fell with the current, Dr. Seraphina removed wax plugs from her ears. Prepared as usual, my teacher
had been able to protect herself from the sound of the angels’ music.
“What in the name of God were you doing?” she demanded without turning to me. “You should
know better than to have wandered off alone.”
“The others?” I asked, thinking that I had somehow put the expedition party in danger. “Where are
they?”
“They’ve ascended to the cave and will be waiting for us,” she said. “We searched three hours for
you. I was beginning to think we’d lost you. Surely the others will want to know what happened to
you. You must not under any circumstances tell them. Promise me this, Celestine: You must not speak
of what you saw on the other side of the river.”
As we reached the shore, Dr. Seraphina helped me from the boat. When she saw that I was in pain,
her manner softened. “Remember, our work has never been with the Watchers, my dear Celestine,”
she said. “Our duties lie with the world we live in and must return to. There is much to be done.
Although I am terribly disappointed in your choice to cross the river, you have discovered the object
that fulfills our mission here. Well done.”
My body aching with each step, we returned to the ladder, passing the remains of the angel. Its robe
had been cast aside and the body carefully dissected. Although it was little more than a shell of its
former self, the ruins of its body gave off a dim, phosphorescent glow.
Aboveground all was dark. We carried the burlap bags filled with our precious samples through
the snow. After packing the equipment carefully in the van, we climbed inside and began our descent
down the mountain. We were exhausted, covered in mud, and injured—Vladimir had a gouge over his
eye, a deep and bloody cut from a rock ledge he had hit on his ascent, and I had been exposed to a
sickening light.
As we made our way through the mountains, moving swiftly along the icy roads, it was clear that
snow had been falling for some time. Drifts piled heavy on crags and new snow fell thick against the
sky. Ice coated the road ahead and behind, determining our meandering pace. I looked at my
wristwatch and was surprised to learn that it was nearly four o’clock in the morning. We had been in
the Devil’s Throat for over fifteen hours. We were so behind schedule that we could not stop for
sleep. We would only pause to refuel with petrol packed in canisters at the back of the van.
Despite Vladimir’s efforts we arrived many hours late to meet the plane, just as the sun was rising.
A Model 12 Electra Junior, twin-engined and ready for flight, sat on the runway, just as we’d left it
the day before. Ice hung from the wings like fangs, proof of the bitter cold. It had been difficult to fly
to our destination but it would have been utterly impossible to have driven. We had been forced to
take a number of detours in our flight to Greece—we had flown first to Tunisia and then to Turkey to
avoid detection—and our return would be no less difficult. The plane was large enough for six
passengers, our equipment and supplies. We loaded our materials on board, and soon the plane
climbed through the snow-filled air, rising into the sky in a flurry of noise.
Twelve hours later, as we landed at the airfield outside of Paris, I saw that a Panhard et Levassor
Dynamic waited in the distance, a luxurious vehicle with a polished grille and sweeping running
boards, an object of wonder among the intense deprivations of the war. I could only guess how we
had acquired such a treasure but suspected that it, like the Model 12 and the K-51, had been arranged
through foreign patrons. Donations had kept us alive in the past years, and I was grateful to see the
car, but how we had managed to keep such a treasure from the Germans was another question
altogether, one I dared not ask.
I sat in silence as the car sped through the night. Despite hours of sleep on the plane, I was still
exhausted from the trip down the gorge. I closed my eyes. Before I knew it, I had fallen into a deep
sleep. The tires bumped over the battered roads, and the others whispered at the edge of my hearing,
but all meaning of their words was lost. My dreams were a mélange of images of everything that I had
seen in the cave. Dr. Seraphina and Vladimir and the other party members appeared before me; the
deep and terrifying cavern opened below; and the legion of luminous angels, their brilliant pallor
radiating about them, danced before me.
When I woke, I recognized the deserted cobblestone streets of Montparnasse, an area of resistance
and utter poverty during the occupation. We drove past apartment buildings and darkened cafés,