packaged, and sold by the sisters for their annual Christmas fund-raiser.
The fragrance of the tea—black with a hint of dried apricot—made Evangeline’s stomach turn.
“I’m not feeling very well,” she said by way of apology.
“You were missed at dinner last night and, of course, at adoration this morning,” Philomena said,
choosing a Christmas-tree cookie with green frosting. She lifted the pot and poured some tea into the
cups. “But I am not much surprised. This has been a great ordeal with Celestine, hasn’t it?”
Philomena’s posture became very erect, her hand holding the teacup rigid over her saucer, and
Evangeline knew that Philomena was about to cut to the heart of the matter.
“Yes,” Evangeline replied, expecting the impatient and stern Philomena to return any moment.
Philomena clucked her tongue and said, “I knew that it was inevitable you would learn the truth of
your origins someday. I was not sure how, mind you, but I had a vivid sense that the past would be
impossible to bury completely, even in such a closed community as ours. In my humble opinion,”
Philomena continued, finishing off her cookie and taking another, “it has been quite a burden for
Celestine to remain silent. It has been a burden for all of us to remain so passive in the face of the
threat that surrounds us.”
“You knew of Celestine’s involvement in this . . .” Evangeline fumbled, trying to formulate the
correct words to describe angelology. She had the unwelcome thought that perhaps she was the only
Franciscan Sister of Adoration who had been kept ignorant. “This... discipline?”
“Oh, my, yes,” Philomena said. “All of the older sisters know. The sisters of my generation were
steeped in angelic study—Genesis 28:I2-I7, Ezekiel 1:1—14, Luke I:26—38. Bless me, it was angels
morning, noon, and night!”
Philomena adjusted her weight on her chair, making the wood groan, and continued, “One day I
was deep into the core curriculum prescribed by European angelologists—our longtime mentors—
and the next our convent was nearly destroyed. All of our scholarship, all of our efforts toward
ridding the world of the pestilence of the Nephilim, seemed to be to have been for naught. Suddenly
we were simple nuns whose lives were devoted to prayer and prayer alone. Believe me, I have
fought hard to bring us back to the fight, to declare ourselves combatants. Those in our number who
believe that it’s too dangerous are fools and cowards.”
“Dangerous?” Evangeline said.
“The fire of ’44 was not an accident,” Philomena said, narrowing her eyes. “It was a direct attack.
It could be said that we were careless, that we underestimated the bloodthirsty nature of the Nephilim
here in America. They were aware of many—if not all—of the enclaves of angelologists in Europe.
We made the mistake of thinking that America was still as safe as it had once been. I’m sorry to say
that Sister Celestine’s presence exposed St. Rose Convent to great danger. After Celestine came, so
did the attacks. Not just on our convent, mind you. There were nearly one hundred attacks on
American convents that year—a concerted effort by the Nephilim to discover which of us had what
they wanted.”
“But why?”
“Because of Celestine, of course,” Philomena said. “She was well known by the enemy. When she
arrived, I myself saw how sickly, how battered, how scarred she was. Clearly she had gone through a
harrowing escape. And, perhaps most significant, she carried a parcel for Mother Innocenta,
something meant to be secured here, with us. Celestine had something that they wanted. They knew
she had taken refuge in the United States, only they did not know where.”
“And Mother Innocenta knew everything of this?” Evangeline asked.
“Of course,” Philomena said, raising her eyebrows in wonder, whether at Mother Innocenta or the
question, Evangeline was not sure. “Mother Innocenta was the premier scholar of her era in America.
She had been trained by Mother Antonia, who was the student of Mother Clara, our most beloved
abbess, who had, in turn, been instructed by Mother Francesca herself, who—to the benefit of our
great nation—came to Milton, New York, directly from the European Angelological Society to build
the American branch. St. Rose Convent was the beating heart of the American Angelological Project,
a grand undertaking, far more ambitious than whatever Celestine Clochette had been doing in Europe
before she tagged along on the Second Expedition.” Philomena, who had been speaking very rapidly,
paused to take a deep breath. “Indeed,” she said, slowly, “Mother Innocenta would never, never have