Angelology

Upper West Side, New York City
Evangeline turned onto West Seventy-ninth Street, driving slowly behind a city bus. Pausing at a red light, she glanced down Broadway, squinting to see the afternoon streetscape, and felt a rush of recognition. She’d spent many weekends with her father walking these streets, stopping for breakfast at any one of the cramped diners tucked along the avenues. The chaos of people slogging through the slush, the squish of buildings, the incessant movement of traffic in every direction—New York City was deeply familiar, despite her years away.
Gabriella lived only a few blocks ahead. Although Evangeline had not been to her grandmother’s apartment since her childhood, she remembered it well—the subdued fa?ade of the brownstone, the elegant metalwork fence, the slanted view of the park. It used to be that she had recalled these images with care. Now thoughts of St. Rose filled her mind. Try as she might, she could not forget how the sisters looked at her as she left the church, as if the attack were somehow her fault and their youngest member had brought the Gibborim upon them. Evangeline kept her gaze fixed upon the pathway as she left them. It was all she could manage to get to the edge of the garage without looking back.
In the end Evangeline had betrayed her instincts and looked into the rearview mirror to see the sooty snow and the baleful sisters collected at the riverside. The convent was as dilapidated as a ruined castle, the lawn coated with ash from the fires. She, too, had changed. In a matter of minutes, she had shed her role as Sister Evangeline, Franciscan Sister of Perpetual Adoration, and had become Evangeline Angelina Cacciatore, Angelologist. As they drove from the grounds, birch trees rising at each side of the car like hundreds of marble pillars, Evangeline believed she saw the shadow of a fiery angel glinting in the distance, beckoning her onward.

On the journey to New York City, Verlaine had sat in the front seat, while Gabriella insisted upon taking the back, where she had spread out the contents of the leather case and examined them. Perhaps the silence imposed upon Evangeline at St. Rose had come to wear heavily on her—over the course of the drive, she had spoken frankly with Verlaine about her life, the convent, and even, to her surprise, her parents. She told him about her childhood in Brooklyn, how it was punctuated by walks with her father over the Brooklyn Bridge. She told him that the famous walkway that runs the length of the bridge was the one place where she had felt a carefree, undiluted happiness and for that reason, it was still her favorite place in the world. Verlaine asked more and more questions, and she was amazed by how readily and openly she answered each one, as if she’d known him all her life. It had been many years since she’d talked to someone like Verlaine—handsome, intelligent, interested in every detail. In fact, years had passed since she’d felt anything at all about a man. Her thoughts of men seemed, all at once, childish and superficial. Surely her behavior struck him as comically naive.
After Evangeline had found a parking spot, she and Verlaine followed Gabriella to the brownstone. The street was strangely barren. Snow swept the sidewalk; parked cars were encrusted with a thin layer of ice. The windows of Gabriella’s apartment, however, glowed. Evangeline detected movement beyond the glass, as if a group of friends awaited their arrival. She imagined the Times spread in sections on thick Oriental carpets, cups of tea balanced at the edges of end tables, fires kindled in gratings—those were the Sundays of her childhood, the afternoons she had spent in Gabriella’s care. Of course, her memories were those of a child, and her thoughts were filled with nostalgia and romance. She had no idea of what awaited her now.
As Gabriella unlocked the front door, someone pushed the dead bolt aside, turned a great brass doorknob, and opened the door. A bearish, dark-haired man with a hooded sweatshirt and a two-day stubble stood before them. Evangeline had never seen the man before. Gabriella, however, appeared to know him intimately.
“Bruno,” she said, embracing him warmly, an uncharacteristic gesture of intimacy. The man looked to be around fifty years old. Evangeline looked at the man more closely wondering if, despite the age difference, Gabriella could have remarried. Gabriella released Bruno. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
“Of course I’m here,” he said, equally relieved to see her. “The council members have been waiting for you.”
Turning to Evangeline and Verlaine, who stood together on the stoop, Bruno smiled and gestured for them to follow him through the entrance hallway. The smell of Gabriella’s home—its books and gleaming antique furniture—was instantly welcoming, and Evangeline felt her anxiety dissipating with each step into the house. The overloaded bookcases, the wall of framed portraits of famous angelologists, the air of seriousness that fell over the rooms like mist—everything in the brownstone was exactly as Evangeline remembered.
Removing her overcoat, she caught her image in a mirror in the hallway. The person standing before her startled her. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her skin had been streaked black by smoke. She had never seemed so drab, so plain, so out of place as she did now, in the presence of her grandmother’s highly polished life. Verlaine stepped behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, a gesture that only yesterday would have filled her with terror and confusion. Now she was sorry when he took it away.
In the midst of all that had happened, she found it almost inexcusable that her thoughts were drawn to him. Verlaine stood only inches from her, and as she met his eyes in the mirror, she wanted him to be closer. She wished she understood his feelings better. She wished he would say something to assure her that he felt the same shock of pleasure when their eyes met.
Evangeline turned her attention back to her own reflection, realizing as she did how utterly laughable her dishevelment made her. Verlaine must find her ridiculous with her dour black clothing and her rubber-soled shoes. The manner of the convent had been etched into her.
“You must be wondering how you got here,” she said, endeavoring to understand his thoughts. “You fell into all of this by accident.”
“I admit,” he said, flushing, “it’s certainly been a surprising Christmas. But if Gabriella hadn’t found me, and I hadn’t gotten involved in all of this, I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Perhaps that might have been for the better.”
“Your grandmother told me quite a bit about you. I know that things aren’t all they seem. I know you went to St. Rose as a precautionary measure.”
“I went for more than that,” Evangeline said, realizing how complicated her motivation for staying at St. Rose was, and how difficult it would be to explain to him.
“Will you go back?” Verlaine asked, his expression anticipatory, as if her answer mattered a great deal to him.
Evangeline bit her lip, wishing she could tell him how difficult the question seemed to her. “No,” she said at last. “Never.”
Verlaine leaned close behind her, taking Evangeline by the hand. Her grandmother, the work before them, everything dissolved in his presence. Then he pulled her away from the mirror and led her into the dining room, where the others waited.
There was something cooking in the kitchen—the rich smell of meat and tomatoes filled the room. Bruno gestured to the table, set with linen napkins and Gabriella’s china. “You’ll need lunch,” Bruno said.
“I really don’t think there’s time for that,” Gabriella said, looking distracted. “Where are the others?”
“Sit,” Bruno ordered, gesturing to the chairs. “You have to eat something.” He pulled out a chair and waited until Gabriella sat. “It will only take a minute.” With that he disappeared into the kitchen.
Evangeline sat in the chair next to Verlaine. Crystal glasses glimmered in the weak light. A carafe of water sat mid-table, lemon slices floating on its surface. Evangeline poured a glass of water and gave it to Verlaine, her hand brushing his, sending a shock through her. She met his eye, and it struck her that she had met him only yesterday. How quickly her time at St. Rose receded, leaving behind the impression that her old life had been little more than a dream.
Soon Bruno returned with a great steaming pot of chili. The thought of lunch hadn’t crossed Evangeline’s mind all day—she’d become used to the grumbling of her stomach and the light-headedness that resulted from perpetual lack of water—but once the food was before her, she discovered that she was ravenous. Evangeline stirred the chili with a spoon, cooling the beans and tomatoes and pieces of sausage, and began to eat. The chili was spicy—the heat of it hit her at once. At St. Rose the sisters’ diet consisted of vegetables and bread and unseasoned meat. The spiciest thing she’d eaten in the past years had been a plum pudding made for the annual Christmas celebration. Reflexively, she coughed, covering her mouth with a napkin, heat spreading through her.
Verlaine jumped up and poured her a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said.
Evangeline drank the water, feeling silly. “Thank you,” she said when the spell had passed. “I haven’t had food like this in quite a while.”
“It will do you good,” Gabriella said, assessing her. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in months. Actually,” she added, standing and leaving her food unfinished, “I think you had better clean up a bit. I have some clothes that will suit you.”
Gabriella took Evangeline to a bathroom down the hall, where she directed her to step out of the sooty wool skirt and remove the smoke-filled shirt. Gabriella collected the dingy clothes and threw them in a trash bin. She gave Evangeline soap and water and clean towels so that she could wash. She gave her a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater—both of which fit Evangeline perfectly, confirming that she and her grandmother were exactly the same height and weight. After Evangeline washed, Gabriella watched her dress with obvious approval of her granddaughter’s transformation into a new person entirely. Upon their return to the dining room, Verlaine simply stared at Evangeline with wonder, as if he were not quite sure she was the same person.
After they had finished eating, Bruno led them up the narrow wooden stairway. Evangeline’s heart quickened at the thought of what lay ahead. In the past her encounters with angelologists had always occurred accidentally through chance meetings with her father or grandmother, indirect and fleeting encounters that left her only half aware that something unusual had taken place. Her glimpses into the world her mother had occupied always made her curious and afraid simultaneously. In truth, the prospect of encountering the angelological council members face-to-face filled her with dread. Surely they would question her about what had happened that morning at St. Rose. Surely Celestine’s actions would be an object of deep fascination to them. Evangeline did not know how she would respond to such questioning.
Perhaps sensing her distress, Verlaine brushed his fingers against Evangeline’s hand, a gesture of comfort and care that once again sent electricity through her body. She turned and met his eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, and intensely expressive. Did he see how she reacted when he looked at her? Did he sense on the staircase that she lost her ability to breathe when he touched her? She could hardly feel her body as she climbed the remaining stairs after her grandmother.
At the top of the stairs, they stepped into a room that had always been locked during Evangeline’s childhood visits—she recalled the carvings upon the heavy wooden door, the huge brass knob, the keyhole she had tried to peer through. Then, looking through the keyhole, she had seen only swaths of sky. Now she understood the room to be filled with narrow windows. The glass opened the space to the ashen, purple light of impending dusk. Evangeline had never suspected that such a place had been hidden from her.
She stepped inside, amazed. The walls of the study were hung with paintings of angels, bright-hued figures in brilliant robes, wings spread over harps and flutes. There were heavily laden bookshelves, an antique escritoire, and a scattering of richly upholstered armchairs and divans. Despite the grandeur of the furnishings, the room had a shabby appearance—paint peeled upon the ceiling in curls, the edges of a massive steam radiator had rusted. Evangeline recalled the absence of funds her grandmother—and indeed all angelologists—had suffered in past years.
At the far end of the room, there was a cluster of antique chairs and a low, marble-topped table, where the angelologists waited. Evangeline recognized some of them at once—she had met them with her father many years before, although at the time she hadn’t understood their positions.
Gabriella introduced Evangeline and Verlaine to the council. There was Vladimir Ivanov, a handsome, aging Russian émigré who had been with the organization since the 1930s, after fleeing persecution in the USSR; Michiko Saitou, a brilliant young woman who acted as angelological strategist and international angelological coordinator while managing their global financial affairs in Tokyo; and Bruno Bechstein, the man they’d met downstairs, a middle-aged angelological scholar who had transferred to New York from their offices in Tel Aviv.
Of the three, Vladimir was most familiar to Evangeline, though he had aged drastically since she’d met him last. His face was etched with deep lines, and he appeared more serious than Evangeline remembered. The afternoon her father had placed her in Vladimir’s care, he had been exceedingly kind and she had disobeyed him. Evangeline wondered what had tempted him back to the line of work he had so adamantly disavowed.
Gabriella walked to the angelologists and placed the leather case upon the table. “Welcome, friends. When did you arrive?”
“This morning,” Saitou-san said. “Although we wished to be here sooner.”
“We came as soon as we learned of what happened,” Bruno added.
Gabriella gestured to three empty upholstered armchairs, their elaborately carved arms scuffed and dull. “Sit. You must be exhausted.”
Evangeline sank into the soft cushion of a couch, Verlaine at her side. Gabriella perched upon the edge of an armchair, the leather case in her lap. The angelologists watched her with avid attention.
“Welcome, Evangeline,” Vladimir said gravely. “It has been many years, my dear.” He gestured to the case. “I could not have imagined that these circumstances would bring us together.”
Gabriella turned to the leather case and pressed the clasps, opening them with a snap. Inside, Evangeline saw that everything remained exactly as she had left it: the angelology journal; the sealed envelopes containing Abigail Rockefeller’s correspondence; and the leather pouch they had retrieved from the tabernacle.
“This is the angelological journal of Dr. Seraphina Valko,” Gabriella said, taking it from the case. “Celestine and I used to refer to this notebook as Seraphina’s grimoire, a term we used only partially in jest. It is filled with works, spells, secrets, and imaginings of past angelologists.”
“I thought it was lost,” Saitou-san said.
“Not lost, only very well hidden,” Gabriella said. “I brought it to the United States. Evangeline has had it with her at St. Rose Convent, safe and sound.”
“Well done,” Bruno said, taking it from Gabriella. As he weighed it in his hands, he winked at Evangeline, making her smile in return.
“Tell us,” Vladimir said, glancing at the leather case, “what other discoveries have you made?”
Gabriella lifted the leather pouch from the case and slowly untied the string that bound it. A peculiar metallic object rested inside, an object unlike anything Evangeline had seen before. It was as small as a butterfly’s wing and made of a thin, pounded metal that shone in Gabriella’s fingers. It appeared delicate, yet when Gabriella allowed Evangeline to hold it, she felt it to be inflexible.
“It is the plectrum of the lyre,” Bruno said. “How brilliant to separate it from the lyre itself.”
“If you recall,” Gabriella said, “the Venerable Clematis separated the plectrum from the body of the lyre on the First Angelological Expedition. It was sent to Paris, where it remained in the possession of European angelologists until the early nineteenth century, when Mother Francesca brought it to the United States for safekeeping.”
“And built the Adoration Chapel around it,” Verlaine said. “Which would explain her elaborate architectural drawings.”
Vladimir seemed unable to take his eyes from the object. “May I?” he asked at last, delicately lifting the plectrum from Evangeline and cupping it in his hand. “It is lovely,” he said. Evangeline was moved by how gently he ran his finger over the metal, as if reading braille. “Unbelievably lovely.”
“Indeed,” Gabriella said. “It is fashioned from pure Valkine.”
“But how was it kept at the convent all this time?” Verlaine asked.
“In the Adoration Chapel,” Gabriella said. “Evangeline can be more precise than I—she was the one who discovered it.”
“It was hidden in the tabernacle,” Evangeline said. “The tabernacle was locked, and the key was hidden in the monstrance above. I am not exactly sure how the key came to be there, but it seems that it was very well secured.”
“Brilliant,” Gabriella said. “It makes perfect sense that they would keep it in the chapel.”
“How so?” Bruno inquired.
“The Adoration Chapel is the site of the sisters’ perpetual adoration,” Gabriella said. “Do you know the ritual?”
“Two sisters pray before the host,” Vladimir said, thoughtful. “To be replaced each hour by two more sisters. Is that correct?”
“Exactly so,” Evangeline said.
“They are attentive during adoration?” Gabriella asked, turning to Evangeline.
“Of course,” Evangeline said. “It is a time of extreme concentration.”
“And where is all that concentration focused?”
“Upon the host.”
“Which is where?”
Picking up on her grandmother’s line of thought, Evangeline said, “Of course—the sisters direct their entire attention to the host, which was held in the monstrance upon the altar and in the tabernacle. As the plectrum was hidden inside, the sisters unwittingly watched over the instrument as they prayed. The sisters’ perpetual adoration was an elaborate security system.”
“Exactly,” Gabriella said. “Mother Francesca discovered an ingenious method of guarding the plectrum twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There was really no way for it to be discovered, let alone stolen, with such careful and ever-present attendants.”
“Except,” Evangeline said, “during the attack of 1944. Mother Innocenta was murdered on her way to the chapel. The Gibborim killed her before she could get there.”
“How remarkable,” Verlaine said. “For hundreds of years, the sisters have been performing an elaborate farce.”
“I don’t think they believed it a farce,” Evangeline said. “They were performing two duties at once: prayer and protection. None of us knew what was really inside the tabernacle. I had no idea that there was more to daily adoration than prayer.”
Vladimir stroked the metal with his fingertips. “The sound must be quite extraordinary,” he said. “For half a century, I have tried to imagine the exact pitch the kithara would make if plucked with a plectrum.”
“It would be a great mistake to experiment,” Gabriella said. “You know as well as I what could happen if one were to play it.”
“What could happen?” Vladimir asked, although it was clear that he knew the answer to his question before he asked it.
“The lyre was fashioned by an angel,” Bruno said. “As a result it has an ethereal sound, one that is both beautiful and destructive simultaneously and has unearthly—some might say unholy—ramifications.”
“Well said,” Vladimir told him, smiling at Bruno.
“I am quoting your magnum opus, Dr. Ivanov,” Bruno replied.
Gabriella paused to light a cigarette. “Vladimir knows very well that there is no telling what might occur. There are only theories—most of which are his own. The instrument itself has not been studied properly. We have never had it in our possession long enough to do so—but we know from Clematis’s account, and from the field notes taken by Seraphina Valko and Celestine Clochette, that the lyre exerts a seductive force over all who come into contact with it. This is what makes it so dangerous: Even those who mean well are tempted to play the lyre. And the repercussions of its music could be more devastating than anything we can imagine.”
“With a pluck of a string, the world as we know it could fold away and disappear,” Vladimir said.
“It could transform into hell,” Bruno said, “or into paradise. Legend has it that Orpheus discovered the lyre during his journey to the underworld and played it. This music ushered in a new era in human history—learning and husbandry flourished, the arts became a mainstay of human life. It’s one of the reasons Orpheus is so revered. It was an instance of the benefits of the lyre.”
“That’s an extraordinarily dangerous bit of romantic thinking,” Gabriella said sharply. “The lyre’s music is known to be destructive. Such utopian dreams as yours will lead only to annihilation.”
“Come now,” Vladimir said, gesturing to the object on the table. “A piece of the lyre is here, before us, waiting to be studied.”
All eyes fell upon the plectrum. Evangeline wondered at its power, its allure, the temptation and desire it inspired.
“One thing I do not understand,” she said, “is what the Watchers hoped to gain by playing the lyre. They were doomed creatures, banished from heaven. How could music save them?”
Vladimir said, “At the bottom of the Venerable Clematis’s account, written in his own hand, was Psalm 150.”
“The music of the angels,” Evangeline whispered, recognizing the psalm instantly. It was one of her favorites.
“Yes,” Saitou-san said. “Exactly so. The music of praise.”
“It is likely,” Bruno said, “that the Watchers were attempting to make amends with their Creator by singing His praises. Psalm 150 gives advice to those who wish to gain heavenly favor. If their attempts were successful, the imprisoned angels would have been reinstituted into the heavenly host. Perhaps their efforts were directed toward their own salvation.”
“That is one way to look at it,” Saitou-san said. “It is equally possible that they were trying to destroy the universe from which they had been banned.”
“An objective,” Gabriella added, tamping out her cigarette, “that they obviously failed to achieve. Come, let us move along to the purpose of this meeting,” she said, clearly irritated. “Over the past decade, all of the celestial instruments in our possession have been stolen from our safe holds in Europe. We’ve presumed they were taken by the Nephilim.”
“Some believe that such a symphony would free the Watchers,” Vladimir said.
“But anyone who has read the literature agrees that the Nephilim care nothing about the Watchers,” Gabriella said. “Indeed, before Clematis went into the cavern, the Watchers played the lyre, hoping to lure the Nephilim to their aid. It was utterly unsuccessful. No, the Nephilim are interested in the instruments for purely selfish reasons.”
“They want to heal themselves and their race,” Bruno added. “They want to become strong so that they can further enslave humanity.”
“And they have come too close to finding it for us not to take action,” Gabriella said. “It is my belief that they’ve apprehended the other celestial instruments for their own protection from us. But they desire the lyre for another reason altogether. They are attempting to restore themselves to a state of perfection their kind has not seen in hundreds of years. Although we have been dismayed at Abigail Rockefeller’s perpetual silence, so to speak, on the matter of its location, we have not worried that the lyre would be discovered. But obviously this has failed. The Nephilim are hunting, and we have to be ready.”
“It seems Mrs. Rockefeller had our best interests in mind after all,” Evangeline said.
“She was an amateur,” Gabriella said, dismissive. “She took an interest in angels in the way her wealthy friends were interested in charity balls.”
“It is a good thing she did,” Vladimir said. “How do you suppose we received such crucial support during the war, not the least of which was her funding for our expedition of 1943? She was a devout woman who believed that great wealth should be used to great ends.” Vladimir leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs.
“Which, for good or ill, turned out to be a dead end,” Bruno murmured.
“Not necessarily,” Gabriella said, eyeing Bruno. She slid the plectrum into its leather pouch and removed a gray envelope from inside the leather case. On the face of the envelope was the pattern of Roman letters written into a square. If Celestine’s words held true, it was the envelope containing the Rockefeller letters. Gabriella placed it on the table before the angelologists. “Celestine Clochette instructed Evangeline to bring this to us.”
The angelologists’ interest became tangible as they spied the symbol stamped upon the envelope. Their reactions fired Evangeline’s curiosity. “What does it mean?” she asked.
“It is an angelological seal, a Sator-Rotas Square,” Vladimir said. “We have placed this seal upon documents for many hundreds of years. It announces the importance of the document and verifies that it has been sent by one of us.”
Gabriella folded her arms across her chest, as if cold, and said, “This afternoon I had the opportunity to read Innocenta’s half of her correspondence with Abigail Rockefeller. It became clear to me that Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller were communicating about the lyre’s location obliquely, although neither Verlaine nor I was able to discern how.”
Evangeline watched from the edge of the upholstered chair, her spine exceedingly straight. She experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as Vladimir took the gray envelope with determined calm from Verlaine. He closed his eyes, whispered a series of incomprehensible words—a spell or a prayer, Evangeline could not say which—and tore the envelope open.
Inside, there were time-weathered envelopes the length and width of Evangeline’s outstretched hand. Adjusting his eyeglasses, Vladimir raised the letters close to get a clear view of the script. “They’re addressed to Mother Innocenta,” he said, placing the envelopes on the table between them.
There were six envelopes containing six missives, one more than Innocenta had written. Evangeline peered at them. On the face of each envelope were canceled stamps: one red two-cent stamp and one green one-cent stamp.
Picking up one of the missives and turning it over, Evangeline saw the Rockefeller name embossed on the back, along with a return address on West Fifty-fourth Street, less than a mile away.
“The location of the lyre is surely disclosed in these letters,” Saitou-san said.
“I don’t think we can come to a conclusion without reading them,” Evangeline said.
Without further hesitation Vladimir opened each of the envelopes and placed six small cards on the table. The stock was thick and creamy white, a border of gold at the edges. Identical designs had been printed on the face of each of the cards. Grecian goddesses with laurel-leaf wreaths upon their heads danced amid swarms of cherubs. Two of the angels—fat, babylike cherubs with rounded moth wings—held lyres in their hands.
“This is a classic 1920s Art Deco design,” Verlaine said, picking up one of the cards and examining it. “The lettering is the same font that was used by the New Yorker magazine on its cover. And the symmetrical positioning of the angels is classic. The dual cherubs with their lyres are mirror images of one another, which is a quintessential Art Deco motif.” Leaning over the card so that his hair fell into his eyes, Verlaine said, “And this is most definitely Abigail Rockefeller’s handwriting. I’ve examined her journals and personal correspondence many times. There’s no mistaking it.”
Vladimir took the cards and read them, his blue eyes scanning the lines. Then, with the air of a man who had been patient for too many years, he placed them back on the table and stood. “They say nothing at all,” he said. “The first five cards are as evocative as laundry lists. The last card is completely blank, except for the name ‘Alistair Carroll, Trustee, Museum of Modern Art.’”
“They must give some information about the lyre,” Saitou-san said, picking up the cards. Vladimir gazed at Gabriella for a moment, as if weighing the possibility that he’d missed something. “Please,” he said. “Read them. Tell me that I am wrong.”
Gabriella read the cards one by one, passing them on to Verlaine, who read through them so quickly that Evangeline wondered how he could have taken in what they said.
Gabriella sighed. “They are exactly the same in tone and content as Innocenta’s letters.”
“Meaning?” asked Saitou-san.
“Meaning they discuss the weather, charity balls, dinner parties, and Abigail Rockefeller’s idle artistic contributions to the sisters of St. Rose Convent’s annual Christmas fund-raiser,” Gabriella said. “They give no direct instruction for finding the lyre.”
“We’ve put all our hope into Abigail Rockefeller,” Bruno said. “What if we’ve been wrong?”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Mother Innocenta’s role in these exchanges,” Gabriella said, glancing at Verlaine. “She was known as a woman of remarkable subtlety, and she could persuade others in the art of subtlety as well.”
Verlaine sat silently examining the cards. Finally he stood, took a folder from his messenger bag, and placed four letters on the table next to the cards. The fifth letter remained at the convent, where Evangeline had left it. “These are Innocenta’s letters,” he said, smiling sheepishly at Evangeline, as if even now she judged him for stealing them from the Rockefeller Archive. He placed Rockefeller’s cards and Innocenta’s letters side by side in chronological order. In quick succession he extracted four of Rockefeller’s cards and, putting them before him, studied each cover. Evangeline was perplexed by Verlaine’s actions, and she only became more so when he began to smile as if something in the cards amused him. At last he said, “I think Mrs. Rockefeller was even more clever than we have given her credit for.”
“I’m sorry,” Saitou-san said, leaning over the cards, “but I don’t understand how the letters convey a thing.”
“Let me show you,” Verlaine said. “Everything is here in the cards. This is the correspondence in chronological order. Because of the absence of overt directions about the lyre’s location, we can assume the content of Rockefeller’s half of the correspondence is null, a kind of white space upon which Innocenta’s responses project meaning. As I pointed out to Gabriella this morning, there is a recurring pattern in Innocenta’s letters. In four of them, she comments upon the nature of some kind of design that Abigail Rockefeller has included in her correspondence. I see now,” Verlaine concluded, gesturing to Mrs. Rockefeller’s cards on the table before him, “that Innocenta was commenting specifically on these four pieces of stationery.”
“Read these remarks to us, Verlaine,” Gabriella said.
Verlaine picked up Innocenta’s letters and read aloud the sentences that praised Abigail Rockefeller’s artistic taste, repeating the passages he had read to Gabriella that morning.
“At first I believed Innocenta was refering to drawings, perhaps even original artworks included in the letters, which would have been the find of a century for a scholar of modern art like myself. But realistically, the inclusion of such designs would have been highly unlike Mrs. Rockefeller. She was a collector and lover of art, not an artist in her own right.”
Verlaine pulled four creamy cards from the progression of papers and distributed them to the angelologists.
“These are the four cards Innocenta admired,” he said.
Evangeline examined the card Verlaine had given her. She saw it had been stamped by an inked plate that left a remarkably fine rendering of two antique lyres held in the hands of twin cherubs. The cards were pleasing to look at and very much in keeping with a woman of Abigail Rockefeller’s taste, but Evangeline saw nothing that would unlock the mystery before them.
“Look closely at the twin cherubs,” Verlaine said. “Notice the composition of the lyres.”
The angelologists peered at the cards, exchanging them so that they could see each one in turn.
Finally, after some examination, Vladimir said, “There is an anomaly in the prints. The lyres are different on each card.”
“Yes,” Bruno said. “The number of strings on the left lyre varies from the number on the right.”
Evangeline saw her grandmother examine her card and, as if she had begun to understand Verlaine’s point, smile. “Evangeline,” Gabriella said. “How many strings do you count on each of the lyres?”
Evangeline looked more closely at her card and saw that Vladimir and Bruno were correct—the strings were different on each lyre—although it struck her as an oddity in the cards rather than anything of serious consequence. “Two and eight,” Evangeline said, “but what does it mean?”
Verlaine took a pencil from his pocket and, in barely legible lead, wrote numbers below the lyres. He passed the pencil around and asked the others to do the same.
“It seems to me that we are making much of a highly unrealistic rendition of a musical instrument,” Vladimir said dismissively.
“The number of strings on each lyre must have been a method of coding information,” Gabriella said.
Verlaine collected the cards from Evangeline, Saitou-san, Vladimir, and Bruno. “Here you have them: twenty-eight, thirty-eight, thirty, and thirty-nine. In that order. If I’m right, these numbers come together to give the location of the lyre.”
Evangeline stared at Verlaine, wondering if she’d missed something. To her the numbers appeared to be utterly meaningless. “You believe that these numbers give an address?”
“Not directly,” Verlaine said, “but there might be something in the sequence that points to an address.”
“Or coordinates on a map,” Saitou-san suggested.
“But where?” Vladimir said, his brow furrowing as he thought of the possibilities. “There are hundreds of thousands of addresses in New York City.”
“This is where I’m stumped,” Verlaine said. “Obviously these numbers must have been extremely important to Abigail Rockefeller, but there is no way to know how they’re to be used.”
“What sort of information could be conveyed in eight numbers?” Saitou-san asked, as if running the possibilities through her mind.
“Or, possibly, four two-digit numbers,” Bruno said, clearly amused by the dubiousness of the exercise.
“And all the numbers are between twenty and forty,” Vladimir offered.
“There must be more in the cards,” Saitou-san said. “These numbers are too random.”
“To most people,” Gabriella said, “this would seem random. To Abigail Rockefeller, however, these numbers must have formed a logical order.”
“Where did the Rockefellers live?” Evangeline asked Verlaine, knowing that this was his area of expertise. “Perhaps these numbers point to their address.”
“They lived at a few different addresses in New York City,” Verlaine said. “But their West Fifty-fourth Street residence is known best. Eventually Abigail Rockefeller donated the site to the Museum of Modern Art.”
“Fifty-four is not one of our numbers,” Bruno said.
“Wait a moment,” Verlaine said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. The Museum of Modern Art was one of Abigail Rockefeller’s most important endeavors. It was also one of the first in a series of public museums and monuments that she and her husband funded. The Museum of Modern Art was opened in 1928.”
“Twenty-eight is the first number from the cards,” Gabriella said.
“Exactly,” Verlaine said, his excitement growing. “The numbers two and eight from the lyre etching could point to this address.”
“If that is the case,” Evangeline said, “there would have to be three other locations that match the three other lyre renderings.”
“What are the remaining numbers?” Bruno asked.
“Three and eight, three and zero, and three and nine,” Saitou-san replied.
Gabriella leaned closer to Verlaine. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there is a correspondence?”
Verlaine’s expression was one of intense concentration. “Actually,” he said at last. “The Cloisters, which was John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s great love, opened in 1938.”
“And 1930?” Vladimir asked.
“Riverside Church, which, to be honest, I have never found interesting, must have been completed around 1930.”
“That leaves 1939,” Evangeline said, the anticipation of discovery making her so nervous she could hardly speak. “Did the Rockefellers build something in 1939?”
Verlaine was silent, his brow furrowed, as if he were sifting the multitude of addresses and dates cataloged in his memory. Suddenly, he said, “As a matter of fact, they did. Rockefeller Center, their own Art Deco magnum opus, opened in 1939.”
“The numbers communicated to Innocenta must refer to these locations,” Vladimir said.
“Well done, Verlaine,” Saitou-san said, ruffling his mess of curls.
The atmosphere in the room had shifted drastically to a buzz of restless anticipation. For her part, Evangeline could only stare at the cards in astonishment. They’d rested in a vault beneath her and the other unsuspecting sisters for more than fifty years.
“However,” Gabriella said, breaking the spell, “the lyre can be in only one of these four locations.”
“Then it will be most expedient if we divide into groups and search them all,” Vladimir said. “Verlaine and Gabriella will go to the Cloisters. It’ll be packed with tourists, so getting anything out of there will be a delicate procedure. I believe it best accomplished by one familiar with its conventions. Saitou-san and I will go to Riverside Church. And Evangeline and Bruno will go to the Museum of Modern Art.”
“And Rockefeller Center?” Verlaine asked.
Saitou-san said, “It’s impossible to do anything there today. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. The place will be a madhouse.”
“I expect that’s why Abigail Rockefeller chose it,” Gabriella said. “The more difficult it is to access, the better.”
Gabriella took the leather case holding the plectrum and the angelological notebook in hand. She gave each group the card associated with its location. “I can only hope the cards will assist us in finding the lyre.”
“And if they do?” Bruno said. “What then?”
“Ah, that is the great dilemma we face,” Vladimir said, running his fingers through his silver hair. “To preserve the lyre or to destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” Verlaine cried. “From all that you’ve said, it’s obvious that the lyre is beautiful, precious beyond all reckoning.”
“This instrument is not just another ancient artifact,” Bruno said. “It isn’t something that one might put on display at the Met. Its dangers far outweigh any historical importance it may have. There is no option but to destroy it.”
“Or to hide it again,” Vladimir said. “There are numerous places in which we could secure it.”
“We tried this in 1943, Vladimir,” Gabriella said. “It is plain that this method has failed. Preserving the lyre would imperil future generations, even in the most secure of hiding places. It must be destroyed. That much is clear. The real question is how.”
“What do you mean?” Evangeline asked.
Vladimir said, “It is one of the primary qualities of all celestial instruments: They were created by heaven and can be destroyed only by heaven’s creatures.”
“I don’t understand,” Verlaine said.
“Only celestial beings, or creatures with angelic blood, can destroy celestial matter,” Bruno said.
“Including the Nephilim,” Gabriella said.
“So if we wish to destroy the lyre,” Saitou-san said, “we must place it in the hands of the very creatures we wish to keep it from.”
“A bit of a conundrum,” Bruno said.
“So why hunt it down it at all?” Verlaine asked, dismayed. “Why bring something so important out of safety only to destroy it?”
“There is no alternative,” Gabriella said. “We have the rare opportunity to take possession of the lyre. We will have to find a way to dispose of it once we recover it.
“If we recover it,” Bruno added.
“We are wasting time,” Saitou-san said, standing. “We will have to decide what to do with the lyre once we have it in our possession. We cannot risk the Nephilim’s discovery of it.”
Looking at his watch, Vladimir said, “It is nearly three. We will meet at Rockefeller Center at exactly six. That gives us three hours to make contact, search the buildings, and reconvene. There can be no mistakes. Plan the quickest route possible. Speed and precision are absolutely necessary.”
Leaving their chairs, they put on jackets and scarves, preparing to face the cold winter dusk. In a matter of seconds, the angelologists were ready to begin. As they walked toward the staircase, Gabriella turned to Evangeline. “In our haste we must not lose sight of the dangers of our work. I warn you—be very careful in your efforts. The Nephilim will be watching. Indeed, they have been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The instructions Abigail Rockefeller left us are the most precious papers you have ever touched. Once the Nephilim understand we’ve discovered them, they will attack without mercy.”
“But how will they know?” Verlaine asked, coming to Evangeline’s side.
Gabriella smiled a sad, significant smile. “My dear boy, they know exactly where we are. They have planted informants all over this city. At all times, in all places, they are waiting. Even now they are near, watching us. Please,” she said, looking pointedly at Evangeline once more, “be careful.”