a deep breath of cold air. He clutched the dossier tight, as if the wind might tear it from his fingers,
and walked deeper through the whorls of snowflakes into Central Park.
Central Park’s southwest corridor, New York City
Beyond the rush of Christmas shoppers, obscured in a pocket of icy tranquillity, a ghostly figure
waited upon a park bench. Tall, pale, brittle as bone china, Percival Grigori appeared to be little
more than an extension of the swirling snow. He lifted a white silk square from the pocket of his
overcoat and, in a violent spasm, coughed into it. His vision trembled and blurred with each seizure
and then, in an instant of respite, resumed focus. The silk square had been stained with drops of
luminous blue blood, vivid as chipped sapphires in snow. There was no more denying it. His
situation had grown increasingly serious in the past months. As he tossed the bloodied silk onto the
sidewalk, the skin of his back chafed. His discomfort was such that each small movement felt like an
instance of torture.
Percival looked at his watch, a solid-gold Patek Philippe. He’d spoken to Verlaine only the
previous afternoon to verify the meeting and had been very clear about the time—twelve o’clock
sharp. It was now 12:05. Irritated, Percival leaned into the cold park bench, tapping his cane on the
frozen sidewalk. He disliked waiting for anyone, let alone a man he was paying so well. Their
telephone conversation the day before had been perfunctory, functional, without pleasantries. Percival
disliked discussing business matters over the telephone—he could never quite trust such discussions
—yet it took some restraint to resist inquiring after the details of Verlaine’s findings. Percival and his
family had amassed extensive information about dozens of convents and abbeys across the continent
over the years, and yet Verlaine claimed he had come across something of interest just up the Hudson.
Upon their first meeting, Percival had assumed Verlaine to be fresh from business school, a
climber who dabbled in the art market. Verlaine had rather wild curly black hair, a self-deprecating
manner, and a mismatched suit. He struck Percival as artistic in the way that men were at that time of
life—everything from his attire to his manners was too youthful, too trendy, as if he had not yet found
his place in the world. He certainly was not the sort Percival usually found working for his family.
He later learned that, in addition to his specialization in art history, Verlaine was a painter who taught
part-time at a university, moonlighted at auction houses, and took consulting work to get by. He
clearly thought himself to be something of a bohemian, with a bohemian lack of punctuality.
Nevertheless, the young man had shown himself to be skilled at his work.
Finally Percival spotted him hurrying into the park. As he reached the bench, Verlaine extended his
hand. “Mr. Grigori,” he said, out of breath. “Sorry to be late.”
Percival took Verlaine’s hand and shook it, coolly. “According to my exceedingly reliable watch,
you are seven minutes late. If you expect to continue to work for us, you will be on time in the future.”
He met Verlaine’s eye, but the young man didn’t appear chastened in the least. Percival gestured in
the direction of the park. “Shall we walk?”
“Why not?” Glancing at Percival’s cane, Verlaine added, “Or we could sit here, if you’d like. It
might be more comfortable.”
Percival stood and followed the snow-dusted sidewalk deeper into Central Park, the metal tip of
the cane clicking lightly upon the ice. Not so very long ago, he had been as handsome and strong as
Verlaine and wouldn’t have noticed the wind and frost and cold of the day. He remembered once, on
a winter walk through London during the 1814 freeze, with the Thames solid and the winds arctic, that
he had strolled for miles, feeling as warm as if he were indoors. He was a different being then—he
had been at the height of his strength and beauty. Now the chill in the air made his body ache. The
pain in his joints drove him to push himself forward, despite the cramping in his legs.
“You have something for me,” Percival said at last, without looking up.
“As promised,” Verlaine replied, pulling an envelope from under his arm and presenting it with a
flourish, his black curls falling over his eyes. “The sacred parchments.”
Percival paused, uncertain of how to react to Verlaine’s humor, and weighed the envelope in the
palm of his hand—it was as large and heavy as a dinner plate. “I very much hope you have something
that will impress me.”
“I think you’ll be quite pleased. The report begins with the history of the order I described on the