Evangeline pulled out the final Christmas card she had collected from the morning mailbag. She turned it over and began to read her grandmother’s words aloud:
“‘I have told you much about the terrors of the past and something of the dangers that you face in the present, but there has been little in my communication about your future role in our work. I cannot say when this information will be of use to you-it may be that you will live your days in peaceful, quiet contemplation, faithfully carrying out your work at St. Rose. But it may be that you will be needed for a larger purpose. There is a reason your father chose St. Rose Convent as your home and a reason you have been trained in the angelological tradition that has nurtured our work for more than a millennium.’
“‘Mother Francesca, the founding abbess of the convent in which you have lived and grown these past thirteen years, built St. Rose Convent through the sheer force of faith and hard work, designing every chamber and stairwell to suit the needs of our angelologists in America. The Adoration Chapel was a feat of Francesca’s imagination, a sparkling tribute to the angels we study. Each piece of gold was inlaid to honor, each panel of glass hung in praise. What you may not know is that at the center of this chapel there is a small but priceless object of great spiritual and historical value.”’
“That is all,” Evangeline said, folding the letter and slipping it into the envelope. “The fragment ends there.”
“I knew it! The lyre is here with us. Come, child, we must share this wondrous news with Sister Perpetua.”
“But the lyre was hidden by Abigail Rockefeller in 1944,” Evangeline said, confused at Philomena’s train of thought. “This letter tells us nothing.”
“Nobody knows for certain what Abigail Rockefeller did with the lyre,” Philomena said, standing and heading toward the door. “Quickly, we must speak with Mother Perpetua at once. Something lies at the heart of the Adoration Chapel. Something of use to us.”
“Wait,” Evangeline said, her voice cracking from the strain of what she must say. “There is something else I must tell you, Sister.”
“Tell me, child,” Philomena said, halting at the doorway.
“Despite your warning I allowed someone to enter our library yesterday afternoon. The man who inquired about Mother Innocenta came to the convent yesterday. Instead of turning him away, as you instructed, I allowed him to read the letter I discovered from Abigail Rockefeller.”
“A letter from Abigail Rockefeller? I have been searching for fifty years for such a letter. Do you have it with you?”
Evangeline presented it to Sister Philomena, who snatched it from her fingers, reading it rapidly. As she read, her disappointment became clear. Returning the letter to Evangeline’s, she said, “There is not one piece of useful information in this letter.”
“The man who came to the archives did not seem to think so,” Evangeline said, wondering if her interest in Verlaine could be detected by Philomena.
“And how did this gentleman react?” Philomena inquired.
“With great interest and agitation,” Evangeline said. “He believes that the letter points to a larger mystery, one his employer has charged him to uncover.”
Philomena’s eyes widened. “Did you determine the motivation for his interest?”
“I believe that his motives are innocent, but-and this is what I must tell you-I have just learned that his employer is one of those who mean us harm.” Evangeline bit her lip, unsure if she could say his name. “Verlaine is working for Percival Grigori.”
Philomena stood up, knocking her teacup onto the floor. “My word!” she said, terrified. “Why haven’t you warned us?”
“Please forgive me,” Evangeline said. “I didn’t know.”
“Do you realize the danger we are in?” Philomena said. “We must alert Mother Perpetua immediately. It is apparent to me now that we have made a terrible mistake. The enemy has grown stronger. It is one thing to wish for peace; it is quite another to pretend the war itself does not exist.”
With this, Philomena folded the letters and cards in her hands and scuttled out of the library, leaving Evangeline alone with the empty tin of cookies. Clearly Philomena had a morbid and unhealthy obsession with avenging the events of 1944. Indeed, her reaction had been fanatical, as if she had been waiting many years for such information. Evangeline realized that she should never have shown Philomena her grandmother’s confidential letter or discussed such dangerous information with a woman she had always felt to be a bit unstable. In despair, Evangeline tried to understand what she would do next. Suddenly she recalled Celestine’s command about the letters: When you have read them, come to me again. Evangeline stood and hurried from the library to Celestine’s cell.
Times Square, New York City
The driver rolled through rush-hour traffic, stopping at the corner of Forty-second and Broadway. Traffic had all but halted at the NYPD headquarters, where police were making preparations for the Millennial New Year’s Eve ball drop. Through the crowds of office workers on their way to work, Verlaine could see the police welding manhole covers closed and setting up checkpoints. If the Christmas season filled the city with tourists, Verlaine realized, New Year’s Eve would be a veritable nightmare, especially this one.
Gabriella ordered Verlaine out of the van. Stepping into the masses of people clustered on the streets, they fell into a chaos of movement, blinking billboards, and relentless foot traffic. Verlaine hoisted the duffel bag over his shoulder, afraid that he might somehow lose its precious contents. After what had happened at his apartment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, that every person nearby was suspect, that Percival Grigori’s men were waiting for them at every turn. He looked over his shoulder and saw an endless sea of people.
Gabriella walked quickly ahead, weaving through the crowd at a pace Verlaine struggled to match. As people surged around them, he noted that Gabriella cut quite a figure. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, extraordinarily thin, with sharp features. She wore a fitted black overcoat that appeared to be Edwardian in cut-a tight, tailored, and stylish silk jacket fastened with a line of tiny obsidian buttons. The jacket was so tight that it appeared to have been designed to be worn over a corset. In contrast to her dark clothing, Gabriella’s face was powdery white, with fine wrinkles-the skin of an old woman. Although she must have been in her seventies, there was something unnaturally youthful about her. She carried herself with the poise of a much younger woman. Her sculpted, glossy black hair was perfectly coiffed, her spine erect, her gait even. She walked fast, as if challenging Verlaine to keep up.
“You must be wondering why I’ve brought you here, into all of this madness,” Gabriella said, gesturing to the crowd. Her voice resonated with the same calm equanimity she’d had on the telephone, a tone he found both eerie and deeply comforting. “Times Square at Christmas is not the most peaceful place for a stroll.”
“I usually avoid this place,” Verlaine said, looking around at the neoninfused storefront windows and incessantly flashing news ticker, a zipper of electricity dripping information faster than he could read it. “I haven’t been around here in nearly a year.”
“In the midst of danger, it is best to take cover in the crowd,” Gabriella observed. “One does not want to call attention, and one can never be too careful.”
After a few blocks, Gabriella slowed her pace, leading Verlaine past Bryant Park, where the space swarmed with Christmas decorations. With the fresh-fallen snow and the brightness of the morning light, the scene struck Verlaine as the image of a perfect New York Christmas, the very kind of Norman Rockwell scene that irritated him. As they approached the massive structure of the New York Public Library, Gabriella paused once again, looked over her shoulder, and crossed the street. “Come,” she whispered, walking to a black town car parked illegally before one of the stone lion statues at the library’s entrance. The New York license plate read ANGEL27. Upon seeing them approach, a driver turned on the engine. “This is our ride,” Gabriella said.