and changed cars. Percival didn’t appear to notice. He unwrapped the lyre’s body from the green
velvet cloth, removed the plectrum from its leather satchel, withdrew the crossbar from its casket,
and unwound the lyre’s strings. From his pocket he took the small bronze case Alistair Carroll had
recovered from Rockefeller Center, worked it open, and examined the Valkine tuning pegs. The
pieces of the lyre lay before them, rocking with the movement of the train, waiting to be fitted
together.
Percival lifted the journal from the bottom of the case, its leather cover and golden angel clasp
moving in and out of the flickering light. He turned the pages, flipping past the familiar sections of
historical information, magic squares, and sigils and pausing at the point where Angela’s
mathematical formulas began.
“What are these numbers?” he asked, examining the notebook with careful scrutiny.
“Look closely,” Gabriella said. “You know exactly what they are.”
As he read over the pages, his expression changed from consternation to delight. “They are the
formulas you withheld,” Percival said at last.
“What you mean to say,” Gabriella said, “is they are the formulas you killed our daughter for.”
Evangeline caught her breath, finally understanding the cryptic words Gabriella had uttered at the
skating rink. Percival Grigori was her grandfather. The realization filled her with horror. Grigori
appeared equally stunned. He tried to speak, but a fit of coughing overtook him. He struggled for air
until at last he said, “I don’t believe you.”
“Angela never knew her paternity. I spared her the pain of learning the truth. Evangeline, however,
has not been spared. She has witnessed firsthand the villainy of her grandfather.”
Percival looked from Gabriella to Evangeline, his haggard features hardening as he fully
understood Gabriella’s meaning.
“I am certain,” she continued, “that Sneja would be quite pleased to know that you have given her
an heir.”
“A human heir is worthless,” Percival snapped. “Sneja cares only for angelic blood.”
The car rushed into a station, the platform’s white lights flooding the interior, and jerked to a halt at
union Square. The doors opened, and a party of people trickled inside, merry from holiday
celebrations. They didn’t appear to notice Percival or the stench in the air and took seats nearby,
talking and laughing loudly. Alarmed, Gabriella moved to shield the case from view. “You must not
expose the instrument in this fashion,” Gabriella said. “It is too dangerous.”
Percival gestured to Evangeline with the gun. She picked up the pieces one by one, pausing to
examine them before replacing them in the case. As her fingers brushed against the metal base of the
lyre, a strange sensation fell upon her. At first she ignored the feeling, thinking that it was simply the
fear and panic Percival Grigori inspired in her. Then she heard something unearthly—a sweet, perfect
music filled her mind, notes rising and falling, each one sending a shiver through her. The sound was
so blissful, so exhilarating, that she strained to hear it more clearly. She glanced at her grandmother,
who had begun to argue with Grigori. Through the music Evangeline could not hear what Gabriella
said. It was as if a thick glass dome had descended around her, separating her from the rest of the
world. Nothing at all mattered but the instrument before her. And although the dizzying effect had
mesmerized her alone, she knew that the music was not a figment of her imagination. The lyre was
calling to her.
Without warning, Percival slammed the top of the case shut and yanked it away from Evangeline,
breaking the spell the instrument had cast upon her. A violent surge of despair took hold of her as she
lost her grasp upon the case, and before she understood her actions, she fell upon Percival, wrenching
the case from him. To her surprise, she had been able to take the instrument with ease. A new strength
moved through her, a vitality she had not known only moments before. Her vision was sharper, more
precise. She held the case close, ready to protect it.
The train car stopped at another station, and the group of people sauntered off, aloof to the
spectacle. A chime rang, and the doors slid shut. They were alone again with the malodorous drunk at
the far end of the car.
Evangeline turned away from Gabriella and Percival and opened the case. The pieces were there,
waiting to be assembled. Quickly, she fastened the crossbar to the lyre’s base, screwed the tuning
pegs into the crossbar, and attached the strings, winding them slowly about the pegs until they were