Chapter Eighty-eight
Julia slept soundly, her breathing deep and her form unmoving. When the nurse directed Gabriel to place Clare in the bassinet so that he could sleep, he refused. He held his daughter in his arms as if he were afraid she’d be taken away from him.
His eyes grew heavy and he reclined in the chair next to Julia’s bed, placing his daughter on his chest. With a yawn, she seemed content, her cheek resting against him, her tiny bottom in the air.
“Faith, hope, and charity,” he murmured to himself. “But the greatest of these is charity.”
“What’s that?” Julia shifted in bed, turning toward him.
He smiled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Julia moved her legs tentatively, clutching the place where her incision was. “The pain is coming back. I’m probably due for a shot.”
She looked over at him, at the way he was holding Clare in his arms, her body resting in the center of his chest.
“You’re a natural, Daddy.”
“I hope so. But even if I’m not, I’ll work hard to become one.”
“I didn’t know,” Julia whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
“You didn’t know what?”
“I didn’t know it was possible to love someone other than you so much.”
Gabriel cupped Clare’s head with his hand.
“I didn’t know, either.” He kissed his daughter’s head. “In fact, I was just disagreeing with St. Paul.”
“Oh?” She wiped away a tear. “And what did he say in response?”
Gabriel caught her eye. She grinned.
“I told him that the greatest virtue isn’t charity; it’s hope. I discovered charity with Richard and Grace, but also with you. And it helped me through some very dark days. I also discovered faith, when I went to Assisi. But without hope, I wouldn’t be here. I would have taken my life. Without divine intervention in the form of a teenage girl in a Pennsylvania orchard, I’d be in Hell and not sitting at your side holding our daughter.”
“Gabriel,” she whispered, the tears flowing.
“Charity is a great virtue, and so is faith. But hope means the most to me. This is hope.” He gestured to the baby girl on his chest, swaddled in white and wearing a tiny knit cap.
Gabriel’s prayers of thanks were spontaneous and heartfelt. Here, in this room, he had an embarrassment of riches—a pretty, intelligent wife, who had a very large and giving heart, and a beautiful daughter.
“This is the culmination of all my hopes, Gabriel.” Julia reached out to him and he strained to catch her pinky finger with his own. “This is my happy ending.”
He looked to the future with hope and saw a house ringing with the laughter of children and the sounds of small feet running up and down stairs. He saw Clare with a sister and brother, one adopted, one not.
He saw baptisms and first communions and his family sitting with him in the same pew, Mass after Mass, year after year. He saw skinned knees, and first days of school, prom dates and graduation from high school, broken hearts and happy tears, and the joy of introducing his children to Dante, Botticelli, and St. Francis.
He saw himself walking Clare down the aisle at her own wedding, and holding his grandchildren in his arms.
He saw himself growing old with his beloved Julianne and holding hands with her in their orchard.
“Now my blessedness appears,” he whispered, holding his wife’s hand and Clare Grace Hope as she slept peacefully on his chest.
Fin.
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to the late Dorothy L. Sayers, the late Charles Williams, Mark Musa, my friend Katherine Picton, and The Dante Society of America for their expertise on Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy, which informs my work. In this novel, I’ve used the Dante Society’s conventions of capitalization for places such as Hell and Paradise.
I’ve been inspired by Sandro Botticelli’s artwork and the incomparable space that is the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. The cities of Oxford, Florence, Assisi, Todi, and Cambridge lent their ambience, along with the borough of Selinsgrove.
I’ve consulted the Internet Archive site for its version of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s translation of La Vita Nuova along with the original Italian. In this work, I’ve cited Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s translation of The Divine Comedy.
I am grateful to Jennifer for her feedback and support. This book would not exist without her encouragement and friendship. I am grateful also to Nina for her creative input and wisdom. And I owe a special debt to Kris, who read an early draft and offered invaluable constructive criticism at several stages. Thank you.
I’ve enjoyed working with Cindy, my editor at Berkley, and I look forward to working with her on my next two novels. Thanks are also due to Tom for his wisdom and energy in navigating my transition to Berkley. And thanks to the copyediting, art, and design teams who worked on this book.
My publicist, Enn, works tirelessly to promote my writing and to help me with social media, which enables me to stay in touch with readers. I’m honored to be part of her team.
I would also like to thank those who have offered encouragement, especially the Muses, Tori, Erika, and the readers who operate the Argyle Empire and SRFans social media accounts. Special thanks are also due to Elena, who assisted in specifying the Italian pronunciation for the audiobooks. John Michael Morgan did a magnificent job reading Gabriel’s Inferno and Gabriel’s Rapture.
Finally, it is no great secret that I intended to end the story of the Professor and Julianne with Gabriel’s Rapture. Thank you to everyone who wrote to me asking that their story be continued. Your continued support, and the support of my family, is inestimable.
—SR
Ascension 2013
Keep reading for a special excerpt from Sylvain Reynard’s new novel.
Coming soon from Berkley Books!
Alone figure stood high atop Brunelleschi’s dome, under the shade of the gold globe and cross. His black clothing faded into the darkness, making him invisible to the people below.
From his vantage point, they looked like ants. And ants they were to him, an irritating if necessary presence in his city.
The city of Florence had been his for almost seven hundred years. When he was in residence, he spent every sunset in the same place, surveying his kingdom with Lucifer-like pride. These were the works of his hands, the fruits of his labor, and he wielded his power without mercy.
His considerable strength was magnified by his intellect and his patience. Decades and centuries passed before his eyes, yet he remained constant. Time was a luxury he owned in abundance and so he was never hasty in his pursuit of revenge. A hundred years had come and gone since he’d been robbed of one of his most prized possessions. He’d waited for them to resurface and they had. On this night, he’d restored the illustrations to his personal collection, the sophisticated security of the Uffizi Gallery causing him only the most trifling of inconveniences.
So it was that he stood in triumph against the clouded dark sky, like a Medici prince, looking out over Florence. The night air was warm as he contemplated the fate of those responsible for the exhibit of his stolen illustrations. He hadn’t quite decided whether to kill the men, or merely torture them.
He had time and time enough to make his plans and so he stood, enjoying his success, as a warm, persistent rain began to fall. The ants below scattered, scurrying for shelter. Soon the streets were empty of human beings.
He clutched the case more closely under his arm, realizing that his illustrations were in need of a dry space. In the blink of an eye, he traveled down the side of the dome to a lower half dome, before running across the square and clambering up the side of an adjacent building. Soon he was on the roof of the Arciconfraternita della Misericordia.
There was a time when he would have served the Arciconfraternita, joining in their mission of me
rcy, rather than running over it without a thought. But he hadn’t exercised the gift of mercy since 1274. In his new form, the concept of mercy never entered his consciousness.
He flew through the rain at great speed, heading toward the Ponte Vecchio, when the smell of blood filled his nostrils. There was more than one source, (or vintage as he called it), but the scent that attracted his attention was young and unaccountably sweet. It resurrected in him memories long forgotten. Instantly, he changed direction and increased his speed, moving toward the Ponte Santa Trinita. His black form was a blur against the night sky as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop.
Other monsters moved in the darkness, from all parts of the city, racing toward the place where her innocent blood cried out from the ground.
As he ran, the question uppermost in his mind was: Who would reach her first?
About the Author
Sylvain Reynard is a Canadian writer with an interest in Renaissance art and culture and an inordinate attachment to the city of Florence. (Parenthetically, it should be noted that the snarky narrator of Gabriel’s Redemption was contracted to write this biographical description, and he can attest that SR is, in fact, real, and has an enviable collection of argyle socks).
Gabriel's Redemption (Gabriel's Inferno Trilogy) Page 48
