Verlaine. He closed his eyes, whispered a series of incomprehensible words—a spell or a prayer,
Evangeline could not say which—and tore the envelope open.
Inside, there were time-weathered envelopes the length and width of Evangeline’s outstretched
hand. Adjusting his eyeglasses, Vladimir raised the letters close to get a clear view of the script.
“They’re addressed to Mother Innocenta,” he said, placing the envelopes on the table between them.
There were six envelopes containing six missives, one more than Innocenta had written.
Evangeline peered at them. On the face of each envelope were canceled stamps: one red two-cent
stamp and one green one-cent stamp.
Picking up one of the missives and turning it over, Evangeline saw the Rockefeller name embossed
on the back, along with a return address on West Fifty-fourth Street, less than a mile away.
“The location of the lyre is surely disclosed in these letters,” Saitou-san said.
“I don’t think we can come to a conclusion without reading them,” Evangeline said.
Without further hesitation Vladimir opened each of the envelopes and placed six small cards on the
table. The stock was thick and creamy white, a border of gold at the edges. Identical designs had been
printed on the face of each of the cards. Grecian goddesses with laurel-leaf wreaths upon their heads
danced amid swarms of cherubs. Two of the angels—fat, babylike cherubs with rounded moth wings
—held lyres in their hands.
“This is a classic 1920s Art Deco design,” Verlaine said, picking up one of the cards and
examining it. “The lettering is the same font that was used by the New Yorker magazine on its cover.
And the symmetrical positioning of the angels is classic. The dual cherubs with their lyres are mirror
images of one another, which is a quintessential Art Deco motif.” Leaning over the card so that his
hair fell into his eyes, Verlaine said, “And this is most definitely Abigail Rockefeller’s handwriting.
I’ve examined her journals and personal correspondence many times. There’s no mistaking it.”
Vladimir took the cards and read them, his blue eyes scanning the lines. Then, with the air of a man
who had been patient for too many years, he placed them back on the table and stood. “They say
nothing at all,” he said. “The first five cards are as evocative as laundry lists. The last card is
completely blank, except for the name ‘Alistair Carroll, Trustee, Museum of Modern Art.’”
“They must give some information about the lyre,” Saitou-san said, picking up the cards. Vladimir
gazed at Gabriella for a moment, as if weighing the possibility that he’d missed something. “Please,”
he said. “Read them. Tell me that I am wrong.”
Gabriella read the cards one by one, passing them on to Verlaine, who read through them so
quickly that Evangeline wondered how he could have taken in what they said.
Gabriella sighed. “They are exactly the same in tone and content as Innocenta’s letters.”
“Meaning?” asked Saitou-san.
“Meaning they discuss the weather, charity balls, dinner parties, and Abigail Rockefeller’s idle
artistic contributions to the sisters of St. Rose Convent’s annual Christmas fund-raiser,” Gabriella
said. “They give no direct instruction for finding the lyre.”
“We’ve put all our hope into Abigail Rockefeller,” Bruno said. “What if we’ve been wrong?”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Mother Innocenta’s role in these exchanges,” Gabriella said,
glancing at Verlaine. “She was known as a woman of remarkable subtlety, and she could persuade
others in the art of subtlety as well.”
Verlaine sat silently examining the cards. Finally he stood, took a folder from his messenger bag,
and placed four letters on the table next to the cards. The fifth letter remained at the convent, where
Evangeline had left it. “These are Innocenta’s letters,” he said, smiling sheepishly at Evangeline, as if
even now she judged him for stealing them from the Rockefeller Archive. He placed Rockefeller’s
cards and Innocenta’s letters side by side in chronological order. In quick succession he extracted
four of Rockefeller’s cards and, putting them before him, studied each cover. Evangeline was
perplexed by Verlaine’s actions, and she only became more so when he began to smile as if
something in the cards amused him. At last he said, “I think Mrs. Rockefeller was even more clever
than we have given her credit for.”
“I’m sorry,” Saitou-san said, leaning over the cards, “but I don’t understand how the letters convey