Angelology(9)

telephone. It includes personal profiles of the residents, the philosophy of the Franciscan order, notes

on the FSPA’s priceless collection of books and images in their library, and a summary of the mission

work they do abroad. I’ve cataloged my sources and made photocopies of original documents.”

Percival opened the envelope and sifted through the pages, glancing absently at them. “This is all

rather common information,” he said, dismissive. “I fail to see what could have drawn your attention

to this place to begin with.”

Then something caught his attention. He pulled a bundle of papers from the envelope and paged

through them, the wind ruffling the edges as he unfolded a series of drawings of the convent—the

rectangular floor plans, the circular turrets, the narrow hallway connecting the convent to the church,

the wide entrance corridor.

“Architectural drawings,” Verlaine said.

“What variety of architectural drawings?” Percival asked, biting his lip as he flipped through the

pages. The first had been stamped with a date: December 28, 1809.

Verlaine said, “From what I can tell, these are the original sketches of St. Rose, stamped and

approved by the founding abbess of the convent.”

“They cover the convent grounds?” Percival asked, examining the drawings more closely.

“And the interiors as well,” Verlaine said.

“You found these where?”

“In a county-courthouse archive upstate. Nobody seemed to know how they ended up there, and

they’ll probably never notice that they’re gone. After a little searching, I found that the plans were

transferred to the county building in 1944, after a fire at the convent.”

Percival looked down at Verlaine, the faintest hint of challenge in his manner. “And you find these

drawings significant?”

“These are not really your run-of-the-mill drawings. Take a look at this.” Verlaine directed

Percival to a faint sketch of an octagonal structure, the words ADORATION CHAPEL written at the

top. “This is particularly fascinating. It was drawn by someone with a great eye for scale and depth.

The structure is so precisely rendered, so detailed, that it doesn’t fit at all with the other drawings. At

first I thought it didn’t belong with the set—it’s too different in style—but it has been stamped and

dated, like the others.”

Percival stared at the drawing. The Adoration Chapel had been rendered with enormous care—the

altar and entrance had been given particular attention. A series of rings had been drawn within the

Adoration Chapel plan, concentric circles that radiated one from the next. At the center of the spheres,

like an egg in a nest of protective tissue, was a golden seal. Flipping through the pages of drawings,

Percival found that a seal had been placed upon each sheet.

“Tell me,” he said, placing his finger upon the seal. “What, do you suppose, is the meaning of this

seal?”

“That interested me, too,” Verlaine said, reaching into his overcoat and removing an envelope. “So

I did a little more research. It is a reproduction of a coin, Thracian in origin, from the fifth century

B.C. The original was uncovered by a Japanese-funded archaeological dig in what is now eastern

Bulgaria but was once the center of Thrace—something of a cultural haven in fifth-century Europe.

The original coin is in Japan, so I have nothing but this reproduction to go by.”

Verlaine opened the envelope and presented Percival with an enlarged photocopied image of the

coin.

“The seal was put on the architectural drawings over one hundred years before the coin was

discovered, which makes this seal—and the drawings themselves—rather incredible. From the

research I’ve done, it seems that this image is unique among Thracian coins. While most from that

period depict the heads of mythological figures like Hermes, Dionysus, and Poseidon, this coin

depicts an instrument: the lyre of Orpheus. There are a number of Thracian coins in the Met. I went to

see them myself. They’re in the Greek and Roman Galleries, if you’re interested. Unfortunately, there

is nothing quite like this coin on display. It’s one of a kind.”

Percival Grigori leaned on the sweat-slicked ivory knob of the cane, attempting to contain his

irritation. Snow fell through the sky, fat, wet flakes that drifted through the tree branches and settled

upon the sidewalk. Clearly Verlaine did not realize how irrelevant the drawings, or the seal, were to

his plans.

“Very well, Mr. Verlaine,” Percival said, straightening himself the best he could and fixing

Verlaine with a severe gaze. “But surely you have more for me.”