“Tell me,” Evangeline said, her voice steady to mask her growing distress. “What danger do you
speak of?”
Celestine’s voice was little more than a whisper as she said, “‘A cette époque-là, il y avait des
géants sur la terre, et aussi après que les fils de Dieu se furent unis aux filles des hommes et
qu’elles leur eurent donné des enfants. Ce sont ces héros si fameux d’autrefois.’”
Evangeline understood French: indeed, it was her mother’s native tongue, and her mother had
spoken to her exclusively in French. But she had not heard the language spoken in more than fifteen
years.
Celestine’s voice was sharp, rapid, vehement as she repeated the words in English. “‘There were
giants in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters
of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of
renown.’”
In English the passage was familiar to Evangeline, its placement in the Bible clear in her mind. “It
is from Genesis,” she said, relieved that she understood at least a fraction of what Sister Celestine
was saying. “I know the passage. It occurs just before the Flood.”
“Pardon?” Celestine looked at Evangeline as if she had never seen her before.
“The passage you quoted from Genesis,” Evangeline said. “I know it well.”
“No,” Celestine said, her gaze suddenly full of animosity. “You do not understand.”
Evangeline placed her hand on Celestine’s, to calm her, but it was too late—Celestine had worked
herself into a fury. She whispered, “In the beginning, human and divine relations were in symmetry.
There was order in the cosmos. The legions of angels were filed in strict regiments; man and woman
—God’s most adored, made in his own image—lived in bliss, free from pain. Suffering did not exist;
death did not exist; time did not exist. There was no reason for such elements. The universe was
perfectly static, and pure in its refusal to move forward. But the angels could not rest in such a state.
They grew jealous of man. The dark angels tempted humanity out of pride, but also to cause God pain.
And so the angels fell as man fell.”
Realizing that it would only do more harm to allow Celestine to continue such madness, Evangeline
pulled at the letter resting under Celestine’s trembling fingers, removing it with deliberation. Folding
it into her pocket, she stood. “Forgive me, Sister,” she said. “I did not mean to disturb you in this
fashion.”
“Go!” Celestine said, shaking violently. “Go at once and leave me in peace!”
Confused and more than a little afraid, Evangeline closed Celestine’s door and half walked, half
ran down the narrow hallway to the stairwell.
Most afternoons Sister Philomena’s naps lasted until she was called to dinner, and so it was little
surprise, then, that the library was empty when Evangeline arrived, the fireplace cold and the trolley
stacked with volumes waiting to be returned to their shelves. Ignoring the mess of books, Evangeline
endeavored to build a fire to warm the frigid room. She stacked two pieces of wood in the grating,
packing the underbelly with crumpled newspaper, and struck a match. Once the flames began to catch,
she stood and straightened her skirt with her small, cold hands, as if smoothing the fabric might help
her gain focus. One thing was certain: She would need all the concentration she could muster to bring
herself to sort through Celestine’s story. She removed a piece of folded paper from the pocket of her
skirt, unfolded it, and read the letter from Mr. Verlaine:
In the process of conducting research for a private client, it has come to my attention that Mrs.
Abigail Aldrich Rockefeller, matriarch of the Rockefeller family and patron of the arts, may have
briefly corresponded with the abbess of St. Rose Convent, Mother Innocenta, in the years 1943-
1944.
It was nothing more than a harmless note asking to visit St. Rose Convent, the kind of letter
institutions with collections of rare books and images received on a regular basis, the kind of letter
that Evangeline should have responded to with a swift and efficient refusal and, once posted, should
have forgotten forever. Yet this simple request had turned everything upside down. She was both
wary and consumed by the intense curiosity she felt about Sister Celestine, Mrs. Abigail Rockefeller,
Mother Innocenta, and the practice of angelology. She wished to understand the work her parents had
performed, and yet she longed for the luxury of ignorance. Celestine’s words had echoed deeply