Celestine took a deep, labored breath and adjusted herself in bed before continuing.
“The angels who remained on earth were extraordinary in many respects. It has always struck me as wondrous how human they seem. Their disobedience was an act of free will-a very human quality reminiscent of Adam and Eve’s ill-conceived choice in the Garden. The disobedient angels were also capable of a uniquely human variety of love-they loved wholly, blindly, recklessly. Indeed, they traded heaven for passion, a trade that is difficult to fully comprehend, especially because you and I have given up all hope of such love.”
Celestine smiled at Evangeline, as if in sympathy for the loveless life that lay ahead of her.
“They are fascinating in this respect, wouldn’t you say? Their ability to feel and suffer for love allows one to feel empathy for their misguided actions. Heaven, however, did not demonstrate such empathy. The Watchers were punished without mercy. The offspring of the unions between the angels and women were monstrous creatures who brought great suffering to the world.”
“And you believe they are still among us,” Evangeline said.
“I know they are still among us,” Celestine replied. “But they have evolved over the centuries. In modern times these creatures have taken cover under new and different names. They hide under the auspices of ancient families, extreme wealth, and untraceable corporations. It is hard for one to imagine that they live in our world among us, but I promise you: Once you open your eyes to their presence, you find that they are everywhere.”
Celestine looked carefully at Evangeline, as if to gauge her reception of the information.
“If we were in Paris, it would be possible to present you with concrete and insurmountable proof-you would read testimonies from witnesses, perhaps even see the photographs from the expedition. I would explain the vast and wonderful contributions angelological thinkers have made over the centuries-St. Augustine, Aquinas, Milton, Dante-until our cause would appear clear and sparkling before you. I would lead you through the marble halls to a room where the historical records are preserved. We kept the most elaborate, intricately drawn schemas called angelologies that placed each and every angel exactly in its place. Such works give the universe order. The French mind is extremely tidy-Descartes’ work is evidence of this, not the origin-and something about these systems was extremely soothing to me. I wonder if you, too, would find them so?”
Evangeline did not know how to respond, and so she waited for further explanation.
“But of course times have changed,” Celestine said. “Once angelology was one of the greatest branches of theology. Once kings and popes sanctioned the work of theologians and paid great artists to paint the angels. Once the orders and purposes of the heavenly host were debated among the most brilliant scholars of Europe. Now angels have no place in our universe.”
Celestine leaned close to Evangeline, as if relaying the information gave her new strength.
“Whereas angels were once the epitome of beauty and goodness, now, in our time, they are irrelevant. Materialism and science have banished them to nonexistence, a sphere as indeterminate as purgatory. It used to be that humanity believed in angels implicitly, intuitively, not with our minds but with our very souls. Now we need proof. We need material, scientific data that will verify without a doubt their reality. Yet what a crisis would occur if the proof existed! What would happen, do you suppose, if the material existence of angels could be verified?”
Celestine lapsed into silence. Perhaps she was tiring herself, or perhaps she had simply become lost in thought. Conversely, Evangeline was beginning to be alarmed. The turn Celestine’s tale was taking was frightfully concurrent with the mythology Evangeline had schooled herself in earlier that afternoon. She had hoped to find reason to dismiss the existence of these monstrous creatures, not confirm them. Celestine appeared to be slipping into the kind of agitation she had displayed earlier that afternoon.
“Sister,” Evangeline said, hoping Celestine would confess that all she’d said was an illusion, a metaphor for something practical and innocuous, “tell me that you are not serious.”
“It is time for my pills,” Celestine said, gesturing to her night table. “Can you bring them?”
Turning to the night table, Evangeline stopped short. Where earlier in the afternoon there had been a stack of books, now there stood bottles and bottles of medication, enough to suggest that Celestine suffered from a serious and protracted illness. Evangeline picked up one of the orange plastic bottles to examine it. The label gave Celestine’s name, the dosage, and the drug name-strings of unpronounceable syllables that Evangeline had never heard before. She herself had always been healthy, her recent problem with chest colds being the only experience she’d had with illness. Her father had been hale until the minute he died, and her mother had disappeared in her prime. Certainly Evangeline had never witnessed someone so ruined by illness. It struck her that she had not thought about the complex combinations of remedies needed to maintain and soothe a damaged body. Her lack of sensitivity filled her with shame.
Evangeline opened the drawer below the night table. There she found a pamphlet explaining the possible side effects of cancer medications and, clipped to it, a neat column of medicine names and dosage schedules. She caught her breath. Why hadn’t she been informed that Celestine had cancer? Had she been so selfishly absorbed with her own curiosity that the condition had escaped her? She sat at Celestine’s side and counted out the correct dosage.
“Thank you,” Celestine said, taking the pills and swallowing them with water.
Evangeline was consumed by regret at her blindness. She had resisted asking too many questions of Celestine, and yet she had been desperate to be enlightened about all the old nun had said earlier in the day. Even now, watching Celestine struggle to swallow the tablets, she felt a terrible yearning for the gaps to be filled in. She wanted to know the connection between the convent, their rich patron, and the study of angels. Even more, she needed to know how she was a part of this strange web of associations.
“Forgive me for pressing you,” Evangeline said, feeling guilty for her persistence even as she pressed onward. “But how did Mrs. Rockefeller come to help us?”
“Of course,” Celestine said, smiling slightly. “You still want to know about Mrs. Rockefeller. Very well. But you may be surprised to learn that you have had the answer all along.”
“How can that be?” Evangeline replied. “I learned only today of her interest in St. Rose.”
Celestine sighed deeply. “Permit me to start from the beginning,” she said. “In the 1920s one of the leading scholars in our group-Dr. Raphael Valko, the husband of my teacher, Dr. Seraphina Valko-”
“My grandmother married a man named Raphael Valko,” Evangeline said, interrupting.
Celestine regarded Evangeline coolly. “Yes, I know, although their marriage happened after I left Paris. Long before this, Dr. Raphael uncovered historical records proving that an ancient lyre had been discovered in a cavern by one of our founding fathers, a man named Father Clematis. The lyre had until that time been a source of great study and speculation among our scholars. We knew the legend of the lyre, but we did not know if the lyre itself indeed existed. Until Dr. Raphael’s discovery, the cave had simply been associated with the myth of Orpheus. I’m not sure if you are aware, but Orpheus was in fact an actual living man, one who rose to prominence and power due to his charisma and artistry and, of course, his music. Like many such men, he became a symbol after his death. Mrs. Rockefeller learned of the lyre through her contacts within our group. She funded our expedition with the belief that we could take possession of the lyre.”