and down a set of iron stairs to the dark, cold, city street below. He felt as if some cataclysm had hit
New York in his absence, and, through some trick of destiny, he had returned to a ravaged and empty
city.
Upper East Side, New York City
Sneja had ordered Percival to stay indoors, but after pacing the billiard room for hours waiting for
Otterley to call with news, he could not tolerate being alone any longer. When his mother’s entourage
had left for the night and he was certain that Sneja had gone to sleep, Percival dressed with care—
putting on a tuxedo and a black overcoat, as if he’d just been to a gala—and took the elevator down to
Fifth Avenue.
It used to be that contact with the outside world left him indifferent. As a young man, when he’d
lived in Paris and could not help but be confronted with the stench of humanity, he had learned to
ignore people entirely. He had no need for the ceaseless scurrying of human activity—the tireless toil,
the festivities, the amusements. It had bored him. Yet his illness had transformed him. He had begun to
watch human beings, examining their odd habits with interest. He had begun to sympathize with them.
He knew that this was symptomatic of the larger changes—those he’d been warned would occur,
and that he had been prepared to accept as the natural progression of his metamorphosis. He was told
that he would begin to feel new and startling sensations, and indeed he found that he recoiled in
discomfort at the sight of these pitiful creatures’ suffering. At first these odd sentiments had poisoned
him with absurd bouts of emotion. He knew very well that human beings were inferior and that their
suffering was in direct proportion to their position in the order of the universe. It was just so with
animals, whose wretchedness seemed only slightly more pronounced than that of humans. Yet
Percival began to see beauty in their rituals, their love of family, their dedication to worship, their
defiance in the face of physical weakness. Despite his contempt for them, he had begun to understand
the tragedy of their plight: They lived and died as if their existence mattered. If he were to mention
these thoughts to Otterley or Sneja, he would be ridiculed without mercy.
Slowly, painfully, Percival Grigori made his way past the majestic apartment buildings of his
neighborhood, his breathing labored, his cane aiding his progress along the icy sidewalks. The cold
wind did not hinder him—he felt nothing but the creaking of the harness about his rib cage, the
burning in his chest as he breathed, and the crunching of his knees and hips as the bones ground to
powder. He wished he could remove his jacket and unbind his body, let the cold air soothe the burns
on his skin. The mangled, decaying wings on his back pressed against his clothes, giving him the
appearance of a hunchback, a beast, a deformed being shunned by the world. He wished, on late-night
walks like this one, that he could trade places with the carefree, healthy people walking past him. He
would almost consent to be human if it would free him of pain.
After some time the strain of the walk overwhelmed him. Percival stopped at a wine bar, a sleek
space of polished brass and red velvet. Inside, it was crowded and warm. Percival ordered a glass of
Macallan scotch and chose a secluded corner table from where he could watch the revelry of the
living.
He had just finished his first glass of whiskey when he noticed a woman at the far end of the room.
The woman was young, with glossy black hair cut in the style of the 1930s. She sat at a table, a group
of friends encircling her. Although she wore trashy modern clothing—tight jeans and a lacy, low-cut
blouse—her beauty had the classical purity Percival associated with women of another era. The
young woman was the twin of his beloved Gabriella Lévi-Franche.
For an hour Percival did not take his eyes from her. He composed a profile of her gestures and
expressions, noting that she was like Gabriella in more than appearance. Perhaps, Percival reasoned,
he wanted to see Gabriella’s features too desperately: In the young woman’s silence, Percival
detected Gabriella’s analytic intelligence; in the young woman’s impassive stare, he saw Gabriella’s
propensity to hoard secrets. The woman was reserved among her friends, just as Gabriella had
always been reserved in a crowd. Percival guessed that his prey preferred to listen, letting her friends
carry on with whatever amusing nonsense filled their lives, while she privately assessed their habits,
cataloging their strengths and faults with clinical ruthlessness. He determined to wait until she was
alone so that he might speak to her.
After he had ordered many more glasses of Macallan, the young woman finally gathered her coat