back to the Athenaeum, where the council had convened their meeting only half an hour before.
Vladimir had also returned. He greeted me tersely, his expression grave. Looking past him, I saw that
the windows at the far end of the room had been shattered and a cold, harsh breeze fell over the
mutilated bodies of the council members, their corpses lying in pools of blood upon the floor.
The sight struck me with such force that I was unable to muster any response but disbelief. I
supported myself upon the table where we had voted away my teacher’s life, unable to tell if the sight
before me was real or if an evil fantasy had taken hold of my imagination. The brutality of the killings
was horrifying. The nun had been shot point-blank in the head, leaving her habit soaked in blood.
Gabriella’s uncle, Dr. Lévi-Franche, lay on the marble floor, equally bloody, his glasses crushed.
Two other council members slumped upon the table itself.
I closed my eyes and turned from the awful sight. My only relief came when Dr. Raphael, whose
arm encircled my shoulders, held me steady. I leaned against him, the scent of his body giving
bittersweet comfort. I imagined that I would open my eyes and everything would be just as it had been
years before—the Athenaeum would be filled with crates and papers and busy assistants packing our
texts away. The council members would be arrayed about the table, studying Dr. Raphael’s maps of
wartime Europe. Our school would be open, the council members would be alive. But upon opening
my eyes, I was hit by the horror of the massacre again. There was no way to escape its reality.
“Come, now,” Dr. Raphael said, leading me from the room, steering me forcefully through the
hallway and to the front entrance. “Breathe. You are in shock.”
Looking about as if in a dream, I said, “What has happened? I don’t understand. Did Gabriella do
this?”
“Gabriella?” Vladimir said, joining us in the corridor. “No, of course not.”
“Gabriella had nothing to do with it,” Dr. Raphael said. “They were spies. We had known for
some time that they were monitoring the council. It was part of the plan to kill them this way.”
“You did this?” I said, astonished. “How could you?”
Dr. Raphael looked at me, and I saw the faintest shadow of sadness register in his expression, as if
it hurt him to bear witness to my disillusionment.
“It’s my job, Celestine,” he said at last as he took me by the arm and guided me through the hall.
“One day you will understand. Come, we must get you out of here.”
As we approached the main entrance of the Athenaeum, the numbness brought on by the scene had
begun to wear away, and I was overcome by nausea. Dr. Raphael led me into the cold night air,
where the Panhard et Levassor waited to chauffer us away. As we walked down the wide stone steps,
he pressed a case into my hand. The case was identical to the one Gabriella had held in the courtyard
—the same brown leather, the same gleaming clasps.
“Take this,” Dr. Raphael said. “Everything is ready. You will be driven to the border tonight.
Then, I’m afraid, we’ll have to rely upon our friends in Spain and Portugal to get you through.”
“Through to where?”
“To America,” Dr. Raphael said. “You will take this case with you. You—and the treasure from
the gorge—will be safe there.”
“But I saw Gabriella leave,” I said, examining the case as if it were an illusion. “She took the
instrument. It is gone.”
“It was a replica, dear Celestine, a decoy,” Dr. Raphael said. “Gabriella is diverting the enemy so
that you can escape and Seraphina can be freed. You owe her much, including your presence on the
expedition. The lyre is now in your care. You and Gabriella have gone your separate ways, but you
must always remember that your work is for a single cause. Hers will be here, and yours will be in
America.”
THE THIRD SPHERE
And there appeared to me two men very tall, such as I have never seen on earth. And their faces shone
like the sun, and their eyes were like burning lamps; and fire came forth from their lips. Their dress had
the appearance of feathers: their feet were purple, their wings brighter than gold; their hands whiter
than snow.
—The Book of Enoch
Sister Evangeline’s cell, St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
December 24, 1999, 12:01 A.M.
Evangeline went to the window, pushed back the heavy curtains, and gazed into the darkness. From
the fourth floor, she could see clear across the river. At scheduled times each night, the passenger
train cut through the dark, slicing a bright trail against the landscape. The presence of the night train