“Perhaps,” Dr. Seraphina said, “but there is a whole area of angelological study about this very subject. It is called angelmorphism, and it deals strictly with the idea that Jesus Christ was not even human, but an angel. After all, the Virgin Birth occurred after the Angel Gabriel’s visit.”
Gabriella said, “I believe I’ve read something about that. The Gnostics believed in Jesus’s angelic origins as well.”
“There are-or there were, I should say-hundreds of books in our library about it,” Dr. Seraphina said. “Personally, I don’t care who Jesus’s ancestors were. My concern is entirely elsewhere. This, for example, is something I find utterly fascinating, speculative or not,” Dr. Seraphina said, leading us to the next table, where a book lay open as if waiting for our examination. “It is a Nephilistic angelology that begins with the Watchers, moves through Noah’s family, and branches out with great detail throughout the ruling families of Europe. It is called The Book of Generations.”
I glanced over the page, reading the descending ladder of names as the angelology moved through the generations. Although I understood the power and the influence the Nephilim had upon human activity, I was taken aback to discover that the family lines moved through nearly every royal bloodline in Europe-the Capetians, the Hapsburgs, the Stuarts, the Carolingians. It was like reading the history of Europe dynasty by dynasty.
Dr. Seraphina said, “We cannot be completely certain that these lines were infiltrated, but there is enough proof to convince most of us that the great families of Europe have been-and still are-deeply infected with the blood of the Nephilim.”
Gabriella hung upon all that Seraphina said as if she were memorizing a timeline of dates for an examination or-and this was more apt to be at the heart of it-studying our teacher to discover her motivation for bringing us to this strange text. At last Gabriella said, “But the names of nearly all the noble families are listed. Are they all implicated in the terrors they have perpetuated?”
“Indeed. The Nephilim were the kings and queens of Europe, their desires shaping the lives of millions of people. They kept their stronghold through intermarriage, primogeniture, and brute military force,” Dr. Seraphina said. “Their kingdoms collected taxes, slaves, properties, and all kinds of mineral and agricultural wealth, attacking any group that acquired even the smallest degree of independence. Their influence was so unrivaled during the medieval period that they did not even bother to hide themselves as they once had. According to accounts of angelologists of the thirteenth century, there were cults dedicated to fallen angels that were fully orchestrated by the Nephilim. Many of the evils attributed to witches-the accused were nearly always women-were actually part of Nephilistic rituals. They believed in ancestor worship and celebrated the return of the Watchers. These families still exist today. In fact,” Dr. Seraphina said, looking at Gabriella with a strange, almost accusatory look, “we are keeping very close watch on them. These families in particular are under surveillance.”
While I glanced at the page and saw a number of names, none of which meant anything in particular to me, the effect of Seraphina’s words upon Gabriella was intense. As she read the names, she stepped back in fright. Her manner reminded me of the trance of horror I had witnessed come over her during Dr. Raphael’s lecture, only now she seemed on the verge of hysteria.
“You are wrong,” Gabriella said, her voice rising with each word. “We are not watching them. They are watching us.”
With this, she turned and ran from the room. I stared after her, wondering what could have caused such an emotional outburst. It seemed to me that she had gone mad. Turning to the manuscript once again, I saw nothing more than a page filled with family names, most of them unknown to me, some of prestigious ancient families. It was as unremarkable as any page from any of the history books we had studied together, none of which had caused Gabriella any measure of distress.
Dr. Seraphina, however, appeared to understand Gabriella’s reaction exactly. In fact, from the sanguine manner in which she had assessed Gabriella’s reactions, it was as if Dr. Seraphina had not only expected her to recoil from the book but had planned it. Seeing my confusion, Dr. Seraphina closed the book and tucked it under her arm.
“What happened?” I asked, as astonished by her manner as by Gabriella’s inexplicable behavior.
“It pains me to tell you,” Dr. Seraphina said, leading me from the room, “but I believe that our Gabriella has gotten herself into terrible trouble.”
My first impulse was to confess everything to Dr. Seraphina. The burden of Gabriella’s double life and the pall it had cast over my days had become nearly too much for me to bear. But just as I was about to speak, I was startled into silence. A dark figure swept before us, stepping from a shadowy corridor like a black-cloaked demon. I caught my breath, momentarily unbalanced by the interruption. After a brief examination, I saw that it was the heavily veiled nun-the council member I had met in the Athenaeum months before. She blocked our path.
“May I speak with you a moment, Dr. Seraphina?” The nun spoke in a low, lisping manner that I found, to my embarrassment, instantly repulsive. “There are some questions we have regarding the shipment to the United States.”
It comforted me to see that Dr. Seraphina took the nun’s presence in stride, speaking to her with her usual authority. “What questions could there be at this late hour? All has been arranged.”
“Quite correct,” the nun said. “But I wish to make certain that the paintings in the gallery are to be shipped to the United States along with the icons.”
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Seraphina said, following the nun into the hallway, where a large gallery of crates and boxes awaited shipment. “They are to be received by our contact in New York.”
Looking over the crates, I saw that many of them had been marked for shipping.
Dr. Seraphina said, “The shipment will leave tomorrow. We need only to be sure that everything is here and that it gets to the port.”
As the nun and Dr. Seraphina continued their discussion of the shipment and how they had, in the increasingly tightened schedule of vessels leaving France’s harbors, secured the evacuation of our most priceless objects, I returned to the hallway. Holding back the words I’d wished to speak, I walked away in silence.
Moving through the dark, stone corridors, I passed empty classrooms and abandoned lecture halls, my footsteps echoing through the pervasive silence that had fallen over the rooms months before. The Athenaeum proved equally still. The librarians had left for the evening, turning out the lights and locking the doors. I used my key-given by Dr. Seraphina at the outset of my studies-to let myself in. As I opened the doors and examined the long, shadowy room, I felt utterly relieved to be alone. It was not the first time I’d felt thankful that the library was empty-I often found myself there after midnight, continuing my work after everyone else had left the school-but it was the first time that I had come in desperation.
Empty shelves lined the walls, the occasional volumes tipped and stacked at random. On every side I found boxes of books waiting to be moved from our school to secure locations throughout France. Where these locations might be, I did not know, but I could see that we would need many cellars to hide such a large collection. My hands shook as I went through one of the boxes. The books were in such a state of disarray that I began to worry that I might never find the one I had come for. After some minutes of searching, my panic growing at each disappointment, I at last located a box of Dr. Raphael Valko’s original works and translations. In keeping with Dr. Raphael’s disposition, the contents were arranged in no discernible order. I found a folio containing detailed maps of various caves and gorges, sketches made during exploratory expeditions through the mountain ranges of Europe-the Pyrenees in 1923, the Balkans in 1925, the Urals in 1930, and the Alps in 1936-along with pages of script relating to the history of each mountain chain. I examined annotated texts and bundles of lecture notes, commentaries and pedagogical guides. I looked at the title and date of each of the works Dr. Raphael had produced, finding that he’d written even more books and folios than I had imagined. And yet after I had opened and closed every one of Dr. Raphael’s texts, I had not found the only one I hoped to read: The translation of Clematis’s journey to the cave of disobedient angels was not in the Athenaeum.