Angelology(17)

snowstorm.

At the far end of the apartment, the curve of a grand staircase led to his mother’s suite of rooms.

Peering up, Percival discerned a party of her friends gathered in the formal sitting room. Guests came

to the apartment for lunch or dinner nearly every day, impromptu gatherings that allowed his mother to

hold court for her favorite friends from the neighborhood. It was a ritual she had grown more and

more accustomed to, primarily because of the power it gave her: She selected those people she

wished to see, enclosed them in the dark-paneled lair of her private quarters, and let the rest of the

world go on with its tedium and misery. For years she had left her suite only on rare occasions, when

accompanied by Percival or his sister, and only at night. His mother had grown so comfortable with

the arrangement, and her circle had become so regular, that she rarely complained of her confinement.

Quietly, so as not to draw attention to himself, Percival ducked into a bathroom at the end of the

hallway, shut the door softly behind him, and locked it. In a succession of quick movements, he

discarded a tailored wool jacket and a silk tie, dropping each piece of clothing onto the ceramic tiles.

Fingers trembling, he unbuttoned six pearlescent buttons, working upward to his throat. He peeled

away his shirt and stood to full height before a large mirror hung upon the wall.

Running his fingers over his chest, he felt a mélange of leather strips weaving one over the other.

The device wrapped about him like an elaborate harness, creating a system of stays that, when fully

fastened, had the overall appearance of a black corset. The straps were so taut they cut into his skin.

Somehow, no matter how he fastened it, the leather cinched too tightly. Struggling for air, Percival

loosened one strap, then the next, working the leather through small silver buckles with deliberation

until, with a final tug, the device fell to the floor, the leather slapping the tiles.

His bare chest was smooth, without navel or nipples, the skin so white as to appear cut from wax.

Swiveling his shoulder blades, he could see the reflection of his body in the mirror—his shoulders,

his long thin arms, and the sculpted curve of his torso. Mounted at the center of his spine, matted by

sweat, deformed by the severe pressure of the harness, were two tender nubs of bone. With a mixture

of wonder and pain, he noted that his wings—once full and strong and bowed like golden scimitars—

had all but disintegrated. The remnants of his wings were black with disease, the feathers withered,

the bones atrophied. In the middle of his back, two open wounds, blue and raw from chafing, fixed the

blackened bones in a gelatinous pool of congealed blood. Bandages, repeated cleanings—no amount

of care helped to heal the wounds or relieve his pain. Yet he understood that the true agony would

come when there was nothing left of his wings. All that had distinguished him, all that the others had

envied, would be gone.

The first symptoms of the disorder had appeared ten years before, when fine tracks of mildew

materialized along the inner shafts and vanes of the feathers, a phosphorescent green fungus that grew

like patina on copper. He had thought it a mere infection. He’d had his wings cleaned and groomed,

specifying that each feather be brushed with oils, and yet the pestilence remained. Within months his

wingspan had decreased by half. The dusty golden shimmer of healthy wings faded. Once, he had

been able to compress his wings with ease, folding his majestic plumage smoothly against his back.

The airy mass of golden feathers had tucked into the arched grooves along his spine, a maneuver that

rendered the wings completely undetectable. Although physical in substance, the structure of healthy

wings gave them the visual properties of a hologram. Like the bodies of the angels themselves, his

wings had been substantial objects utterly unimpaired by the laws of matter. Percival had been able to

lift his wings through thick layers of clothing as easily as if he had moved them through air.

Now he found that he could no longer retract them at all, and so they were a perpetual presence, a

reminder of his diminishment. Pain overwhelmed him; he lost all capability for flight. Alarmed, his

family had brought in specialists, who confirmed what the Grigori family most feared: Percival had

contracted a degenerative disorder that had been spreading through their community. Doctors

predicted that his wings would die, then his muscles. He would be confined to a wheelchair, and then,

when his wings had withered completely and their roots had melted away, Percival would die. Years

of treatments had slowed the progression of the disease but had not stopped it.

Percival turned on the faucet and splashed cool water over his face, trying to dissipate the fever