Percival folded his hands upon the table, relieved that he had stopped trembling. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible. There are not many angelologists alive who have been initiated into the art of summoning, especially in America, where they are at a loss for mentorship. But it is the only explanation for such complete destruction.”
“What does Otterley say about this?” Sneja asked, pushing away her chair and standing. “Surely she doesn’t believe that they have the strength to perform a summoning. The practice is all but extinct.”
“Mother,” Percival said, his voice strained with emotion, “we lost everyone in the attack.”
Sneja looked from Percival to her husband, as if only his reaction would make her son’s words true.
Percival’s voice faltered in shame and despair as he continued, “I was at a distance from the convent when the attack occurred, but I could see the terrible whirlwind of angels. They descended upon the Gibborim. Otterley was among their number.”
“You saw her body?” Sneja said, walking from one end of the room to the other. Her wings had pressed closed against her body, an involuntary physical reaction. “You are certain?”
“There is no doubt,” Percival said. “I watched the humans dispose of the bodies.”
“And what of the treasure?” Sneja said, growing frantic. “What of your trusted employee? What of Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko? Tell me you have gained something from our losses?”
“By the time I arrived, they were gone,” Percival said. “Gabriella’s Porsche was abandoned at the convent. They took what they came for and left. It is over. There is no hope.”
“So let me get this straight,” Mr. Grigori said. Although Percival knew that his father adored Otterley, and must be in a state of unspeakable dispair, he displayed the icy calm that had so frightened Percival in his youth. “You allowed your sister to go into attack alone. Then you let the angelologists who killed her escape, losing the opportunity to retrieve a treasure we have sought for a thousand years. And you believe that you are finished?”
Percival regarded his father with hatred and yearning. How was it that he had not lost his strength with age and that Percival, who should be at the height of his powers, had become so weakened?
“You will pursue them,” Mr. Grigori said, standing to his full height, his silver wings fanning open about his shoulders. “You will find them and retrieve the instrument. And you will keep me informed as the hunt progresses. We will do whatever necessary to bring victory.”
Upper West Side, New York City
Evangeline turned onto West Seventy-ninth Street, driving slowly behind a city bus. Pausing at a red light, she glanced down Broadway, squinting to see the afternoon streetscape, and felt a rush of recognition. She’d spent many weekends with her father walking these streets, stopping for breakfast at any one of the cramped diners tucked along the avenues. The chaos of people slogging through the slush, the squish of buildings, the incessant movement of traffic in every direction—New York City was deeply familiar, despite her years away.
Gabriella lived only a few blocks ahead. Although Evangeline had not been to her grandmother’s apartment since her childhood, she remembered it well—the subdued façade of the brownstone, the elegant metalwork fence, the slanted view of the park. It used to be that she had recalled these images with care. Now thoughts of St. Rose filled her mind. Try as she might, she could not forget how the sisters looked at her as she left the church, as if the attack were somehow her fault and their youngest member had brought the Gibborim upon them. Evangeline kept her gaze fixed upon the pathway as she left them. It was all she could manage to get to the edge of the garage without looking back.
In the end Evangeline had betrayed her instincts and looked into the rearview mirror to see the sooty snow and the baleful sisters collected at the riverside. The convent was as dilapidated as a ruined castle, the lawn coated with ash from the fires. She, too, had changed. In a matter of minutes, she had shed her role as Sister Evangeline, Franciscan Sister of Perpetual Adoration, and had become Evangeline Angelina Cacciatore, Angelologist. As they drove from the grounds, birch trees rising at each side of the car like hundreds of marble pillars, Evangeline believed she saw the shadow of a fiery angel glinting in the distance, beckoning her onward.
On the journey to New York City, Verlaine had sat in the front seat, while Gabriella insisted upon taking the back, where she had spread out the contents of the leather case and examined them. Perhaps the silence imposed upon Evangeline at St. Rose had come to wear heavily on her—over the course of the drive, she had spoken frankly with Verlaine about her life, the convent, and even, to her surprise, her parents. She told him about her childhood in Brooklyn, how it was punctuated by walks with her father over the Brooklyn Bridge. She told him that the famous walkway that runs the length of the bridge was the one place where she had felt a carefree, undiluted happiness and for that reason, it was still her favorite place in the world. Verlaine asked more and more questions, and she was amazed by how readily and openly she answered each one, as if she’d known him all her life. It had been many years since she’d talked to someone like Verlaine—handsome, intelligent, interested in every detail. In fact, years had passed since she’d felt anything at all about a man. Her thoughts of men seemed, all at once, childish and superficial. Surely her behavior struck him as comically naive.
After Evangeline had found a parking spot, she and Verlaine followed Gabriella to the brownstone. The street was strangely barren. Snow swept the sidewalk; parked cars were encrusted with a thin layer of ice. The windows of Gabriella’s apartment, however, glowed. Evangeline detected movement beyond the glass, as if a group of friends awaited their arrival. She imagined the Times spread in sections on thick Oriental carpets, cups of tea balanced at the edges of end tables, fires kindled in gratings—those were the Sundays of her childhood, the afternoons she had spent in Gabriella’s care. Of course, her memories were those of a child, and her thoughts were filled with nostalgia and romance. She had no idea of what awaited her now.
As Gabriella unlocked the front door, someone pushed the dead bolt aside, turned a great brass doorknob, and opened the door. A bearish, dark-haired man with a hooded sweatshirt and a two-day stubble stood before them. Evangeline had never seen the man before. Gabriella, however, appeared to know him intimately.
“Bruno,” she said, embracing him warmly, an uncharacteristic gesture of intimacy. The man looked to be around fifty years old. Evangeline looked at the man more closely wondering if, despite the age difference, Gabriella could have remarried. Gabriella released Bruno. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
“Of course I’m here,” he said, equally relieved to see her. “The council members have been waiting for you.”
Turning to Evangeline and Verlaine, who stood together on the stoop, Bruno smiled and gestured for them to follow him through the entrance hallway. The smell of Gabriella’s home—its books and gleaming antique furniture—was instantly welcoming, and Evangeline felt her anxiety dissipating with each step into the house. The overloaded bookcases, the wall of framed portraits of famous angelologists, the air of seriousness that fell over the rooms like mist—everything in the brownstone was exactly as Evangeline remembered.
Removing her overcoat, she caught her image in a mirror in the hallway. The person standing before her startled her. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her skin had been streaked black by smoke. She had never seemed so drab, so plain, so out of place as she did now, in the presence of her grandmother’s highly polished life. Verlaine stepped behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, a gesture that only yesterday would have filled her with terror and confusion. Now she was sorry when he took it away.
In the midst of all that had happened, she found it almost inexcusable that her thoughts were drawn to him. Verlaine stood only inches from her, and as she met his eyes in the mirror, she wanted him to be closer. She wished she understood his feelings better. She wished he would s
ay something to assure her that he felt the same shock of pleasure when their eyes met.
Evangeline turned her attention back to her own reflection, realizing as she did how utterly laughable her dishevelment made her. Verlaine must find her ridiculous with her dour black clothing and her rubber-soled shoes. The manner of the convent had been etched into her.
“You must be wondering how you got here,” she said, endeavoring to understand his thoughts. “You fell into all of this by accident.”
“I admit,” he said, flushing, “it’s certainly been a surprising Christmas. But if Gabriella hadn’t found me, and I hadn’t gotten involved in all of this, I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Perhaps that might have been for the better.”
“Your grandmother told me quite a bit about you. I know that things aren’t all they seem. I know you went to St. Rose as a precautionary measure.”
“I went for more than that,” Evangeline said, realizing how complicated her motivation for staying at St. Rose was, and how difficult it would be to explain to him.
“Will you go back?” Verlaine asked, his expression anticipatory, as if her answer mattered a great deal to him.
Evangeline bit her lip, wishing she could tell him how difficult the question seemed to her. “No,” she said at last. “Never.”
Verlaine leaned close behind her, taking Evangeline by the hand. Her grandmother, the work before them, everything dissolved in his presence. Then he pulled her away from the mirror and led her into the dining room, where the others waited.
There was something cooking in the kitchen—the rich smell of meat and tomatoes filled the room. Bruno gestured to the table, set with linen napkins and Gabriella’s china. “You’ll need lunch,” Bruno said.
“I really don’t think there’s time for that,” Gabriella said, looking distracted. “Where are the others?”
“Sit,” Bruno ordered, gesturing to the chairs. “You have to eat something.” He pulled out a chair and waited until Gabriella sat. “It will only take a minute.” With that he disappeared into the kitchen.
Evangeline sat in the chair next to Verlaine. Crystal glasses glimmered in the weak light. A carafe of water sat mid-table, lemon slices floating on its surface. Evangeline poured a glass of water and gave it to Verlaine, her hand brushing his, sending a shock through her. She met his eye, and it struck her that she had met him only yesterday. How quickly her time at St. Rose receded, leaving behind the impression that her old life had been little more than a dream.
Soon Bruno returned with a great steaming pot of chili. The thought of lunch hadn’t crossed Evangeline’s mind all day—she’d become used to the grumbling of her stomach and the light-headedness that resulted from perpetual lack of water—but once the food was before her, she discovered that she was ravenous. Evangeline stirred the chili with a spoon, cooling the beans and tomatoes and pieces of sausage, and began to eat. The chili was spicy—the heat of it hit her at once. At St. Rose the sisters’ diet consisted of vegetables and bread and unseasoned meat. The spiciest thing she’d eaten in the past years had been a plum pudding made for the annual Christmas celebration. Reflexively, she coughed, covering her mouth with a napkin, heat spreading through her.
Verlaine jumped up and poured her a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said.
Evangeline drank the water, feeling silly. “Thank you,” she said when the spell had passed. “I haven’t had food like this in quite a while.”
“It will do you good,” Gabriella said, assessing her. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in months. Actually,” she added, standing and leaving her food unfinished, “I think you had better clean up a bit. I have some clothes that will suit you.”
Gabriella took Evangeline to a bathroom down the hall, where she directed her to step out of the sooty wool skirt and remove the smoke-filled shirt. Gabriella collected the dingy clothes and threw them in a trash bin. She gave Evangeline soap and water and clean towels so that she could wash. She gave her a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater—both of which fit Evangeline perfectly, confirming that she and her grandmother were exactly the same height and weight. After Evangeline washed, Gabriella watched her dress with obvious approval of her granddaughter’s transformation into a new person entirely. Upon their return to the dining room, Verlaine simply stared at Evangeline with wonder, as if he were not quite sure she was the same person.
After they had finished eating, Bruno led them up the narrow wooden stairway. Evangeline’s heart quickened at the thought of what lay ahead. In the past her encounters with angelologists had always occurred accidentally through chance meetings with her father or grandmother, indirect and fleeting encounters that left her only half aware that something unusual had taken place. Her glimpses into the world her mother had occupied always made her curious and afraid simultaneously. In truth, the prospect of encountering the angelological council members face-to-face filled her with dread. Surely they would question her about what had happened that morning at St. Rose. Surely Celestine’s actions would be an object of deep fascination to them. Evangeline did not know how she would respond to such questioning.
Perhaps sensing her distress, Verlaine brushed his fingers against Evangeline’s hand, a gesture of comfort and care that once again sent electricity through her body. She turned and met his eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, and intensely expressive. Did he see how she reacted when he looked at her? Did he sense on the staircase that she lost her ability to breathe when he touched her? She could hardly feel her body as she climbed the remaining stairs after her grandmother.
At the top of the stairs, they stepped into a room that had always been locked during Evangeline’s childhood visits—she recalled the carvings upon the heavy wooden door, the huge brass knob, the keyhole she had tried to peer through. Then, looking through the keyhole, she had seen only swaths of sky. Now she understood the room to be filled with narrow windows. The glass opened the space to the ashen, purple light of impending dusk. Evangeline had never suspected that such a place had been hidden from her.
She stepped inside, amazed. The walls of the study were hung with paintings of angels, bright-hued figures in brilliant robes, wings spread over harps and flutes. There were heavily laden bookshelves, an antique escritoire, and a scattering of richly upholstered armchairs and divans. Despite the grandeur of the furnishings, the room had a shabby appearance—paint peeled upon the ceiling in curls, the edges of a massive steam radiator had rusted. Evangeline recalled the absence of funds her grandmother—and indeed all angelologists—had suffered in past years.
At the far end of the room, there was a cluster of antique chairs and a low, marble-topped table, where the angelologists waited. Evangeline recognized some of them at once—she had met them with her father many years before, although at the time she hadn’t understood their positions.
Gabriella introduced Evangeline and Verlaine to the council. There was Vladimir Ivanov, a handsome, aging Russian émigré who had been with the organization since the 1930s, after fleeing persecution in the USSR; Michiko Saitou, a brilliant young woman who acted as angelological strategist and international angelological coordinator while managing their global financial affairs in Tokyo; and Bruno Bechstein, the man they’d met downstairs, a middle-aged angelological scholar who had transferred to New York from their offices in Tel Aviv.
Of the three, Vladimir was most familiar to Evangeline, though he had aged drastically since she’d met him last. His face was etched with deep lines, and he appeared more serious than Evangeline remembered. The afternoon her father had placed her in Vladimir’s care, he had been exceedingly kind and she had disobeyed him. Evangeline wondered what had tempted him back to the line of work he had so adamantly disavowed.
Gabriella walked to the angelologists and placed the leather case upon the table. “Welcome, friends. When did you arrive?”
“This morning,” Saitou-san said. “Although we wished to be here sooner.”
“We cam
e as soon as we learned of what happened,” Bruno added.
Gabriella gestured to three empty upholstered armchairs, their elaborately carved arms scuffed and dull. “Sit. You must be exhausted.”
Evangeline sank into the soft cushion of a couch, Verlaine at her side. Gabriella perched upon the edge of an armchair, the leather case in her lap. The angelologists watched her with avid attention.
“Welcome, Evangeline,” Vladimir said gravely. “It has been many years, my dear.” He gestured to the case. “I could not have imagined that these circumstances would bring us together.”
Gabriella turned to the leather case and pressed the clasps, opening them with a snap. Inside, Evangeline saw that everything remained exactly as she had left it: the angelology journal; the sealed envelopes containing Abigail Rockefeller’s correspondence; and the leather pouch they had retrieved from the tabernacle.
“This is the angelological journal of Dr. Seraphina Valko,” Gabriella said, taking it from the case. “Celestine and I used to refer to this notebook as Seraphina’s grimoire, a term we used only partially in jest. It is filled with works, spells, secrets, and imaginings of past angelologists.”
“I thought it was lost,” Saitou-san said.
“Not lost, only very well hidden,” Gabriella said. “I brought it to the United States. Evangeline has had it with her at St. Rose Convent, safe and sound.”
“Well done,” Bruno said, taking it from Gabriella. As he weighed it in his hands, he winked at Evangeline, making her smile in return.
“Tell us,” Vladimir said, glancing at the leather case, “what other discoveries have you made?”
Gabriella lifted the leather pouch from the case and slowly untied the string that bound it. A peculiar metallic object rested inside, an object unlike anything Evangeline had seen before. It was as small as a butterfly’s wing and made of a thin, pounded metal that shone in Gabriella’s fingers. It appeared delicate, yet when Gabriella allowed Evangeline to hold it, she felt it to be inflexible.
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