sketches, the spiky shadows of birch trees stretching upon the surface of the snow. The temperature
was falling quickly. Verlaine turned up the collar of his overcoat and set out on his second trip around
the compound, his wing tips soaked from slush. Grigori was right about one thing: They could learn
nothing more without gaining access to St. Rose Convent.
Halfway around the building, Verlaine discovered a set of ice-glazed steps. Down he walked,
grasping a metal railing so as not to slip. A door stood in the hollow of a vaulted stone entranceway.
Giving the knob a twist, Verlaine found the door unlocked, and a moment later he was in a dark, damp
space that smelled of wet stone, rotting wood, and dust. When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light
he closed the door, securing it firmly behind him before walking through an abandoned corridor and
into St. Rose Convent.
Library of Angelic Images, St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Whenever visitors arrived, the sisters relied upon Evangeline to act as the liaison between the realms
of sacred and profane. She had a talent for putting the uninitiated at ease, an air of youth and
modernity the other sisters lacked, and she often found herself translating the internal workings of the
community to outsiders. Guests expected to be greeted by a nun wrapped in full habit, black-veiled,
with dour leather lace-up shoes, a Bible in one hand and a rosary in the other—an old woman who
carried all the sadness of the world upon her face. Instead they were met by Evangeline. Young,
pretty, and sharp-minded, she quickly disabused them of their stereotype. She would make a joke or
comment upon some item in the newspaper, breaking the image of severity the convent presented. On
the occasions when Evangeline led guests through the winding corridors, she would explain that
theirs was a modern community, open to new ideas. She would explain that despite their traditional
habits, the middle-aged sisters wore Nikes for their morning walks by the river in autumn or
Birkenstocks as they weeded the flower gardens in the summer. Exterior appearances, Evangeline
would explain, meant little. The routines established two hundred years ago, rituals revered and
maintained with ironclad persistence, were what mattered most. When seculars became startled by
the quiet of their halls, the regularity of their prayers, and the uniformity of the nuns, Evangeline had
the ability to make it all appear quite normal.
That afternoon, however, her manner took on another aspect altogether—never before had she been
more surprised to find someone standing in the doorway of the library. A rustle of movement at the far
end of the room had brought the person’s intrusion to her attention. Turning, she discovered a young
man leaning against the door, gazing at her with unusual interest. A feeling of alarm sharp as
electricity shot through her. Tension grew in her temples, a sensation that manifested itself as a
blurring in her vision and a slight ringing in her ears. She straightened her posture, unconsciously
assuming the role of guardian of the library, and faced the intruder.
Although she could not say how, Evangeline understood that the man standing at the library door
was the very same man whose letter she had read that morning. It was odd that she should recognize
Verlaine. She had pictured the author of the letter as a wizened professor, gray-haired and paunchy,
whereas the man before her was much younger than she would have guessed him to be. His wire-
rimmed glasses, his unruly black hair, and the hesitant way he waited at the door struck her as boyish.
How he had gained entrance into the convent and, even more curious, how he’d found his way to the
library without being intercepted by one of the sisters struck Evangeline as wholly mysterious. She
did not know if she should greet him or call for assistance in escorting him from the building.
She straightened her skirt with care and determined that she would perform her duties to the letter.
Walking to the door, she fixed him with a cool stare. “May I assist you in some way, Mr. Verlaine?”
Her voice sounded odd, as if she were hearing it through a wind tunnel.
“You know who I am?” Verlaine said.
“It is not so difficult to deduce,” Evangeline replied, her manner more severe than she intended it
to be.
“Then you know,” Verlaine said, his cheeks flushing, a sign of self-consciousness that made
Evangeline soften toward him despite herself, “that I spoke with someone on the telephone—
Perpetua, I think her name was—about visiting your library for research purposes. I also wrote a
letter about arranging a visit.”
“My name is Evangeline. It was I who received your letter, and I am therefore quite aware of your