search to a radius of one hundred kilometers, we want full approval for the Second Expedition.”
“If we fail to narrow the search,” Dr. Seraphina said, “we hide the information as best we can, go
into exile as planned, and pray that our maps do not fall into the hands of our enemies.”
I was shocked to see how readily the council members approved the plan after so much heated
debate had already taken place. Perhaps Dr. Seraphina knew that Gabriella’s advancement was a
card she could play to win Dr. Lévi-Franche’s approval. Whatever her strategy, it had worked.
Although I was confused about the nature of the treasure we sought, my ambition had been flattered. I
was overjoyed. Gabriella and I had been placed at the very center of the Valkos’ search for the cave
of the imprisoned angels.
The next morning I arrived at Dr. Seraphina’s office an hour earlier than our scheduled meeting time
of nine o’clock. I had slept very badly the previous night, while in the next room Gabriella had moved
about, opening her window, smoking cigarettes, playing her favorite recording of Debussy’s Douze
Études as she paced from one end of her chamber to the next. I imagined that her secret relationship
contributed to her sleeplessness, as it did mine, although in truth Gabriella’s feelings were a mystery
to me. I knew her better than anyone else I knew in Paris, and yet I did not know her at all.
I was so unmoored by the events of that afternoon that I did not have a moment to consider the
magnitude of the role the Valkos had assigned us in hunting for the cavern. That I could think of little
other than Gabriella with her arms wrapped about a strange man only heightened my wariness toward
my friend. As a result, I left my bed before the sun rose, collected my books, and set out to study
through the early-morning hours in my corner of the Athenaeum.
Being alone among our texts gave me the opportunity to consider the council meeting of the
previous day. It was difficult for me to believe that an expedition of such consequence could be
conducted without knowing the exact location of the gorge. The map—the most essential component
of any mission—was missing. Even a first-year student of average intelligence would know that an
expedition could not be considered a success without complete cartographic evidence. Lacking the
precise geographical location of the journey, future scholars had no way to replicate the mission. In
short, absent a map there was no solid proof.
I would not have been sensitive to the relevance of a map if it were not for my years with the
Valkos, whose examination of cartography and geological formations bordered upon the obsessive.
Much as a scientist relies on replication to verify experiments, the Valkos’ work in antediluvian
geology arose from their passion for precise, concrete reproduction of past expeditions. Their
clinical discussions of mineral and rock formations, volcanic activity, the development of mantles,
soil varieties, and karst topography left no room for doubt that they were scientific in their methods.
There could be no mistake. If there had been a map to be found, Dr. Raphael would have seized upon
it. He would have reconstructed the journey step-by-step, rock by rock.
After the sun rose, I knocked softly upon Dr. Seraphina’s door and, hearing her voice, pushed it
open. To my surprise, Gabriella sat with our teacher on a settee upholstered in vermilion silk, a
coffee service before them. I could see that they were deep in discussion. Gone was the anxious
Gabriella of the night before. Instead I found Gabriella the aristocrat, perfumed and powdered and
immaculately dressed, her hair combed glossy black. I had been defeated once again by Gabriella,
and, unable to hide my consternation, I stood in the doorway as if confused about my place. “What are
you doing, Celestine?” Dr. Seraphina said, a hint of irritation in her voice. “Come in and join us.”
I had visited Dr. Seraphina’s office many times in the past and knew it to be one of the finest rooms
in the school. Located on the top floor of a Haussmann-style building, it commanded a grand view of
the neighborhood—the square before the school, with its fountain and endlessly circling pigeons,
dominating all else. The morning sun illuminated a wall of French windows, one of which was open
to the crisp morning air, washing the room with the smell of earth and water, as if it had rained all
night, leaving a dredge of silt behind. The room itself was large and elegant, with built-in
bookshelves, fluted moldings, and a marble-topped escritoire. It was an office that one might expect
to find on the Right Bank rather than its location on la rive gauche. Dr. Raphael’s office, a dusty,