impression that her old life had been little more than a dream.
Soon Bruno returned with a great steaming pot of chili. The thought of lunch hadn’t crossed
Evangeline’s mind all day—she’d become used to the grumbling of her stomach and the light-
headedness that resulted from perpetual lack of water—but once the food was before her, she
discovered that she was ravenous. Evangeline stirred the chili with a spoon, cooling the beans and
tomatoes and pieces of sausage, and began to eat. The chili was spicy—the heat of it hit her at once.
At St. Rose the sisters’ diet consisted of vegetables and bread and unseasoned meat. The spiciest
thing she’d eaten in the past years had been a plum pudding made for the annual Christmas
celebration. Reflexively, she coughed, covering her mouth with a napkin, heat spreading through her.
Verlaine jumped up and poured her a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said.
Evangeline drank the water, feeling silly. “Thank you,” she said when the spell had passed. “I
haven’t had food like this in quite a while.”
“It will do you good,” Gabriella said, assessing her. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in months.
Actually,” she added, standing and leaving her food unfinished, “I think you had better clean up a bit.
I have some clothes that will suit you.”
Gabriella took Evangeline to a bathroom down the hall, where she directed her to step out of the
sooty wool skirt and remove the smoke-filled shirt. Gabriella collected the dingy clothes and threw
them in a trash bin. She gave Evangeline soap and water and clean towels so that she could wash. She
gave her a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater—both of which fit Evangeline perfectly, confirming
that she and her grandmother were exactly the same height and weight. After Evangeline washed,
Gabriella watched her dress with obvious approval of her granddaughter’s transformation into a new
person entirely. Upon their return to the dining room, Verlaine simply stared at Evangeline with
wonder, as if he were not quite sure she was the same person.
After they had finished eating, Bruno led them up the narrow wooden stairway. Evangeline’s heart
quickened at the thought of what lay ahead. In the past her encounters with angelologists had always
occurred accidentally through chance meetings with her father or grandmother, indirect and fleeting
encounters that left her only half aware that something unusual had taken place. Her glimpses into the
world her mother had occupied always made her curious and afraid simultaneously. In truth, the
prospect of encountering the angelological council members face-to-face filled her with dread. Surely
they would question her about what had happened that morning at St. Rose. Surely Celestine’s actions
would be an object of deep fascination to them. Evangeline did not know how she would respond to
such questioning.
Perhaps sensing her distress, Verlaine brushed his fingers against Evangeline’s hand, a gesture of
comfort and care that once again sent electricity through her body. She turned and met his eyes. They
were dark brown, almost black, and intensely expressive. Did he see how she reacted when he
looked at her? Did he sense on the staircase that she lost her ability to breathe when he touched her?
She could hardly feel her body as she climbed the remaining stairs after her grandmother.
At the top of the stairs, they stepped into a room that had always been locked during Evangeline’s
childhood visits—she recalled the carvings upon the heavy wooden door, the huge brass knob, the
keyhole she had tried to peer through. Then, looking through the keyhole, she had seen only swaths of
sky. Now she understood the room to be filled with narrow windows. The glass opened the space to
the ashen, purple light of impending dusk. Evangeline had never suspected that such a place had been
hidden from her.
She stepped inside, amazed. The walls of the study were hung with paintings of angels, bright-hued
figures in brilliant robes, wings spread over harps and flutes. There were heavily laden bookshelves,
an antique escritoire, and a scattering of richly upholstered armchairs and divans. Despite the
grandeur of the furnishings, the room had a shabby appearance—paint peeled upon the ceiling in
curls, the edges of a massive steam radiator had rusted. Evangeline recalled the absence of funds her
grandmother—and indeed all angelologists—had suffered in past years.
At the far end of the room, there was a cluster of antique chairs and a low, marble-topped table,
where the angelologists waited. Evangeline recognized some of them at once—she had met them with
her father many years before, although at the time she hadn’t understood their positions.