Verlaine glanced over his shoulder at Gabriella. She read the letters breathlessly, utterly absorbed in the computer screen, as if the incandescent words might disappear at any moment. The monitor cast a green-white pallor over her skin, accentuating the wrinkles about her mouth and eyes and turning her black hair a shade closer to purple. She removed a sheet of paper from the desk drawer and jotted notes on it, scribbling as she read, not once glancing up at Verlaine or down at the stream of sentences emerging from her pen. Gabriella’s attention was so intently focused on the screen-the looping, pinched curves of Mother Innocenta’s handwriting, the creases of the paper reproduced to an exact digital likeness-that it was not until Verlaine stood at her side, looking over her shoulder at the computer, that she noticed him.
“There is a chair in the corner,” she said without taking her eyes from the screen. “You will find it more comfortable than bending over my shoulder.”
Verlaine carried an antique piano bench from the corner, placed it lightly next to Gabriella, and sat.
She lifted a hand, as if expecting it to be kissed, and said, “A cigarette, s’il vous plaît.”
Verlaine removed one from the porcelain box, fitted it into the lacquer holder, and placed it between Gabriella’s fingers. Still without looking up, she brought the cigarette to her lips. “Merci,” she said, inhaling as Verlaine ignited the lighter.
Finally he opened his duffel bag, took a folder from inside, and, venturing to disturb her from her reading, said, “I should have given these to you before.”
Gabriella turned from the computer and took the letters from Verlaine. Sifting through them, she said, “The originals?”
“One hundred percent original stolen material from the Rockefeller Family Archive,” Verlaine said.
“Thank you,” Gabriella said, opening the folder and paging through the letters. “Of course, I wondered what happened to them, and I suspected that they might be with you. Tell me-what other copies of these letters are there?”
“That’s it,” Verlaine said. “Those are the originals in your hands.” He gestured to the scans open on the computer screen. “And the scans.”
“Very good,” Gabriella said quietly.
Verlaine suspected that she wished to say more. Instead she stood, removed a canister of coffee grounds from a drawer, and brewed a pot of coffee on a hot plate. When the coffee bubbled into the pot, Gabriella carried it to the computer and, without a hint of warning, poured the contents of the pot over the laptop, the scalding liquid soaking the keyboard. The screen went white and then black. A horrid clicking noise wrenched through the computer. Then it fell quiet.
Verlaine hovered over the coffee-saturated keyboard, trying not to lose his temper-and failing. “What have you done?”
“We cannot allow more copies than absolutely necessary,” Gabriella said, calmly wiping her hands free of coffee grounds.
“Yes, but you’ve destroyed my computer.” Verlaine pressed the “start” button, hoping that it would somehow come to life again.
“Technological gadgetry is easily replaced,” Gabriella said, not a hint of apology in her voice. Walking to the window, she leaned against the glass, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression serene. “We cannot allow anyone to read these letters. They are too important.”
Sorting through them, she placed the letters alongside one another on a low table until it was filled with yellowed sheets. There were five letters, each composed of numerous pages. Verlaine came to Gabriella’s side. The pages were written in florid cursive. Lifting a soft, wrinkled sheet, he attempted to read the script-elegant, looping, exceptionally illegible penmanship that washed across the unlined paper in faded blue waves. It was nearly impossible to decipher in the dim light.
“You can read it?” Gabriella asked, leaning over the table and rotating a page, as if approaching it from a new angle might clarify the tangle of letters. “I find it difficult to make out her writing at all.”
“It takes a bit of getting used to,” Verlaine said. “But yes, I can manage it.”
“Then you can help me,” Gabriella said. “We need to determine if this correspondence is going to be of any real assistance.”
“I’ll give it a try,” Verlaine said. “But first I would like you to tell me what I’m looking for.”
“Particular locations mentioned in the correspondence,” Gabriella said. “Locations where Abigail Rockefeller had full access. Perhaps an institution where she had the authority to come and go as she wished. Seemingly innocuous references to addresses, streets, hotels. Secure locations, of course, but not too secure.”
“That could be half of New York,” Verlaine said. “If I’m going to find anything at all in these letters, I need to know exactly what you’re seeking.”
Gabriella stared out the window. Finally she said, “Long ago a band of rogue angels called the Watchers were condemned to be held in a cave in the remotest regions of Europe. Entrusted to deliver the prisoners, the archangels bound the Watchers and thrust them into a deep cavern. As the Watchers fell, the archangels heard their cries of anguish. It was an agony so great that in a moment of pity the Archangel Gabriel threw the wretched creatures a golden lyre-a lyre of angelic perfection, a lyre whose music was so miraculous that the prisoners would spend hundreds of years in contentment, pacified by its melodies. Gabriel’s mistake had grave repercussions. The lyre proved to be a solace and strength to the Watchers. They not only entertained themselves in the depths of the earth, they became stronger and more ambitious in their desires. They learned that the lyre’s music gave them extraordinary power.”
“What kind of power?” Verlaine inquired.
“The power to play at being God,” Gabriella said. She lit another cigarette and resumed. “It is a phenomenon taught exclusively in our ethereal musicology seminars to the advanced students at angelological academies. As the universe was created by the vibration of God’s voice-by the music of His Word-so the universe can be altered, enhanced, or entirely undone by the music of His messengers, the angels. The lyre-and other celestial instruments fashioned by the angels, many of which we have had in our possession throughout the centuries-has the power to effect such changes, or so we speculate. The degree of power these instruments contains varies. Our ethereal musicologists believe that at the correct frequency any number of cosmic changes could occur. Perhaps the sky will be red, the sea purple, and the grass orange. Perhaps the sun will chill the air rather than heat it. Perhaps devils will populate the continents. It is believed that one of the powers of the lyre is to restore the sick to health.”
Verlaine stared at her, flabbergasted at what this otherwise rational woman had just said.
“It makes little sense to you now,” she said, taking the original letters and giving them to Verlaine. “But read the letters to me. I would like to hear them. It will help me think.”
Verlaine scanned the sheets, found the beginning date of the correspondence-June 5, 1943-and began to read. Although Mother Innocenta’s style posed a challenge-every sentence was grandiose in tone, each thought pounded into writing as if with an iron hammer-he soon fell into the cadences of her prose.