“We tried this in 1943, Vladimir,” Gabriella said. “It is plain that this method has failed.
Preserving the lyre would imperil future generations, even in the most secure of hiding places. It must
be destroyed. That much is clear. The real question is how.”
“What do you mean?” Evangeline asked.
Vladimir said, “It is one of the primary qualities of all celestial instruments: They were created by
heaven and can be destroyed only by heaven’s creatures.”
“I don’t understand,” Verlaine said.
“Only celestial beings, or creatures with angelic blood, can destroy celestial matter,” Bruno said.
“Including the Nephilim,” Gabriella said.
“So if we wish to destroy the lyre,” Saitou-san said, “we must place it in the hands of the very
creatures we wish to keep it from.”
“A bit of a conundrum,” Bruno said.
“So why hunt it down it at all?” Verlaine asked, dismayed. “Why bring something so important out
of safety only to destroy it?”
“There is no alternative,” Gabriella said. “We have the rare opportunity to take possession of the
lyre. We will have to find a way to dispose of it once we recover it.
“If we recover it,” Bruno added.
“We are wasting time,” Saitou-san said, standing. “We will have to decide what to do with the lyre
once we have it in our possession. We cannot risk the Nephilim’s discovery of it.”
Looking at his watch, Vladimir said, “It is nearly three. We will meet at Rockefeller Center at
exactly six. That gives us three hours to make contact, search the buildings, and reconvene. There can
be no mistakes. Plan the quickest route possible. Speed and precision are absolutely necessary.”
Leaving their chairs, they put on jackets and scarves, preparing to face the cold winter dusk. In a
matter of seconds, the angelologists were ready to begin. As they walked toward the staircase,
Gabriella turned to Evangeline. “In our haste we must not lose sight of the dangers of our work. I
warn you—be very careful in your efforts. The Nephilim will be watching. Indeed, they have been
waiting for this moment for a very long time. The instructions Abigail Rockefeller left us are the most
precious papers you have ever touched. Once the Nephilim understand we’ve discovered them, they
will attack without mercy.”
“But how will they know?” Verlaine asked, coming to Evangeline’s side.
Gabriella smiled a sad, significant smile. “My dear boy, they know exactly where we are. They
have planted informants all over this city. At all times, in all places, they are waiting. Even now they
are near, watching us. Please,” she said, looking pointedly at Evangeline once more, “be careful.”
Museum of Modern Art, New York City
Evangeline pressed her hand to the brick wall running alongside West Fifty-fourth Street, the icy
wind searing her skin. Above, sheets of glass reflected the Sculpture Garden, simultaneously opening
the intricate workings of the museum and presenting the garden’s image back upon itself The lights
inside had been dimmed. Patrons and museum employees moved through the interior of the galleries,
visible at the outer edge of Evangeline’s vision. A darkened reflection of the garden appeared in the
glass as warped, distorted, unreal.
“It looks like they’re closing soon,” Bruno said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his ski
jacket and walking to the entrance. “We’d better hurry.”
At the door Bruno swept through the crowds and made his way to the ticket desk, where a tall, thin
man with a goatee and horn-rimmed glasses was reading a novel by Wilkie Collins. He looked up,
glanced from Evangeline to Bruno, and said, “We’re closing in half an hour. We’re closed tomorrow
for Christmas, but open again on the twenty-sixth.” With that he returned to his book, as if Bruno and
Evangeline were no longer there.
Bruno leaned on the counter and said, “We’re looking for someone who might work here.”
“We are not allowed to disclose personal information about employees,” the man said, without
looking up from his novel.
Bruno slid two one-hundred-dollar bills over the counter. “We don’t need personal information.
Just where we can find him.”
Peering over his horn-rimmed glasses, the man placed his palm on the counter and slid the money
into his pocket. “What’s the name?”
“Alistair Carroll,” Bruno said, giving him the card included in Abigail Rockefeller’s sixth letter.
“Ever heard of him?”
He looked over the card. “Mr. Carroll is not an employee.”