Angelology(62)

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,