674. His epic poem, Paradise Lost, is the story of Lucifer." She points to the dark-haired angel in the center. "Heaven's brightest and best-loved angel, who was cast out for inspiring a rebellion against God. Having lost heaven, Lucifer and his rebel angels vowed to continue fighting here on earth."
Ann blows her nose daintily into her handkerchief. "I don't understand why he had to fight. He was already in heaven."
"True. But he wasn't content to serve. He wanted more."
"He had all he could ask for, didn't he?" Ann asks.
"Exactly," Miss Moore states. "He had to ask. He was dependent upon someone else's whim. It's a terrible thing to have no power
of one's own. To be denied."
Felicity and Ann flash me a glance, and I feel a surge of guilt. I have the power. They do not. Do they hate me for it?
"Poor Lucifer," Felicity murmurs. Miss Moore laughs."That is a most unusual thought, Miss Worthington. But you are in good company. Milton himself seemed to feel sympathy for him. As does this painter. Do you see how beautiful he's made the dark angel?"
The three of us peer through the brushstrokes at the angels' strong, perfect backs. They seem almost as lovers, oblivious to the rest of us. It's the struggle that matters.
"I wonder . . . ," Miss Moore muses.
"Yes, Miss Moore?" Ann prompts.
"What if evil doesn't really exist? What if evil is something dreamed up by man, and there is nothing to struggle against except our own limitations? The constant battle between our will, our desires, and our choices?"
"But there is real evil," I say, thinking of Circe.
Miss Moore gives me a curious look."How do you know?"
"We've seen it," Ann blurts out. Felicity coughs and gives Ann an indelicate elbow to the ribs.
Miss Moore leans in close. "You're quite right. Evil does exist." My heart skips a beat. Is this it? Will she confess something to us here and now? "It is called finishing school." She gives a mock shudder, and we giggle. A grim, gray couple passes at that moment, giving us a sharp glance of disapproval.
Felicity stares at the painting as if she wants to touch it. "Do you think it's possible . . . that some people aren't quite right, in some way? That there is some evil in them that makes others . . ." She trails off.
"Makes others what?" Ann asks.
"Do things."
I don't know what she means.
Miss Moore keeps her eyes on the painting. "We must each be accountable for our own actions, Miss Worthington, if that is what you are asking." If that is indeed what Felicity wants to know, she doesn't let on. I cannot tell whether her question has been answered.
"Shall we move on, ladies? We've yet to see the Romantics." Miss Moore strides purposefully on in the gallery. Ann follows, but Felicity doesn't move. She's fascinated by the painting.
"You wouldn't leave me out, would you?" she asks me.
"Leave you out of what?" I ask.
"The realms. The Order. All of it."
"Of course not."
She cocks her head to one side."Do you think they missed him terribly when he fell? Did God cry over his lost angel, I wonder?"
"I don't know," I say.
Felicity links her arm through mine, and we stroll after the others, leaving the angels and their eternal struggle behind.
