clucking her tongue as she walked to the door. “I would hope that the history of art is filled with
enough paintings and sculptures to occupy an art historian indefinitely. Yet, apparently, our collection
of angelic images is irresistible. One can never be too careful, child. You will inform me if there are
any new requests?”
“Of course,” Evangeline said, feeling her heart beat unnaturally fast.
Sister Philomena must have taken note of her young assistant’s distress and, stepping closer, so that
Evangeline could smell something vaguely mineral about her—talcum powder, perhaps, or arthritis
cream—she took Evangeline’s hands, warming them between her chubby palms. “Now, there is no
reason for worry. We won’t let them in. Try as they might, we will hold the door closed.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sister,” Evangeline said, smiling despite her bewilderment. “Thank you for
your concern.”
“You’re welcome, child,” Philomena said, yawning. “If something more should come up, I’ll be on
the fourth floor the remainder of the afternoon. It is nearly time for my nap.”
The instant Sister Philomena had left, Evangeline was thrown into a morass of guilt and speculation
over what had just occurred between them. She regretted that she had misled her superior in such a
manner, but she also wondered at Philomena’s strange reaction to the letter and the intensity of her
desire to keep visitors away from St. Rose’s holdings. Of course Evangeline understood the necessity
of protecting the environment of contemplative calm they all worked hard to create. Sister
Philomena’s reaction to the letter had seemed excessive, but what had inspired Evangeline to lie in
such a bold and unjustifiable fashion? Yet, there it was, a fact: She had lied to an Elder Sister. Even
this breach had not assuaged her curiosity. What was the nature of the relationship between Mother
Innocenta and Mrs. Rockefeller? What had Sister Philomena meant when she said that they would not
“open our home to outsiders”? What harm could possibly come from sharing their beautiful collection
of books and images? What did they have to hide? In the years Evangeline had spent at St. Rose—
nearly half her life—there had been nothing at all out of the ordinary. The Franciscan Sisters of
Perpetual Adoration led exemplary lives.
Evangeline slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the thin, weathered onionskin letter. The
writing was florid and slick—her eyes slid across the arches and dips of the cursive with ease. “Your
guidance has helped the progress of the expedition enormously, and I daresay my own
contributions have been useful as well. Celestine Clochette will be arriving in New York early
February. More news will reach you soon. Until then, I am sincerely yours, A. A. Rockefeller.”
Evangeline reread the letter, trying to understand its meaning. She folded the thin paper carefully,
securing it in her pocket, knowing that she could not continue her work until she understood the
significance of Abigail Rockefeller’s letter.
Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side, New York City
Percival Grigori tapped the tip of his cane as he waited for the elevator, a rhythm of sharp metallic
clicks pounding out the seconds. The oak-paneled lobby of his building—an exclusive prewar with
views of Central Park—was so familiar that he hardly noticed it any longer. The Grigori family had
occupied the penthouse for over half a century. Once he might have registered the deference of the
doorman, the opulent arrangement of orchids in the foyer, the polished ebony and mother-of-pearl
elevator casement, the fire sending a spray of light and warmth across the marble floor. But Percival
Grigori noticed nothing at all except the pain crackling through his joints, the popping of his knees
with each step. As the doors of the elevator slid open and he hobbled inside, he regarded his stooped
image in the polished brass of the elevator car and looked quickly away.
At the thirteenth floor, he stepped into a marble vestibule and unlocked the door to the Grigori
apartment. Instantly the soothing elements of his private life—part antique, part modern, part gleaming
wood, part sparkling glass—filled his senses, relaxing the tension in his shoulders. He threw his keys
onto a silk pillow at the bottom of a Chinese porcelain bowl, shrugged his heavy cashmere overcoat
into the lap of an upholstered banister-back chair, and walked through the travertine gallery. Vast
rooms opened before him—a sitting room, a library, a dining hall with a four-tiered Venetian
chandelier suspended overhead. An expanse of picture windows staged the chaotic ballet of a