Evangeline gripped the handles of Celestine’s wheelchair and pushed her into an expanse of darkness. Celestine flicked a switch, and a series of dim lights illuminated the space. When Evangeline’s eyes adjusted, she saw that they were in the convent’s cellar. She could hear the rumbling of industrial dishwashers above and the draining water sluicing through the pipes and knew that they must be directly below the cafeteria. At Celestine’s direction, Evangeline steered the wheelchair through the cellar, navigating them to the farthest edge of the basement. There Sister Celestine looked over her shoulder, to be sure that they were alone, and pointed to a plain wooden door. It was nondescript, so unremarkable that Evangeline would have guessed it to be a broom closet.
Celestine took a key from her pocket and gave it to Evangeline, who jiggled it in the lock. Only after several attempts did it finally turn.
Evangeline pulled a cord dangling before the doorway, and a lightbulb illuminated a narrow brickwork passageway angling at a sharp descending slope. Pulling back on Celestine’s wheelchair to keep it from barreling downward, Evangeline measured her steps. The light grew fainter and fainter until at last the passageway opened to a musty room. Evangeline pulled a second cord, which she would have missed entirely had it not brushed against her cheek, soft as the filament of a spiderweb. Light emanated from an old-fashioned bulb, sizzling as if it might pop at any moment. Mold grew over the walls, and a number of discarded pews littered the floor. Along the wall rested cracked pieces of stained glass and a few milky slabs of marble of the same color and variety as the church altar—remnants of the original construction of Maria Angelorum. In the very center of the room sat a rusted boiler, cobwebs and dust and many years of desuetude settling upon it, heavy as an old skin. The room, Evangeline decided, had not been cleaned in many decades, if ever.
Beyond the boiler she spied another door as plain as the first. She pushed Celestine’s wheelchair directly to it, took her own keys from her pocket, and tried the master. Miraculously, the door opened. Once inside, she made out the contours of a large, furniture-filled room. With the flick of a wall switch near the door, her intuition was confirmed. Long and narrow, the chamber was nearly the size of the church nave, with a low ceiling supported by rows of dark wooden girders. Oriental carpets of various colors—crimson and emerald and royal blue—covered the floor, while tapestries of angels hung upon the walls, numerous golden-threaded weavings that Evangeline took to be quite old, perhaps medieval. A great table sat at the center of the room, its surface laden with manuscripts.
“A hidden library,” Evangeline whispered before she could stop herself.
“Yes,” Celestine said. “It is an angelological reading room. In the nineteenth century, visiting scholars and dignitaries took shelter with us and spent much time here. Innocenta used it for general meetings. It has been abandoned for many years. It is also,” she added, “the most secure spot at St. Rose Convent”
“Does anyone even know of its existence?”
Celestine said, “Not many. When the fire of 1944 began to spread, most of the sisters ran to the courtyard. Mother Innocenta, however, went to the church to lure the Nephilim from the convent. Before this she had instructed me to come here and deposit her papers in our safe. I did not know the convent well, and Innocenta did not have the leisure to give me detailed instructions—but eventually I found this room. I secured what she had given me inside and hurried to the courtyard. To my great sorrow, everything was in flames when I returned. The Nephilim had come and gone. Innocenta was dead.”
Celestine touched Evangeline’s hand. “Come,” she said. “I have something else for you.”
She indicated a magnificent tapestry of the Annunciation in which Gabriel, his wings tucked behind him and his head bowed, gave the Virgin the news of the coming of Christ. “The messenger of good news indeed,” Celestine said. “Of course, the holiness of the news depends upon the recipient. You, my dear, are worthy. Go, roll back the cloth from the wall.”
Evangeline followed Celestine’s instructions, lifting the tapestry to reveal a square copper safe sunk flush with the concrete.
“Three-three-three-nine,” Celestine said, pointing to a combination dial. “The perfect numbers of the celestial spheres followed by the total species of angels in the Heavenly Choir.”
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
O
tterley 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.
“Yes,” said a hoarse, domineering voice that he recognized at once.
“We’re here, Mother,” Percival said. He could hear music and voices in the background and knew at once that she was in the middle of one of her parties.
“And the Gibborim?” Sneja asked. “They are ready?”
“Otterley has gone to prepare them.”
“Alone?” Sneja said, reproach in her voice. “However will your sister manage it alone? There are nearly one hundred creatures to command.”
Percival felt as if his mother had slapped him. Surely she knew that his sickness prevented him from fighting. Relinquishing control to Otterley was humiliating and required a level of restraint he’d thought Sneja would admire.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, keeping his anger in check. “Otterley is more than capable. I am watching the entrance to the convent, to be sure there isn’t interference.”
“Well,” Sneja said, “whether she is capable or not is rather beside the point.”
Percival considered the tone of his mother’s voice, trying to understand the message it was meant to imply. “Has she proven otherwise?”
“Darling, she doesn’t have anything to prove herself
with,”
Sneja said. “For all her bluster, our Otterley is in a terrible predicament.”
“I really have no idea what you mean,” Percival said. In the distance the faintest stream of smoke began to rise from the convent, signaling that the attack had begun. His sister seemed to be managing quite fine without him.
“When was the last time you saw your sister’s wings?” Sneja asked.
“I don’t know,” Percival said. “It’s been ages.”
“I will tell you the last time you saw them,” Sneja said. “It was 1848, at her coming-out ball in Paris.”
Percival recalled the event clearly. Otterley’s wings were new, and, like all young Nephilim, she had displayed them with great pride. They had been multicolored, like Sneja’s wings, but very small. It was expected that they would grow full with time.