of this hidden space. But Gabriella raised a hand to cut off all questioning. “I am late and haven’t the
time to explain. I cannot lead you to the book myself, but I’m certain your curiosity will assist you in
finding what you are looking for. Go. And remember when you are finished to return the key to its
hiding place and do not speak of this evening to anyone.”
With this, Gabriella turned and walked down the hall, her red satin dress catching the weak light. I
wanted to call for her to come back, to guide me into the subterranean chambers, but she was gone.
Only the slightest odor of her perfume remained.
Following Gabriella’s instructions, I opened the door and peered into the darkness. A kerosene
lamp hung from a hook at the top of the stairs, its fluted glass chimney charred black from smoke. I lit
the wick and held it before me. A set of rough-hewn stone steps fell downward at a steep angle. Each
lozenge of stone was frosted in moss, making the passage dangerously slippery. From the dampness of
the air and the smell of mold, it felt to me as though I were descending step-by-step into the cellar of
my family’s stone farmhouse, a vast, dank underground bunker stockpiled with thousands of bottles of
aging wine.
At the bottom of the staircase, I found an iron door, barred like the entrance to a prison cell. To
either side of it, brick passageways opened and receded into an almost pure darkness. I raised the
lamp so that I might see the spaces beyond. Where the brick had crumbled, I could make out patches
of pale, unquarried limestone, the very rock that formed the foundation of our city. The key unfastened
the lock with ease, so the only obstacle that remained to me was the overpowering urge to turn, walk
up the steps, and go back to the familiar world above.
It did not take long before I came upon a series of rooms. Although my lamp did not allow me to
see with great clarity, I found that the first room had been filled with crates of weapons—Lugers and
Colt .45s and MI Garands. There were boxes of medical supplies, blankets, and clothing—the items
we would surely need in an extended conflict. In another room I discovered many of the very crates I
had observed being packed in the Athenaeum weeks before, only now they had been nailed shut.
Prying them open without tools would be next to impossible.
Continuing through the darkness of the brick passage, the lamp growing heavier with each step, I
began to understand the enormous scale of the angelologists’ move underground. I had not imagined
how elaborate and calculated our resistance would be. We had transferred all the necessities of life
to below the city. There were beds and makeshift toilets and water pipes and a number of small
kerosene stoves. Weapons, food, medicines—everything of value resided under Montparnasse,
hidden in burrows and tunnels carved from the limestone. For the first time, I realized that, once the
battle began, many would not flee the city but move into these chambers and fight.
After examining a number of these cells, I stepped into another chiseled, damp space, less a storage
area than a warren delved into the soft limestone. Here I found many objects, some of which I
recognized from visits to Dr. Raphael’s office, and I knew at once that I had found the Valkos’ private
chamber. In the corner, under a heavy cotton tarpaulin, there was a table stacked with books. Light
from the kerosene lamp fell over the dusty room.
I discovered the text without much trouble, though to my surprise it appeared to be less a book than
a sheaf of notes bound together. The volume was no bigger than a pamphlet, with a hand-stitched
binding and a plain cover. It was light as a crepe in my hand, too insubstantial, I thought, to contain
anything important. Opening it, I saw that the text had been handwritten on transparent foolscap in
blotched ink, each letter scratched into the paper by the uneven pressure of a careless hand. Running
my finger over the letters, feeling the indentations on the paper and brushing the dust from its pages, I
read: Notes on the First Angelological Expeditionof A.D. 925 by the Venerable Father Clematis of
Thrace, Translated from the Latin and Annotated by Dr. Raphael Valko.
Below these words, pressed into the pulpy surface of the page, was a golden seal containing the
image of a lyre, a symbol I had not seen before but would from that day forth understand to be at the
heart of our mission.
Holding the pamphlet close to my chest, suddenly afraid that it might dissolve before I had the
chance to read its contents, I placed the lamp on a smooth stretch of the limestone floor and sat beside
it. The light fell over my fingers, and when I opened the pamphlet once more, Dr. Raphael’s
handwriting became distinct. Clematis’s account of his expedition captivated me from the first word.