The halo floating above the angel was a thin circle of gold, almost invisible in the bright light of day. It may as well have been a hallucination, invisible to the children and perceived only by the adults who wanted something from her. The line of such people wandered through the forest and circled back over the river. Birds sang their casual symphony high in the trees for an audience of revelers. The sun pierced the foliage and dappled the ground with rippling patterns of light and shadow.

“How much for another vial?” asked an old woman who bowed at the feet of the angel. She looked exhausted, ill, and at her wit's end.

“You can’t have another one, Valeria,” admonished the haloed angel in slow tones. Her soft words were indistinguishable from the soft river’s mutters nearby. “You’ve used up your blessings. I am sorry.”

“But I need it. I need it.” The old woman’s desperation tumbled out. She trembled and raised an empty palm.

“You’ll need to ask another.” The angel motioned Valeria aside and shifted her gaze to the next parishioner. He was a younger man with long orange hair and a frightening smile. “What is your request?”

“Hair. Just some hair, my love.” His easy manner looked confident and unbeaten, the words of a man who always got what he wanted. He did not break eye contact.

“Someone has told you the secrets,” replied the angel as suspicion rose inside of her. Something about him filled her with dread. Had she seen this man before? Her Sight was not what it once was; she had given it up willingly in exchange for a different sort of life. The birds’ calls went silent in the distance and the gentle swaying of the grove’s leaves halted as though a winter chill had fallen.

“No secrets,” reassured the red-haired man. He did not seem affected by her changed demeanor. “A strand of hair is all I request.” He stood tall.

The angel lifted her long yellow hair, glimmering almost like spun gold, and held the ends of it towards him in a gesture of supplication. “Is this what you ask of me?”

“If it is not too dear a request, I should be satisfied with what you can give.” He hardly breathed. His eyes, buried behind the carved canyons of his face, were hard and small. He brought his hand out. It was scarred and bandaged.

Without effort, the angel plucked a lengthy strand from the top of her head and passed it gently into the rugged fingers of the red-haired vagabond. Her halo flashed for a moment, moving in rhythm with her swaying form. Winds rose again and passed through the grove. The Guards did not move. They did not sense anything amiss.

“Thank you, my love,” the man said. He took it from her hand dropped it into a small knapsack at his waist. Without waiting for her dismissal he moved on, down the marble steps of the shrine and vanished into the crowd.