man worked the tip of the blade into a row of tight, neat stitches. With the slightest pressure, the
stitches split apart. He opened one stitch after another in this fashion until a hole the size of an apple
appeared in the tapestry. The man continued his work with the concentration of a surgeon.
Standing on tiptoes, Verlaine peered up at the unbound fabric. He could see nothing but a fray of
colored threads, fine as hair. The man requested a tool from the case, and Sabine handed him a long,
thin hook, which he inserted into the hole in the fabric. Then he slipped his hand directly between the
A and the E. He tugged, and a bright spark caught Verlaine’s eye: Twisted about the hook, there was
an opalescent cord.
Verlaine counted them as the man handed him the strings. They were capillary-thin and so smooth
that they slid between Verlaine’s fingers as if waxed. Five, seven, ten strings, limp and sumptuous,
draped over his arm. The man climbed down the ladder. “That is all,” he said, a look of sobriety
upon his face, as if he had just desecrated a shrine.
Sabine took the strings, rolled them into a tight coil, and zipped them into a cloth pouch. Pressing it
into Verlaine’s palm, she said, “Follow me, madame, monsieur,” and led Gabriella and Verlaine to
the entrance of the gallery.
“Do you know how to attach them?” Sabine asked.
Gabriella said, “I will manage, I’m sure.”
“Yes, of course,” Sabine said, and with a snap of her finger the security guards collected around
them, three on each side. “Be careful,” Sabine said, kissing Gabriella on each cheek in the Parisian
manner. “Good luck.”
As the security guards escorted Gabriella and Verlaine through the museum, pushing past the ever-
present crowd, it seemed to Verlaine that the studies he had undertaken, the frustrations and fruitless
searches of academic life—somehow, all of it had delivered him to this moment of triumph. Gabriella
walked at his side, the woman who had brought him to understand his calling as an angelologist and
his future—if he dared to hope—with Evangeline. They passed under archway after archway, the
heavy Romanesque architecture yielding to the light trelliswork of the Gothic, the pouch containing
the strings of the lyre held tightly in his hand.
Riverside Church, Morningside Heights, New York City
Riverside Church was an imposing Gothic Revival cathedral rising above Columbia University.
Together Vladimir and Saitou-san mounted the steps to a wooden door adorned with disks of iron,
Saitou-san’s high-heeled boots crunching upon the salt-strewn ice, a black shawl wrapped snugly
about her shoulders.
As they walked inside, the light diminished to a honeyed glow. Vladimir blinked, his eyes
readjusting to the ambience of the foyer. The church was empty. Straightening his tie, Vladimir
walked past an alcove with an empty reception desk, up a set of steps, and into a large antechamber.
The walls were creamy stone that rose to a confluence of jointed arches, one meeting another like
wind-filled sails hoisted in a crowded harbor. Beyond, through a set of wide double doors, Vladimir
ascertained the deepening hollow of the church nave.
His first impulse was to search the church, but he held back, his attention drawn to two copper
plaques hung on a wall. The first commemorated John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s generosity in the building
of the church. A second plaque was a dedication to Laura Celestia Spelman Rockefeller.
“Laura Celestia Spelman was Abigail Rockefeller’s mother-in-law,” Saitou-san whispered,
reading the plaque.
Vladimir said, “I believe the Rockefellers were devout, especially the Cleveland generation. John
D. Rockefeller Jr. paid for the construction of this church.”
“That would explain Mrs. Rockefeller’s access,” Saitou-san said. “It would be impossible to keep
anything here without inside help.”
“Inside help,” a whining, high-pitched voice said, “and a lot of cash.”
Vladimir turned to find that a toadlike old man in an elegant gray suit and neatly combed gray hair
had appeared in the hallway. A monocle encircled his left eye, its gold chain hanging over his cheek.
Vladimir stepped back instinctively.
“Forgive me for startling you,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Gray, and I could not help but notice
you here.” Mr. Gray appeared to be half blind with anxiety. His eyes bulged wildly as he looked
about the hallway, his gaze settling at last upon Vladimir and Saitou-san.
“I would ask who you are,” Mr. Gray said, pointing to Abigail Rockefeller’s card in Vladimir’s
hand. “But I know already. May I?” Mr. Gray took the card from Vladimir, looked it over carefully,