Crowther, Peter (ed) - Heaven Sent / Краутер, Питер (ред) - Посланы Небесами [1995, EPUB, ENG]

Letting Go short story by Ken Wisman Wings short story by James Lovegrove Spirit Guides / Ангелы-хранители short story by Kristine Kathryn Rusch House Call short story by Christopher Evans The Big Sky novelette by Charles de Lint Relief short story by Jane Lindskold Spiritual Dysfunction and Counterangelic Longings; or, Sariela: A Case Study in One Act / Сариела; или Дисфункция и Желания, Противные Природе Ангелов: Психологический Портрет в Одном Акте short story by Michael Bishop Real Messengers short story by John Brunner The Visit short story by Kathryn Ptacek Part-Singing short story by Nina Kiriki Hoffman Gordy's A-Okay short story by Stephen Laws The Realms of Glory short story by Judith Moffett Steam novelette by Ian McDonald Synandra short story by Ed Gorman After the Elephant Ballet novelette by Gary A. Braunbeck Cherub short story by Garry Kilworth Angel Blood short story by Bruce D. Arthurs In Gethsemene novelette by Stephen Gallagher

Children were not exempted from this severe knowledge of guilt. It was believed they were so steeped in original sin that it was most inexpedient to indulge them.

Unobserved—save perhaps for the guardian angel that according to Aunt Eunice kept the record of his deeds and thoughts whereby he would be measured and found wanting on the Judgment Day—Hadrian set his jaw against the pain in his joints and made the best dash he could from the shrubbery to the comer where the wall of the house met that of the carriage shed. Here there was a downpipe feeding to an oaken water butt. Higher up, the pipe passed within arm’s reach of the window of the spartan room his aunt alotted him: always open for the sake of fresh air save when it rained, but barred to stop him climbing in or out. Not that he would have had the strength to do so. Hidden from casual view by the pipe, a rope hung down that ended in a bag made from scraps of sacking, mistakable for an abandoned bird’s nest or the like. Hastily, ignoring his never-ceasing discomfort—petty next to what Our Lord had suffered, as his aunt so often stressed—he transferred to the bag flowers gathered in what he privately thought of as The Wilderness, a neglected patch of copse at the far end of the grounds. There weren’t many, for summer was drawing to its close. But he had eked them out with sprays of berries. . . .