Evangeline squinted at the numbers of a combination dial and-as Celestine told her the combination-twisted the dial right, then left, then right, listening for the soft sweep of metal disks. Finally the safe clicked and, with a swift tug of the handle, popped open. There was a leather case in the belly of the safe. Fingers trembling, Evangeline carried it to the table and wheeled Celestine to it.
“I brought this case with me to America from Paris,” Celestine said, sighing as if all her efforts had led to this singular moment. “It has been here, safe and sound, since 1944.”
Evangeline ran her hands over the cool, polished leather. The brass clasps were shiny as new pennies.
Sister Celestine closed her eyes and clutched at the armrests of her wheelchair.
Evangeline remembered the extent of Celestine’s illness. The journey to the depths of the convent must have taxed her enormously. “You are exhausted,” Evangeline said. “I am terribly thoughtless to have allowed you to bring me here. I think it is time for you to return to your room.”
“Hush, child,” Celestine said, lifting a hand to stop her from protesting further. “There is one more item I must give you.”
Celestine slid her hand into the pocket of her habit, removed a piece of paper, and placed it in Evangeline’s palm. She said, “Memorize this address. It is where your grandmother, as head of the Angelological Society, resides. She will welcome you and continue where I have left off.”
“This is the address I saw in my file in the Mission Office this morning,” Evangeline said. “The same address as that on Gabriella’s letters.”
“The very one,” Celestine said. “It is your time. Soon you will understand your purpose, but for now you must remove this case from our domain. Percival Grigori is not the only one who covets Abigail Rockefeller’s letters.”
“Mrs. Rockefeller’s letters?” Evangeline whispered. “This case doesn’t contain the lyre?”
“The letters will lead you to the lyre,” Celestine said. “Our dear Philomena has been searching for them for more than half a century. They are no longer safe here. You must take them away at once.”
“If I leave, will I be allowed to return?”
“If you do, you will compromise the safety of the others. Angelology is forever. Once you begin, you cannot leave it. And you, Evangeline, have already begun.”
“But you left angelology behind,” Evangeline said.
“And look at the trouble that ensued,” Celestine said, fingering the rosary around her neck. “One might say my withdrawal into the sanctuary of St. Rose is in part responsible for the danger your young visitor is in now.”
Celestine paused, as if to let her words sink in.
“Don’t be frightened,” she said, gripping Evangeline’s hand. “Everything has its proper time. You are giving up this life, but you are gaining another. You will be part of a long and honorable tradition: Christine de Pizan, Clare of Assisi, Sir Isaac Newton, even St. Thomas Aquinas did not shy from our work. Angelology is a noble calling, perhaps the highest calling. It is not an easy thing to be chosen. One must be courageous.”
In the course of their exchange, something about Celestine had changed-her illness seemed in retreat, and her pale hazel eyes burned with pride. When she spoke, her voice was strong and confident.
“Gabriella will be very proud of you,” Celestine said. “But I will be even more so. From the minute you arrived, I knew you would make an exceptional angelologist. When your grandmother and I were students in Paris, we could pick out exactly which of our peers would succeed and which would not. It is like a sixth sense, the ability to discover new talent”
“I hope, then, that I won’t disappoint you, Sister.”
“It is unsettling how much you remind me of her. Your eyes, your mouth, the way you carry yourself as you walk. It is odd. You could be her twin. I pray that angelology will suit you as it has Gabriella.”
Evangeline wanted desperately to ask what had happened between Celestine and Gabriella, but before she could articulate her thoughts, Celestine spoke instead, her voice cracking with emotion. “Tell me one last thing. Who is your grandfather? Are you the grandchild of Dr. Raphael Valko?”
“I don’t know,” Evangeline said. “My father refused to speak about the subject.”
A dark expression clouded Celestine’s features, but just as quickly it dispersed, replaced by anxious concern. “It is time for you to go,” she said. “It will take some skill to get out of here.” Evangeline tried to resume her position behind the wheelchair, but, to her surprise, Celestine drew her close and hugged her.
Whispering into her ear, she said, “Tell your grandmother I forgive her. Tell her I understand that there were no easy choices then. We did what we needed to do to survive. Tell her that it wasn’t her fault, what happened to Dr. Seraphina, and please tell her that everything is forgiven.”
Evangeline returned Celestine’s embrace, feeling how thin and frail the old woman was under her capacious habit.
Gripping the case, feeling its weight, Evangeline slipped the leather strap over her shoulder and pushed Celestine back through the long passageways toward the elevator. Once they reached the fourth floor, her movements would need to be swift and discreet. Already she could feel St. Rose edging away from her, retreating into an unreachable place. Never again would she wake at four forty-five in the morning and rush through the shadowy corridors to prayer. Evangeline could not imagine loving another place as much as she loved the convent, and yet suddenly it seemed inevitable that she leave it.
St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Otterley backed the Jaguar into a cove outside the convent grounds, hiding the car deep in the foliage of evergreens. She cut the engine and stepped out into the snow, leaving the keys in the ignition. They had agreed that it would be best for Percival-who could not be of much use in any physical ordeal-to stay at a distance. Without a word to him, Otterley closed the car door and walked quickly along the icy path to the convent.
Percival knew enough about Gabriella to understand that capturing her would take a coordinated effort. At his insistence Otterley had put in a call to the Gibborim to check on their progress and had learned that they were prowling a few miles south, on the country roads north of the Tappan Zee Bridge. He doubted that they would make much headway with Gabriella, and he was prepared to step in himself if the Gibborim failed. It was imperative to stop Gabriella before she made it to the convent.
Percival stretched his legs, cramped from the narrow space of the car, and peered through the dust-flecked windshield. The convent loomed ahead, a great brick-and-stone edifice barely visible through the forest. If their timing was right, the Gibborim that Sneja had sent-she had promised at least one hundred-should be stationed in the area already, awaiting Otterley’s signal to attack. Taking his phone from his pocket, Percival dialed his mother, but the line rang and rang. He’d tried to call her every hour all morning without luck. He’d left messages with the Anakim, when she bothered to answer, but she had clearly forgotten to relay them to Sneja.
Percival opened the car door and stepped into the freezing morning air, frustrated with the impotence of his position. He should have organized the entire operation himself. It should be him leading the Gibborim into the convent. Instead his younger sister was in charge and he was left to try to get through to their aloof mother, who was at that moment likely to be soaking in her Jacuzzi without a thought in her head of his condition.
He walked to the edge of the highway, looking for signs of Gabriella, before dialing his mother’s line again. To his surprise, someone picked up on the first ring.