named Deopus. The letter had been written from a mountain village of only a few thousand people,
where Clematis died not long after the expedition, and hinted that Deopus had transcribed Clematis’s
last account of his expedition. There was only the vaguest promise of discovery in the letter, and yet
Raphael believed his intuition and undertook what many believed to be a quixotic mission to Greece.
It was a momentous time in his career—in both of our careers, actually. The discovery had
tremendous consequences for us, bringing recognition and invitations to speak at every major institute
in Europe. The translation cemented his reputation and secured our place here in Paris. I remember
how happy he was to come here, how much optimism we possessed.”
Dr. Seraphina stopped suddenly, as if she had said more than she wished. “I am very curious to
know where you found this.”
“In the storage chambers below the school,” I replied, without a moment of hesitation. I would not
have been able to lie to my teacher even if I wished to do so.
“Our subterranean storage areas are restricted,” Dr. Seraphina said. “The doors are locked. You
must have a key to enter.”
“Gabriella showed me how to find the key,” I said. “I returned it to its hiding place in the
keystone.”
“Gabriella?” Dr. Seraphina said, astonished. “But how is Gabriella aware of the hiding place?”
“I thought you might know. Or,” I said, measuring my words, anxious not to reveal more than would
be prudent, “perhaps Dr. Raphael knows.”
“I certainly do not know, and I am sure my husband knows nothing about it either,” Dr. Seraphina
said. “Tell me, Celestine, have you noticed anything strange about Gabriella’s behavior?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning back into the cool silk of the settee, waiting with great
anticipation for Dr. Seraphina to help me understand the puzzle Gabriella presented.
“Let me tell you what I have observed,” Dr. Seraphina said, standing and walking to the window,
where the pale morning light fell over her. “In the past months, Gabriella has become unrecognizable
to me. She has fallen behind in her coursework. Her past two essays were written significantly below
her abilities-although she is so advanced that only a teacher who knows her as well as I do would
notice. She has been spending quite a lot of time outside the school, especially at night. She has
changed her appearance to match that of the girls one sees in the quartier Pigalle. And, perhaps worst
of all, she has begun to harm herself.”
Dr. Seraphina turned to me as if expecting me to disagree with her assessment. When I did not, she
continued.
“Some weeks ago I watched her burn herself during my husband’s lecture. You know the episode I
am referring to. It was the most unsettling experience of my career, and believe me, I have had many.
Gabriella brought the flame to her bare wrist, impassive as her skin charred. She knew that I was
watching her, and as if to defy me she stared at me, daring me to interrupt the class to save her from
herself. There was more than desperation in her behavior, more than the usual childish desire for
attention. She had lost control of her actions.”
I wanted to object, to tell Dr. Seraphina that she was wrong, that I had not noticed the disturbing
characteristics she described. I wanted to tell her that Gabriella had burned herself through some
accident, but I could not.
“Needless to say, Gabriella shocked me,” Dr. Seraphina said. “I considered confronting her
immediately—the girl needed medical attention, after all—but thought better of it. Her behavior
pointed to a number of maladies, all psychological, and if this were the case, I did not want to
exacerbate the problem. However, I feared another cause, one that had nothing to do with Gabriella’s
mental state but another force entirely.”
Dr. Seraphina bit her lip, as if contemplating how to go on, but I urged her to continue. My
curiosity about Gabriella was as strong as Dr. Seraphina’s, perhaps stronger.
“Yesterday, as you recall, I planted The Book of Generations among the treasures we are sending
away for safekeeping. In fact, The Book of Generations is not going to be shipped off to the United
States—it is too important for that and will remain with me or another high-level scholar—but I
placed it there, with the other treasures, so that Gabriella would come across it. I left the book open
to a certain page, one with the family name Grigori in plain sight. It was essential for me to catch
Gabriella by surprise. She had to see the book and read the names written upon the pages without any