Angelopolis(35)

were the words: LA VIEILLE RUSSIE, ANTIQUAIRE.

“Forgive the clutter,” Nadia said. “After my parents died, I took over La Vieille Russie. Now the

entire stock of the antique shop is stored here.”

Another woman entered and stirred the dying embers in the fireplace, adding wood until a glow of

warmth and light filled the room. Verlaine realized that the antique shop doubled as a guest

apartment: There was a daybed and a cupboard with boxes of tea and jars of honey. Mismatched

chairs, piano benches, stools, and trunks were scattered through the shop. Nadia gestured that they

should sit.

Vera nudged his arm and nodded to a wall and whispered, “Look, it’s another missing egg.”

Verlaine turned his gaze to a framed oil painting behind Nadia. It was a portrait of a child, painted

in creams and browns and golds. The thick application of paint gave the flesh a glossy texture. The

child was five or six years old, dressed in a white smock trimmed with lace. Verlaine’s gaze lingered

a moment on the large blue eyes, the abundance of curly brown hair, the rosy hue of the little hands

that—to his amazement—held a pale Fabergé egg.

“The girl in the portrait is me,” Nadia said. “Painted in Paris by a friend of my father’s. The egg

was Alexandra’s beloved Mauve Egg, given to her in 1897, in the happiest period of her marriage.”

Verlaine looked from the old woman to the painting. Although there was a resemblance in the eyes,

little else connected her to the image. The painted Nadia displayed a childish innocence that was

reflected in the trinket cupped in her hands. Rendered with quick impressionistic brushstrokes, the

details of the egg were difficult to make out. Verlaine could see the Mauve Egg with what appeared to

be hazy portraits on the surface. Looking from the painting to Nadia, he found that he was helpless to

gauge the significance of finding this, the third in a set of eight treasures that had been lost for nearly a

century. He felt as desperate, and as childish, as Hansel following a path of shiny pebbles.

“You will eat something,” Nadia said. “And then we will talk.”

“I don’t know if we have time for that,” Verlaine said.

“I remember how hard Vladimir worked,” she said quietly. “He would be out on a mission for

days at a time without eating properly. He would return to me exhausted. Eat, and then you can tell me

why you’ve come.”

As if her words brought him back to his body, Verlaine felt a sharp shock of hunger, and he

realized he hadn’t so much as thought of food since before his encounter with Evangeline. How

strange it would feel, he thought, to be like Evangeline, a creature suspended above the physical

needs of human beings. Even hours after seeing her he felt a sharp need to be near her. He had to find

her, and, once he did, to understand her. Where was she now? Where had Eno brought her? He saw

Evangeline in his mind, her pale skin and dark hair, the way she had looked at him on the rooftop in

Paris. The brittle exterior he had developed in his work cracked a little more with every thought of

her. He needed to steel his resolve if he was to have any hope of finding her.

Nadia cleared a set of encyclopedias from a slate tabletop and, opening a trunk, removed a stack of

porcelain bowls and a handful of silver spoons, which she wiped with a cloth as she laid the table.

The woman who had lit the fire returned some minutes later with a tureen of kasha and then a platter

of cured salmon. She poured water into a samovar by the tea cupboard, turned it on, and left the room.

The very smell of food made Verlaine ravenous. As they ate, refilling their soup bowls until the

tureen was empty, he could feel his body become warm, his strength and energy returning. Nadia took

a dusty bottle of Bordeaux from an armoire, opened it, and filled their glasses with wine the color of

crushed blackberries. Verlaine took a sip, tasting the fruit and tannin prick his tongue.

He could sense Nadia was watching them, studying their gestures, assessing their body language.

She was someone who understood the work of angelologists, who had seen the best of their kind in

action. She was deciding if she could trust them.

Finally, she said, “I understand that you were with Vladimir during his last mission.”

“Bruno and I were with him in New York,” Verlaine answered.

“Can you tell me if he was buried?” Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her. “I’ve been

trying to get information from the academy, but they won’t confirm anything.”

“He was cremated,” Bruno said. “His ashes are being held in New York.”

Nadia bit her lip, thinking this over, and said, “I would like to ask a favor of you. Could you help