I’ve consulted the Internet Archive site for its version of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s translation of La Vita Nuova along with the original Italian. In this work, I’ve cited Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s translation of The Divine Comedy.
I am grateful to Jennifer for her feedback and support. This book would not exist without her encouragement and friendship. I am grateful also to Nina for her creative input and wisdom. And I owe a special debt to Kris, who read an early draft and offered invaluable constructive criticism at several stages. Thank you.
I’ve enjoyed working with Cindy, my editor at Berkley, and I look forward to working with her on my next two novels. Thanks are also due to Tom for his wisdom and energy in navigating my transition to Berkley. And thanks to the copyediting, art, and design teams who worked on this book.
My publicist, Enn, works tirelessly to promote my writing and to help me with social media, which enables me to stay in touch with readers. I’m honored to be part of her team.
I would also like to thank those who have offered encouragement, especially the Muses, Tori, Erika, and the readers who operate the Argyle Empire and SRFans social media accounts. Special thanks are also due to Elena, who assisted in specifying the Italian pronunciation for the audiobooks. John Michael Morgan did a magnificent job reading Gabriel’s Inferno and Gabriel’s Rapture.
Finally, it is no great secret that I intended to end the story of the Professor and Julianne with Gabriel’s Rapture. Thank you to everyone who wrote to me asking that their story be continued. Your continued support, and the support of my family, is inestimable.
—SR
Ascension 2013
Keep reading for a special excerpt from Sylvain Reynard’s new novel.
Coming soon from Berkley Books!
Alone figure stood high atop Brunelleschi’s dome, under the shade of the gold globe and cross. His black clothing faded into the darkness, making him invisible to the people below.
From his vantage point, they looked like ants. And ants they were to him, an irritating if necessary presence in his city.
The city of Florence had been his for almost seven hundred years. When he was in residence, he spent every sunset in the same place, surveying his kingdom with Lucifer-like pride. These were the works of his hands, the fruits of his labor, and he wielded his power without mercy.
His considerable strength was magnified by his intellect and his patience. Decades and centuries passed before his eyes, yet he remained constant. Time was a luxury he owned in abundance and so he was never hasty in his pursuit of revenge. A hundred years had come and gone since he’d been robbed of one of his most prized possessions. He’d waited for them to resurface and they had. On this night, he’d restored the illustrations to his personal collection, the sophisticated security of the Uffizi Gallery causing him only the most trifling of inconveniences.
So it was that he stood in triumph against the clouded dark sky, like a Medici prince, looking out over Florence. The night air was warm as he contemplated the fate of those responsible for the exhibit of his stolen illustrations. He hadn’t quite decided whether to kill the men, or merely torture them.
He had time and time enough to make his plans and so he stood, enjoying his success, as a warm, persistent rain began to fall. The ants below scattered, scurrying for shelter. Soon the streets were empty of human beings.
He clutched the case more closely under his arm, realizing that his illustrations were in need of a dry space. In the blink of an eye, he traveled down the side of the dome to a lower half dome, before running across the square and clambering up the side of an adjacent building. Soon he was on the roof of the Arciconfraternita della Misericordia.
There was a time when he would have served the Arciconfraternita, joining in their mission of mercy, rather than running over it without a thought. But he hadn’t exercised the gift of mercy since 1274. In his new form, the concept of mercy never entered his consciousness.
He flew through the rain at great speed, heading toward the Ponte Vecchio, when the smell of blood filled his nostrils. There was more than one source, (or vintage as he called it), but the scent that attracted his attention was young and unaccountably sweet. It resurrected in him memories long forgotten. Instantly, he changed direction and increased his speed, moving toward the Ponte Santa Trinita. His black form was a blur against the night sky as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop.
Other monsters moved in the darkness, from all parts of the city, racing toward the place where her innocent blood cried out from the ground.
As he ran, the question uppermost in his mind was: Who would reach her first?
About the Author
Sylvain Reynard is a Canadian writer with an interest in Renaissance art and culture and an inordinate attachment to the city of Florence. (Parenthetically, it should be noted that the snarky narrator of Gabriel’s Redemption was contracted to write this biographical description, and he can attest that SR is, in fact, real, and has an enviable collection of argyle socks).