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A boy sat on a velvet stool, soundlessly running his long and elegant fingers across unmoving black and white. After a moment of hesitation, he relaxed, and dropped his fingers into the keys - slowly at first, but soon picking up speed and urgency. It was an angry and loud composition, reverberating against the walls and through the grand house. It was a piece that he had written in England. It was also extremely complex, but Arthur Wright had never had any trouble with learning music, and had been writing his own for more than five years. He could feel the pulse of blood in his fingers, and hear each note in his head seconds before he touched the corresponding key. He rocked slightly as he played, his jaw set and his eyes fierce with passion.

“Art?” And then suddenly it all came to a halt on A sharp. But, it wasn't the voice of little Alice that brought him to stop, and had him pressing down unknowingly hard on the final key so that it reverberated through the room. No, it wasn't Alice. Across the piano, through the tall windows and beyond, hidden by the shadow of the thick bush outside, were a pair of staring eyes. Art stared back, for a moment paralyzed.

“Art?” Alice repeated, and in a blink, the eyes vanished. For just a second, Art stared at the shadowy spot beneath the trees and between the flax, but was quickly reminded of space and time, and turned around to face his younger sister. He knew that he ought, by now, to not get distracted by the presence of the Angel. But it was difficult to ignore such a stalker, and harder yet to pretend that he didn't exist.

Alice stood in the doorway, tiny in contrast, holding an apple by the stem and looking at Art with the captivated expression that she always wore when he played. Apparently, she hadn't noticed his momentary panic, from which he had now recovered, nor seen the figure outside.

“Don't stop,” she whispered, so quietly that he shouldn't have been able to hear it.

“It's alright,” said Art, resting back and giving her a rare smile. “What did you want?”

“I'd like to listen to you play,” she replied.

“Play what?”

“My song.”

And so he did, forcing himself throughout to keep his eyes on the keys, and not to venture beyond the windows. The song was one that he had written for Alice for her sixth birthday, four years ago. Unlike most of his music, it was a gentle song, almost romantic. He had lyrics to them, too, but Alice didn't know, and he intended to keep it that way.

As he played, he didn't think of the man outside, the winged man who had been watching him for nearly five weeks now. Art knew that he wouldn't approach – he appeared satisfied with simply hiding in the shadows, following Art wherever he went. Art didn't ignore him because he didn't care – he ignored him because he was the only one who could see him. Which, he thought, was probably a good thing for the man. Art had a nickname for him, that he used whenever he thought of him. The nickname was ideal but also ironic for such a person – the angel. While the angel usually kept threateningly to the shadows, a few times Art had caught him wondering in broad daylight, his observations going apparently unnoticed, as the man walked the garden, stretching his wings.

Wings like an eagles – a black eagles, huge and feathered. Like a dark angel's, Art thought. Evil, perhaps, he had once considered, but the angel didn't frighten Art any more. He had a handsome, youthful face, and while his jaw was usually hard set, Art had once caught him smiling. It had been such a beautiful smile that Art couldn't imagine that he wanted to cause harm. Had he had wanted to hurt Art in any way, Art was sure that he would have already – for who was there to stop him from attacking Art in his sleep? Surely not his mother, or the maids, who couldn't even see Art's angelic stalker. So Art was ready to believe that this fantastical man was just curious of Art, as Art was curious of him. Perhaps this the angel's curiosity was due to Art's ability to see him, or perhaps there was something more. One day would come, Art knew, when they would meet and all would be understood. He lacked, however, the courage to approach.

The sound of Alice's feet on the wooden floor as she danced was timed perfectly with the notes that Art played while he contemplated. She danced in front of the piano, and Art watched her now as she spun, her pale green dress billowing around her as she laughed, her hands held in the air around her and her red hair flying. Angel, he thought. Why am I the only one who can see you? Why not Alice, who would be much more likely to believe in you? He had no idea. He tried to avoid thinking that he was going mad.

When he finished playing, Alice stopped dancing and turned to him with a smile. She curtsied and laughed, and Art smiled back at her. What would he do without Alice? He'd be alone, completely alone. He felt his fists ball slightly. Alice was leaving, he knew, but he still hadn't come to terms with it. How could he? They'd been together ever since she was born. Despite their giant age gap, she was his only friend.

“Art, what's wrong?” Alice wasn't smiling anymore, but was regarding Art with confused eyes.

“Nothing, Alice,” said Art, closing the piano.

“Your eyes aren't happy.” Alice frowned. “You're starting school next week.”

“You too.”

“But I'm used to school. You've never been.”

“You haven't been to a boarding school before,” Art pointed out. “It'll be a whole new experience.”

“Are you scared?” Alice asked softly, and Art knew from her tone that she wasn't teasing and that she was genuinely concerned about him. Alice never teased him.

“For you?” he asked, and Alice shook her head and said, “for you.” For a while, Art was silent. Alice knew him better than anyone. What will I do without you? he thought again.

“Yes,” he said, not looking her in the eye. She nodded, and Art felt a sudden warmth towards her. A thankfulness that she understood him as well as she did.

Alice took a step forward and opened her mouth as though she wanted to speak, but closed it again, pursing her lips in worry and squeezing her right hand in her left – in her lacy dress and white stockings she looked liked a little porcelain doll, but with an expression that mirrored her mother's, making her look oddly superior to her young age of ten. Then she sniffed, and tears welled in her eyes.

“We'll see each other in the holidays,” she said as she tried not to cry. In seconds, Art was gone from the piano and couching at her side.

“Of course,” he said softly, pulling her into an embrace.

“You'll enjoy school, I know it,” she said, and Art knew that she was trying to make him feel better. He knew that she felt bad for being so upset when she knew that Art was upset. How had she grown up to be so kind?

“Promise me that you won't be lonely without me.” Suddenly, Alice wasn't crying anymore. Her expression was stern as she pulled away, and had the situation been less serious, Art might have laughed. Oh, how she looked like her mother!

“Promise me,” she ordered.

“I promise,” said Art, but he wasn't entirely sure that it was a promise that he could keep. However, Alice smiled and wiped her eyes.

“I promise too,” she said. “We both have to be happy this year, for each other. And we'll be together again for the Christmas holidays. You can play my song again. You won't forget how to, if I'm not there?

“Never,” Art said, and Alice beamed.

“I should go and help mum,” she said, turning to leave. “The ferry leaves in an hour.”

Art nodded, and Alice was gone. He usually liked to be alone, but knowing that he might be more alone than ever for the next eight months made him feel sick.


When Art entered the hall, his mother was already there with Alice, straightening the collar of Alice's uniform. They both looked up at Art as he walked in, but while Alice smiled, Mrs Wright tutted and walked over to him, pushing him into the lounge and towards a large and ornate mirror that hung above the mantelpiece.

Art watched her reflection as she combed through his hair – although he'd already combed it – and couldn't help but admire her beauty, as he so often did. Like Alice, she had curls of a dark strawberry blond Her eyes were wide and bright – the rare kind of blue that was truly blue, not gray or touched with green. Her lips were plump and red with lipstick, and her skin naturally pale. She and Alice were so alike that it were almost as though Art's father had never existed. In comparison to them, Art found himself painfully dull.

Art closed his eyes as he heard Mrs Wright mutter, complaining about how his hair wouldn't stay flat. The inside of Art's cheek began to throb as he bit it. His hair wasn't red like his mother's or black like his father's, but a brown so fair that it was almost blond.

“You're such a beautiful boy,” said Mrs Wright as she finished. Art opened his eyes and glared at himself. Beautiful, pretty, boyish, but never handsome. “Are you sure that this is what you want to do?”

“I want to go to school” said Art flatly. There was no way that he'd be stuck at home being tutored without Alice. He couldn't stand that, being alone all the time. Mrs Wright sighed – they'd had this argument many times before.

“Your father wouldn't like it,” she said.

'Father isn't here,' is what Art wanted to say, but he was much too polite, so stayed silent. He didn't blame his mother for the current situation between her and his father, but moving to such a far away country while he sorted his head out had been her idea. They probably would have been able to sort things out quicker had they stayed together at home. Of course, that might have also made things worse.

“I've never known you so determined,” Mrs Wright said, smiling slightly despite herself. “I suppose there isn't anything that I can do to change your mind.”

Art nodded as Mrs Wright finished fussing over his hair and tucked the comb into a drawer. “There's nothing. Should we leave?” But at the idea of going, so soon, his stomach twisted and turned and the sweat in his hands returned.

“We'll have to, if we're dropping Alice off first.” Mrs Wright said. Art nodded and picked up his school bag. He'd insisted that he'd see Alice's ferry off, even though his own school was just a few kilometers from their estate.

They left the house, leaving the key under the mat for newest maid, a Maori woman called Pianika, who had refused to be given her own key. Once they got to the car, Alice realized that she had forgotten something, so she and Mrs Wright hurried back to the house. Art remained in the front seat of the Porsche – his mother hated feeling like a chauffeur now that she had to drive herself (their house was so out of the way that getting a chauffeur had proved too troublesome). It was a nice change, Art thought, but Mrs Wright and Alice made out that they would both much rather return to having staff for everything.

Art sighed and leaned back into the seat, trying to relax and refrain from thinking. He was usually so good at clearing his mind, but not today. He couldn't even distract himself with the beautiful surroundings that so often held him in awe – the bush and trees and hills that surrounded their new home on Waihiki Island, New Zealand. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, slowly counting to ten, and when he opened them again his heart went into a frenzy.

Across the garden, clearly visible despite the little light offered by the rising sun, stood the angel. This wasn't only unusual in that he was standing so visible to Art, but more because he was covered in dark blood. He stared at Art, wide eyed, almost as though he were afraid. Afraid of what? What had hurt the angel so badly? Art narrowed his eyes, trying to see better, but he was too far away. The angel didn't move, and Art wondered if he was in pain. With the sudden wild intention of getting out of the car and approaching him, he fumbled with the door and pulled it open.

And then, at the same time, one of the back doors opened, producing a startled gasp from Art. He spun around to see Alice pop her head through, holding her little red purse.

“Did you forget something too?” she asked, and Art snapped his head back to the patch of lawn where the angel should have been, but he was gone. So suddenly that it made Art frown. His heart was still beating fiercely in his chest. The angel was alone, in pain, and there was nothing that Art could do now that he had vanished. Art slammed his door shut and bit his teeth down into his lip so forcefully that his mouth quickly filled with the coppery taste of his own blood.

“Do you have your school books?” said Alice, peering over the seat. And Art mentally shook the thoughts of the angel from his head. He already had enough to worry about – school.

“Oh, I was with mum when she ordered that bag! She had it imported from Paris. I think it's boring – black! Pink would have been better!” Alice was grinning, to let Art know that she was joking, only he wasn't paying any attention. “Art, what's wrong? You look really weird”

“Every thing's fine,” said Art curtly, and Alice looked away and said nothing.

***

It was only a few minutes drive to the ferry, and once they arrived there weren't many children at all, which surprised Art. Not many children, Mrs Wright explained, had the money to send their children to such a prestigious boarding school. New Zealand wasn't a particularly rich country.

The ferry platform was cold and windy and unsheltered. The parents stood looking bitter, with heavy jackets to protect them from the autumn cold, but the children didn't seem to mind. There were eight of them, Art counted. He wondered which ones of them Alice would befriend, and whether or not she'd bring any of them home in the holidays. They were all around Alice's age, talking and laughing. Some of them had cell phones held to their ears, and one was sitting at a bench with a laptop. None of them were racing around playing games, like the children he saw in movies. He'd always thought that Alice was uniquely mature for her age, but it seemed that the children that he had read about in novels were nothing but fantasy.

“Do you have your phones?” Mrs Wright worried over Alice as she pulled out the luggage – just a small bag. The rest had already been shipped to the school. Alice pulled a slim, red mobile phone from her matching purse and waved it at Mrs Wright. She turned to Art and smiled.

“It's charged,” she told him, “so you can text me when you're not in class.” Then she turned to Mrs Wright. “The other is in my bag.”

“If you need anything else, you will call, won't you?” Mrs Wright asked.

“I'll call anyway,” Alice replied, but she was still looking at Art. She knew how hard it was for him. And he wondered, for the first time, if she pitied him.

Alice's ferry left, the children accompanied by two teachers, and Art felt suddenly awfully and terribly alone. It stabbed at him, tore at him from the inside, but Alice hadn't cried, so neither would he.