was unaware of what I had seen.
Dr. Seraphina welcomed me with warmth and concern, asking what had kept me. Dr. Seraphina’s
reputation rested not just upon her own accomplishments but on the achievements and caliber of the
students she took on, and I was mortified that my search for Gabriella would be construed as
tardiness on my part. I harbored no illusions about the security of my stature at the academy. I, unlike
Gabriella with her family connections, was expendable, although Dr. Seraphina would never say so
overtly.
The Valkos’ popularity among their students at large was no mystery. Seraphina Valko was
married to the equally brilliant Dr. Raphael Valko and often conducted joint lectures with her
husband. Their lectures filled to capacity each autumn, the crowds of young and eager scholars in
attendance expanding well beyond those first-year students required to take it. Our two most
distinguished professors specialized in the field of antediluvian geography, a small but vital branch of
angelic archaeology. The Valkos’ lectures encompassed more than their specialization, however,
outlining the history of angelology from its theological origins to its modern practice. Their lectures
made the past come alive, so much so that the texture of ancient alliances and battles—and their role
in the maladies of the modern world—became plain before all in attendance. Indeed, in their courses
Dr. Seraphina and Dr. Raphael had the power to lead one to understand that the past was not a far-off
place of myths and fairy tales, not merely a compendium of lives crushed by wars and pestilences and
misfortune, but that history lived and breathed in the present, existing among us each day, offering a
window into the misty landscape of the future. The Valkos’ ability to make the past tangible to their
students ensured their popularity and their position at our school.
Dr. Seraphina glanced at her wristwatch. “We had better be going,” she said, straightening some
papers on her desk as she prepared to leave. “We’re already late.”
Walking quickly, the stacked heels of her shoes clicking upon the floor, Dr. Seraphina led us through
the narrow, darkened hallways to the Athenaeum. Although the name suggested a noble library
studded with Corinthian columns and high, sun-filled windows, the Athenaeum was as lightless as a
dungeon, its limestone walls and marble floors barely discernible in the perpetual haze of a
windowless twilight. Indeed, many of the rooms used for instruction were located in similar
chambers tucked away in the narrow buildings throughout Montparnasse, scattered apartments
acquired over the years and connected with haphazard corridors. I learned soon after my arrival in
Paris that our safety depended upon remaining hidden. The labyrinthine nature of the rooms ensured
that we could continue our work unmolested, a tranquillity threatened by the impending war. Many of
the scholars had already left the city.
Still, despite its dour environs, the Athenaeum had offered me much solace in my first year of
study. It contained a large collection of books, many of which had been left undisturbed upon their
shelves for decades. Dr. Seraphina had introduced our Angelological Library to me the year before
by remarking that we had resources that even the Vatican would envy, with texts dating back to the
first years of the postdiluvian era, although I had never examined such ancient texts, as they were
locked in a vault out of the reach of students. Often I would come in the middle of the night, light a
small oil lamp, and sit in a corner nook, a stack of books at my side, the sweet, dusty smell of aging
paper around me. I didn’t think of my hours of study as a sign of ambition, although it surely must have
seemed that way to the students who found me studying at dawn. To me the endless supply of books
served as a bridge into my new life—it was as though, upon my walking into the Athenaeum, the
history of the world lifted out of a fog, giving me the sense that I was not alone in my labors but part
of the vast network of scholars who had studied similar texts many centuries before my birth. To me,
the Athenaeum represented everything that was civilized and orderly in the world.
It was thus all the more painful to see the rooms of the library in a state of total dismemberment. As
Dr. Seraphina led us deeper into the space, I saw that a crew of assistants had been assigned to
disassemble the collection. The procedure was being carried out in a systematic fashion—with such a
vast and valuable collection, it was the only way to go about such a move—and yet it appeared to me
that the Athenaeum had descended into pure chaos. Books were piled high on the library tables, and
large wooden crates, many filled to the top, were scattered across the room. Only months before,